‘Does Josephine mind? All this antipathy?’
‘Too busy enjoying herself. I’d say she doesn’t give a damn! In fact,’ she added dubiously, a sly, slanting question in her eyes, ‘those close to her think she doesn’t care enough. For public opinion or her own safety.’
Joe seized on the word: ‘Safety?’ he murmured.
‘Everyone thought when she had her accident last year –’
‘Accident?’
‘Not actually. It could have been nasty . . . In one of her acts, she’s lowered in a flowery globe down over the orchestra pit. A breathtaking bit of theatre! Luckily she’d decided to rehearse in the damn contraption before the actual performance.’ Francine shuddered. ‘She was on her way down from the roof in this thing when one of the cables jammed. That’s what they said. A mechanic was sacked afterwards and everyone heaved a sigh of relief. The globe suddenly tilted over and swung wide open. She ought to have been thrown out into the pit. But she’s a strong girl with fast reactions. She jumped for one of the metal struts and hung on like a trapeze artist until someone could get up into the roof and haul her up again.’
‘Good Lord! What would have happened if she’d fallen?’
‘She’d have been dead. Or so badly injured she’d never have walked again.’
‘Dangerous place, the theatre.’
And a breeding ground for all kinds of overheated nonsense, he reckoned. Scandal, exaggeration, petty jealousies. He was allowing his own tolerance of gossip to put him off track and guided Francine Raissac back on to the subject he wanted to pursue. ‘These clothes the generous Miss Baker gives you – where do they come from?’
‘Gifts. They arrive at the theatre in boxes for her to try. If she doesn’t like something, she’ll tell me to take it away. I found her knee deep in Paul Poiret samples the other day. Wonderful things! She’d just had an almighty quarrel with him and was throwing the whole lot away. Before she’d even tried them on!’ The girl was filling the space between them with irrelevant chatter, taking her time to get his measure, he guessed. And, unconsciously, going in exactly the direction he’d planned to lead her.
‘Does she have a preferred designer?’
‘Hard to say. I doubt if she can tell one style from another. She hates turning up for fittings so they take a chance on what she’ll like and send her lots of their designs, hoping she’ll be seen about town wearing them . . . I think Madame Vionnet suits her best and Schiaparelli . . . her bias cut is very flattering . . . Lanvin . . . of course . . .’
‘And your outlet for these dazzling couture items?’ he asked. ‘I’m assuming you don’t acquire them simply to decorate your room.’
‘I send them on to my mother. She has a little business in Lyon. We started it together when my father died. Location de costumes – but not your usual rag and bone enterprise. We’re building up a well-heeled client list – plenty of money about down there. Industry’s booming and it’s a very long way from Paris. Everyone wants a Paris model for her soirée!’ She indicated her sewing machine. ‘I can undertake adjustments here at source if I have a client’s measurements. Then the lady’s box is delivered and she tells her friends it’s straight from Paris – just a little confection she’s had specially run up for the Mayor’s Ball or whatever the event . . . And the label – should her friend happen to catch a glimpse of it – has a good deal to say about the success of her husband’s enterprise. And her taste, of course. We rent out things by the day, the week. A surprising number we sell.’
‘I’m talking to someone with a keen eye for fashion then? Someone acquainted with the work of the top designers of Paris?’ he said, raising an admiring eyebrow.
‘I’m sure you didn’t come here to talk fashion,’ she said doubtfully, ‘but – yes – you could say that. I could have been a mannequin if I’d been three inches taller. If I’d been five inches taller I could have been a dancer. But I’m not really interested in “could have been”. I’m a going-to-be,’ she said with emphasis. ‘Successful. Rich. I haven’t found my niche quite yet. But I will.’ And, angrily: ‘It won’t, of course, be in the professions or politics or any of the areas men reserve for themselves. We can’t vote . . . we can’t even buy contraceptives,’ she added, deliberately to embarrass him.
‘But some girls have the knack of attracting money and don’t hesitate to flaunt it . . . Does it annoy you – in the course of your work – to be seen in rusty black uniform dresses when the clientele are peacocking about in haute couture?’