Читать книгу The Other Side of Midnight - Сидни Шелдон, Sidney Sheldon, Sidney Sheldon - Страница 4

Noelle

Marseille – Paris: 1919–1939

She was born a Royal Princess.

Her earliest memories were of a white bassinet covered with a lace canopy, decorated with pink ribbons and filled with soft stuffed animals and beautiful dolls and golden rattles. She quickly learned that if she opened her mouth and let out a cry, someone would hurry to hold and comfort her. When she was six months old her father would take her out in the garden in her perambulator and let her touch the flowers and he would say, ‘They’re lovely, Princess, but you’re more beautiful than any of them.’

At home she enjoyed it when her father lifted her up in his strong arms and carried her to a window where she could look out and see the roofs of the high buildings, and he would say, ‘That’s your Kingdom out there, Princess.’ He would point to the tall masts of ships bobbing at anchor in the bay. ‘Do you see those big ships? One day they’ll all be yours to command.’

Visitors would come to the castle to see her, but only a few special ones were permitted to hold her. The others would stare down at her as she lay in her crib and would exclaim over her unbelievably delicate features, and her lovely blond hair, her soft honey-coloured skin, and her father would proudly say, ‘A stranger could tell she is a Princess!’ And he would lean over her crib and whisper, ‘Someday a beautiful Prince will come and sweep you off your feet.’ And he would gently tuck the warm pink blanket around her and she would drift off to a contented sleep. Her whole world was a roseate dream of ships, tall masts and castles, and it was not until she was five years old that she understood that she was the daughter of a Marseille fishmonger, and that the castles she saw from the window of her tiny attic room were the warehouses around the stinking fish market where her father worked, and that her navy was the fleet of old fishing ships that set out from Marseille every morning before dawn and returned in the early afternoon to vomit their smelly cargo into the waterfront docks.

This was the kingdom of Noelle Page.

The friends of Noelle’s father used to warn him about what he was doing. ‘You mustn’t put fancy ideas in her head, Jacques. She’ll think she’s better than everybody else.’ And their prophecies came true.

On the surface Marseille is a city of violence, the kind of primitive violence spawned in any waterfront town crowded with hungering sailors with money to spend and clever predators to relieve them of it. But unlike the rest of the French, the people of Marseille have a sense of solidarity that comes from a common struggle for survival, for the lifeblood of the town comes from the sea, and the fishermen of Marseille belong to the family of fishermen all over the world. They share alike in the storms and the calm days, the sudden disasters and the bountiful harvests.

So it was that Jacques Page’s neighbours rejoiced at his good fortune in having such an incredible daughter. They too recognized the miracle of how, out of the dung of the dirty, ribald city, a true Princess had been spawned.

Noelle’s parents could not get over the wonder of their daughter’s exquisite beauty. Noelle’s mother was a heavyset, coarse-featured peasant woman with sagging breasts and thick thighs and hips. Noelle’s father was squat, with broad shoulders and the small suspicious eyes of a Breton. His hair was the colour of the wet sand along the beaches of Normandy. In the beginning it had seemed to him that nature had made a mistake, that this exquisite blond fairy creature could not really belong to him and his wife, and that as Noelle grew older she would turn into an ordinary, plain-looking girl like all the other daughters of his friends. But the miracle continued to grow and flourish, and Noelle became more beautiful each day.

Noelle’s mother was less surprised than her husband by the appearance of a golden-haired beauty in the family. Nine months before Noelle had been born, Noelle’s mother had met a strapping Norwegian sailor just off a freighter. He was a giant Viking god with blond hair and a warm, seductive grin. While Jacques was at work, the sailor had spent a busy quarter of an hour in her bed in their tiny apartment.

Noelle’s mother had been filled with fear when she saw how blond and beautiful her baby was. She walked around in dread, waiting for the moment that her husband would point an accusing finger at her and demand to know the identity of the real father. But, incredibly, some ego-hunger in him made him accept the child as his own.

‘She must be a throwback to some Scandinavian blood in my family,’ he would boast to his friends, ‘but you can see that she has my features.’

His wife would listen, nodding agreement, and think what fools men were.

Noelle loved being with her father. She adored his clumsy playfulness and the strange, interesting smells that clung to him, and at the same time she was terrified by the fierceness of him. She would watch wide-eyed as he yelled at her mother and slapped her hard across the face, his neck corded with anger. Her mother would scream out in pain, but there was something beyond pain in her cries, something animal and sexual and Noelle would feel pangs of jealousy and wish she were in her mother’s place.

But her father was always gentle with Noelle. He liked to take her down to the docks and show her off to the rough, crude men with whom he worked. She was known up and down the docks as The Princess and she was proud of this, as much for her father’s sake as for her own.

She wanted to please her father, and because he loved to eat, Noelle began cooking for him, preparing his favourite dishes, gradually displacing her mother in the kitchen.

At seventeen the promise of Noelle’s early beauty had been more than fulfilled. She had matured into an exquisite woman. She had fine, delicate features, eyes a vivid violet colour and soft ash-blond hair. Her skin was fresh and golden as though she had been dipped in honey. Her figure was stunning, with generous, firm, young breasts, a small waist, rounded hips and long shapely legs, with delicate ankles. Her voice was distinctive, soft and mellifluous. There was a strong, smouldering sensuality about Noelle, but that was not her magic. Her magic lay in the fact that beneath the sensuality seemed to lie an untouched island of innocence, and the combination was irresistible. She could not walk down the streets without receiving propositions from passersby. They were not the casual offers that the prostitutes of Marseille received as their daily currency, for even the most obtuse men perceived something special in Noelle, something that they had never seen before and perhaps would never see again, and each was willing to pay as much as he could afford to try to make it a part of himself, however briefly.

Noelle’s father was conscious of her beauty, too. In fact, Jacques Page thought of little else. He was aware of the interest that Noelle aroused in men. Even though neither he nor his wife ever discussed sex with Noelle, he was certain she still had her virginity, a woman’s little capital. His shrewd peasant mind gave long and serious thought to how he could best capitalize on the windfall that nature had unexpectedly bestowed upon him. His mission was to see that his daughter’s beauty paid off as handsomely as possible for Noelle and for him. After all, he had sired her, fed her, clothed her, educated her – she owed him everything. And now it was time for him to be repaid. If he could set her up as some rich man’s mistress, it would be good for her, and he would be able to live the life of ease to which he was entitled. Each day it was getting more and more difficult for an honest man to make a living. The shadow of war had begun to spread across Europe. The Nazis had marched into Austria in a lightning coup that had left Europe stunned. A few months later the Nazis had taken over the Sudeten area and then marched into Slovakia. In spite of Hitler’s assurances that he was not interested in further conquest, the feeling persisted that there was going to be a major conflict.

The impact of events was felt sharply in France. There were shortages in the stores and markets, as the government began to gear for a massive defence effort. Soon, Jacques feared, they would even stop the fishing and then where would he be? No, the answer to his problem was in finding a suitable lover for his daughter. The trouble was that he knew no wealthy men. All his friends were piss-poor like himself, and he had no intention of letting any man near her who could not pay his price.

The answer to Jacques Page’s dilemma was inadvertently supplied by Noelle herself. In recent months Noelle had become increasingly restless. She did well in her classes, but school had begun to bore her. She told her father that she wanted to get a job. He studied her silently, shrewdly weighing the possibilities.

‘What kind of job?’ he asked.

‘I don’t know,’ Noelle replied. ‘I might be able to work as a model, papa.’

It was as simple as that.

