Night Train to Paris by Fliss Chester (best romantic novels to read txt) 📗

‘What’s that?’ Fen turned to her friend in bewilderment.

‘Rose. She was getting in some hot water just before we left.’

‘Rose?’

‘Bless her, you know how she loves copying paintings?’

‘Gosh yes, the paintings in my bedroom in her apartment could fill a wing of the Louvre and barely anyone would notice the difference!’ Fen suddenly remembered the woman in the fox fur saying something similar and was about to tell Magda all about it when she stopped herself. Gossiping about her most generous hostess had its limits.

‘Exactly.’ Magda carried on talking anyway. ‘Well, you know the old rumours about her being a forger? They were surfacing again and Rose was about to be hauled in front of some sort of committee. Apparently a few too many of her “homages” were on the open market and the auction houses were feeling the heat. Some of the news even made it to the New York Times. There really were some cross people out there who’d thought they’d bagged a Rembrandt or Degas for silly money and hadn’t realised they’d been duped.’

‘But not by Rose, surely? She always says they’re copies. She even adds her own flourishes at the end to prove it.’

‘I think that’s the point. She’s never anything but upfront about it. But once they’re sold on once or twice, and what with the art all being stolen and shifted around,’ Magda shivered and threaded her arm through Fen’s again, ‘well, I think she might have been investigated. It certainly made some of the art world and a few patrons very cross indeed.’

‘Poor Rose. All she ever wants to do is paint and create art. It’s not her fault if someone else sells it on as the real thing.’ Fen felt aggrieved for her eccentric friend.

‘I’m just glad to see her still with us now. I couldn’t have borne it if she had been killed too.’

‘Killed?’ Surely Magda was referring to Rose’s war work now? Fen checked. ‘You mean if she’d been caught by the Germans with her codes and ciphers and things?’

‘Oh yes, there was that too. What I meant, though, was that she had received quite a few threats, if you know what I mean. People don’t like being made fools of, and don’t you find it’s always easy to blame us women for everything. Just before we left, she was in a real pickle, almost about to go underground, then Henri Renaud vouched for her and… well, there you go. I’m just so glad she’s safe now.’

Fen thought about Magda’s words. Rose hadn’t mentioned any of this. Perhaps she was embarrassed, falsely accused or not, mud often stuck. Maybe, as Magda had said, the war in its crazed crucible of fire and heat had at least saved one person – Rose. Like a phoenix from the flames, she was reborn as just another artist. Had the war done anything to silence her detractors though? Or was that just another pot waiting to boil over?

Fifteen

Fen and Magda chatted away about less serious subjects until they arrived at the address printed on the very smart little calling card that Simone had passed to Fen that morning. The atelier didn’t have a showy shop window and was in fact only recognisable from the discreet brass plaque next to the door. Fen was about to rap on the door when it opened and Simone appeared behind it.

‘Hello, Fenella, and…’ Simone stopped and stared at Magda for a brief moment before introducing herself to her. Pleasantries were made and Simone ushered the two women into the building. ‘Did you have any trouble finding your way?’ Simone asked as Fen and Magda hung their coats up on the stand in the vestibule.

The entrance hall of the building was sparse in its own way, black-and-white tiles chequerboarded the floor and the only furniture was the stand, on which they’d just hung their coats, an upholstered bench seat and a mahogany receptionist’s desk, which was currently unoccupied.

‘No, not at all. We found it quite easily in fact.’ Fen’s sense of direction was something of which she was quite proud, plus she’d been to this neighbourhood before, as a girl, accompanying her mother on jaunts to her dressmaker. She had remembered the way, even if so many of the once-familiar shops and dressmaker’s ateliers had been closed now and some even boarded up.

Magda spoke up too, echoing Fen’s thoughts. ‘This was always such an exciting part of Paris to come to, in the old days, I mean.’

‘As it is now,’ Simone said rather coquettishly, placing a hand on her hip.

‘Yes, of course,’ Magda agreed, ‘and I’m sure it will be just as delightful as it ever was, even if perhaps my purse strings need to be pulled a little tighter these days.’

Fen reached out and squeezed Magda’s hand, before realising that Simone was still waiting for them at the partially opened door, which led to the rest of the atelier.

The atelier itself was a hive of buzzing sewing machines and scratching pens on drawing boards. Simone showed them into what she called the cutting room. Here, on one side, there were draughtsmen sitting at large white drawing boards, while seamstresses dressed mannequins and stood over large, wide tables measuring and cutting fabric. There were great windows, like those in Rose’s apartment, letting in the early-afternoon light, and drawings and sketches filled the walls. The whole place felt industrious and purposeful, and Fen could now understand Simone’s outrage at the way fashion models like herself were attacked and sworn at in the street. Here in the atelier of Lucien Lelong, for that had been the name on the brass plaque by the front door, progress was being made one stitch at a time.

‘Come, let me introduce to you to my friends. They will simply adore that crazy dress you’re wearing, Fenella. Is it one of Rose’s? She’s a scream that woman. Christian, Pierre!’ Simone