Epilogue
ADELIA BOUTIQUE, MONTMARTRE
Twilight. The sky was low and pink. Boulevards of plane trees popped with golden hues. The jigsaw of Montmartre streets and avenues thrummed with activity as the locals moved between smoky jazz clubs and dance halls, trying to settle on a mood for the evening. Charlie weaved her way between old, hunched men with canes, lattice chairs on footpaths and couples slowly strolling hand in hand. She was running late to Violet’s launch. As always, Charlie regretted her decision to wear kitten heels, but not Aleksandr’s blue dress. She reached beneath her coat and stroked the darts at her hips. Every time she’d worn this dress, it had revealed something. Last time,she’drevealed something, and she was hoping third time would be a charm.
Charlie continued to wobble like a drunk sailor until she came to the double-fronted Art Deco shop. A brass plaque sat neatly at the side:Adelia.
Charlie polished the gold plaque with her coat sleeve and admired the two huge display windows that managed to feel bohemian enough for Montmartre, elegant enough for thecrèmeof Paris society and edgy enough for young Parisians. The left window featured an overstuffed floral chair with a faux peacock perched on the seat. Beside the chair stood a headless mannequin in a teal silk slip with rows of coloured beads slung around its neck. In the right window was a headless suit of silver armour holding an arrow upright in one hand with a shield lying at its feet. An old sideboard stood to one side, topped with teal porcelain plates loaded with fresh oranges. A second mannequin stood beside it in an orange slip dress with garlands of crystal beads around the wrists and at the neck.
Charlie stepped through the front door into an explosion of noise and lights, the party in full swing. In the far corner behind a microphone stood a young woman with a dark bob in a short, sequined dress, singing a brooding love song with a voice so sensual and husky, she sounded like Édith Piaf. Teary Harlequins with bright face paints and costumes juggled oranges and dodged waiters carrying coupes of champagne.
In the centre of the room, a champagne fountain frothed and bubbled. Beside it were silver platters dotted with salmon quichesand crudités. There was even a silver trolley with its own waiter spooning caviar onto crackers from a small silver bucket.
Charlie elbowed her way through the crowd to her friend. ‘Violet!’ She kissed her on both cheeks, and they linked arms to stroll through the shop. It was unlike any Charlie had seen, set up with carved wooden bedheads from India, beaded necklaces from Venice, mismatched serviettes, silverware, cups and plates sourced from estate auctions, shoes from Tours andbrocantesall over France. In among it all were silk slips and pantsuits especially crafted by Aleksandr at a price point suitable for the shop. Adelia wasn’t just a fashion house, it was a lifestyle. It was the best of Violet—her flair, energy and elegance—on display in a shop.
‘Galeries Lafayette has nothing on this.’ Charlie rested her head on Violet’s shoulder. ‘You did it. You made your own store.’
‘It’s about time.’ Lady Ashworth floated across from the circle she was speaking with, wrapped in a black silk sheath and with a small faux parrot tucked into her green hair. ‘Hello, Just Charlie. Hello, dear Violet.’ She kissed them on both cheeks. ‘No one has better, or more eclectic, taste in Paris.’
‘Oh, I don’t think I’ll be putting you out of business anytime soon.’ Violet laughed.
‘No, you certainly won’t, my dear. But we women must stick together.’ She winked at them. ‘Speaking of women, I spoke with my clients, the Bells. Dolly and Jimmy Bell are ever so grateful for your role in finding Maisy, Charlie. What a sorry story that is.I’m so glad the trial is over. Perhaps now the Bells can go about finding some peace and take the time to grieve without everyone poking around in their affairs.’
‘I’ll drink to that.’ Charlie held up her glass. ‘Salut. To Maisy,’ she said sadly.
They stood in silence, reflecting on the young American tourist whose dream holiday had gone so wrong.
‘Well, I may not work at the paper anymore, but I sure do buy it, especially when my best friend is on the cover.’ Violet reached to the music stool next to the grand piano they were standing beside and held up copies of the day’sTimeswith Charlie’s name in the front-page by-line. Under the headline Guilty were pictures and names of all Fischer’s victims. ‘You got your monster.’
‘Let’s hope he doesn’t become the stuff of fairytales,’ said Charlie. ‘A life sentence. But it’s not just his sentence, it’s the families of all his victims who will live with this hurt for the rest of their lives.’
‘True.’
‘Listen, let’s tuck those papers away. I’m honoured you bought them but sadness and Bluebeard have no business in this shop tonight.’ Charlie squeezed her friend’s hand. ‘Are you going to buy out all the local news stands every time I get a front-page story?’
‘I don’t have enough room for that—it will be so often from now on, Charlie.’
‘I’ll drink to that.’ And they all clinked glasses again.
Violet grabbed Charlie’s hand. ‘Excuse me, Lady Ashworth, but I need to show Charlie a scarf in the dreamiest blue.’
As they turned, they almost bumped into George Roberts.
‘Here they are. Trouble.’ George bustled into their group, holding a champagne coupe. ‘I have no idea what this shop is supposed to be, Violet,’ he sniffed, ‘but it’s a pity Mrs Roberts had to go home to see her ailing brother. I can see her spending a wee fortune here. No wonder your parents are so proud.’
A small, dark-haired woman with porcelain skin and an identical smile to Violet’s stepped from behind George.
‘Mother! You made it!’ Violet put her hands to her cheeks as her eyes welled with tears.
‘I never miss an opportunity to dress up and drink champagne, Vivi. Or shop. This place is remarkable. Magical. I have no idea how you gathered all this together. Your father and I are so very proud.’ Her cut-crystal English voice wavered.
Violet leaned in and hugged her mother tight for at least a minute. After they stepped apart, Violet tugged Charlie forward. ‘Mother, this is the famous Charlie James I’ve told you so much about.’
‘That’s my cue.’ George rolled his eyes good-humouredly and took a big swig of champagne before disappearing into the crowd.
‘Charlie, meet my mother, Adelia.’ Violet threw her hands in the air in delight.
‘I can see where Violet inherits her flair from,’ said Charlie, kissing the older woman on both cheeks and taking in Adelia’s cream Chanel suit, matching heels and peacock-blue feathered bag. ‘This shop could only be named after you.’