Читать книгу The Last Will And Testament Of Daphné Le Marche - Kate Forster - Страница 13

In London, 1983, the cultural landscape was shifting. Nothing was as it seemed and the roles that people were so familiar with were changing before people’s eyes.

Boy George was changing music with his gender-bending costumes and make-up, a film about a female welder and dancer was number one and Margaret Thatcher had just been re-elected for a second term as Prime Minister.

It was also the year Elisabeth Herod met Henri Le Marche.

As with the most extraordinary of relationships, their meeting was completely ordinary. Elisabeth worked at the bookstore, Hatchards in Piccadilly, and Henri had asked her opinion on The Name of the Rose. She had to admit to him that she hadn’t read the book, but she had heard only good things.

She decided that Henri had a look of a poet, taking in his rumpled suit but expensive silk tie and uncombed hair. His French accent was as delicious as a chocolate soufflé and she thought he would be the perfect man to lose her virginity to while she was in London.

He asked what was the last book she read, and she took him to the poetry corner and pulled out a slim volume and handed it to him.

Henri seemed as interested in her, which was lovely since her dark hair, dark eye combination seemed so uninteresting to English boys at the time. Samantha Fox was on Page Three of the Sun and the boys who were living in the hostel had images of her stuck to every bathroom wall.

Just seeing Ms Fox’s large breasts made Elisabeth feel uncomfortable, and she always glanced down at her own chest, lacking in everything compared to Samantha’s.

Henri turned the book over in his hands and then read aloud in French, ‘Louise Lévêque de Vilmorin—Poèmes.’ And then looked up at her. His blue eyes widened, and his dark hair fell over his face.

She quelled a desire to move it from his forehead so she could see his eyes again.

‘You speak French?’

‘Oui,’ she said, aware her Australian accent might ruin the romance of the moment.

‘And you read French poetry?’ he asked, a smile playing on his face.

‘Oui,’ she said again. Oh yes, she was definitely flirting now.

From the corner of her eye, Elisabeth could see her manager coming towards them and she snatched the book from him and put it back on the shelf.

‘Elisabeth, are you helping this gentleman?’ asked Bernard, the snivelling manager who reminded her of a court fop.

‘She is,’ said Henri, in an accent somewhat thicker than he had used with Elisabeth. ‘She is so knowledgeable and her taste is sublime, you are very lucky to have such a woman to work for you.’

Bernard almost bowed and then gave a rare, thin-lipped smile to Elisabeth. ‘She is a wonderful girl, who knew an Australian could be educated as well as she is. Please let me know if you need anything else.’

Bernard left them, walking backwards, and bumped into a table of discounted travel books. When Elisabeth turned her attention back to Henri, he was holding the book of poems again and he read to her,

‘Fiancée of a million deviations

what do you hide up your sleeve?

Is it a postcard

from the place where dreams are discarded?

Is it your revenge plan:

a vulture’s kiss: stolen and flown?’

Elisabeth felt her heart tighten and her breath squeezed her lungs until she thought she would explode.

‘You translated that from French? So quickly?’ she asked.

‘I know Louise de Vilmorin’s work,’ he said. ‘Did you know she was engaged to Antoine de Saint-Exupéry?’

Elisabeth nodded and she wondered if in fact he would be more than just the thief of her innocence.

‘Dinner? Tonight?’ he asked, tucking the book under his arm.

‘OK,’ was all she could reply.

‘I will pick you up. Where do you live?’ he asked politely.

Elisabeth thought of the grotty hostel and the pictures of Samantha Fox.

‘Can I meet you here? I work till late,’ she lied.

‘Of course,’ he answered and he reached down and kissed her on each cheek.

‘Au revoir, Elisabeth,’ he said and then left her alone while he paid for the book at the counter.

It was only after that she realised she didn’t know his name and she rushed to the counter to see if he had left a clue with his credit card.

‘He paid cash,’ said the girl at the till. ‘Wasn’t half handsome, wasn’t he?’

Elisabeth spent the rest of the afternoon as though flying on a flock of wild birds, seeing London below as a fantastic adventure that finally she was beginning to undertake.

* * *

Henri was waiting for her when she left the bookstore at six in the evening. The streetlamps were turning on and the crisp autumn air made everyone look like smokers as they hurried home. Henry was leaning against a post box, wearing the same suit as earlier in the day, but this time with a camel coat draped over his shoulders.

He looked incongruous against the streetscape with a group of punks walking past, their hair pointed upwards and their mouths downturned.

