[Fen Churche 02] - Night Train to Paris Fliss Chester (essential reading .TXT) 📖

She filled the silver teapot, using whatever tea she could find in one of the caddies in the kitchen. Lapsang souchong, perhaps… The smokiness of the brew brought back memories suddenly of being in this apartment before… Before Rose was murdered, before she was embroiled once again in finding out what happened to someone she cared about. Not to mention poor Gervais too.

‘Here you are,’ she brought the tea and three cups into the studio room.

Simone was now huddled up in James’s arms, a pose Fen was becoming more and more familiar with.

Fen let the tea brew for a few moments longer before saying sotto voce to James, ‘Anything?’

James shook his head, and then carefully pushed Simone away from him slightly so that she could accept Fen’s proffered cup of tea.

‘Simone, dear, can you bring yourself to tell us yet?’

‘Yes, I think so.’ She pursed her lips and blew across the teacup to cool it slightly. ‘It’s not too sweet, is it? I mustn’t have too much sugar,’ she said.

‘It’s quite sweet, dear, but you need it right now.’ Fen urged her to drink while thinking, Now is not the time to worry about your waistline. ‘So, can you tell us what happened to you? I know it’s hard, but you’re safe now.’

‘Oh it was horrible, horrible. Today was meant to be so fun, you know? A fashion shoot on the Right Bank of the river, just me and Carmella from accounts, who is very beautiful – not versatile like me, you know, but very thin and her bone structure is… Anyway…’ She cautiously sipped the hot tea and then carried on, ‘We were posing for the photographer, you know how the light is so good in the afternoon and the autumn leaves are so, how would you say, romantique.’ She playfully twiddled a hand in the air to mimic the falling leaves, before becoming serious again. ‘Then the shouts started, then there were catcalls and shrieks and then there was a mob of them…’

‘Bloody ruffians, how dare they attack two women just doing their job. I mean, talk about lowest of the low. If I find those men—’

‘They weren’t men…’ As Simone said those words, it was Fen and James’s turn to fall into a shocked silence. ‘It was women. All women.’

‘What do you mean?’ James was flabbergasted.

‘I think she means that it wasn’t an attack like we might think, but more of a… protest?’ Fen eked out the last word, testing the water.

‘A protest against what?’ James asked.

‘Against the clothes.’ Fen turned to Simone. ‘Isn’t that right? You mentioned something like this happening to you before. Up near Montmartre?’

Simone just nodded and raised a handkerchief to her eye. ‘It’s just jealousy, they’re just jealous.’

‘Sadly,’ Fen sat back in her chair, relieved to have cracked one small puzzle at least, ‘I don’t think it’s just jealousy. I’m sorry, Simone, and please don’t take this the wrong way, or think that I agree with them, but it’s rather pushing their buttons, isn’t it?’

‘Whose buttons? What have buttons got to do with it?’ James was still confused. He just couldn’t get his head around the fact that women could be so violent.

‘You know, psychological buttons. These women, these Parisiennes, have been through so much during the occupation. Rationing, shortages of food, clothes, life’s essentials. There’s a feeling that too much of a good thing is just too much, full stop.’

‘But I am the future!’ Simone rebuffed Fen’s words. ‘The war is over and we should look to tomorrow, you know?’

‘I know, I know. And perhaps you’re right and maybe it is mostly jealousy from the other women. But—’

‘No. No “but”.’ Simone seemed to be more in a huff now than scared or upset. ‘This is my life and I shall wear what I like. Catherine didn’t risk her life and end up in Ravensbrück for us all to wear sackcloth for the rest of time. You’ll both see, Christian will start his own atelier and the clothes will be fabulous and luxurious and I shall be wearing them.’ She sounded nothing less than triumphant and all Fen could do was nod and sip her tea and let the young woman, ably supported by James’s strong arms and words of reassurance, settle down.

A little while later Fen stirred the pot of bean cassoulet on the stove as James rested his back against the wall of the galley-style kitchen. She had picked up some simple cooking tips from her hostess in Burgundy a few weeks ago, and although that sojourn had ended in a murderer being brought to justice, it had also left Fen with a new appreciation for simple French cooking.

After she had drawn Simone a nice steaming bath to help her forget the trauma of being set upon, she had sent James out to see if he could find a grocer still open to pick up some items she could cobble a supper together from. James had returned with some canned goods and half a pound of good herby sausages from the local butcher who was just closing up for the day.

‘I either caught him at the right time or wrong time, depending on your viewpoint,’ he had reported back to Fen.

‘Meaning?’

‘Good in that I got a very keen price on the bangers and he threw in those lardons too. Bad in that they were practically the only things left, so sorry if you fancied gammon or lamb tonight instead.’

Fen had laughed and taken the waxed paper parcel of meat from James. ‘This will do very well, James, thank you.’

So she had started to cook and soon enough Simone had emerged from the bathroom and got herself dressed. She was in the studio room and Fen could imagine that James felt slightly torn as to which room he should be in. Fen was about to put him out of his misery and claim he was getting under her feet in the kitchen when he brought up the subject of the painting again.

‘How much