Every afternoon for the next week Jacques Page went home after work, carefully bathed to get the smell of fish out of his hands and hair, dressed in his good suit and went down to the Canebière, the main street that led from the old harbour of the city to the richer districts. He walked up and down the street exploring all the dress salons, a clumsy peasant in a world of silk and lace, but he neither knew nor cared that he was out of place. He had but one objective and he found it when he reached the Bon Marché. It was the finest dress shop in Marseille, but that was not why he chose it. He chose it because it was owned by Monsieur Auguste Lanchon. Lanchon was in his fifties, an ugly bald-headed man with small stumpy legs and a greedy, twitching mouth. His wife, a tiny woman with the profile of a finely honed hatchet, worked in the fitting room, loudly supervising the tailors. Jacques Page took one look at Monsieur Lanchon and his wife and knew that he had found the solution to his problem.

Lanchon watched with distaste as the shabbily dressed stranger entered the door of his shop. Lanchon said rudely, ‘Yes? What can I do for you?’

Jacques Page winked, poked a thick finger in Lanchon’s chest and smirked, ‘It is what I can do for you, Monsieur. I am going to let my daughter work for you.’

Auguste Lanchon stared at the lout standing before him, an expression of incredulity on his face.

‘You are going to let —’

‘She will be here tomorrow, nine o’clock.’

‘I do not —’

Jacques Page had left. A few minutes later, Auguste Lanchon had completely dismissed the incident from his mind. At nine o’clock the next morning, Lanchon looked up and saw Jacques Page entering the shop. He was about to tell his manager to throw the man out, when behind him he saw Noelle. They were walking towards him, the father and his unbelievably beautiful daughter, and the old man was grinning. ‘Here she is, ready to go to work.’

Auguste Lanchon stared at the girl and licked his lips.

‘Good morning, Monsieur,’ Noelle smiled. ‘My father told me that you had a job for me.’

Auguste Lanchon nodded his head, unable to trust his voice.

‘Yes, I–I think we could arrange something,’ he managed to stammer. He studied her face and figure and could not believe what he saw. He could already imagine what that naked young body would feel like under him.

Jacques Page was saying, ‘Well, I will leave you two to get acquainted,’ and he gave Lanchon a hearty whack on the shoulder and a wink that had a dozen different significances, none of them leaving any doubt in Lanchon’s mind about his intentions.

For the first few weeks Noelle felt that she had been transported to another world. The women who came to the shop were dressed in beautiful clothes and had lovely manners, and the men who accompanied them were a far cry from the crude, boisterous fishermen with whom she had grown up. It seemed to Noelle that for the first time in her life the stench of fish was out of her nostrils. She had never really been aware of it before, because it had always been a part of her. But now everything was suddenly changed. And she owed it all to her father. She was proud of the way he got along with Monsieur Lanchon. Her father would come to the shop two or three times a week and he and Monsieur Lanchon would slip out for a cognac or a beer and when they returned there would be an air of camaraderie between them. In the beginning Noelle had disliked Monsieur Lanchon, but his behaviour towards her was always circumspect. Noelle heard from one of the girls that Lanchon’s wife had once caught him in the stockroom with a model and had picked up a pair of shears and had barely missed castrating him. Noelle was aware that Lanchon’s eyes followed her everywhere she went, but he was always scrupulously polite. ‘Probably,’ she thought, with satisfaction, ‘he is afraid of my father.’

At home the atmosphere suddenly seemed much brighter. Noelle’s father no longer struck her mother and the constant bickering had stopped. There were steaks and roasts to eat, and after dinner Noelle’s father would take out a new pipe and fill it with a rich smelling tobacco from a leather pouch. He bought himself a new Sunday suit. The international situation was worsening and Noelle would listen to discussions between her father and his friends. They all seemed to be alarmed by the imminent threat to their livelihood, but Jacques Page appeared singularly unconcerned.

On September 1, 1939, Hitler’s troops invaded Poland and two days later Great Britain and France declared war against Germany.

Mobilization was begun and overnight the streets were filled with uniforms. There was an air of resignation about what was happening, a dèjá vu feeling of watching an old movie that one had seen before; but there was no fear. Other countries might have reason to tremble before the might of the German armies but France was invincible. It had the Maginot Line, an impenetrable fortress that could protect France against invasion for a thousand years. A curfew was imposed and rationing was started, but none of those things bothered Jacques Page. He seemed to have changed, to have calmed. The only time Noelle saw him fly into a fury was one night when she was in the darkened kitchen kissing a boy whom she dated occasionally. The lights suddenly went on and Jacques Page stood in the doorway trembling with rage.

‘Get out,’ he screamed at the terrified boy. ‘And keep your hands off my daughter, you filthy pig!’

The boy fled in panic. Noelle tried to explain to her father that they had been doing nothing wrong, but he was too furious to listen.

‘I will not have you throw yourself away,’ he roared. ‘He is a nobody, he is not good enough for my Princess.’

Noelle lay awake that night marvelling at how much her father loved her and vowing that she would never do anything to distress him again.

One evening just before closing time a customer came into the shop and Lanchon asked Noelle to model some dresses. By the time Noelle finished, everyone had left the shop except Lanchon and his wife, who was working on the books in the office. Noelle went into the empty dressing room to change. She was in her bra and pants when Lanchon walked into the room. He stared at her and his lips began to twitch. Noelle reached for her dress, but before she could put it on Lanchon swiftly moved towards her and shoved his hand between her legs. Noelle was filled with revulsion, her skin beginning to crawl. She tried to pull away, but Lanchon’s grip was strong and he was hurting her.

‘You are beautiful,’ he whispered. ‘Beautiful. I will see that you have a good time.’

At that moment Lanchon’s wife called out to him and he reluctantly let go of Noelle and scurried out of the room.

On the way home Noelle debated whether to tell her father what had happened. He would probably kill Lanchon. She detested him and could not bear to be near him, and yet she wanted the job. Besides, her father might be disappointed if she quit. She decided that for the moment she would say nothing and would find a way to handle it herself.

The following Friday Madame Lanchon received a call that her mother was ill in Vichy. Lanchon drove his wife to the railroad station and then raced back to the shop. He called Noelle into his office and told her he was going to take her away for the weekend. Noelle stared at him, thinking at first that it was some kind of joke.

‘We will go to Vienne,’ he babbled. ‘There is one of the great restaurants of the world there, Le Pyramide. It is expensive, but it doesn’t matter, I can be very generous to those who are good to me. How soon can you be ready?’

She stared at him. ‘Never’ was all she could bring herself to say. ‘Never.’ And she turned and fled into the front of the shop. Monsieur Lanchon looked after her for a moment, his face mottled with fury, then snatched up the telephone on his desk. An hour later Noelle’s father walked into the shop. He made straight for Noelle and her face lit up with relief. He had sensed that something was wrong and had come to rescue her. Lanchon was standing at the door to his office. Noelle’s father took her arm and hurried her into Lanchon’s office. He swung around to face her.

‘I’m so glad you came, Papa,’ Noelle said. ‘I —’

‘Monsieur Lanchon tells me that he made you a splendid offer and you refused him.’

She stared at him, bewildered. ‘Offer? He asked me to go away with him for the weekend.’

‘And you said no?’

Before Noelle could answer, her father drew his hand back and slapped her hard across the cheek. She stood there in stunned disbelief, her ears ringing, and through a filmy haze heard her father saying, ‘Stupid! stupid! It’s time you started thinking of someone besides yourself, you selfish little bitch!’ And he hit her again.

Thirty minutes later as her father stood at the kerb watching them drive off, Noelle and Monsieur Lanchon left for Vienne.

The hotel room consisted of a large double bed, cheap furniture and a washstand and basin in one corner. Monsieur Lanchon was not a man to throw away his money. He gave the bellboy a small tip and the moment the bellboy left, Lanchon turned towards Noelle and began to tear off her clothes. He cupped her breasts in his hot, moist hands and squeezed them hard.

