Natalie Meg Evans - The Milliner’s Secret

THE MILLINERS SECRET NATALIE MEG EVANS

This book is dedicated to my sister Anna

INTRODUCTION

PARIS: SATURDAY, 13 JULY 1940

They would have been a spectacular sight in any city at any time. Bare shoulders, impish hats and upswept hair. One, a blonde in her mid-thirties, crossed the dance floor on a zephyr of sex appeal. A younger blonde walked as if she suspected the room was infested with snakes. The third, a redhead, followed like a sleepwalker.

A band pumped out a hot jazz version of La Marseillaise so loud, bottles on the bar shimmered. They know its illegal to play that, dont they? The younger blonde, whose name was Coralie de Lirac, glanced uneasily at the stage. Nobodys dancing.

Its too damn early, said the older one. I cant get used to being in a nightclub at teatime.

A month before, hours after they had marched into Paris, the Germans had moved the clocks to Berlin time and imposed a curfew that effectively sealed people into their homes. Then, realising Paris would grind to a halt, theyd relaxed the curfew to midnight. If you stayed later, you were stuck wherever you happened to be until five the next morning. But, then, Coralie reminded herself, the Nazis hadnt invaded France for the convenience of its inhabitants. Lets get a table, she said. Dont make eye contact with anything male under ninety. Una? Keep your mind on the job.

Of course. Though we may have to kiss a toad or two before we find what were looking for. Oh, dont take fright, Tilly dear. Una McBride threw an arm round their redheaded companion, who had stopped dead at the word toad. Coralie and I will take care of such niceties. Or un-pleasantries, which will be closer to the truth. Unas drawl marked her out as American.

Coralie indicated a table. Over there. Come on, or well be mistaken for the floor show. Before they got much further, though, the clubs proprietor spotted them and ushered them to a table of his choosing, closer to the music and the bar. A young man with a boxers physique, he wore a white tuxedo and a rose in his buttonhole. Mesdames, enchanted. Welcome to the Rose Noire. He kissed their hands in turn, lingering over Coralies. Mademoiselle de Lirac, you have been away too long.

Im flattered you noticed. As she sat down in the chair he pulled out for her, Coralie undid and refastened her bracelet, to avoid meeting his smile. When shed first started coming here in the summer of 37, Serge Martel had been a glamorous figure, oozing charm, taking care of customers every whim. Shed been poleaxed when shed heard hed later been arrested for violently assaulting one of his female singers and sent to prison for seven years. Eighteen months hed served. Nobody knew how hed got out so early who had greased the prison doors but there was something new and unnerving in his manner. Coralie tried to catch Unas eye, but her friend was busy sizing up the clientele.

Martel, meanwhile, clicked his fingers at an elderly waiter shuffling towards them with a tray of champagne. Quickly, quickly, man. We have thirsty ladies here.

The waiter called back, If I was younger and faster, Monsieur, Id be in the army! but he hurried forward nonetheless.

Flix Peyron poured vintage Lanson into three glasses, and Coralie noticed how his hands shook. An institution on boulevard de Clichy, hed aged as though the shock of defeat and invasion had knocked the life out of him. It looked as if hed taken to rubbing talcum powder into his cuffs to whiten them, but tonight his collar looked distinctly yellow next to Martels tuxedo. How did Martel keep his tux so white, she wondered? It was easier to get to Heaven than to find washing soda these days, and laundries gave priority to German linen. Paris had not been bombed, like Warsaw or Rotterdam, but everything was running low: food, fuel... hope. For ordinary citizens, anyway. Counting the field-grey uniforms in the club, the caps with their silver eagles laid down on the best tables, Coralie formed her own conclusions about Serge Martels recent good fortune.

Having placed the bottle in its ice bucket, Flix stepped back and bowed. You are welcome at the Rose Noire, Mesdames, as beauty is always welcome.

Why, Flix, you wicked seducer. Una picked up her glass. Well have to keep an eye on you, I can see that.

Here we go , Coralie thought. If it wore trousers, Una fluttered her eyelashes at it, though tonight her attention was really focused on the stage. Specifically on the Romany violinist, whose sweaty curls obscured half his face and whose shirt hung off one shoulder.

The Vagabonds are on good form tonight. Coralie spoke lightly, watching Unas reaction.

Arent they just? But I wish theyd stick to jazz standards. Changing the time signature of La Marseillaise doesnt fool anyone. Una blew tumbleweed kisses towards the stage, and the violinist broke off long enough to return one. Gentle applause spread around the room. People were looking their way, women in particular. Coralie saw one pull a silk flower from her evening bag and pin it into her hair, as if she felt underdressed in comparison.

Flix, lighting their table candle, chuckled. People see a love affair flowering and it makes them happy, though we are at war.

No, sir, its our hats that are stealing the show. Una tapped the miniature Gainsborough confection pinned over her ear, ruffling its cascade of flowers and dyed feathers. She said to Coralie, I promised you these bijou babies would be a sensation.

I said they would be. I wish youd stop pinching my ideas.

Oops. Una took an indulgent gulp of champagne. I forget Im only the muse and not the milliner. By next week, theyll be the rage. Therell be a queue from your shop to the river.

Coralie waited for Flix to leave. Assuming were still here next week. Tilly? Their friend was staring into her glass as if she suspected prussic acid among the bubbles. Drink it or put it down. People will think youve got something to be scared of.

Have I not? came the whisper.

Well... try not to show it. Then Coralie said, out of the side of her mouth, I dont think she can do this, Una.

What choice does she have? We cant risk taking her home because all our houses will be under surveillance. Her only chance is over the line into the free zone and keep moving. And before you talk of putting her on a train to the border, imagine her negotiating timetables, not to mention police checks.

Una was right. Ottilia had to escape Paris and a car ride was her only hope. They now had to acquire by charm what they couldnt get by queuing at a police station her name on a road-travel permit. An Ausweis , to give it its official, German, title.

Una extracted a Chesterfield cigarette from an elegant case, her gaze never leaving the stage where the Vagabonds were polishing off the last bars of La Marseillaise. Stand and clap when theyre done, she instructed Coralie.

Why dont we wave the French flag while were at it? Then we could all get arrested and carry on the party in jail. Ive never seen so many German officers in one place. I thought they hated jazz.

Your German friend liked it.

He was different. Off limits , Coralies tone warned. We shouldnt be here. Any of the regulars might recognise us.

Sure, but not Tilly. And, hey, we have a saying where I come from If you want to hide in the mustard, wear yellow.

Were not in the mustard but we could be in the soup.

Una rose to clap and, reluctantly, Coralie did too. The Vagabonds acknowledged the applause, then retreated into the shadows at the rear of the stage. Ottilia seemed to have slipped into a trance. Sitting down again, Una fitted her cigarette into a cream-coloured holder and accepted a light from a man at a neighbouring table. She blew a little smoke on him. Merci mille fois . I guess well catch up later.

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