Lizzie’s Daughters Page 8

  Standing just inside the door, Matt scanned the café. Pierre Saint-Jacquez was not there. He’d probably gone straight through and out the back door and would be miles away by now. Because of Frank’s impetuous attack on him they’d lost their chance to reason with the man and perhaps persuade him to tell them where Betty was.

  Frank came back to him. ‘I let the bastard slip away…’

  ‘Not your fault,’ Matt said. ‘We’ll start again in the morning, ask for Betty – and him, though I doubt he’ll tell us anything now if we find him…’

  ‘You think I went in too hard…’ Frank looked uncertain.

  ‘You’re angry and I am too, but violence doesn’t help much. He’ll go to ground for a few days now…but we might find her if we’re lucky…’

  Frank shook his head. ‘I should have been on my guard. It’s my fault he got away. Damn the man…I’ll make sure he doesn’t slip away next time…’

  ‘Forget him,’ Matt said. ‘We’ve made him aware people are looking for her. With any luck he’ll realise the game is over and send her home…’

  ‘I wish I thought so,’ Frank said, ‘but you’re right. We can’t do anything more tonight. We just have to hope we’ll find her tomorrow…’

  Matt nodded and shivered, suddenly chilly. He knew it was an almost impossible task in a city this size – even if she was here. They had a couple of days and without help it could take months to find her…if she could be found…

  *

  ‘You English,’ the man behind the wine bar said with a faint sneer. ‘You, of no use to me. You no speak our language…’

  Betty protested volubly in French, using some words that Pierre had taught her and the man looked surprised, laughed and then leered at her. ‘Little whore,’ he said. ‘You speak the language of the gutter… maybe I find use for you in my bed, no?’

  Betty told him what he could do with that offer in the language he’d accused of her using and he laughed as she flounced out of the bar, seething inside. Why would none of them give her a chance, just because she was English? The excuses varied, but it was usually because she didn’t understand French well enough or she was too young. One plump sour-faced woman had told her she did not employ whores in her café and shouted at her rudely until she left, the tears burning inside but unshed. Why did people keep saying horrid things to her? She wasn’t a whore even if she had been stupid enough to fall for a man that treated her like one.

  Leaving the wine bar, Betty lifted her head, determined not to give up. She would go back to her daily round of trying all the fashion workshops and retailers, looking for a job and if she got too down-hearted, she’d try some more cafés later.

  She wasn’t sure why she didn’t just book a passage back to England, except that she’d spent the few francs Pierre had given her on food long since and anything she’d managed to earn, washing up for a few hours or cleaning the windows of an inn, went on food and the poky little room she’d managed to find. She’d been forced to sell Aunt Miriam’s heavy silver bracelet and she might just manage to get home with what she had left, and yet a part of her didn’t want to give in. It had been such fun living in Paris when she was with Pierre, but it wouldn’t be fun sleeping on a park bench and she might be forced to do that unless she found regular work soon. Her only other alternative would be to go to one of the friends she made in her first weeks in Paris and she wasn’t sure whether any of them would take her in, because although they’d welcomed her to Paris, they were really his friends not hers. She might bump into Pierre and she was trying to avoid him. Even if he didn’t want her, he needn’t have thrust her out at a moment’s notice! Besides, she didn’t like to beg and was determined to earn a living. She couldn’t go home until she had enough money to do so without throwing herself on her family’s mercy.

  Several times Betty had thought about ringing home; she’d even tried once, but as soon as she heard her mother’s voice she’d put the phone down, unable to speak, though she’d since phoned Francie’s school and asked for her– it had been the day before Betty’s birthday and she was feeling homesick. Francie had been out when she rang and Betty had replaced the receiver without leaving her name. At this moment she felt so miserable she just wished she was dead…or at home with Aunt Miriam. Her aunt had always taken her side…

  *

  ‘You haven’t heard from Betty at all?’ Aunt Miriam frowned as she sat drinking coffee at Lizzie’s kitchen table that October morning. ‘Oh, my dear, I’m so sorry. I thought…’ she hesitated for a moment and then opened her small leather bag and took out a postcard. ‘I had this, a couple of weeks ago, but I wasn’t sure… I thought you must have had something too…Betty said she was going to ring you.’

