The Seven Letters Page 12

  ‘I’ve got to clean the Private Room by five this afternoon. Top to bottom.’

  ‘Oh, you poor thing,’ Perrine screwed up her face. ‘If you like I’ll help you, follow me.’

  Perrine led the way up to the first floor, through the double doors and into a dark corridor. To the left were Madame Odile’s private apartments, in front of them her office and, round the corner to the left, were two doors. Perrine walked to the furthest room and knocked gently. There was no reply. ‘It can’t be booked, otherwise she wouldn’t have let you in,’ she told Claudette. The heavy door eased open to reveal a dark, ruby red room about sixteen feet square. There were two sofas against the walls and a double bed piled up with red satin cushions. Draped over the backs of the sofas were heavy brown furs, and velvet cushions in a deep violet. When Perrine opened the door that was tucked away in the corner, a slash of light cut across the interior, highlighting the spinning dust motes. ‘Bathroom,’ she said, shutting it again. With the door closed it became invisible once more. The only light was the dim glow of red shaded wall lights, making the room dark and furtive again. ‘Madame Odile allows clients to book it for their own entertainment,’ said Perrine. ‘Look here.’ She moved forward and clicked on a projector that was hidden in a nook in the woodwork of the back wall.

  Claudette watched it spring to life. The flickering images filled most of the opposite wall. The machine whirred and guttered, she had only seen projectors at the cinema, but this was much smaller and she had never seen pictures like these. The man on the film was in a dinner suit with tails, he twirled his moustache like a silent movie rake and held out his hand, his forefinger beckoning two women to come towards him. They walked on screen both coquettish and demure but, at his command, began slowly to remove their clothes. The music was slow, enticing. The man lay down on a chaise longue and watched as they performed a striptease. At his command they kissed and began to fondle each other.

  ‘Look at your face!’ said Perrine, drawing Claudette’s eyes from the screen. ‘You are such an innocent, Françoise. If you think this is shocking, I can tell you it’s nothing compared to what goes on upstairs! You wait.’

  Claudette turned back to the screen, the women were undressing the man. The music heightened as they aroused him, waves of sound emanated around the room. Perrine clicked the machine off and rewound it back to the start, then she flicked the main light on and the room lost its lustful aura. It was a dreary room with heavy wooden walls, ruby drapes and rugs, and worn animal furs that smelt heavy and old.

  ‘It’s all done with lighting, it makes every room work in the same way. This one is the only one the clients can lock themselves in so that they can relax, as it were,’ she winked. ‘I’d hate to think what goes on in here at times.’ She screwed her nose up. ‘It always smells the same, sort of seedy.’

  For the first time Claudette felt absolutely lost, entirely bemused and out of her depth. ‘So, are all the rooms between here and my floor occupied by the ladies?’

  ‘Yes, except floor five. Next floor up is Eva, Nannette, Sophie; then three has Freya, Monique and Babette, then Pollo, Lilia and Bella.’

  ‘So why is floor five empty?’

  Perrine hesitated, as if she was going to say something, but instead she shrugged her shoulders. ‘I suppose Madame Odile couldn’t afford to do them all up, the rooms have probably been left until she has more money.’

  Claudette knew this, she had taken a look at the dark empty corridor, still and silent, the doors all locked.

  ‘After all, she has spent a fortune on the boudoirs, each one is themed; The Roman, Orient, Hindu, Versailles, Luxury. You name it, she’s thought of it.’ She opened a panel in the wall with a soft click and pulled out a mop and bucket, cleaning cloths and polish.

  ‘All the rooms have these. We clean them at the ladies’ request. They have to keep the room smart themselves, but they need help with the beds. There’s a lot of clean linen required, and mending,’ she giggled, ‘A lot of ripping goes on!’

  Claudette was still feeling dazed. ‘Are all the clients Boches?’

  ‘Now they are, but before the war there were film stars and government officials and the like. They tipped very well for “anonymity.” That’s why we never saw them come and go and the girls could only hint at who they’d had, otherwise it would have been the chop for them.’ She drew a finger across her throat dramatically.

