bed, wearing a fresh nightgown and a clean dressing around her head. Mireille and Vivi came to sit beside her.
Claire reached out a hand and Mireille held it tight. ‘I can’t believe you risked your life to save mine, Mireille. I will never forget what you did tonight,’ she whispered. And then she began to sob as she thought of Christiane, and of the other civilian lives lost in the bombing raid.
‘Ssshhh,’ Mireille hushed her, stroking her fine hair, restored to its white-gold sheen, away from her face. ‘Try to sleep now, Claire. Tomorrow we will continue our work. For Christiane. And for all the others who are suffering. We will continue our fight.’
As Claire’s eyelids grew heavy, safe now, and lulled by the soothing presence of her two friends, a thought occurred to her. ‘But Mireille . . . how did you know? That the bombers were coming?’
Mireille glanced across at Vivi and smiled. ‘Let’s just say we are lucky to have friends in high places.’
And then Claire smiled too as she watched them creep out of her room, ducking beneath the sloping eaves of the roof and leaving her to sleep.
Mademoiselle Vannier gave a frown of disapproval the next morning when Mireille reported that Claire had had an accident and would need a few days off work to recover. When Mireille took her up to see Claire in the apartment, the supervisor tutted, saying, ‘What were you doing, you foolish girl? Out cavorting and merry-making with some young man or other, I suppose. Don’t you know how dangerous it is these days? Apparently there was terrible bombing over in the west of the city last night. You might have been killed if one of those bombs had gone astray.’ But she also took in the pallor of Claire’s face, which was almost as white as the bandages around her head, and she gave her a kindly pat on the hand, saying, ‘Stay where you are. Vivienne can finish off the beading on that evening gown for you. I’ll have some broth sent up. Have a good rest and we’ll soon have you back on your feet.’
That evening, having checked that Claire was sleeping peacefully, Mireille slipped back downstairs to the atelier where, as usual, Vivi had stayed behind. She watched for a second from the doorway. In the empty, darkened room, Vivi bent low over something she was working on, her russet braid glowing in the pool of light from the single angled lamp on the table beside her.
Suddenly realising that she wasn’t alone, Vivi jumped and quickly pulled over the froth of a bright pink chiffon skirt that she was supposed to be hemming, to cover what looked like a square of plain white silk. Mireille pretended she hadn’t noticed, letting Vivi preserve the illusion that she simply continued to work on the unfinished garment from earlier.
To cover her friend’s slight confusion, Mireille said, ‘I love that colour. They’re calling it Schiaparelli pink. Mademoiselle Vannier thinks it’s common though.’ She smiled. ‘Sorry to have disturbed you. I just thought I’d come and see if you needed a hand. I know you’ve been given extra work to cover for Claire. I’m not as good as you two at beadwork, but I could hem that for you, if you like?’
Vivi smiled, but shook her head. ‘That’s so kind of you, Mireille, but I’m very nearly finished.’ She held up a corner of the fabric – although Mireille noticed that she kept the white silk square carefully concealed beneath it – and said, ‘See, just one more panel to go. I’ll be up soon.’
‘Okay,’ said Mireille. ‘There’s a little bit of rabbit stew left from the other night. I’ll warm it up for you if you like?’
Despite the lines of tiredness that pinched Vivi’s features, her face glowed as brightly as her hair when she smiled her thanks. ‘I’d love that.’
Mireille turned to go, but stopped as Vivi spoke again, resting her hand on the fabrics which covered the table in front of her. ‘And Mireille? Thanks.’
The look that passed between the two girls said far more than those few, terse words. It was a look of understanding: a mutual recognition of so much that needed to remain unsaid.
Harriet
If Mireille hadn’t had the courage and the determination to pedal so furiously towards the bombing raid over Billancourt that night in 1942, I wouldn’t be here now. Claire would have been one of the many thousands of people who perished in