  ‘Why on earth didn’t you tell us at once? We’ve been worried to death…’

  Lizzie almost snatched the postcard from her hand; it was of the Eiffel Tower and she turned it over eagerly, her heart thumping. On the back was scribbled a brief message:

  I’m all right, Aunt Miriam. One day I’ll come and see you. Don’t worry about me… I’ll try to phone Mum but I can’t talk to him!

  ‘There was an odd call about ten days ago… it was sort of crackly and when I asked who it was, the receiver suddenly went down…’

  ‘Perhaps Betty tried to ring and couldn’t get through…’

  ‘Or couldn’t face talking to me, the silly girl. Doesn’t she know how much we love her and want her back?’

  The relief surged through Lizzie and she sat back feeling a torrent of emotions. She’d been imagining all sorts of things when there hadn’t been a word from Betty, picturing her dead or injured or simply alone and frightened. ‘Thank God she’s still alive. I’ve been half out of my mind with worry.’

  ‘Oh, Lizzie… I thought you must have heard. I feel awful now…’

  ‘No, only that odd phone call. You’re the only one to get a card from Paris. At least I think that’s where your postcard came from, though I can’t read the postmark…’

  ‘It’s a French stamp,’ Aunt Miriam said and frowned. ‘ I thought she must be all right and I was sure she would ring you…’ She shook her head. ‘What did Sebastian do to make her run off?’

  ‘Nothing much,’ Lizzie said, sensing disapproval of her husband and immediately rising to his defence. ‘Sebastian wanted her to stay on at school or take a college course, but she overheard him say she wasn’t talented enough to design hats and she was upset, angry… it led to a row and he slapped her…

  ‘Oh dear…’ Aunt Miriam frowned. ‘She’s such a hothead… just like her great-uncle and Harry…’

  ‘Sebastian is usually so calm but she said things that really hurt me and he lashed out without thinking. I know he has bitterly regretted it since and blames himself.’

  ‘Well, in a way it is his fault…’

  ‘I think he has a lot on his mind, but he won’t tell me…’

  ‘Yes, I dare say…’ Aunt Miriam faltered and picked up her gloves. ‘I don’t want to fall out with you, Lizzie – but are you certain Sebastian is the devoted husband you’ve always believed him?’

  ‘Quite sure,’ Lizzie said firmly. ‘What makes you doubt it?’

  ‘Well, he goes away so often, sometimes for weeks at a time… I mean is that really necessary for his business? And…’ she paused and then shook her head. ‘No, it isn’t my place and it might have been perfectly harmless…’

  ‘What are you talking about? What might have been harmless?’

  ‘I suppose it will nag at me unless I tell you…’ Aunt Miriam frowned and then cleared her throat. ‘I saw Sebastian and… a woman in a dress shop in Knightsbridge a month or so ago. He was paying for her purchases and she thanked him with a kiss on the cheek…’

  ‘You must have been mistaken…’ Lizzie felt chilled but disbelieving. ‘Were you in the shop yourself?’

  ‘Oh no, it would be too expensive for me, but I know you deal with them and I dare say Sebastian gets a good discount t
here…’ the older woman faltered. ‘I was there to see my doctor. You know that I go privately every six months to Mr Sawbridge. He has his office in an exclusive building near there and I went for a consultation about my skin condition. My local doctor advised specialist treatment… they say it is a nervous complaint, but Mr Sawbridge gave me a cream which helps the symptoms.’

  ‘Yes, it has seemed a little better since you started using the cream,’ Lizzie said ‘but how did you see Sebastian and this woman?’