  ‘Are you frightened, Perrine?’

  ‘Of what?’

  ‘Of what the Boches are doing in here, of this house entertaining these people, our enemies?’

  Perrine pursed her lips, thinking. ‘I try to focus on the benefits to us and the girls, there is so much hardship outside it feels like a sanctuary in here.’

  ‘That’s what Jacques said in the kitchen.’

  ‘It is, but it’s also a prison.’

  ‘Because we can’t have days off?’

  ‘That, yes, although we have free time on Sunday and sometimes Saturday afternoons too for as long as we’re not needed, and we are allowed out on errands if it’s urgent. The ladies aren’t allowed out at all.’

  ‘Not at all?’

  ‘Haven’t you noticed how white they all are? They look bleached! Madame Odile won’t let them go outside, she’s concerned that they might run away with their clients or do favours elsewhere, or worse, get shot by Parisians. She keeps all their papers in the safe in her room. They are seen as collaborators, well, to be honest, we all are. Madame Odile depends heavily on the Germans supporting us against those who would like to burn the place down.’

  Perrine left to fetch the vacuum cleaner, leaving Claudette alone in the silence of the room. She picked up the cushions and the furs and made piles of them so that she could clean the sofas. As she worked her way along she saw a wallet jammed down the back of a cushion. She opened it and two bright-eyed fair-haired children were staring up at her, their innocent smiling faces at odds with her surroundings. It made her shiver. She pulled the contents out, it had fifty marks in it and an identity card. She flipped it open and revealed a picture of a young man in an SS uniform, his hair short under the black cap. The signature underneath read Karl Rumitt. His face looked so young and innocent, she couldn’t equate it with what she heard about the SS. She snapped it shut and dropped it into her apron pocket.

  After half an hour, she had the carpet edges swept and was beginning to polish the wood. There was a knock at the door, it was Jacques, he had brought the vacuum cleaner up for her.

  ‘Perrine’s busy, she asked me to bring this up.’ He was obviously irritated at the interruption to his Sunday afternoon off. ‘She told me about Madame, you were very lucky; surely running a bath isn’t beyond you?’

  ‘No, the bitch deserved it, she’s a nasty piece of work,’ Claudette told him.

  ‘I suspect they all are, it’s what they do and no sweet little virgin’s going to last long in a whore house.’ He cast a meaningful glance at her but she ignored his barbed comments just as she ignored Joubert’s, they were both as awful as each other.

  ‘Look at this.’ She handed him the wallet. He smiled and it was such a big grin it nearly split his face in two.

  ‘Excellent,’ he said, opening it up and taking out the identity card. ‘Excellent. Where did this come from?’

  ‘In here.’ Claudette pointed at the sofa.

  ‘Keep looking, dig deep,’ he said, pushing the wallet into his trouser pocket. ‘If you were my real sister I’d give you a hug, this is exactly what we need.’ With that, he left.

  At five o’clock the door opened, it was Nannette. She had a kimono on, a luxurious silk print. Claudette felt intensely dull and dirty every time she came across one of the ladies and Nannette was no exception. She had round amber eyes, her hair was in a roll high above her face, the jet black of it outlined a chalk white face and slash
of blood red lips. She had an ethereal, oriental quality about her.

  ‘Madame O says I must colour your hair,’ she said with a kind smile. ‘And what Madame O wants Madame O gets.’ Claudette wiped the back of her hand against her forehead. She felt the filaments of fur that she had disturbed when she was cleaning sticking to the back of her throat. ‘My room in half an hour,’ said Nannette. Her eyes were bewitching.

  Claudette ached when she’d finished the room. She carried the vacuum cleaner back downstairs, her back wincing with the pain of lifting it.

  ‘Oh Françoise, I’m so sorry,’ Perrine was contrite as she entered the kitchen. ‘Madame Odile caught me coming out of the room and she told me I wasn’t to help you. I will make you some lemon tea.’

  ‘Which room is Nannette’s?’ Claudette asked, flopping into Jacques’ fireside chair.

  ‘Second floor, room two.’