‘My God, you are beautiful,’ he panted. He pulled down her skirt and pants and pushed her onto the bed. Noelle lay there unmoving, uncaring, as though she were suffering from some kind of shock. She had not uttered one word driving down in the car. Lanchon hoped that she was not ill. He could never explain it to the police or, God forbid, his wife. He hastily took off his clothes, throwing them on the floor and then moved onto the bed beside Noelle. Her body was even more splendid than he had anticipated.

‘You father tells me you have never been fucked.’ He grinned. ‘Well, I am going to show you what a man feels like.’ He rolled his plump belly on top of her and thrust his organ between her legs. He began to push harder and harder, forcing himself into her. Noelle felt nothing. In her mind she was listening to her father yelling. You should be grateful to have a kind gentleman like Monsieur Lanchon wanting to take care of you. All you have to do is be nice to him. You will do it for me. And for yourself. The whole scene had been a nightmare. She was sure that her father had somehow misunderstood, but when she started to explain, he had struck her again and begun screaming, ‘You will do as you are told. Other girls would be grateful for your chance.’ Her chance. She looked up at Lanchon, the squat ugly body, the panting animal face with its piggish eyes. This was the Prince to whom her father had sold her, her beloved father who cherished her and could not bear to let her waste herself on anyone unworthy. And she remembered the steaks that had suddenly appeared on the table and her father’s new pipes and his new suit and she wanted to vomit.

It seemed to Noelle that in the next few hours she died and was born again. She had died a Princess, and she was reborn a slut. Slowly she had become aware of her surroundings and of what was happening to her. She was filled with a hatred such as she had not known could exist. She would never forgive her father for his betrayal. Oddly enough she did not hate Lanchon, for she understood him. He was a man with the one weakness common to all men. From now on, Noelle decided, that weakness was going to be her strength. She would learn to use it. Her father had been right all along. She was a Princess and the world did belong to her. And now she knew how to get it. It was so simple. Men ruled the world because they had the strength, the money and the power; therefore it was necessary to rule men, or at least one man. But in order to do that one had to be prepared. She had a great deal to learn. And this was the beginning.

She turned her attention to Monsieur Lanchon. She lay under him, feeling, experiencing how the male organ fit and what it could do to a woman.

In his frenzy at having this beautiful creature under his fat, bucking body, Lanchon did not even notice that Noelle simply lay there, but he would not have cared. Just feasting his eyes on her was enough to rouse him to heights of passion he had not felt in years. He was accustomed to the accordioned, middle-aged body of his wife and the tired merchandise of the whores of Marseille, and to find this fresh, young girl under him was like a miracle come into his life.

But the miracle was just beginning for Lanchon. After he had spent himself making love to Noelle for the second time, she spoke and said, ‘Lie still.’ She began to experiment on him with her tongue and her mouth and her hands, trying new things, finding the soft, sensitive areas of his body and working on them until Lanchon cried aloud with pleasure. It was like pressing a series of buttons. When Noelle did this, he moaned and when she did this, he writhed in ecstasy. It was so easy. This was her school, this was her education. This was the beginning of power.

They spent three days there and never once went to Le Pyramide, and during those days and nights, Lanchon taught her the little that he knew about sex, and Noelle discovered a great deal more.

When they drove back to Marseille, Lanchon was the happiest man in all France. In the past he had had quick affairs with shopgirls in a cabinet particuliers, a restaurant that had a private dining room with a couch; he had haggled with prostitutes, been niggardly with presents for his mistresses, and notoriously penurious with his wife and children. Now he found himself saying magnanimously, ‘I’m going to set you up in an apartment, Noelle. Can you cook?’

‘Yes,’ Noelle replied.

‘Good. I will come for lunch every day and we will make love. And two or three nights a week, I will come for dinner.’ He put his hand on her knee and patted it. ‘How does that sound?’

‘It sounds wonderful,’ Noelle said.

‘I will even give you an allowance. Not a large one,’ he added quickly, ‘but enough so you can go out and buy pretty things from time to time. All I ask is that you see no one but me. You belong to me now.’

‘As you wish, Auguste,’ she said.

Lanchon sighed contentedly, and when he spoke, his voice was soft. ‘I’ve never felt this way about anyone before. And do you know why?’

‘No, Auguste.’

‘Because you make me feel young. You and I are going to have a wonderful life together.’

They reached Marseille late that evening, driving in silence, Lanchon with his dreams, Noelle with hers.

‘I will see you in the shop tomorrow at nine o’clock,’ Lanchon said. He thought it over. ‘If you are tired in the morning, sleep a little longer. Come in at nine-thirty.’

‘Thank you, Auguste.’

He pulled out a fistful of francs and held them out.

‘Here. Tomorrow afternoon you will look for an apartment. This will be a deposit to hold it until I can see it.’

She stared at the francs in his hand.

‘Is something wrong?’ Lanchon asked.

‘I want us to have a really beautiful place,’ Noelle said, ‘where we can enjoy being together.’

‘I’m not a rich man,’ he protested.

Noelle smiled understandingly and put her hand on his thigh. Lanchon stared at her a long moment and then nodded.

‘You’re right,’ he said. He reached into his wallet and began peeling off francs, watching her face as he did so.

When she seemed satisfied, he stopped, flushed with his own generosity. After all what did it matter? Lanchon was a shrewd businessman, and he knew that this would insure that Noelle would never leave him.

Noelle watched him as he drove happily away, then she went upstairs, packed her things and removed her savings from her hiding place. At ten o’clock that night, she was on a train to Paris.

When the train pulled into Paris early the next morning, the PLM Station was crowded with those travellers who had eagerly just arrived, and those who were just as eagerly fleeing the city. The din in the station was deafening as people shouted cheerful greetings and tearful farewells, rudely pushing and shoving, but Noelle did not mind. The moment she stepped off the train, before she had even had a chance to see the city, she knew that she was home. It was Marseille that seemed like a strange town and Paris the city to which she belonged. It was an odd, heady sensation, and Noelle revelled in it, drinking in the noises, the crowds, the excitement. It all belonged to her. All she had to do now was claim it. She picked up her suitcase and started towards the exit.

Outside in the bright sunlight with the traffic insanely whizzing around, Noelle hesitated, suddenly realizing that she had nowhere to go. Half a dozen taxis were lined up in front of the station. She got into the first one.

‘Where to?’

She hesitated. ‘Could you recommend a nice inexpensive hotel?’

The driver swung around to stare at her appraisingly. ‘You’re new in town?’

‘Yes.’

He nodded. ‘You’ll be needing a job, I suppose.’

‘Yes.’

‘You’re in luck,’ he said. ‘Have you ever done any modelling?’

Noelle’s heart leaped. ‘As a matter of fact, I have,’ she said.

‘My sister works for one of the big fashion houses,’ the driver confided. ‘Just this morning she mentioned that one of the girls quit. Would you like to see if the vacancy is still open?’

‘That would be wonderful,’ Noelle replied.

‘If I take you there, it will cost you ten francs.’

She frowned.

‘It will be worth it,’ he promised.

‘All right.’ She leaned back in the seat. The driver put the taxi in gear and joined the maniacal traffic heading towards the centre of town. The driver chattered as they drove, but Noelle did not hear a word he said. She was drinking in the sights of her city. She supposed that because of the blackout, Paris was more subdued than usual, but to Noelle it seemed a city of pure magic. It had an elegance, a style, even an aroma all its own. They passed Notre Dame and crossed the Pont Neuf to the Right Bank and swung towards Marshall Foch Boulevard. In the distance Noelle could see the Eiffel Tower, dominating the city. Through the rearview mirror, the driver saw the expression on her face.