  ‘I stopped to look in the shop window, because they sell hats as well as clothes and I thought some of them looked like your designs, Lizzie – and they were. There was a little ticket saying they were exclusive to Miss Margaret Modes and designed by Lizzie Larch. I was going to tell you… and then I saw Sebastian with this woman… buying a lot of clothes…’

  ‘Yes, we do have an exclusive line for that shop, and if Sebastian wanted to buy some clothes for a gift he would probably go there, because he knows the owner well. They’ve been business friends for years…’ Lizzie said. ‘I sell them a particular line… very small hats to be worn on the side of the head…’ She sighed and then shook her head. ‘I’m sure you made a mistake about Sebastian and this woman… it’s easy enough if you just catch a glimpse of someone through a window to think it’s someone you know…’

  ‘Well, I may have been mistaken,’ Aunt Miriam said and stood up, pulling on the gloves she always wore outside the house, because she didn’t like anyone to see the unsightly rash on her hands. ‘Please don’t think I’m being spiteful, Lizzie. I like your husband – but men do tend to stray when they reach a certain age…’

  ‘Surely Bert was never unfaithful to you?’

  ‘Oh no,’ Aunt Miriam laughed. ‘Bert was only ever interested in his business and making money – but you see it everywhere these days. The papers are full of it and…’ She shook her head. ‘I expect I’m just a silly old woman, but I’m so fond of you and Betty – Francie too, of course…’

  ‘I know,’ Lizzie rose to kiss her cheek. ‘Francie is coming home for her half-term break soon. You must come to tea next Sunday and see her. I know she would love that…’

  ‘Does Francie know that Betty has run off?’

  ‘We haven’t told her. I don’t know if she’s heard anything. I didn’t want to ask in case it upset her… I know she has exams soon…’

  ‘Is it wise to keep it from her? You will have to tell her when she comes home, Lizzie. It would be wrong to lie to her.’

  ‘You’re perfectly right and I shall tell her as soon as she comes home. I’ve wanted to but she’s had a lot of work on and I didn’t want to do anything that might put her off…’

  ‘You know best,’ Aunt Miriam said and touched her arm in concern. ‘You’re looking a bit peaky yourself, my dear. You’re not ill – are you?’

  ‘No, of course not,’ Lizzie reassured her. ‘I suppose I haven’t slept too well lately…’

  ‘Understandable, my dear, in the circumstances, but you must take care of yourself. You are very precious to us all…’

  Lizzie smiled and shook her head as she saw her visitor out. How could she worry about herself when Betty was still missing?

  *

  ‘You know why you’re here, of course?’ Miss Honiton looked at her severely over the heavy horn-framed glasses she wore perched on the end of her nose. ‘Your work has not been what I expected from you, Francie – since the summer you’ve missed several days of lectures and work days and your interim exam results reflect that. You’ve always achieved A or A+ but this last series of work only merits a B. Can you explain that?’

  Francie couldn’t meet that piercing stare and her heart was racing so fast that she thought she might faint. She’d been on two weekend photo-shoots and one of them had lasted until Tuesday night, which meant she’d had to miss two days of college. She’d told her tutor she’d been off sick, but her friends knew she’d been away with the magazine crew, and earlier that morning Jilly had refused to cover for her again.

  ‘I can’t keep lying to everyone,’ Jilly said. ‘If I got thrown out of art school my mother would murder me for wasting the money Gran spent on the fees. Besides, I need to pass my exams. I want to go into commercial art and I need good grades if I’m going to find a job when I leave school…’

  ‘Oh please,’ Francie begged. ‘I don’t want my parents to know. Dad will kill me if he sees some of the pictures they’ve made me do recently…’

  ‘You shouldn’t have signed that contract,’ Jilly said and put an arm round her waist. ‘Surely you looked at what you were signing?’

  ‘She told me I signed a contract when I entered the contest, and I thought I was just signing a work chit until I got my copy in the post saying she was my agent with my first cheque for fifty pounds…’

  ‘That’s such a lot of money,’ Jilly said enviously. ‘I wish they’d picked me. I could really do with the money.’

  ‘I’ll give it to you if you’ll pretend that I’m sick this weekend,’ Francie said. ‘Mum is expecting me home but the magazine says I’ve got to do a shoot in Devon on Friday and Saturday, and they’re arranging a flight for me from Marshall’s airfield. It will be a small private plane and they will fly me back as well. If I get back on Monday, I can go home for the rest of the week and say I feel better…’

  ‘It’s lying, Francie,’ Jilly looked upset. ‘You’re my best friend and I’d do anything for you – and I don’t want your money, but I can’t tell your mum such awful lies. She’s been lovely to me and I love staying at your house. Your dad is super – please don’t ask me to lie. Can’t you just ring her and tell her you’ve got to put in some extra work?’

