A French Pirouette Page 15

  “Malik, what are you doing here? More to the point—how did you find me?” Suzette demanded as Malik air-kissed her cheeks. “And why? I told you I needed time alone.” She glared and moved away from him.

  “You don’t sound very pleased to see me,” Malik said, fingering the folder of papers that was still on the table. Suzette quickly snatched it up before he could start looking through it.

  “I’m not,” she said. “Desolé, but that’s the truth. I’ll just put this indoors.” When she returned Malik was standing looking at the auberge.

  “Have to admit you’ve found yourself a lovely hiding place,” he said as she rejoined him.

  “You haven’t answered my questions,” Suzette said. “Why and how?”

  “I was concerned for you,” he said. “Worried that you were maybe having a breakdown.”

  “I told you I needed time to think about the future. Do I look as though I’m having a breakdown?”

  Malik shook his head. “No. You look very well. You’re going to have to lose that extra weight though before Swan Lake.”

  Suzette shrugged. “It’s only a couple of kilos. Won’t take long to shift. OK—you were concerned about me; that’s the why question taken care of. Next, how did you find me?”

  “It was easy in the end. Your concierge,” Malik said. “Although to be fair he didn’t actually tell me. He gave me the envelope with your forward address on it and asked me to post it. I think he thought I knew where you were anyway. So I decided to act as postman. It’s on board the boat waiting for you to collect.”

  At the mention of the boat Suzette glanced down towards the canal. “Someone down there seems to be trying to attract your attention.”

  Malik turned and waved his hand in acknowledgement. “That’s the skipper. He’s waiting for us to go on board. The crew have supper waiting for us. Shall we go?”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  Malik sighed. “So sit and watch me eat. We need to talk. And you can tell me whether you playing at being a wannabe Greta Garbo—‘I want to be alone’—has had the desired effect. Helped you reach a decision about the future.” He held out his hand to Suzette. “Come on.” Reluctantly Suzette took his hand. “Besides, I have a suggestion for you to think about,” Malik said.

  “You said before. Why are you being so mysterious about it,” Suzette said. “I wish you’d just tell me.”

  “Soon, I promise,” Malik said.

  He continued to hold her hand as they walked away from the gîte and down towards the canal. Pascal’s Land Rover was driving along the path towards the auberge as Suzette and Malik neared the boat. Raising her free hand in acknowledgement Suzette smiled at him and waited for him to draw up alongside them.

  “Pascal meet an old friend of mine from Paris.” She hesitated before adding, “Malik—Pascal.” No reason to think Pascal would immediately know who Malik was.

  As the two men had shook hands, Suzette said, “Were you coming to see me?”

  “I was but I can see you’re busy. You left these in my car,” Pascal said holding out the material samples.

  “Merci,” Suzette said taking them. She longed to say, “Why not join us for a drink?” But knew that wasn’t an option until she’d talked to Malik.

  “I’ll leave the two of you to enjoy your evening together,” Pascal said, looking at her hand still held in Malik’s before giving them both a brief nod and driving away.

  Dismayed Suzette stared after him. What was that all about? Malik, still holding her hand, tugged her gently forward. The incident made her even crosser with Malik for turning up so unexpectedly and she jerked her hand out of his.

  Next time she saw Pascal she would have to make a point of telling him she and Malik were old friends, nothing more. But right now she needed to talk to Malik—find out what his plans were.

  “How long have you hired the boat for?” she asked as they approached the barge, which had passed safely through the lock and was tied up alongside.

  “Depends on you,” Malik said. “I have the possibility of extending the hire if I want to.”

  Stepping on board Suzette followed Malik along the deck to where a table and two chairs had been placed. A bottle of champagne was already nestling in an ice bucket. She looked at Malik and raised her eyebrows. “Are we celebrating something?”

  He shrugged his shoulders. “Who needs a reason to drink champagne?” He poured two glasses and handed her one. “Santé. So, tell me—has burying yourself away from everyone down here helped you to think?”