‘Nice, huh?’

‘It’s beautiful,’ Noelle answered quietly. She still could not believe she was here. It was a Kingdom fit for a Princess … for her.

The taxi pulled up in front of a dark, grey stone building on the rue de Provence.

‘We’re here,’ the driver announced. ‘That’s two francs on the metre and ten francs for me.’

‘How do I know the job will still be open?’ Noelle asked.

The driver shrugged. ‘I told you, the girl just left this morning. If you don’t want to go in, I’ll take you back to the station.’

‘No,’ Noelle said quickly. She opened her purse, took out twelve francs and handed them to the driver. He stared at the money, then looked at her. Embarrassed, she reached into her purse and handed him another franc.

He nodded, unsmiling, and watched her lift her suitcase out of the taxi.

As he started to drive away, Noelle asked, ‘What’s your sister’s name?’

‘Jeanette.’

Noelle stood on the kerb watching the taxi disappear, then turned to look at the building. There was no identifying sign in front, but she supposed that a fashionable dress house did not need a sign. Everyone would know where to find it. She picked up her suitcase, went up to the door and rang the bell. A few moments later the door was opened by a maid wearing a black apron. She looked at Noelle blankly.

‘Yes?’

‘Excuse me,’ Noelle said. ‘I understand that there is an opening for a model.’

The woman stared at her and blinked.

‘Who sent you?’

‘Jeanette’s brother.’

‘Come in.’ She opened the door wider and Noelle stepped into a reception hall done in the style of the 1800’s. There was a large Baccarat chandelier hanging from the ceiling, several more scattered around the hall, and through an open door, Noelle could see a sitting room filled with antique furniture and a staircase leading upstairs. On a beautiful inlaid table were copies of Figaro and L’Echo de Paris. ‘Wait here. I’ll find out if Madame Delys has time to see you now.’

‘Thank you,’ Noelle said. She set her suitcase down and walked over to a large mirror on the wall. Her clothes were wrinkled from the train ride, and she suddenly regretted her impulsiveness in coming here before freshening up. It was important to make a good impression. Still, as she examined herself, she knew that she looked beautiful. She knew this without conceit, accepting her beauty as an asset, to be used like any other asset. Noelle turned as she saw a girl in the mirror coming down the stairs. The girl had a good figure and a pretty face, and was dressed in a long brown skirt and a high-necked blouse. Obviously the quality of models here was high. She gave Noelle a brief smile and went into the drawing room. A moment later Madame Delys entered the room. She was in her forties and was short and dumpy with cold, calculating eyes. She was dressed in a gown that Noelle estimated must have cost at least two thousand francs.

‘Regina tells me that you are looking for a job,’ she said.

‘Yes, ma’am,’ Noelle replied.

‘Where are you from?’

‘Marseille.’

Madame Delys snorted. ‘The playpen of drunken sailors.’

Noelle’s face fell.

Madame Delys patted her on the shoulder. ‘It does not matter, my dear. How old are you?’

‘Eighteen.’

Madame Delys nodded. ‘That is good. I think my customers will like you. Do you have any family in Paris?’

‘No.’

‘Excellent. Are you prepared to start work right away?’

‘Oh, yes,’ Noelle assured her eagerly.

From upstairs came the sound of laughter and a moment later a red-headed girl walked down the stairs on the arm of a fat, middle-aged man. The girl was wearing only a thin negligee.

‘Finished already?’ Madame Delys asked.

‘I’ve worn Angela out,’ the man grinned. He saw Noelle. ‘Who’s this little beauty?’

‘This is Yvette, our new girl,’ Madame Delys said. And without hesitation added, ‘She’s from Antibes, the daughter of a Prince.’

‘I’ve never screwed a Princess,’ the man exclaimed. ‘How much?’

‘Fifty francs.’

‘You must be joking. Thirty.’

‘Forty. And believe me, you’ll get your money’s worth.’

‘It’s a deal.’

They turned to Noelle. She had vanished.

Noelle walked the streets of Paris, hour after hour. She strolled along the Champs-Élysées, down one side and up the other, wandering through the Lido Arcade and stopping at every shop to gaze at the incredible cornucopia of jewellery and dresses and leather goods and perfumes, and she wondered what Paris was like when there were no shortages. The wares displayed in the windows were dazzling, and while one part of her felt like a country bumpkin, another part of her knew that one day these things would belong to her. She walked through the Bois and down the rue du Faubourg-St.-Honoré and along the avenue Victor-Hugo, until she began to feel tired and hungry. She had left her purse and suitcase at Madame Delys’, but she had no intention of going back there. She would send for her things.

Noelle was neither shocked nor upset by what had happened. It was simply that she knew the difference between a courtesan and a whore. Whores did not change the course of history: courtesans did. Meanwhile she was without a cent. She had to find a way to survive until she could find a job the next day. Dusk was beginning to brush the sky, and the merchants and hotel doormen were busy putting up blackout curtains against possible air attacks. To solve her immediate problem, Noelle needed to find someone to buy her a good hot dinner. She asked directions from a gendarme and then headed for the Crillon Hotel. Outside, forbidding iron shutters covered the windows, but inside, the lobby was a masterpiece of subdued elegance, soft and understated. Noelle walked in confidently as if she belonged there and took a seat in a chair facing the elevator. She had never done this before, and she was a bit nervous. But she remembered how easy it had been to handle Auguste Lanchon. Men were really very uncomplicated. There was only one lesson a girl had to remember: A man was soft when he was hard and hard when he was soft. So it was only necessary to keep him hard until he gave you what you wanted. Now, looking around the lobby, Noelle decided that it would be a simple matter to catch the eye of an unattached male on his way, perhaps, to a lonely dinner.

‘Pardon, mademoiselle.’

Noelle turned her head to look up at a large man in a dark suit. She had never seen a detective in her life, but there was no doubt whatever in her mind.

‘Is Mademoiselle waiting for someone?’

‘Yes,’ Noelle replied, trying to keep her voice steady. ‘I’m waiting for a friend.’

She was suddenly acutely aware of her wrinkled dress, and the fact that she carried no purse.

‘Is your friend a guest of this hotel?’

She felt a surge of panic rising in her. ‘He – er – not exactly.’

He studied Noelle a moment, then said in a hardened tone. ‘May I see your identification?’

‘I–I don’t have it with me,’ she stammered. ‘I lost it.’

The detective said, ‘Perhaps Mademoiselle will come with me.’ He put a firm hand on her arm, and she rose to her feet.

And at that moment someone took her other arm and said, ‘Sorry I’m late, cheri, but you know how those damned cocktail parties are. You have to blast your way out. Been waiting long?’

Noelle swung around in astonishment to look at the speaker. He was a tall man, his body lean and hard-looking, and he wore a strange, unfamiliar uniform. He had blue-black hair with a widow’s peak and eyes the colour of a dark, stormy sea, with long, thick lashes. His features had the look of an old Florentine coin. It was an irregular face, the two profiles not quite matching, as though the minter’s hand had slipped for an instant. It was a face that was extraordinarily alive and mobile so that you felt it was ready to smile, to laugh, to frown. The only thing that saved it from being femininely beautiful was a strong, masculine chin with a deep cleft in it.

He gestured towards the detective. ‘Is this man bothering you?’ His voice was deep, and he spoke French with a very slight accent.

‘N-no,’ Noelle said, in a bewildered voice.

‘I beg your pardon, sir,’ the hotel detective was saying. ‘I misunderstood. We have been having a problem here lately with …’ He turned to Noelle. ‘Please accept my apologies, Mademoiselle.’

