The Girl Behind The Fan (Hidden Women) (11 page)

It felt as though I was being paid to go on holiday. I was being paid to try to rekindle my silly affair. I felt slightly guilty when I thought of it that way.

But the week could not pass quickly enough. I spent the mornings working directly from Augustine’s manuscript in the Bibliothèque Nationale. In the afternoons, I embarked on something of a makeover. I sat in cafes and watched the endless parade of effortlessly elegant Parisiennes who turned the pavements into a catwalk. I tried to work out what it was that made them look so chic, then I visited every little boutique in the sixth and seventh arrondissements in an attempt to recreate that stylishness and pull together the perfect wardrobe for a weekend in Venice.

I also booked myself into the beauty salon I passed every morning on my way to the library and spent an extremely indulgent afternoon undertaking all those grooming rituals I had not bothered with since I flew home from Venice to London back in February. While the beautician painted my fingernails a dark, bloodstain red, I mused on how ridiculous it was, all this artifice. Especially since Marco said he had fallen for me while looking at a photo in which, by my own admission, I looked as though I had just come in from picking the potato crop.

But the preparation gave me confidence. That was the important thing about it. As I left the salon, freshly waxed and primped and varnished, I felt at last that I could hold my own against any of the uber-chic women who frequented the Rue du Faubourg St-Honoré or hung out in Harry’s Bar in Venice. I needed that extra boost.

One of the things that had bothered me most about Marco Donato was the thought of the women who had populated his past. He’d been so wealthy and handsome. He was always photographed with beautiful women – women who spent their time in spas rather than university libraries. And as much as we say that beauty comes from within, it can be hard not to envy those who have so much beauty without, too. The great heroines are rarely plain. What if
Beauty and the Beast
had been reversed and the young girl was the one who looked like a monster? Would a male beauty have bothered to try to see what lay beneath?

The night before I was due to fly to Venice, I sat down with my notes on Augustine’s life so far and read them through again. But I was distracted.

I posed in front of the mirror in the bedroom, looking at my new haircut. The hairdresser had persuaded me that losing a couple of inches in length would make my hair infinitely more chic. I liked it. Would Marco? I ran my hand through the new choppy layers, remembering what Marco had said about my hair back in February, when he told me what he thought of my photograph on the university website.

I admit upon first inspection you were not what I might call ‘my type’. Your hair. Why did you wear it at such an unflattering length? But your best efforts with that knife-cut fringe could not hide your beautiful cheekbones. Michelangelo might have carved your generous mouth and your perfectly straight nose. Your chin is feminine yet determined. You have the face of a mythical heroine. A goddess. No amount of bad lighting and ill-chosen costume could conceal your beautiful bones.

Or your eyes . . . There is mischief in those perfect blue irises. Blue like a pair of old Levi’s. That is a great compliment, I hope you know . . .

I hugged the memory of that compliment to me now and smiled at my reflection as I imagined Marco smiling back at me. In less than twenty-four hours I might be in his arms.

Chapter 14

Paris, 1839

Life was very happy in the
chambre de bonne
at 76, Rue de la Ville L’ Evêque, but alas, unbeknownst to me, trouble was brewing in the salon downstairs. Remi had been working on his portrait of Arlette for weeks now and Arlette was growing impatient. It was Remi’s belief that the subject should not see the painting until it was finished, lest they be disappointed with the work in progress. Remi had warned Arlette of this, explaining that he worked in a very particular way and for quite some time it might look as though he was making no progress at all, when in fact he was making those tiny adjustments that would add up to perfection.

Arlette took Remi at his word and promised she would not try to take a peek at her portrait until Remi gave his permission. I believe she stuck by her promise because several times she complained to me that she was growing impatient and begged me to tell her what I had seen. Was Remi making her beautiful? Should she have worn the green dress after all?

I could tell her truthfully that I did not know. Arlette was not the only person forbidden to see Remi’s work until such time as he deemed it ready. I could only tell her I thought he seemed happy and that was a good sign. I was sure I would have some inkling if he was dissatisfied.

Finally, six weeks after he started the portrait, Remi told Arlette he would not need her for another sitting. He had only to put the finishing touches to the background and then it would be complete. Arlette was beside herself with excitement. She had one of the men take down the old painting above the mantelpiece in preparation. She told all her friends about the portrait’s imminent unveiling.

Elaine and I were with her when Remi said he was finally ready.

Arlette had put on her blue dress for the occasion, so that we could properly marvel at the likeness. The portrait was covered with the paint-spattered cloth that Remi draped over it every night. Remi stood to the side of it, smiling proudly. I was already pleased with whatever he had painted. I knew it would be wonderful.

Arlette stood in front of the painting. Elaine and I hung back a little, though we were no less excited than she. Remi reached up to grab the cloth and pulled it off with a showman’s flourish. You could almost hear the blast of horns.

‘What?’

Arlette’s face had changed. Her smile had disappeared. ‘But it doesn’t look anything like me.’

‘It looks exactly like you,’ said Remi. ‘It’s like you’re looking in a mirror.’

‘But my ears . . . They’re not that big. And you’ve made my face all lumpy. I look like a . . . I look like a potato!’

Elaine sniggered into her hand and tried to disguise it as a sneeze, which only made things worse. I dropped my eyes to the floor. It was true that the portrait was not quite what I would have expected from Remi, who was ordinarily so careful to flatter, but it was also true that it was a very good likeness.

‘I promise you,’ said Remi. ‘I painted exactly what I saw. This, dear Arlette, is exactly what you look like.’

‘Like a peasant!’ Arlette exclaimed.

