“The children are in bed,” he said. “Justine’s gone home for the night.”
Daisy’s dress made a deep V at the neckline. Pierre removed his hand from between her legs, only to jerk down her sleeves, to jerk away her brassiere so her bosom came free. In reflex, her hands came up to cover her naked breasts, but she checked herself. She wasn’t supposed to deny him, was she? She was supposed to submit; she had to soften him up, to make him vulnerable, to give him what he wanted so she could take what she wanted. She made herself cup her breasts instead, to present them to Pierre as a delectable gift. Naturally Pierre didn’t question this bounty, no more than a child questions the sudden appearance of a bag of sweets. He grabbed a breast in each fist and squeezed, he slobbered his tongue all over her skin and pushed her right back on the cushions.
“Wait, Pierre . . . the diaphragm—”
He was not going to wait, not for the diaphragm and certainly not for her. His breath stank of brandy, his skin stank of perspiration. Luckily he didn’t expose much of it, just the essentials. Daisy stared at the ceiling while he unbuttoned his trousers. The air in the room was so hot, so close, she couldn’t breathe. She gathered the sofa cushions in her fists as he flopped down on top of her like a large, wet fish. Because he’d drunk so much, it took forever. He made her turn over, and then back again, humping and stopping for breath, humping and stopping until Daisy was ready to scream, was ready to take one of those heavy silver candlesticks from the mantel and bash him over the head. His sweat dripped on her face. At last he came in a howl of relief. He sank on her chest, drooling a little, snoring, and Daisy’s gaze traced the intricate petals of the plaster rose some four meters above her and imagined another body pressing her into the cushions, another pair of arms, another sound, another smell entirely. The scent of pipe tobacco, the sound of a man’s soft chuckle.
Whatever it takes, she had promised. If only she could have taken her scarf and strangled Pierre instead.
Chapter Sixteen
Babs
Picardy, France
April 1964
Precious tied Diana’s Hermès scarf in a provocative bow on the side of my neck, smiling as she stepped back to admire her handiwork. “Well, now, don’t you look prettier than a mess of fried catfish.”
I wasn’t quite sure what that meant, but I had other concerns as I stared at my reflection. “It’s a little frivolous, isn’t it?” I asked. “A scarf is meant to be useful, I believe. Not decorative.”
She gave me a knowing smile as she adjusted the extravagant bow. “Whatever it takes, dear. Whatever it takes.”
I pulled back. “To attract a man, do you mean?”
With a quick admonishing shake of her head, she said, “Not at all. I want to make you see yourself as a woman who is not only beautiful and stylish, but who knows her own worth. When you’re wearing your new clothes, you stand straighter and walk more confidently. You are an intelligent and strong woman who has survived adversity and who still had enough pluck to agree to come to Paris for an assignation with a man you’d never met before.”
“It’s not an . . .”
Precious cut me off. “How you present yourself to the world should alert people that you’re a force to be reckoned with. Not someone who should be overlooked because she still dresses like a refugee despite the war being over for two decades.” She leaned close to my ear. “You are a formidable woman, Barbara Langford, and your beauty and style should reflect it. Never forget that.”
I swallowed, not exactly sure I agreed with her but wanting to try. I met her eyes in the mirror’s reflection. “How did you get to be so clever?”
A secretive smile crept across her lovely face. “Life. I refused to let fate dictate my future. I reinvented myself as many times as I needed to succeed.” She spun me around so that we were face-to-face. “Every day you learn, Babs. You learn, and learn, and learn. And the day that the universe has nothing left to teach you, you can stop.”
She turned quickly away and began organizing the cosmetics on the dressing table while I returned to my reflection. The peacock blue in the silk scarf matched the skirt ensemble Precious had selected for me, making me feel more scandalous than confident. The skirt was too short and if I reached my arms up, my bare midriff would peek out from over the waistband. You are a formidable woman. I would keep repeating that to myself until I could almost believe it.
“Are you ready?” she asked, pausing by the door. “I hope you don’t mind but I took the liberty of ordering a few extras for your picnic basket.”
“Like what?” I asked, beginning to worry. Her idea of picnic items was most likely far different than mine.
She opened the door, looking innocently up at the ceiling. “Oh, just my favorite champagne. And a few of my favorite foods. Like oysters—on ice, of course. Strawberries. And chocolate. Chocolate is always a good choice.”
“Thank you,” I said slowly. “Although that really wasn’t necessary. I’d already ordered baguettes and cheese. It’s just the two of us.”
“Exactly,” she said with a smile I could only describe as wicked.
She exited the room first, allowing me to snag my trusty jumper off the back of the desk chair when she wasn’t looking. I was bound to be chilly with all of the exposed skin.
As we exited the lift downstairs we heard the unmistakable sound of a typewriter as Prunella Schuyler typed away at her memoirs. She’d taken my suggestion to heart and even though we were now subjected to the constant clacking whenever we were entering or exiting the hotel, at least she wasn’t accosting us and shouting out the story of how she’d survived the sinking of the Lusitania. If I didn’t think she’d corner me for an entire day, I might have mentioned that my husband’s parents had both been survivors, too, and that they hadn’t felt the need to talk about it every waking moment.
I spotted Drew before he saw me, and I felt a momentary surprise at the interruption of my breathing as I watched him leaning against a wall with his hands stuffed into his pockets, his feet casually crossed at the ankles. His hair was damp, sending improper thoughts about him showering, and I couldn’t help but admire his broad shoulders under a knit long-sleeved shirt in a lovely shade of green that I knew matched his eyes. Assuming I remembered the color of his eyes. Which I did.
“That man is fine,” Precious whispered in my ear. “Now you two go on and have fun. I’ll go see what Prunella is up to.” With a kiss on each cheek and a wave in Drew’s direction she was off.
“Good morning,” Drew said as he approached, an appreciative smile on his face. “I’ve already put the picnic basket in the car, so I’m ready if you are.”
“Yes, of course. Let’s go play detective, shall we?” I sounded so much like a schoolmarm that I hoped that Precious hadn’t heard me. I followed him out of the hotel and into the beautifully sunny spring day.
A dark green sporty-looking coupe—borrowed from a friend at the office—sat at the curb, a valet holding open the passenger side door. As Drew slid into his seat next to me, he said, “I’ll keep the windows up if you don’t want to mess up your hair.”