The stranger turned to Noelle. ‘Well now, I don’t know. What do you think?’

Noelle swallowed and nodded quickly.

The man turned to the detective. ‘Mademoiselle’s being generous. Just watch yourself in the future.’ He took Noelle’s arm and they headed for the door.

When they reached the street, Noelle said, ‘I–I don’t know how to thank you, Monsieur.’

‘I’ve always hated policemen.’ The stranger grinned. ‘Do you want me to get you a taxi?’

Noelle stared at him, the panic beginning to rise in her again, as she remembered her situation. ‘No.’

‘Right. Good night.’ He walked over to the stand and started to get into a taxi, turned around and saw that she was standing there, rooted, staring after him. In the doorway of the hotel was the detective watching. The stranger hesitated, then walked back to Noelle. ‘You’d better get out of here,’ he advised. ‘Our friend’s still interested in you.’

‘I have nowhere to go,’ she replied.

He nodded and reached into his pocket.

‘I don’t want your money,’ she said quickly.

He looked at her in surprise. ‘What do you want?’ he asked.

‘To have dinner with you.’

He smiled and said, ‘Sorry. I have a date, and I’m late already.’

‘Then go ahead,’ she said. ‘I’ll be fine.’

He shoved the bills back into his pocket. ‘Suit yourself, honey,’ he said. ‘Au ’voir.’ He turned and began walking towards the taxi again. Noelle looked after him, wondering what was wrong with her. She knew she had behaved stupidly, but she also knew that she could not have done anything else. From the first moment she had looked at him she had experienced a reaction that she had never felt before, a wave of emotion so strong that she could almost reach out and touch it. She did not even know his name, and would probably never see him again. Noelle glanced towards the hotel and saw the detective moving purposefully towards her. It was her own fault. This time she would not be able to talk her way out of it. She felt a hand on her shoulder, and as she turned to see who it was, the stranger took her arm and propelled her towards the taxi, quickly opened the door and climbed in beside her. He gave the driver an address. The taxi pulled away, leaving the detective at the kerb, staring after them. ‘What about your date?’ Noelle asked.

‘It’s a party,’ he shrugged. ‘One more won’t make any difference. I’m Larry Douglas. What’s your name?’

‘Noelle Page.’

‘Where are you from, Noelle?’

She turned and looked into his brilliant dark eyes and said, ‘Antibes. I am the daughter of a Prince.’

He laughed, showing even, white teeth.

‘Good for you, Princess,’ he said.

‘Are you English?’

‘American.’

She looked at his uniform. ‘America is not at war.’

‘I’m in the British RAF,’ he explained. ‘They’ve just formed a group of American flyers. It’s called the Eagle Squadron.’

‘But why should you fight for England?’

‘Because England’s fighting for us,’ he said. ‘Only we don’t know it yet.’

Noelle shook her head. ‘I don’t believe that. Hitler is a Boche clown.’

‘Maybe. But he’s a clown who knows what the Germans want: to rule the world.’

Noelle listened, fascinated, as Larry discussed Hitler’s military strategy, the sudden withdrawal from the League of Nations, the mutual defence pact with Japan and Italy, not because of what he was saying but because she enjoyed watching his face as he talked. His dark eyes sparkled with enthusiasm as he spoke, blazing with an overpowering, irresistible vitality.

Noelle had never met anyone like him. He was – that rarity of rarities – a spendthrift with himself. He was open and warm and alive, sharing himself, enjoying life, making sure that everyone around him enjoyed it. He was like a magnet pulling into his orbit everyone who approached.

They arrived at the party, which was being given in a small flat on the rue Chemin Vert. The apartment was filled with a group of laughing, shouting people, most of them young. Larry introduced Noelle to the hostess, a predatory, sexy-looking redhead, and then was swallowed by the crowd. Noelle caught glimpses of him during the evening, surrounded by eager young girls, each trying to capture his attention. And yet there was no ego about him, Noelle thought. It was as though he were totally unaware of how attractive he was. Someone found a drink for Noelle and someone else offered to bring her a plate of food from the buffet, but she was suddenly not hungry. She wanted to be with the American, wanted him away from the girls who crowded around him. Men were coming up to her and trying to start conversations, but Noelle’s mind was elsewhere. From the moment they had walked in, the American had completely ignored her, had acted as though she did not exist. Why not? Noelle thought. Why should he bother with her when he could have any girl at the party? Two men were trying to engage her in conversation, but she could not concentrate. The room had suddenly become unbearably hot. She looked around for a means of escape.

A voice said in her ear, ‘Let’s go,’ and a few moments later she and the American were out on the street, in the cool night air. The city was dark and quiet against the invisible Germans in the sky, and the cars glided through the streets like silent fish in a black sea.

They could not find a taxi, so they walked, had dinner in a little bistro on the place des Victoires and Noelle found that she was starved. She studied the American sitting across from her, and she wondered what it was that had happened to her. It was as though he had touched some wellspring deep within her that she had never even known existed. She had never felt happiness like this before. They talked about everything. She told him about her background, and he told her that he came from South Boston and was Boston Irish. His mother had been born in Kerry County.

‘Where did you learn to speak French so well?’ Noelle asked.

‘I used to spend my summers at Cap D’Antibes when I was a kid. My old man was a stock-market tycoon until the bears got him.’

‘Bears?’

So Larry had to explain to her about the arcane ways of the stock market in America. Noelle did not care what he talked about, so long as he kept talking.

‘Where are you living?’

‘Nowhere.’ She told him about the taxi driver and Madame Delys and the fat man believing she was a Princess and offering to pay forty francs for her, and Larry laughed aloud.

‘Do you remember where the house is?’

‘Yes.’

‘Come on, Princess.’

When they arrived at the house on the rue de Provence, the door was opened by the same uniformed maid. Her eyes lit up as she saw the handsome young American, then darkened when she saw who was with him.

‘We want to see Madame Delys,’ Larry said. He and Noelle walked into the reception hall. There were several girls in the drawing room beyond. The maid left and a few minutes later Madame Delys entered. ‘Good evening, Monsieur,’ she said to Larry. She turned to Noelle, ‘Ah, I hope you have changed your mind.’

‘She hasn’t,’ said Larry, pleasantly. ‘You have something that belongs to the Princess.’

Madame Delys looked at him questioningly.

‘Her suitcase and purse.’

Madame Delys hesitated a moment, then left the room. A few minutes later the maid returned, carrying Noelle’s purse and suitcase.

‘Merci,’ Larry said. He turned to Noelle. ‘Let’s go, Princess.’

That night Noelle moved in with Larry, to a small, clean hotel on the rue Lafayette. There was no discussion about it, it was inevitable for both of them. When they made love that night, it was more exciting than anything Noelle had ever known, a wild primitive explosion that shook them both. She lay in Larry’s arms all night, holding him close, happier than she had ever dreamed possible.

The next morning they awoke, made love, and went out to explore the city. Larry was a wonderful guide, and he made Paris seem a lovely toy for Noelle’s amusement. They had lunch in the Tuileries, spent the afternoon at Mal Maison and spent hours wandering around the place des Vosges at the end of Notre Dame, the oldest section of Paris, built by Louis XIII. He showed her places that were off the beaten track of the tourists, the place Maubert with its colourful street market and the quai de la Mégisserie with its cages of brightly hued birds and squeaky animals. He took her through the Marché de Buci and they listened to the din of the hawkers, pitching the merits of their bins of fresh tomatoes, their seaweed-bedded oysters, their neatly labelled cheeses. They went to the Du Pont, on Montparnasse. They had dinner on the Bateau Mouche and finished up by having onion soup at four in the morning at Les Halles with the butchers and truck drivers. Before they were through Larry had collected a large group of friends, and Noelle realized that it was because he had the gift of laughter. He had taught her to laugh and she had not known that laughter was within her. It was like a gift from a god. She was grateful to Larry and very much in love with him. It was dawn when they returned to their hotel room. Noelle was exhausted, but Larry was filled with energy, a restless dynamo. Noelle lay in bed watching him as he stood at the window looking at the sun rise over the rooftops of Paris.

