Night Train to Paris by Fliss Chester (scary books to read .TXT) 📕

them both home, saying a rather lingering goodnight to Simone. Then she remembered that Simone had suggested just one glass of Calvados from the decanters on Rose’s sideboard.

‘It’s for our own good,’ Simone had said as she’d sloshed the golden liquid into two of the chunky tumblers. ‘It will help us sleep.’

‘If you say so,’ Fen had gone along with the plan, buoyed up by Simone’s gaiety and pleased, on Rose’s behalf, that Simone hadn’t stayed the night with James again. Still, he had been the focus of most of Simone’s conversation as she’d tucked her long legs up underneath her on one of the saggy old armchairs.

‘I like him very much. I think he’s a very generous man.’

Fen had thought to back to the lunch he’d bought her and Rose just the other day and had to agree.

Simone had continued to wax lyrical. ‘He’s a gentleman, I think, and rich. The way he speaks French, it’s not like you, you obviously learned here in Paris, but his accent is southern. I think he learned to speak French on the Riviera, yes?’ She laughed and sipped her apple brandy.

Fen had been about to speak when Simone had carried on.

‘And his manners are very formal, and his conversation really very highbrow.’

‘I don’t think his manners were terribly formal tonight,’ Fen had said as she thought about the clinch she’d seen them both in behind the telephone kiosk.

Simone had just laughed. ‘He is a passionate man, but that’s good, eh?’ Simone had leaned forward and gripped her hand together in a fist. ‘A fighter, a lover. He’s my type of man.’

‘He’s kind too…’ Fen had thought about it. He was really. And kindness was something she thought was far more important than fighting or passion, or indeed money. Arthur had had kindness in bucketloads.

‘Yes he is, as you say in England, “perfect husband material”. Let’s drink to me being the next Lady Lancaster!’

‘Lady Lancaster?’ Fen had almost choked on the small sip she’d taken when Simone had said that.

‘Yes, he’s a viscount. Didn’t you know? He’s inherited a fortune, I think.’

He is filthy rich… Arthur’s playful words had come back to Fen as she had pondered this new information. If this was the case, though, then James might need to be a little bit careful about how he conducted himself around impressionable young women like Simone. Still, Simone herself seemed truly excited by the prospect of joining the English aristocracy and Fen remembered her reaching for the decanter time and again, as she had filled both their glasses and spoken of her dreams of being a fine lady among the British upper classes.

Fen rolled over and mustered the mental strength to push herself up and out of bed and, head thumping, find herself a dressing gown and head to the bathroom. Arthur’s words still careered around inside her head, along with another favour he’d asked of her. Look after James. Well, he was doing quite well at looking after himself… but Fen made a note to try to talk to him later, just to check in on his intentions, as she reached for her toothbrush.

Once a steaming, sweet mint tea was in her hand and she was sitting in the saggy armchair, chosen as it was the one with its back to the light streaming in through the windows, Fen felt better. The clock on the mantel ticked constantly and reminded her that the day was not now young; and if this reaction to a bit of alcohol was anything to go by, neither was she. She was just about to rouse herself again into action when the front door of the apartment clicked open and, moments later, Rose strode into the bright studio.

‘Good morning, slug-a-bed!’ she bellowed, and Fen was fairly sure the raised voice was specifically designed to set that marching band off again. And if the voice wasn’t bad enough, it was accompanied by the rhythm section of Tipper’s staccato barking.

Rose moved towards the console table where the spirits decanters were kept in a tantalus. She picked up the one with a small silver tag hanging around its neck that spelt out CALVADOS and held it up to the morning light to better see exactly how much, or how little, was left.

‘Good thing I’m not planning on a morale booster myself later!’

‘Gosh, sorry.’ Fen felt terribly guilty. ‘I’ll replace it later as soon as I…’ She pressed her hand against her forehead and sank even further into the chair.

‘Ah, you know what I say, live life.’ Rose put the decanter back and came and sat down opposite Fen, basking in the light of the windows. Tipper scampered in too and scrambled up onto her lap. ‘We have all been through so much. I’m not surprised you let your hair down last night, ma chérie. It’s only natural.’

Fen thought about it. She’d heard of people self-medicating with alcohol, and she always assumed it was just those poor unfortunate souls addicted to the spirit who did it. But perhaps Rose was right, perhaps there was pent-up emotion in her and she had needed the brandy to dull the pain? She nodded at Rose and sipped her tea.

‘As for me, I find my expression in art,’ the older woman continued. ‘And my work has become dark, very dark indeed.’

‘I can imagine.’ Fen looked over at the easels, one of which was covered with a sheet, shielding the painting from the viewer, or perhaps it was the other way around. She looked at back at Rose. ‘So, where have you been this morning?’

‘Ah, just to see Henri.’ Rose let Tipper nibble at her fingertips as she sat back in the chair. Fen thought she looked sad. No, not sad. Disappointed perhaps.

‘At the Louvre?’

‘Yes,’ Rose then became more animated. ‘And blow me, I was ambushed!’

‘Ambushed?’ This all sounded rather dramatic, Fen thought, and shuffled herself a little more upright in the saggy armchair.

‘Madame Adrienne Tambour no less! Accused me of selling her a forgery!’

Le Faussaire… Fen wondered