by the sleeves to my shoulders. One was a size too large, but the other was a dead match. She folded it nicely and then set it on the table to be wrapped.
A woman with her arms full of bags reached for the dates, and Madame shooed her away. ‘Not for sale,’ she told her. ‘Not. For. Sale.’ The woman tilted her frilly hat before finally deciding to go to another table. Only after the woman was a good distance away did Mme Dubois’ smile return.
‘You should have a try of these dates before the shipments stop.’
‘Do you know something I don’t?’
‘Only thinking out loud, love.’ She lifted her glasses from her face, her eyes large as teacups filled with dark brown tea. ‘When Africa is taken by the Allies, all of this will be gone.’ She put a finger to her mouth, shushing herself. ‘You didn’t hear that from me, of course.’
I pointed into a sea of oily bottles. ‘Is that vanilla oil?’ I said, and she handed it to me.
‘Last one,’ she said. ‘Better buy it before it goes too.’
A yellowy bottle with twine wrapped around the neck and a worn paper label, corked like wine. ‘It smells heavenly.’ I held the scent seeping from the cork, closing my eyes, thinking of Luc. ‘It’s perfect. I will take it.’ I gave her a few coins.
Two girls about seventeen lingered between both tables; they giggled, talking about how handsome the gendarmes were in the Vichy police. One touched a bag of chicory for sale, and the woman with the rosewater sprayed her with it. ‘Her son was given to the Germans also,’ Madame said. ‘Same camp as my son. But I can’t talk about it with Pierre around.’
Her eyes flicked to her husband, who’d been stacking old books on a shelf behind her. A hazy greyness clouded his eyes when he looked up, and Madame cleared her throat. That’s when I noticed that behind Pierre was a makeshift changing area made from a hanging curtain and a rod.
‘Perhaps I could wear the dress out of here?’
‘What a wonderful idea,’ she said.
Mme Dubois held the curtain closed while I slipped out of my dress and into the new striped one. I smoothed the soft fabric over my thighs and listened to Madame talk about the crowds and how she could get coffee on the black market. ‘You want bread? Forget about it. Unless you were smart enough to hoard some flour…’
Mme Dubois didn’t have a mirror, but I could feel the fit of the dress against my body, smooth and snug, just enough leg to keep Gérard interested. I opened the curtain and handed Madame my old dress to sell in its place, along with a few francs to make up the difference. She smiled when she saw the Chanel label, but she had never stopped talking.
‘Food for everyone Pétain says—what about our sons? Where are our prisoners? Bastard of a man—bargains with the Nazis and gains nothing—’ She groaned and snarled when she said Pétain’s name. Then she closed her eyes and took a deep breath. ‘Enough talk about the devil. This dress looks divine on you, love.’ She glanced at the tin hanging off my arm. ‘Need something else? Looks like you have your lunch.’
‘No, actually.’ I patted the tin. ‘This is for Gérard—’ No sooner had his name flown out of my mouth did I wish I could suck it back in and chew it up.
‘Gérard Baudoin?’ Every wrinkle in Mme Dubois’ face flattened. ‘Why would you be going to see him, love?’ She put a hand on my old dress lying on her table. ‘I thought you left him months ago, ran away before the wedding. That’s what I heard from your mother, from everyone.’
‘I did leave,’ I said, standing straight, ‘but I’m back now.’
‘You’re back together?’
I pulled my shoulders back. I was with a collaborator as far as she was concerned. ‘He was a hero, you know, at the Battle of Sedan.’
‘I don’t know anything about the hero, Adèle. But I do know about his reputation as a gendarme with the Vichy police… the strings his uncle pulled so that he didn’t have to be a prisoner of war.’ Mme Dubois looked me over, her eyes skirting over the dress on my body and down the lines of the stripes. ‘Like my son.’
A disgusted look pulled at her bottom lip, and I had a feeling she regretted letting me try the dress on. She shoved