‘I love Paris,’ he said. ‘It’s like a temple to the best things that men have ever done. It’s a city of beauty and food and love.’ He turned to her and grinned, ‘Not necessarily in that order.’

Noelle watched as he took off his clothes and climbed into bed beside her. She held him, loving the feel of him, the male smell of him. She thought of her father and how he had betrayed her. She had been wrong to judge all men by him and Auguste Lanchon. She knew now that there were men like Larry Douglas. And she also knew that there could never be anyone else for her.

‘Do you know who the two greatest men who ever lived were, Princess?’ he was asking.

‘You,’ she said.

‘Wilbur and Orville Wright. They gave man his real freedom. Have you ever flown?’ She shook her head. ‘We had a summer place in Montauk – that’s at the end of Long Island – and when I was a kid I used to watch the gulls wheel through the air over the beach, riding the current, and I would have given my soul to be up there with them. I knew I wanted to be a flyer before I could walk. A friend of the family took me up in an old biplane when I was nine, and I took my first flying lesson when I was fourteen. That’s when I’m really alive, when I’m in the air.’

And later:

‘There’s going to be a world war. Germany wants to own it all.’

‘It won’t get France, Larry. No one can cross the Maginot Line.’

He snorted: ‘I’ve crossed it a hundred times.’ She looked at him puzzled. ‘In the air, Princess. This is going to be an air war … my war.’

And later, casually:

‘Why don’t we get married?’

It was the happiest moment of Noelle’s life.

Sunday was a relaxed, lazy day. They had breakfast at a little outdoor café in Montmartre, went back to the room and spent almost the entire day in bed. Noelle could not believe anyone could be so ecstatic. It was pure magic when they made love, but she was just as content to lie there and listen to Larry talk and watch him as he moved restlessly about the room. Just being near him was enough for her. It was odd, she thought, how things worked out. She had grown up being called Princess by her father, and now, even though it had happened as a joke, Larry was calling her Princess. When she was with Larry, she was something. He had restored her faith in men. He was her world, and Noelle knew that she would never need anything more, and it seemed incredible to her that she could be so lucky, that he felt the same way about her.

‘I wasn’t going to get married until this war was over,’ he told her. ‘But to hell with that. Plans are made to be changed, right, Princess?’

She nodded, filled with a happiness that threatened to burst inside her.

‘Let’s get married by some maire in the country,’ Larry said. ‘Unless you want a big wedding?’

Noelle shook her head. ‘The country sounds wonderful.’

He nodded. ‘Deal. I have to report back to my Squadron tonight. I’ll meet you here next Friday. How does that sound?’

‘I–I don’t know if I can stand being away from you that long.’ Noelle’s voice was shaky.

Larry took her in his arms and held her. ‘Love me?’ he asked.

‘More than my life,’ Noelle replied simply.

Two hours later Larry was on his way back to England. He did not let her drive to the airport with him. ‘I don’t like good-byes,’ he said. He gave her a large fistful of franc notes. ‘Buy yourself a wedding gown, Princess. I’ll see you in it next week.’ And he was gone.

Noelle spent the next week in a state of euphoria, going back to the places she and Larry had been, spending hours dreaming about their life together. The days seemed to drag by, the minutes stubbornly refusing to move, until Noelle thought she would go out of her mind.

She went to a dozen shops looking for her wedding dress, and finally she found exactly what she wanted, at Madeleine Vionett. It was a beautiful white organza with a high-necked bodice, long sleeves with a row of six pearl buttons, and three crinoline petticoats. It cost much more than Noelle had anticipated, but she did not hesitate. She used all the money that Larry had given her and nearly all her own savings. Her whole being was centred on Larry. She thought about ways to please him, she searched through her mind for memories that might amuse him, anecdotes that would entertain him. She felt like a schoolgirl.

And so it was that Noelle waited for Friday to come, in an agony of impatience, and when it finally arrived she was up at dawn and spent two hours bathing and dressing, changing clothes and changing again, trying to guess which dress would please Larry most. She put on her wedding gown, but quickly took it off again, afraid that it might bring bad luck. She was in a frenzy of excitement.

At ten o’clock Noelle stood in front of the pier glass in the bedroom, and she knew that she had never looked as beautiful. There was no ego in her appraisal; she was simply pleased for Larry, glad that she could bring him this gift. By noon he had not appeared, and Noelle wished that he had told her what time he expected to arrive. She kept phoning the desk for messages every ten minutes and kept picking up the phone to make sure it was working. By six o’clock that evening, there was still no word from him. By midnight he had not called, and Noelle sat huddled in a chair, staring at the phone, willing it to ring. She fell asleep, and when she woke, it was dawn, Saturday. She was still in the chair, stiff and cold. The dress she had so carefully chosen was wrinkled, and there was a run in her stocking.

Noelle changed clothes and stayed in the room all that day, stationing herself in front of the open window, telling herself that if she stayed there, Larry would appear; if she left, something terrible would happen to him. As Saturday morning lengthened into afternoon, she began to be filled with the conviction that there had been an accident. Larry’s plane had crashed, and he was lying in a field or in a hospital, wounded or dead. Noelle’s mind was filled with ghastly visions. She sat up all night Saturday, sick with worry, afraid to leave the room and not knowing how to reach Larry.

When Noelle had not heard from him by Sunday noon, she could stand it no longer. She had to telephone him. But how? With a war on it was difficult to place an overseas call and she was not even certain where Larry was. She knew only that he flew with the RAF in some American squadron. She picked up the telephone and spoke to the switchboard operator.

‘It is impossible,’ the operator said flatly.

Noelle explained the situation, and whether it was her words or the frantic despair in her voice she never knew, but two hours later she was talking to the War Ministry in London. They could not help her, but they transferred her to the Air Ministry at Whitehall who put her through to Combat Operations, where she was disconnected before she could get any information. It was four more hours before Noelle was reconnected, and by then she was on the verge of hysteria. Air Operations could give her no information and suggested she try the War Ministry.

‘I’ve talked to them!’ Noelle screamed into the phone. She began to sob, and the male English voice at the other end of the phone said in embarrassment, ‘Please, miss, it can’t be that bad. Hold on a moment.’

Noelle held the receiver in her hand, knowing that it was hopeless, certain that Larry was dead and that she would never know how or where he died. And she was about to replace the receiver when the voice spoke in her ear again and said cheerfully, ‘What you want, miss, is the Eagle Squadron. They’re the Yanks, based in Yorkshire. It’s a bit irregular, but I’m going to put you through to Church Fenton, their airfield. Their chaps will be able to help you.’ And the line went dead.

It was eleven o’clock that night before Noelle could get the call through again. A disembodied voice said, ‘Church Fenton Air Base,’ and the connection was so bad that Noelle could barely hear him. It was as though he were speaking from the bottom of the sea. He was obviously having difficulty hearing her. ‘Speak up, please,’ he said. By now, Noelle’s nerves were so frayed that she could hardly control her voice.

‘I’m calling’ – she did not even know his rank. Lieutenant? Captain? Major? ‘I’m calling Larry Douglas. This is his fiancée.’

‘I can’t hear you, miss. Can you speak louder, please?’

