Eva had never actually seen the expression directed at her before, but from all she’d read and been told, Mr Lambert looked at her as if he loved her.
And then the Laughing Blonde came back.
Only she wasn’t laughing any more.
She was hungover, smoking a cigarette, picking the crusts off a slice of cold toast.
She appeared one morning, without any warning, when Eva knocked on the door to service Mr Lambert’s room.
Worse, her suitcase was in the corner.
Eva stared at that suitcase in silent desperation. The woman was one thing. The case was another.
The Blonde blinked at her through puffy, red eyes. ‘Yeah?’ She had lines across her forehead, hollows in her cheeks. She wasn’t nearly as pretty in the daylight.
‘I’m sorry, madam,’ Eva spoke stiffly, trying her best not to betray her feelings. ‘I’m here to service the room. Would you like me to come back?’
The Blonde shrugged, took another bite of toast, tossed it back on the plate. ‘Sure. Though I guess I’d better get dressed,’ she sighed, ‘if we’re going to make the noon train.’
‘Train?’ The word slipped out before Eva could stop it.
The Blonde stood up, pulling the robe sash tighter around her waist. She was so thin, it looked like it would cut her in two. ‘Yeah. Niagara Falls.’ She smiled to herself, flicking ash into her coffee cup, where it fizzled in the remains. ‘Very romantic, wouldn’t you say?’
Eva felt all hope drain away. ‘I’m sorry to disturb you. I’ll come back later, ma’am.’
As she pulled the door shut behind her, Eva could hear the Blonde singing softly to herself . . . ‘It Had to be You’.
Halfway down the hall, she realized she was crying.
Paris, Spring, 1955
The shop on Rue Saint-Claude was, like most second-hand shops, stacked indiscriminately from floor to ceiling with all manner of furniture and objects: lamps, appliances, cushions, curtains, vases, pictures, books. Wooden chairs dangled from hooks on the ceiling along with chandeliers and drying racks; every available space had not just one but at least five unrelated objects crowded on to its surface. A small bell jangled when they opened the front door. It smelled of mildew, damp fabric and dust.
Grace squeezed past the entrance, and Monsieur Tissot trailed in after her. This was not going according to his plan. They should be back in the office now, not foraging among garbage. ‘Explain to me again why we’re here, madame?’
‘The concierge’s daughter said this man cleared Eva d’Orsey’s apartment.’
‘Yes, but what does that have to do with us?’ He sidestepped a wooden crate, filled with nothing but old doorknobs. ‘Are you looking for something? What do you hope to find?’
‘I don’t know. Whatever I can. An address book and a complete set of personal diaries would be useful.’
‘An address book?’ He looked at her incredulously.
‘I’m teasing. What I mean is, there may be something here, some clue about who Madame d’Orsey was – something personal.’
He cast round at the chaos. ‘Here?’
‘You never know.’ Grace continued to push her way through. She picked up a small metal object that looked like a sugar sifter but turned out to be some early eighteenth-century magnifying glass. It was badly rusted and the glass was broken. ‘Besides, Monsieur Tissot, you didn’t need to come with me. I’m sure you have more pressing business to attend to.’
‘You are my business, Madame Munroe.’ He brushed a patch of dust from the elbow of his suit jacket; a gift from a set of moth-eaten velvet curtains. ‘I’m your lawyer.’
‘My lawyer?’ Grace put down the glass. ‘I’m sorry but I thought you were Madame d’Orsey’s lawyer.’
‘Yes, but her interests are now your interests. Until the sale of the property is complete, my obligations remain unfulfilled. Unless of course,’ he added, ‘you would prefer that I no longer represented you.’
‘I see.’ Grace hadn’t anticipated this. ‘Doesn’t this go somewhat beyond your brief?’
‘I’ve never had a client in your situation before. Especially one that requires additional proof in order to proceed.’ He folded his arms across his chest, looking at her squarely. ‘So we are both beyond our brief, don’t you think?’
‘I suppose, though I certainly don’t want to monopolize your time, Monsieur Tissot. I don’t want you to feel you must chaperone me the entire day.’
‘Yes, but I cannot allow you to wander all over Paris without an escort,’ he pointed out. ‘Your French alone, madame, would get you arrested.’