‘Hello,’ she said as she walked towards him. She was aware of the unfashionable coat she wore compared to his but she had a silk scarf she had found in lost property and had artfully wound it around her neck, just like she had seen Catherine Deneuve do in a television commercial.

He reached out and touched the scarf, ‘So chic,’ he said with a smile and then leaned down and kissed her on the cheek again.

He smelt of tobacco and soap and something else she couldn’t quite name.

‘What is that scent?’ she whispered in his ear while his face was still close to hers.

‘Opoponax,’ he said back to her.

She pulled away. ‘A pop of what?’

Henri laughed and she thought it was the most beautiful sound in the world.

‘Opoponax, it’s the sweet cousin of myrrh. It was used by the Ancient Romans as incense and helps people learn others secrets and portends the future like the Sibyls.’

Elisabeth thought her legs would give way and she clutched his arm.

Henri, however, seemed calm as he held her steady.

‘You need a drink, oui?’

‘Oui,’ she said feebly and allowed him to lead her to the bar at Claridge’s.

She didn’t know men who wore a scent like Henri and even knew its history. Her father had an old bottle of Eau Savage that Elisabeth’s mother had bought duty free on a trip to Singapore, and he wore it only at special events, which was about three times a year.

Henri helped her out of her coat, and she felt ashamed of her wool skirt and plain white blouse so she kept the scarf around her neck.

‘What will you drink?’ he asked her and Elisabeth shrugged as she slid into the private booth.

‘I don’t know, what do you think?’

She didn’t think she could ask for a pint at Claridge’s but she didn’t know any other drink other than cask wine.

‘Champagne,’ he stated and then ordered a bottle of Taittinger for them with a selection of cheeses to share.

Elisabeth realised how hungry she was and placed her hand on her stomach to stop it protesting about the paltry cup of soup that had masqueraded as lunch.

‘I don’t know your name.’ she said suddenly, as though speaking her thoughts aloud.

‘Henri Le Marche,’ he answered, as he sat back in the booth.

‘I’m Elisabeth Herod,’ she said and she put out her hand in a formal manner.

Henri laughed and took her hand and gallantly kissed it as Elisabeth laughed.

‘Sorry, I think it’s the environment, it’s very posh, isn’t it?’ she whispered.

‘Shall we go somewhere else?’ Henri asked, his handsome face now worried. ‘I didn’t know where you might like to go, but my mother always says Claridge’s is best when you’re in London.’

Elisabeth tried to hide her smile as she nodded in agreement but Henri noticed.

‘You don’t agree?’

‘I don’t really know,’ she said, deciding to be honest. ‘I’m from Australia, here on a gap year. The nicest place I’ve been to so far has been Harrods and even then the staff looked at me like I was going to steal something.’

Henri laughed. ‘You will tell me if you’re not happy here?’

The waiter arrived with the champagne and made a show of displaying it to Henri, who waved his approval with his hand.

When their glasses were filled, Henri picked up his glass. ‘To books,’ he said.

She felt herself smiling. ‘To books,’ she echoed and took a sip of the champagne, savouring the taste.

‘Gosh, that’s lovely,’ she said, as she watched the beads burst up in the glass.

‘It is,’ said Henri, and he took another sip. ‘Beeswax,’ he said then paused. ‘And blackberries.’

Elisabeth took a sip from her glass. ‘And apple,’ she added, remembering the cider she had drunk at her brother’s twenty-first birthday party.

Henri beamed at her. ‘Yes, apple.’

The waiter brought the cheese and they were silent until he left.

‘Do you work in the wine area?’ she asked, watching how he held his glass by the stem and not the bulb.

‘No, I work in the family business,’ he said, leaning forward and smearing Brie onto a wafer-thin piece of toast and handing it to her.

Elisabeth took the offering gratefully and popped it into her mouth.

‘We make cosmetics,’ he said with a shrug. ‘My grandfather started it and now my mother runs it.’

‘And you will take over one day?’ asked Elisabeth, as he handed her more cheese.

‘I hope not,’ said Henri with a sigh.

‘What would you rather do?’ Elisabeth sipped her champagne, as he thought.

‘I would like to write books,’ he said.

She thought her face would crack at the width of her smile.

‘Does your mother think you should write books?’ she asked.

Henri smiled now. ‘My mother doesn’t care what I do, as long as I’m happy. It is my brother Robert who will get the company one day.’

‘So why are you in London?’ she asked, feeling somewhat fortified by the champagne and cheese.

‘My mother lives here most of the year, she prefers London for business, so I come and visit her.’

