‘That’s harsh,’ chided Charlie, ‘but I’ll come with you for a bit before I have to meet the detective back here.’
Ten minutes later, Charlie found herself wandering arm in arm with Violet through the tiny alleys off Rue Nationale. Violet popped in and out of haberdashers, lace workshops and secondhand stores overflowing with racks of discarded designer hats, dresses, silk shirts and woollen coats. In each of the stores, Violet took her time to walk around and see how each item was displayed or put together, often in a vignette with suitcases and flowers and other found objects. She’d talk to all the stallholders and coax them into giving her a special price for a pink felt hat with feathers, some bright leather gloves or a dress of pastel silk print that she intended to cut up into ribbons.
Charlie laughed. ‘Surely you have no vacancies in your wardrobe? You have access to the finest clothes in Paris.’
‘I do. But I’m not shopping for myself,’ replied Violet as she grabbed a blue hat, slanted it sideways on her head and studied it in the mirror. ‘I’m looking for pieces with a certain panache for our show. For when we take pictures and make catalogues.’ She scooped up a handful of crystal necklaces with multicoloured beading and dangled them in front of her neck for Charlie to admire.
‘You’re building a dress-up box?’
‘Exactly. I need to create different moods. Whimsical.’ She waggled the beads before dropping them back into their bin. ‘Serious.’ She pulled a face and patted a black hat. ‘Or elegant.’ She picked up a teal headpiece replete with a peacock feather. ‘Now this would look spectacular on you.’
‘I leave the peacocking to you, my beautiful friend.’ Charlie laughed again as she brushed the hat with the feather aside. ‘I would have thought you have enough accessories to match an entire show.’
‘You’re missing the point, silly, we want variety … I want to play.’ She threw her hands in the air and twirled so her yellow sundress billowed. It was no ordinary dress—the bodice was boned and finished with vertical pleats from which the skirt fell like a waterfall at her hips. The shoulder straps were handmade lace. The dress had the hallmarks of Aleksandr all over it: exquisite tailoring, elegance and a touch of magic. Only Aleksandr could make a simple sundress look like an artwork and in it Violet was more magnificent than any movie star or model.
Charlie stepped forward and ran her hands over the lace. ‘You know, I’ve never seen you more radiant. You belong in shops like this. Would you ever open one of your own?’
Violet’s expression dropped with surprise and she looked around the store, then smiled and shrugged. ‘Maybe. I’ve never thought about it. I’m busy with work and then helping Aleksandr show his collections. And we knowThe Timeswould fall apart without me. George would be completely at sea …’ She threw her head back and laughed.
‘We wouldallbe completely at sea,’ Charlie corrected as she joined her friend in laughter.
‘Come on, there’s some market stalls I want to get to before they close.’ Violet paid for the beads, grabbed Charlie’s hand and led her outside to a collection of tiny stalls that looked like they were set into old stable berths, tucked away from the main street. Between the stallholders selling sausages, potted rillettes and dried peaches were tiny tables displaying forgotten or abandoned treasures.
Charlie watched in awe as her friend filtered through boxes of crystal beading, shell necklaces and pearls to find the most flamboyant sets, dug through bags of silk offcuts to find audacious prints to make into scarves and belts and picked through silver antiques and linen tablecloths to reconfigure into whatever mood took her fancy. Charlie’s feet ached from walking on cobblestones in boots with heavy soles. She was dismayed to see that she stillhad forty minutes until it was time to meet the detective back at the hotel.
‘Stop looking at your watch and come in here,’ said Violet as she draped her shopping bags over one arm and pushed Charlie through an arched doorway with the other. They stepped into a long cave with mottled limestone walls and shelves of women’s shoes as far as the eye could see.
‘What is this?’ asked Charlie, who had never seen so many shoes in her life—not even in Paris.
‘Nirvana,’ sighed Violet.
‘You look like Scarlett O’Hara with your hands clutched to your chest like that.’
‘Well, honey,’ Violet drawled, ‘this place calls for a touch of drama. Now come and help me.’ She marched over to the counter and met the shop attendant, showing her Aleksandr’s drawings and swatches and then setting off towards the back of the cave.
Charlie stayed up the front, eyeing pink stilettos, green kitten heels and some rattan summer sandals that looked like the most comfortable shoes in the store. She looked for the price of the sandals and found none. A shop without price labels was like a restaurant without prices on the menu. Charlie’s meagre reporter’s salary meant she generally avoided both.
She slumped into a comfortable armchair and studied her black boots covered with soil. A yellowing elm leaf had dried and hardened on the heel and she peeled it off. When she couldn’t find a suitable bin to put it in, she opened the back of her notebook andpressed the leaf against the cover so it lay flat. It reminded her of a flower-press kit she’d been given as a little girl, into which she’d put petals of roses and daisies and an assortment of eucalyptus leaves from her mother’s garden. What she would give for the scent of a gum leaf. For cocktails with her parents overlooking the arched bridge and sapphire waters of Sydney Harbour.
She thought of the travelling man in burgundy velvet she’d met. Mael. How he belonged everywhere and nowhere. A man who spoke warmly of his people, yet was not with them. He’d chosen a different path—just like Charlie. He’d smelt of red wine and loneliness. Charlie didn’t think her life was starting to unravel; if anything, she needed to pick at the seams and build in more pockets of joy. More nights at the opera, more crazy shopping trips (as an observer) with Violet, more … connection.
She smoothed her long blue skirt—an item she’d chosen specifically to hide her boots as she clomped about a crime scene. She smiled. Only in Paris would a reporter don appropriate boots but make it fashionable. Perhaps Charlie was assimilating more than she gave herself credit for.
She slammed her notebook shut, pressing hard to flatten the leaf, and slid it into her satchel before walking to the back of the cave. Violet had three types of heels in azure, navy and royal blues set in front of her and was studying them like it was a medical examination.
‘Which one?’ Violet asked as Charlie approached. ‘For this dress.’ She held up a drawing of a backless midnight-blue gownthat draped from the shoulders. ‘It’s for our next show.’ She turned to introduce Charlie to the elegant shopkeeper, who wore a black skirt, white shirt, loose chignon bun and tortoiseshell glasses. ‘Meet Madame Duval. She owns this incredible emporium. I can’t believe I haven’t been here before! It’s worth taking the train to Tours just for these shoes.’
‘You are too kind, Mademoiselle Carthage,’ Madame Duval replied.
‘Pleased to meet you. I like the blue,’ said Charlie as the older woman laughed and Violet rolled her eyes.
‘Three months in Paris. You’d think my reporter friend could do better.’
‘I could actually,’ retorted Charlie. ‘Do you have any photographs of this cave I could use? Negatives are best. I’d love to run this past my editor atThe Times. Maybe I could do a feature on Tours—it’s so close to Paris and easy to get to on the train.’
‘Merci, you are so kind to think of my little shop. My mother ran it, and her father before that. We have families in this region who have shopped with us for generations.’
Violet laughed as she studied the navy heel. ‘Well, with the craftsmanship in these shoes and the quality of the leather, they probably last generations. You look like you are leaving me here, Charlie James?’