  ‘Are you listening to me, Francie?’

  Francie blinked as the anger in Miss Honiton’s voice brought her back to the present. ‘I’m sorry, Miss Honiton. I-I haven’t been feeling too well recently. I promise I’ll do better next month…’

  ‘Painting is a vocation, Francie,’ her principal said gravely. ‘It consumes your life, your passion and your time. You have to live it, breathe it, taste it and feed on it, otherwise it becomes soulless and dull. I do not feel that you’ve been giving your art your full attention.’ She looked at Francie above her thick glasses. ‘Is there something you haven’t told me? Something that is bothering you perhaps? I’m here to help if you’re anxious about your work or there is something else on your mind…’

  Francie had the uneasy feeling that Miss Honiton knew the truth. How could she? Kathy had told her that the magazine with her latest pictures wouldn’t be out for another two months… but of course the pictures they’d taken of her and her friends at the fashion show had been out for a couple of weeks now…and if her mother happened to buy a copy of the magazine…She wouldn’t, of course, because it was for younger women and Mum liked Vogue and Woman’s Own.

  ‘Did you see the photos of us in Manchester?’ Francie said and saw the flicker of a smile on Miss Honiton’s face. ‘I won a competition – well, actually, I won second place, which was three tickets and an all-expenses-paid trip to the show. I didn’t think they would take my picture, but the winner didn’t turn up so they said I had to do it instead…’

  ‘She was a sensible girl…’ the principal looked stern. ‘It was a foolish thing to do, Francie, but surely you haven’t got yourself into a tangle over this, have you? Oh, Francie, why didn’t you come to me at once? ’

  ‘I didn’t know what to do…’ Francie bit her lip. ‘They say I’m contracted for a year, but I only have to work for about three days every so often. I thought I could do the shoots and my work here…’

  ‘Well, it must be clear to you by now that you can’t,’ Miss Honiton said seriously. ‘I suggest that you go home this weekend and talk to your father and mother about this. If I know Mr Winters he will have something to say about firms who ensnare underage girls into signing contracts they don’t understand…’

  ‘Yes, Miss Honiton…’ Francie
hung her head. ‘I know it was foolish… but it is rather exciting and they pay me a lot of money…’

  ‘Well, it is your choice,’ the principal replied in a cold tone. ‘You were offered a scholarship in Paris, which most girls would think was a dream come true. If you want to sacrifice that for a tawdry little job posing in scanty clothes that is up to you – but I can assure you that you cannot have both. Unless your work improves next month the offer of the scholarship will be withdrawn…’

  Francie’s eyes filled with tears. She wanted that scholarship and she truly wanted to paint, but she also liked the fun and excitement of being a photographic model, trying on all the new clothes and having lovely make up and shoes. If she was lucky, it would involve travel to other countries and she might be famous one day. Kathy had told her that she was putting her wage up to two hundred pounds plus all her expenses for every day she was used for the magazine.

  ‘We’ve had lots of inquiries about you, Francie,’ she’d told her last time they’d met for coffee after a shoot. ‘You’re going to be in big demand and you’ll have agents queuing to sign you up – but remember you’ve signed with us for a year…’ Kathy had had the grace to look a bit awkward, because she knew she’d pulled a fast one, but she tried to bluff through it. ‘I couldn’t pay you unless you were contracted to us…’

  In her heart Francie knew that it was just a weak excuse and her father would tear holes in it. He could probably get her out if the contract in seconds, but did she really want him to? Francie knew that once she was properly launched, she could be working every week for three or four days, living out of a suitcase, because it meant travelling all over the world. These days, magazines were just as likely to ask for a shoot in the African jungle as a studio in London, and Francie couldn’t help being carried away by the excitement of it all, although she wasn’t sure whether she would be able to fly without her parents’ permission. She would have to find out what she needed to do…