Disappointment rose in Elisabeth that his would be a fleeting visit and she wouldn’t see him again.

‘But now I know Mademoiselle Elisabeth is in London, I will be here for a while, I think.’

She felt herself smile again and wondered if he could read her mind, or was the opoponax tapping her secrets for Henri’s benefit.

‘What are Sibyls?’ she asked, thinking of his comment about the scent he was wearing, grasping at a casual conversation to try to balance out the sexual tension she was feeling.

‘They were prophetesses or Sibyllas from Ancient Greece, who could predict the future. They were very wise and gave sage advice to the priests, but they only spoke in riddles.’

‘It’s a beautiful word “Sibylla”,’ said Elisabeth, rolling the word around her mouth like a sweet.

‘Yes, if I have a daughter, I would like to call her Sibylla. I think she will be very wise, but that, of course, would come from her mother.’

He looked at her pointedly as he said this and Elisabeth choked on the invisible sweet.

‘More champagne,’ said Henri, as he lifted the bottle from the silver bucket and refilled her glass and then his.

‘Now tell me all about you,’ he said. ‘And Australia, I’ve always wanted to go there.’

Elisabeth went through the details quickly. An only child of two working-class parents, she had excelled at school and received a scholarship to a private girls’ school. This led to an acceptance at university to study English, which she hoped to be able to teach at high school one day.

‘But why high school? Teach at university, become a professeur des universités.’ He clapped his hands happily at his decision on her behalf.

‘You will be the beauty and the brains in your long robe, all the men will desire you and be intimidated by you.’

Elisabeth laughed and blushed. The need to kiss him was disconcerting, or was it the champagne?

‘Tell me about you,’ she said, desperate to steer the topic from her.

Henri Le Marche was twenty-six years old and the second son of Daphné and Yves Le Marche. What he lacked in ambition he made up for in charm and intelligence.

‘You cannot make a living reading,’ she said, ‘unless you work in a library.’

Henri thought this sounded perfectly reasonable and decided to one day open his own library in Paris when he received his share of the business.

He wanted a simple life. Books, a woman with dark hair and dark eyes who would read him love poems, while she lay naked in their bed, and a child when the time was right.

When he spoke of his last wish, without pressure or embarrassment, Elisabeth wanted to jump up in the bar and scream, Pick me, pick me.

Instead, she felt a quiet calm cloak her and, emboldened by Taittinger and lust, she drained her champagne and stood up. ‘Shall we have dinner or go and read naked, in your bed?’

Henri’s room was upstairs from the bar, and the walk to the elevator was silent. They were silent as the elevator doors opened, and Henri took her hand and led her into the small space.

He didn’t let go of her hand until the doors opened again and he found his room key, then led her down the lush carpeted hallway, past the art that probably cost more than her ticket over to London and towards a door with the number three hundred in gold on the front.

At the door, he turned and held her face in his hands. ‘L’amour est la poésie des sens.’

Then Elisabeth kissed him. Was it the Balzac quote, or the fact that something like this moment happening was so extraordinary to a girl who lived such an ordinary life that she became someone else for a moment? Or was this who she always was?

As they kissed, he managed to open the door and they fell inside the suite, hands pulling at clothes, words in French and English being muttered.

Elisabeth felt as though she needed to feel every part of him inside her. She wanted to touch him, suck him, lick him, kiss him, caress him until she knew every single part of his body and soul.

Naked on the bed, she felt his hands slide up her slim frame, and gently cup her breast. ‘You, Elisabeth, you are my dream.’

‘Love is the poetry of the senses.’ She repeated the Balzac quote back to him in English, as she pulled him to her.

She never told him she was a virgin. It didn’t matter any more. She realised she was only ever meant for Henri.

* * *

Elisabeth spent a week in bed with Henri, learning every part of him and him, her. She was fired from Hatchards at the end of that week and, on the following Monday, she phoned her parents from the hotel.

‘Mum, I’m moving to Paris,’ she exclaimed.

‘Paris? What’s in Paris?’ her mother asked, confused.

‘Henri Le Marche, my future,’ said Elisabeth. ‘I’m going to write poetry, and become a professor and have a mystical little baby. If it’s a girl, we’ll call her Sibylla and if it’s a boy, we’ll call him Antoine.’

‘Elisabeth, don’t be ridiculous,’ her mother cried from the other side of the world.

‘There’s not a thing you can say to make me change my mind, the heart wants what the heart wants.’

And then she put down the phone and fell back into Henri’s waiting arms.