On the edge of panic Noelle screamed out the words again, sure that the man at the other end of the phone was trying to conceal from her that Larry was dead. For a miraculous instant the line cleared, and she heard the voice saying as though he were in the next room, ‘Lieutenant Larry Douglas?’

‘Yes,’ she said, holding on tightly to her emotions.

‘Just a moment, please.’

Noelle waited for what seemed an eternity and then the voice came back on the line and said, ‘Lieutenant Douglas is on weekend leave. If it’s urgent, he can be reached at the Hotel Savoy ballroom in London, General Davis’ party.’ And the line went dead.

When the maid came in to clean the room the next morning, she found Noelle on the floor, semiconscious. The maid stared at her a moment, tempted to mind her own business and leave. Why did these things always have to happen in her rooms? She went over and touched Noelle’s forehead. It was burning hot. Grumbling, the maid waddled down the hall and asked the porter to send up the manager. One hour later an ambulance pulled up outside the hotel and two young interns carrying a stretcher were directed to Noelle’s room. Noelle was unconscious. The young intern in charge raised her eyelid, put a stethoscope to her chest and listened to the rales as she breathed. ‘Pneumonia,’ he said to his companion. ‘Let’s get her out of here.’

They lifted Noelle onto the stretcher and five minutes later the ambulance was racing towards the hospital. She was rushed into an oxygen tent, and it was four days before she was fully conscious. She dragged herself reluctantly up from the murky green depths of oblivion, subconsciously knowing something terrible had happened and fighting not to remember what it was. As the awful thing floated closer and closer to the surface of her mind, and she struggled to keep it from herself, it suddenly came to her clear and whole. Larry Douglas. Noelle began to weep, racked with sobs until she finally drifted off into a half-sleep. She felt a hand gently holding hers, and she knew that Larry had come back to her, that everything was all right. Noelle opened her eyes and stared at a stranger in a white uniform, taking her pulse. ‘Well! Welcome back,’ he announced cheerfully.

‘Where am I?’ Noelle asked.

‘L’Hotel-Dieu, the City Hospital.’

‘What am I doing here?’

‘Getting well. You’ve had double pneumonia. I’m Israel Katz.’ He was young, with a strong, intelligent face and deepset brown eyes.

‘Are you my doctor?’

‘Intern,’ he said. ‘I brought you in.’ He smiled at her. ‘I’m glad you made it. We weren’t sure.’

‘How long have I been here?’

‘Four days.’

‘Would you do me a favour?’ she asked weakly.

‘If I can.’

‘Call the Hotel Lafayette. Ask them – ’ she hesitated. ‘Ask them if there are any messages for me.’

‘Well, I’m awfully busy —’

Noelle squeezed his hand fiercely. ‘Please. It’s important. My fiancé is trying to get in touch with me.’

He grinned. ‘I don’t blame him. All right. I’ll take care of it,’ he promised. ‘Now you get some sleep.’

‘Not until I hear from you,’ she said.

He left, and Noelle lay there waiting. Of course Larry had been trying to get in touch with her. There had been some terrible misunderstanding. He would explain it all to her and everything would be all right again.

It was two hours before Israel Katz returned. He walked up to her bed and set down a suitcase. ‘I brought your clothes. I went to the hotel myself,’ he said.

She looked up at him, and he could see her face tense.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said, embarrassed. ‘No messages.’

Noelle stared at him for a long time, then turned her face to the wall, dry-eyed.

Noelle was released from the hospital two days later. Israel Katz came to say good-bye to her. ‘Do you have any place to go?’ he asked. ‘Or a job?’

She shook her head.

‘What work do you do?’

‘I’m a model.’

‘I might be able to help you.’

She remembered the taxi driver and Madame Delys. ‘I don’t need any help,’ she said.

Israel Katz wrote a name on a piece of paper. ‘If you change your mind, go there. It’s a small fashion house. An aunt of mine owns it. I’ll talk to her about you. Do you have any money?’

She did not answer.

‘Here.’ He pulled a few francs out of his pocket and handed them to her. ‘I’m sorry I don’t have more. Interns aren’t very well paid.’

‘Thank you,’ Noelle said.

She sat at a small street café sipping a coffee and deciding how to pick up the pieces of her life. She knew that she had to survive, for she had a reason to live now. She was filled with a deep and burning hatred that was so all-consuming that it left no room for anything else. She was an avenging Phoenix rising from the ashes of the emotions that Larry Douglas had murdered in her. She would not rest until she had destroyed him. She did not know how, or when, but she knew that one day she would make it happen.

Now she needed a job and a place to sleep. Noelle opened her purse and took out the piece of paper that the young intern had given her. She studied it a moment and made up her mind. That afternoon she went to see Israel Katz’s aunt and was given a job modeling in a small, second-rate fashion house on the rue Boursault.

Israel Katz’s aunt turned out to be a middle-aged, grey-haired woman with the face of a harpy and the soul of an angel. She mothered all her girls and they adored her. Her name was Madame Rose. She gave Noelle an advance on her salary and found her a tiny apartment near the salon. The first thing Noelle did when she unpacked was to hang up her wedding dress. She put it in the front of the closet so that it was the first thing she saw in the morning and the last thing she saw when she undressed at night.

Noelle knew that she was pregnant before there were any visible signs of it, before any tests had been made, before she missed her period. She could sense the new life that had formed in her womb, and at night she lay in bed staring at the ceiling thinking about it, her eyes glowing with wild animal pleasure.

On her first day off Noelle phoned Israel Katz and made a date to meet him for lunch.

‘I’m pregnant,’ she told him.

‘How do you know? Have you had any tests?’

‘I don’t need any tests.’

He shook his head. ‘Noelle, a lot of women think they are going to have babies when they are not. How many periods have you missed?’

She pushed the question aside, impatiently. ‘I want your help.’

He stared at her. ‘To get rid of the baby? Have you discussed this with the father?’

‘He’s not here.’

‘You know abortions are illegal. I could get into terrible trouble.’

Noelle studied him a moment. ‘What’s your price?’

His face tightened angrily. ‘Do you think everything has a price, Noelle?’

‘Of course,’ she said simply. ‘Anything can be bought and sold.’

‘Does that include you?’

‘Yes, but I’m very expensive. Will you help me?’

There was a long hesitation. ‘All right. I’ll want to make some tests first.’

‘Very well.’

The following week Israel Katz arranged for Noelle to go to the laboratory at the hospital. When the test results were returned two days later, he telephoned her at work. ‘You were right,’ he said. ‘You’re pregnant.’

‘I know.’

‘I’ve arranged for you to have a curettage at the hospital. I’ve told them that your husband was killed in an accident and that you are unable to have the baby. We’ll do the operation next Saturday.’

‘No,’ she said.

‘Is Saturday a bad day for you?’

‘I’m not ready for the abortion yet, Israel. I just wanted to know that I could count on you to help me.’

Madame Rose noticed the change in Noelle, not merely a physical change, but something that went much deeper, a radiance, an inner glow that seemed to fill her. Noelle walked around with a constant smile, as though hugging some wonderful secret.

‘You have found a lover,’ Madame Rose said. ‘It shows in your eyes.’

Noelle nodded. ‘Yes, Madame.’

‘He is good for you. Hold onto him.’

‘I will,’ Noelle promised. ‘As long as I can.’

Three weeks later Israel Katz telephoned her. ‘I haven’t heard from you,’ he said. ‘I was wondering if you had forgotten?’

‘No,’ Noelle said. ‘I think of it all the time.’

‘How do you feel?’

‘Wonderful.’

‘I’ve been looking at the calendar. I think that we had better go to work.’

‘I’m not ready yet,’ Noelle said.

Three weeks passed before Israel Katz telephoned her again.

‘How about having dinner with me?’ he asked.