  As Claudette climbed the stairs again her legs felt like lead. Nannette’s door was open, waiting for her so she knocked lightly and stepped inside. It was as if she had walked into China. There were tall ginger pots almost the same height as her with exquisite designs of dragons chasing each other around them, the double bed had four golden pillars at each corner, the walls decorated with fabric. The lacquered floor was deepest black, the cushions on the armchairs were made of watery silks. Claudette reached out and touched the counterpane on the bed. Her rough fingers snagged in the delicate weave of it. The room looked like a Hollywood film set, but in full colour, vibrant and astonishing.

  Nannette was in the bathroom humming a nameless tune; she was laying out what she needed to colour and cut hair. ‘Come in, Françoise,’ she called. Her voice was light, almost fragile. She had drawn a bath and the steam rose above it, misting over the mirror so that they both looked like apparitions. Nannette drew up a chair for Claudette to sit down.

  ‘I used to work as a hairdresser in my past life,’ Nannette said as she began to brush through the tangles of Claudette’s hair. ‘And let me tell you, this hair needs dressing.’ Claudette felt the gentle touch of the fingers through her hair, the coaxing of it and teasing of the brush, her neck relaxing, a stupor coming over her. The effect was soporific and her head became heavy, until she felt like she would fall asleep under Nannette’s nimble fingers.

  ‘Right, into the bath with you.’

  ‘Pardon?’ Claudette sat upright.

  ‘While the colour takes, jump in the bath.’

  ‘But, am I allowed?’

  ‘No, but that’s never stopped me, I can tell you’re exhausted. I’ll watch the door, but I saw Madame O going out about half an hour ago so she’ll never know and what the cat doesn’t see…’

  Claudette let her clothes fall to the floor, she had never been undressed in front of anyone, but unlike Apollonia, Nannette took no notice of her. The water was hot and steamy as she slipped down into it. Her eyes were level with the low window, she could see the building opposite – it looked to be unoccupied. She closed her eyes, the bath salts were lavender, she felt her muscles relax and her rough hands soften as she sank deeper into it.

  When Nannette rubbed away the condensation on the mirror Claudette could not believe her own eyes. Instead of the careworn, plain face of Claudette Bourvil, there was an elegant woman with pink lips, neat eyebrows and lustrous brown hair slicked into a Pompadour. The hair was lifted high above her face, and her skin was lightly dusted with powder.

  ‘Oh, bless the Holy Mother,’ she exclaimed. ‘That can’t be me, is it me?’

  ‘I dare say Madame O will be pleased.’

  Claudette gaped into the mirror, her mouth wide open. ‘I can’t believe it, I just can’t –’

  ‘Any time,’ said Nannette. ‘The Boches bring us all the things we need.’

  ‘Oh, Nannette, how can I thank you?’

  ‘It’s my pleasure.’

  Claudette stood up, her neck felt completely different with her hair pinned up. She hugged Nannette, who felt thin and bony under the kimono.

  ‘Thank you so much.’

  ‘There you go,’ she replied, an impish smile playing on her lips. ‘Now you’re one of us.’

  Chapter Twenty One

  It had been a fortnight since Ledbury, during which time I had received a card from Lucy. It was a watercolour of pink peonies in a glass vase, very delicate. She told me it had been very nice to meet us and that she had found out that Freddy’s mother was called Madeleine. She also sent Bertie’s best wishes. I looked at the small, neat handwriting. I’d liked Lucy very much and perhaps because it had been such a nice day, because I was with Matt and the sun had shone so brightly in Ledbury, the memory was sharp and clear.

  It had been raining heavily all day and Mr C was curled up on my lap safe and warm inside. I had been reading, but I’d put the book down and was considering making a cup of hot chocolate when my mobile buzzed. ‘Hi Connie, it’s me.’ It was Matt. I noticed the absence of the usual levity in his voice.

  ‘Oh, hi Matt,’ I replied. ‘Are you OK?’

  ‘Yes, fine. You?’

  ‘Yes, I’ve had some work from Will, a website design, so that’s been good.’

  ‘It’s work I wanted to talk to you about,’ he said, his voice flat and unnatural.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes, but first how are things with Freddy’s house?’