  “Yes,” Suzette said. “Most things are a lot clearer in my mind now, although I still have one major decision to make.” She watched the bubbles in her glass before raising her head and looking at Malik directly. “Where I live when I’m no longer dancing.”

  “You’ll stay in Paris surely,” Malik said. He waved his hand around at the surrounding countryside. “I mean this is lovely for getting away from it all but I can’t see you living here. You’re a Parisian through and through.”

  Suzette was silent. She’d always believed that of herself too, until recently. Now she wasn’t sure it was true.

  “Besides,” Malik continued, “if you like the idea I’ve researched for you, you’ll need to be near a big city, with an airport for easy travelling. If not Paris then maybe Lille or Strasbourg. Nice could work too but that’s about it.”

  “So what’s your idea?”

  “Photography. As in, you specialise in photos connected with the world of ballet and publish a coffee-table book of glossy photos. I’ve run the idea past the major theatre companies all over Europe and they’re willing to give you backstage permits and unlimited access to everything and everybody involved. They’d also use your work for promotion—brochures, posters, that kind of thing. Well?” Malik looked at her expectantly.

  “It’s a good idea,” Suzette said slowly. “I did think about becoming a professional photographer but hadn’t considered the dance theatre aspect of things.”

  “You don’t sound that enthused,” Malik said. “You would at least still be involved in the world of dance.”

  Suzette sighed. “That’s the thing. I’m not sure I want to stay involved in the world of ballet when I retire. A completely different life is beginning to look more and more attractive.”

  “Doing what?” Malik demanded.

  “Haute couture embroidery.” And maybe having a family—if she’d not left it too late—flashed into her mind.

  A few seconds’ silence greeted her words before Malik nodded slowly. “That would work. You’re an expert at it. But surely you’d need to be in Paris to source materials—and customers?”

  “I have a few customers already whom I am sure will help spread the word for me. And just because I won’t be living in Paris doesn’t mean I can’t visit for shopping and seeing people.”

  “True.” Malik picked up his knife and began to spread some pâté on a crispbread one of the boat crew had placed on the table. “So, when are you planning to return to Paris and prepare for the final show? Sometime in the next couple of weeks I hope.”

  When Suzette didn’t answer immediately he sighed. “There’s something else you’ve not yet told me?”

  “I’m…I’m not sure I want to dance Swan Lake again,” Suzette said. “I’m frightened. What if it goes wrong—I injure myself again? Last year’s performance was an acclaimed triumph as you know—perhaps it would be better to leave the public with that memory.”

  Malik’s eyes narrowed. “Your ankle is completely fit again, yes? And we’re talking here about a role you’ve made your own down the years but now you’re afraid to dance it?”

  Suzette nodded.

  “You’re also willing to forgo that last round of applause, the last of the bouquets, the last standing ovation for your performance? You want to let me down? Have me offer the role to Donna?”

  “I don’t want to let you down Malik but…”

  “Then don’t. I’ll give you anoth
er week to decide whether you want a proper finale to your dancing career or not. Your choice.”

  Suzette bit her lip. She knew she was taking the coward’s way out by not making a decision right now and telling Malik but there was still that little knot of uncertainty in her stomach.

  Evie pushed hanger after hanger aside on the wardrobe rail, unable to decide which outfit would be suitable for Madame de Guesclin’s dinner party. The few outfits she’d brought back with her to Brittany hadn’t been selected to impress with their designer labels, so of course, the one dress ideally suited to tonight’s dinner was still hanging in her apartment in Paris. In truth, she hadn’t expected to be doing any socialising on the kind of grand scale she suspected this evening would be.

  If only she’d thought about it earlier she could have gone to the nearest town and bought something new instead of spending the last two days with Malik mooching around. But then he would have been even more grumpy than he currently was over the fact she wasn’t spending this evening with him.

  “Can’t you cancel it? Go another evening? I’m sure Madame whatever her name is would understand the unexpected appearance of an old friend?”