‘All right.’

They arranged to meet at a cheap café on the rue de Chat Qui Peche. Noelle had started to suggest a better restaurant when she remembered what Israel had said about interns not having much money.

He was waiting for her when she arrived. They chatted aimlessly through dinner and it was not until the coffee arrived that Israel discussed what was on his mind.

‘Do you still want to have the abortion?’ he asked.

Noelle looked at him in surprise. ‘Of course.’

‘Then you must have it right away. You’re more than two months pregnant.’

She shook her head. ‘No, not yet, Israel.’

‘Is this your first pregnancy?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then let me tell you something, Noelle. Up until three months, an abortion is usually an easy matter. The embryo has not been fully formed and all you need is a simple curettage, but after three months’ – he hesitated – ‘it’s another kind of operation, and it becomes dangerous. The longer you wait, the more dangerous it becomes. I want you to have the operation now.’

Noelle leaned forwards. ‘What’s the baby like?’

‘Now?’ He shrugged. ‘Just a lot of cells. Of course, all the nuclei are there to form a complete human being.’

‘And after three months?’

‘The embryo starts to become a person.’

‘Can it feel things?’

‘It responds to blows and loud noises.’

She sat there, her eyes locked onto his. ‘Can it feel pain?’

‘I suppose so. But it is protected with an amniotic sac.’ He suddenly felt an uneasy stirring. ‘It would be pretty hard for anything to hurt it.’

Noelle lowered her eyes and sat staring at the table, silent and thoughtful.

Israel Katz studied her a moment and then said shyly, ‘Noelle, if you want to keep this baby and are afraid to because it will have no father … well, I would be willing to marry you and give the baby a name.’

She looked up in surprise. ‘I have already told you. I don’t want this baby. I want to have an abortion.’

‘Then, for Christ’s sake, have it!’ Israel shouted. He lowered his voice as he realized that other patrons were staring at him. ‘If you wait much longer, there isn’t a doctor in France who will do it. Don’t you understand? If you wait too long, you could die!’

‘I understand,’ Noelle said quietly. ‘If I were going to have this baby, what kind of diet would you put me on?’

He ran his fingers through his hair, bewildered. ‘Lots of milk and fruit, lean meat.’

That night on her way home Noelle stopped at the corner market near her apartment and bought two quarts of milk and a large box of fresh fruit.

Ten days later Noelle went into Madame Rose’s office and told her that she was pregnant and asked for a leave of absence.

‘For how long?’ Madame Rose asked, eyeing Noelle’s figure.

‘Six or seven weeks.’

Madame Rose sighed. ‘Are you sure what you are doing is the best thing?’

‘I’m sure,’ Noelle replied.

‘Is there anything I can do?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Very well. Come back to me as soon as you can. I will ask the cashier to give you an advance on your salary.’

‘Thank you, Madame.’

For the next four weeks Noelle never left her apartment, except to buy groceries. She felt no hunger and ate very little for herself, but she drank enormous quantities of milk for the baby and crammed her body with fruit. She was not alone in the apartment. The baby was with her and she talked to him constantly. She knew it was a boy just as she had known she was pregnant. She had named him Larry.

‘I want you to grow to be big and strong,’ she said as she drank her milk. ‘I want you to be healthy … healthy and strong when you die.’ She lay in bed every day plotting her vengeance against Larry and his son. What was in her body was not a part of her. It belonged to him and she was going to kill it. It was the only thing of his that he had left her, and she was going to destroy it just as he had tried to destroy her.

How little Israel Katz had understood her! She was not interested in a formless embryo that knew nothing. She wanted Larry’s spawn to feel what was going to happen to him, to suffer, as she had suffered. The wedding dress was hanging near her bed now, always in sight, a talisman of evil, a reminder of his betrayal. First, Larry’s son, then Larry.

The phone rang often, but Noelle lay in bed, lost in her dreams until it stopped. She was sure that it was Israel Katz trying to reach her.

One evening there was a pounding on the door. Noelle lay in bed, ignoring it, but finally when the pounding continued, she dragged herself up and opened the door.

Israel Katz was standing there, his face filled with concern. ‘My God, Noelle, I’ve been calling you for days.’

He looked at her bulging stomach. ‘I thought you might have had it done somewhere else.’

She shook her head. ‘No. You’re going to do it.’

Israel stared at her. ‘Haven’t you understood anything I told you? It’s too late! No one’s going to do it.’

He saw the empty bottles of milk and the fresh fruit on the table, then looked back at her. ‘You do want the baby,’ he said. ‘Why won’t you admit it?’

‘Tell me, Israel, what’s he like now?’

‘Who?’

‘The baby. Does he have eyes and ears? Does he have fingers and toes? Can he feel pain?’

‘For Christ’s sake, Noelle, stop it. You talk as if … as if …’

‘What?’

‘Nothing.’ He shook his head in despair. ‘I don’t understand you.’

She smiled softly. ‘No. You don’t.’

He stood there a moment, making up his mind.

‘All right, I’m putting my ass in a sling for you, but if you’re really determined to have an abortion, let’s get it over with. I have a doctor friend who owes me a favour. He’ll …’

‘No.’

He stared at her.

‘Larry’s not ready yet,’ she said.

Three weeks later at four o’clock in the morning, Israel Katz was awakened by a furious concierge pounding on his door. ‘Telephone, Monsieur Night Owl!’ he yelled. ‘And tell your caller that it is the middle of the night, when respectable people are asleep!’

Israel stumbled out of bed and sleepily made his way down the hall to the telephone, wondering what crisis had arisen. He picked up the receiver.

‘Israel?’

He did not recognize the voice at the other end of the phone.

‘Yes?’

‘Now …’ It was a whisper, disembodied and anonymous.

‘Who is this?’

‘Now. Come now, Israel …’

There was an eeriness to the voice, an unearthly quality that sent a chill down his spine. ‘Noelle?’

‘Now …’

‘For Christ’s sake,’ he exploded. ‘I won’t do it. It’s too late. You’ll die, and I’m not going to be responsible. Get yourself to a hospital.’

There was a click in his ear, and he stood there holding the phone. He slammed the receiver and went back to his room, his mind churning. He knew that he could not do any good now, no one could. She was five and a half months pregnant. He had warned her time and time again, but she had refused to listen. Well, it was her responsibility. He wanted to have no part of it.

He began to dress as fast as he could, his bowels cold with fear.

When Israel Katz walked into her apartment, Noelle was lying on the floor in a pool of blood, hemorrhaging. Her face was dead white, but it showed no sign of the agony that must have been racking her body. She was wearing what appeared to be a wedding dress. Israel knelt at her side. ‘What happened?’ he asked. ‘How did —?’ He stopped, as his eyes fell on a bloody, twisted wire coat hanger near her feet.

‘Jesus Christ!’ He was filled with a rage and at the same time a terrible frustrating feeling of helplessness. The blood was pouring out faster now, there was not a moment to lose.

‘I’ll call an ambulance,’ and he started to rise.

Noelle reached up and grabbed his arm with surprising strength, and pulled him back down to her.

‘Larry’s baby is dead,’ she said, and her face was lit with a beautiful smile.

A team of six doctors worked for five hours trying to save Noelle’s life. The diagnosis was septic poisoning, perforated womb, blood poisoning and shock. All the doctors agreed that there was little chance that she could live. By six o’clock that night Noelle was out of danger and two days later, she was sitting up in bed able to talk. Israel came to see her.

‘All the doctors say that it is a miracle you’re alive, Noelle.’

She shook her head. It was simply not her time to die. She had taken her first vengeance on Larry, but it was only the beginning. There was more to come. Much more. But first she had to find him. It would take time. But she would do it.