  ‘It’s on the market, but no-one’s been round yet. The agent’s told Hat there’s a lot of work to do on it, we all knew that.’

  ‘Someone will want it but the market’s very slow right now.’

  ‘I know, she can drop the price easily enough if needs must.’ I paused, then asked, ‘What’s the work thing?’

  ‘Do you remember the guy I work for sometimes who does PR for French companies?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Well, he wants me to do a shoot in Paris at the end of the month, but Cherry, my assistant, is on holiday. Would you consider coming with me to style the shots?’

  I felt like a balloon was being expanded inside me. Then, of course, the negative voices in my head were shrill and telling me no, but I said yes in spite of them. As I put the phone down a thrill of real joy welled up in me at the thought of seeing him again. I typed the dates into ical on my ipad and stared at it, waiting to see if anything would come up to stop me going. There was nothing.

  Half an hour later the rain stopped, leaving a soggy wetness everywhere. The black clouds had broken into a bright Magritte sky. I took a walk down to the woods and then up through the meadows. They were brimming over with marsh marigold and mayweed. This particular Sunday afternoon was very quiet, the usual distant sounds of leather on willow and cheering were noticeably absent because of the rain.

  As I walked along the High Street I decided to visit Hat, I hadn’t seen her for two weeks because I’d been working. The house rose imperiously from the street, its symmetrical façade and faded beauty at odds with the bright white For Sale sign attached to the frame of the front door. The bell made the familiar whirring sound and I saw Hat’s silhouette in the frosted glass long before she knew it was me.

  ‘Hello, stranger.’ She hugged me hello. ‘You must be psychic, I’ve just switched the kettle on and I wanted to show you something.’

  The house felt completely different, very cold and empty. The hall, cleared of the old macs and umbrellas, seemed much bigger. There was no nineteen seventies telephone table with a stack of worn directories. All that was left was a French mirror with a curlicue frame and freckled glass that I had barely noticed until then. The rest of the space was bare.

  We walked through to the kitchen where the kettle was boiling triumphantly. Hat made us a cup of tea and, as we sat down together at the kitchen table, she asked about Matt.

  ‘How do you actually do that?’

  ‘What?’ />
  ‘Read my mind! Do you think you might have been a witch in a past life?’

  ‘No, magician. I can never look at a rabbit without getting the urge.’

  ‘You’re feeling better,’ I said, noticing the pink in her cheeks and the lines of sadness around her eyes were just that little bit less stark.

  ‘I still miss the old rogue,’ she said. ‘The inquest is next week, Jon’s going with me. Do you think there will be journalists and such like?’

  ‘Oh I doubt it.’ I might have said the words, but I didn’t believe them entirely. Even though Freddy’s death had not been much more than a sentence on the local television, an inquest always had possibilities for salacious gossip.

  ‘Jon says the Coroner only wants to say how Freddy died, not any whys or wherefores.’ Hat pulled the biscuit barrel towards us. It was full of Hobnobs, chocolate; I was doomed.

  ‘So? Matt?’

  ‘He phoned about an hour ago, he wants me to go to Paris with him.’ Hat’s eyes bulged over the rim of her cup.

  ‘Really? Wow,’ she said.

  ‘Work.’ I replied. Her eyes were still bulging.

  ‘Work with benefits maybe?’ She partnered the intonation of her voice with a wink. It made me smile.

  ‘We’ll see, I’m not sure about anything where he’s concerned. You know me I do this to myself, I give off all the right signals, convince myself I’m ready and then I sabotage everything.’

  ‘You can’t go through all that heartbreak and move straight on to someone new. I doubt anyone could. If you’ll take my advice you’ll take it slowly, give it a chance, no pre-supposing.’ Hat was right, of course she was right, she’s like a big sister to me. I looked around at the kitchen, all but the essentials had gone. No dresser with its jumble of pots, plates and postcards. No pair of green wellies by the back door or rattan chair, its pile of newspapers waiting to be made into spills for the winter fire. The house was soulless and desperately empty of Freddy’s belongings.