  Evie shook her head. Madame de Guesclin was far more likely to regard it as being terribly bad mannered to do such a thing unless it was an emergency. Besides she was looking forward to seeing Pascal again, hoping there would be an opportunity to explain about Malik and her.

  “You could always ask if you could bring a friend,” Malik suggested hopefully. “Quite fancy an evening socialising with the locals.”

  Evie shook her head again. “No, Malik. Apart from anything else I couldn’t trust you not to let slip to them who I really am.”

  Malik held his hands up in protest. “I promise to keep your secret.”

  “I’ve booked you in at the auberge for dinner. You can socialise with Libby,” Evie said.

  “Not afraid I’ll tell her your secret then?”

  Evie glared at him. “Don’t even think about it.” No point in telling him Libby already knew. Best to let Malik think nobody but him knew who she was.

  When he finally admitted defeat and left her to get ready, Evie had heaved a sigh of relief. Now, with just half an hour left before Pascal arrived to collect her she desperately needed to find something to wear.

  In the end she settled for her long scarlet boho skirt with its asymmetric hemline teamed with her favourite pale pink silk shirt and her strappy sandals. Not her normal going-out-to-dinner wear but her embroidered bolero simply thrown over shoulders should add a degree of glamour. Unconventional for a posh dinner but it was the best she could do.

  Thankfully the village shop had a section devoted to handmade chocolates, and Evie had managed to find a box, now wrapped in gold paper and tied with a bow, that would, she hoped, make an adequate hostess present.

  Pascal, when he arrived, kissed her on both cheeks before saying, “You look lovely.”

  Blushing Evie said, “Thank you. I’m not sure what your mother and her friends will make of this outfit but I haven’t brought anything with me that counts as dressy.”

  Driving along the canal path Pascal glanced at the barge. “How is your friend?”

  “Enjoying his holiday I think,” Evie replied. “I’ve shown him a few of the local sights. Tomorrow I think he goes to Vannes to meet with another friend.”

  “You are going to?”

  Evie shook her head. “Non. I have other things I need to do.”

  “He leaves soon?”

  Evie shrugged. “I don’t know his plans but suspect he will have to return to Paris soon. He’s a very good friend but we don’t tell each other everything. Never have done.” Hopefully Pascal would understand the underlying message of her words. She turned to look out of the car window. “It’s so beautiful here. And unbelievably peaceful.”

  Hydrangeas in full flower were visible everywhere as Pascal turned into the house drive and parked alongside a highly polished Mercedes sports car and an ordinary-looking saloon.

  “Ah everybody is here,” Pascal said, taking her by the hand. “Evie, I very much hope you will enjoy this evening,” he said, a serious note in his voice. “My mother can be, let’s say intimidating, but it’s important for me the two of you get on.” The intense look on his face as he looked at her told Evie he meant every word.

  Before Evie could ask, “Why is it important?” the door opened and Madame de Guesclin was welcoming them and ushering them into a large drawing room.

  “A champagne aperitif while we get to know each other,” she said. “And then Marie will serve dinner.”

  Two women and three men were introduced to Evie in rapid succession and she was instructed to call Madame de Guesclin by her Christian name—a regal-sounding Marquisa, which actually suited her. Evie smiled at everyone, handed over the chocolates and took a large gulp of her champagne cocktail. She needed some Dutch courage for what she was sure was going to turn into a long evening.

  Dinner was served in a room overlooking the mature gardens. In deference to the warm summer evening the two pairs of French doors were wide open, their delicate muslin curtains fluttering in the breeze as the perfume of the jasmine covering the loggia wafted in. Evie would have loved to dine out on the terrace itself but clearly Marquisa wasn’t an al fresco dining type of woman.

  Thankfully she was seated with Pascal on her right and a woman on her left called Jeanette Doaré. Jeanette turned out to be the newly elected mayor of the local village. And a lover of live theatre—particularly Parisian live theatre.

  “Sadly these days it is not possible for Marquisa and I to go more than twice a year. We go again this September. Already we argue over which show we shall visit. Peut-être you will recommend one?”