By this time, Elaine could not control herself at all. She had to run from the room. I could hear her gasping for air in the corridor. I stared at the carpet, determined not to suffer the same outbreak. Remi was not so wise. He heard Elaine laughing in the corridor outside and let her hilarity infect him. His mouth began to twitch into a smile.

‘Is that what you think I am? A peasant?’

Arlette fixed Remi with the hard look that made sure no one ever took advantage of her unless she wanted them to.

‘Arlette, please be reasonable. I painted what I saw.’

‘Perhaps you should get some eyeglasses.’

‘Perhaps you should get a looking-glass. This is what you look like. Tell her, Augustine. Tell her this is exactly what she looks like.’

I could feel Arlette’s eyes upon me.

‘It is a good likeness,’ I said in an attempt to be diplomatic. ‘And I think it’s rather lovely.’

‘Oh, shut up,’ said Arlette. She turned back to Remi. ‘If you think I’m going to pay for this rubbish . . .’

‘If you think you’re not going to pay . . . After all the effort I’ve made.’

‘What? While you’ve been living under my roof, eating my food, sleeping with my maid . . .?’

She made it sound so seedy.

‘The way I see it, you owe me money. Perhaps if you hadn’t been so fixated on Augustine, you would have taken better care over my portrait.’

‘The only thing that’s wrong here is your self-perception. You have an inflated idea of your beauty, Madame. As though
that
is what your gentleman callers flock to your door for. If you were really beautiful, one of them might have married you.’

I could see now that Remi had taken a step too far. Arlette’s face grew red with fury.

‘Leave my house at once,’ Arlette shouted. ‘Leave and never come back. And take that horrible painting with you.’

‘With pleasure,’ said Remi.

‘You’ve no more talent than a child. I hope you don’t think you’re ever going to make a living from such pathetic daubs.’

‘I’m sure when I start to attract better models, my talent will improve immeasurably.’

‘You’re no gentleman,’ said Arlette.

‘Well, it goes without saying that you’re no lady.’

‘Oh!’ Arlette dealt him an open-handed slap to the face.

I tried to intervene, but Arlette pushed me out of the way. Remi bade me stand behind him. I knew he would not return Arlette’s latest insult in kind, but I did not think she had finished with him and I wanted him to leave before she scratched out his eyes. She would calm down. Perhaps she would even come to see that the portrait was lovely. But not if Remi continued to trade insults with her.

‘Remi,’ I begged him. ‘You must leave. Go to the bistro. I’ll come and find you later.’

‘No, you won’t,’ said Arlette. This time she was talking to me. ‘Augustine Levert, you are a member of my household and already I have turned a blind eye to your goings-on these past few weeks. You have been distracted from your work by this ignorant ruffian. I know you have been feeding him from my kitchen and doubtless he has been drinking from my wine cellar too. He has taken advantage of you and you in turn have taken advantage of me. Now it is time for you to choose. Are you loyal to me or to him?’

‘Arlette, please don’t make me choose between you. I love you both. You are my family. No one has ever shown me such kindness . . .’

‘And how little gratitude you show for it. Me or him?’

Remi was already covering up the portrait, ready to take it away.

‘Come on, Augustine,’ he said. ‘If she can’t appreciate great art when she sees it, then it’s highly unlikely she appreciates you properly either. Come on. You’ve worked like a slave here. You don’t owe her anything.’

At one time, I had felt I owed Arlette everything. But right then she seemed childish and surly, insisting that I choose between her and my true love all because she didn’t like the way he’d painted her. I decided I would go with Remi. I never thought for a moment that I might not have the chance to come back to Arlette’s household later.

That night, I stayed with Remi in a little hotel in Saint Germain. He told the man on the desk that we were married but I had lost my wedding ring when we encountered robbers on our first day in the city. They’d taken our papers at the same time. The hotelier did not look convinced but neither did he seem to particularly care about our marital status. He handed Remi a key and wished us a good night with a horrible wink.

‘This is much better than the
chambre de bonne
,’ said Remi. ‘At last a bed we can stretch out in.’

I agreed, though the
chambre de bonne
had been dry and warm and this hotel room smelled distinctly of mildew. It was a smell that took me back to the room I had shared with my mother. How I had longed to be able to take her to a better place, so that she might be cured of the consumption. The memory made me tearful. Remi misinterpreted my weeping.

‘Arlette is a silly woman. She is vain and stupid. To think she believes anyone could have painted a better portrait! Of course, I could have made the picture more flattering but I am a true artist. I don’t just paint what I see. I paint my subject’s inner life as well.’

Remi was completely absorbed in his own justifications. I didn’t dare tell him that I had liked it better when his pictures were less realistic but kind. Instead, I snuggled close to him and let him talk until he decided he wanted to make love to me.

Then I let him undress me and touch every inch of my body.

‘Here,’ he said, ‘is a vision worth wasting paint to capture.’

Perhaps realising that I was as upset by the evening’s events as he had been angered, Remi showed extra-special attention to my happiness for once. He had me lie back on the bed and think of nothing but pleasure as he got to his knees between my legs and buried his face in my mound. I relaxed just a little as I felt his tongue on my clitoris, but the thought of Arlette’s angry tears soon distracted me again and Remi grew impatient for my climax.

Not wanting to disappoint him, I gave a reasonable impression of a woman satisfied. Then he climbed on top of me to take his own pleasure. I sighed as he pushed into me and wrapped my arms round him, holding his face against my neck so that he would not see my own wet eyes.

For a moment, while he was inside me, I forgot about my worries and focused instead on the good that had come from the argument. I was spending a night away from home in a big bed. A proper marital bed. At least I would not wake up with a crick in my neck. And we did not have to worry about keeping anyone awake.