  Evie tensed as in the silence that followed Jeanette’s question, everybody looked at her expectantly. “I’m afraid I’m not sure which plays will still be running later in the year,” she said. “But I’m sure you’ll be spoilt for choice.”

  Marie appeared at that moment with the fish course and the theatre conversation petered out much to Evie’s relief.

  “I think you are very brave going into politics,” she said to Jeanette. “How do you cope with all the criticism people throw at you when they don’t like what you do?”

  “People are entitled to their own opinions. They can always join the council too and try to change things.” Jeanette took a drink of the wine that Pascal was pouring for everyone before continuing. “I have to admit I have a very thick skin these days. Disagreement with policies is one thing—it’s when it gets personal that it begins to hurt.”

  An animated discussion followed, led by Leon, Jeanette’s husband, who clearly disliked his wife’s job. Evie, pleased the conversation had moved away from Paris-related things, relaxed as she listened to the to-ing and fro-ing between the friends. All five courses were delicious—the dessert a spectacular blazing baked Alaska—and Evie realised she was enjoying the evening after all. But then, it all began to fall apart.

  Marquisa stood up. “Liqueurs and coffee on the terrace, I think.”

  “Ça va?” Pascal whispered in Evie’s ear as she slipped her arms into her bolero jacket before dutifully following Marquisa. “Tonight is OK for you?”

  She smiled at him and nodded. “The food is wonderful. Make sure you tell Marie how much I enjoyed it all.”

  Refusing a liqueur she accepted a demitasse of coffee from Marquisa who, handing it to her, said, “Pascal tells me an old friend of yours has turned up? In a barge.”

  Evie nodded. “Just for a few days.” Now for the first time that evening, Evie began to feel uncomfortable. A certain undercurrent had suddenly developed, as if everybody apart from her was in on some gigantic secret.

  “He is a close friend?” Jeanette asked.

  “Yes, I have known him a long time,” Evie said, waiting for the next inevitable question but Pascal rescued her from the interrogation as he drew attention to her bolero.
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br />   “Mama, Jeanette, have you seen the exquisite embroidery on Evie’s jacket? Isn’t she clever?”

  Marquisa nodded. “She’s a very talented lady,” she said slowly.

  Evie shot an unhappy glance at Pascal, willing him to pick up on it. She could have kissed him when he did.

  “Mama, I’ve forgotten to collect some papers from the garden centre, which I need to check before seeing the accountant tomorrow so if you’ll excuse us, I’ll take Evie home at the same time.”

  “Surely Evie can wait here while you run down to the centre,” Marquisa protested.

  “I don’t want to put Pascal to the trouble of making two journeys,” Evie said quickly. “Thank you so much for this evening, Marquisa—and do thank Marie for all the delicious food.”

  “I hope to see you again before you return to Paris,” Marquisa said. “Do feel free to call in any time.”

  “Thank you,” Evie said. Calling in on Marquisa unexpectedly without a formal invitation being issued was as likely to happen as her being offered a new contract as Principal Dancer at the Paris Opera. It wasn’t that Marquisa had been unfriendly, she had been a gracious hostess in the main but once or twice there had been an undercurrent of something unspoken in the glances exchanged between Marquisa and Jeanette.

  “I did warn you my mother can be intimidating,” Pascal said as they drove towards the auberge. “My father was always trying to get her to stop being so forceful. He was always telling her, ‘Let people see the gentler, kinder, side of you.’ I hope this evening wasn’t too difficult for you.”

  Evie was silent not knowing how to answer him truthfully. Hadn’t he noticed the way innocent sentences had left unanswered questions in the air? Hadn’t he been aware of the interrogative atmosphere that had arrived with the coffee?

  “She must be lonely now your father has died,” she said finally.

  Pascal sighed. “She is. But determined to carry on as if nothing has changed. When you get to know her better, I’m sure you’ll find her to be one of the kindest people you’ve ever met.”