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‘Get out,’ she whispered, rigid and white to the lips.
‘Just going. Good luck...’
‘Look, Madame, I apologise for walking out of your party but if you want to sack me for it that’s fine with me.’
Yvette Minter threw up her hands. She was wearing a colourful, stiffened-silk dressing-gown and she’d descended the area steps and knocked Martha up only moments ago. It was the morning after the party, a Sunday morning, and about nine o‘clock. ‘Why did I know you would say something like that to me?’ she demanded in clearly aggrieved tones. ‘Can you not even offer me a cup of coffee at this horrendous hour of the day?’
Martha shrugged and turned to the stove where a percolator was bubbling gently. ‘If you like.’ She poured two mugs.
Madame glanced at Martha’s bent head during this process but uncharacteristically said nothing for a time as she sat down and arranged the rich folds of her gown around her.
‘There.’ Martha pushed a mug across the table and after a brief hesitation sat down herself.
‘Merci.’ Madame smiled faintly and pursed her lips.
This caused Martha to wonder what was coming and it was as if Madame guessed her thoughts, because she said lightly, ‘I was just thinking—such a difference! Last night you were all fire and elegance; today you are like a teenage girl.’
Martha grimaced down at the floral patterned leggings and voluminous T-shirt she wore. ‘So?’
‘That’s another thing—how many times you say, “So?” to me, like so.’
‘Sorry. I guess what I’m trying to say is this. If I’ve blown my chance, if I’ve disgraced myself thoroughly and you can’t see any hope of retrieving things and making me famous——’ there was a tinge of irony in her voice ‘—you only have to tell me straight.’
‘Martha,’ Madame reproved, ‘why are you so prickly?’
‘It’s the way I’m made, I guess.’ Martha shrugged.
‘OK, I believe you, but what makes you think you disgraced yourself last night? All you did was add a bit of spice and mystery to the image. Believe me, to walk out on Simon—even to want to, let alone to do it—is a gesture not many girls make.’
‘Then they should,’ Martha said before she could stop herself. ‘I’m sorry if he’s your nephew but he—’ She stopped abruptly.
‘Go on,’ Madame said, her black eyes fairly snapping with curiosity.
Martha bit her lip and thought, Shades of Jane...‘No—uh—well, the least said, the soonest mended, I’m sure. Unless he...’ She stopped and looked directly at the other woman.
‘He has said nothing. Nothing,’ Madame emphasised. ‘Well, beyond that he met you three years ago in Australia. He has left me totally in the dark in other words—which is extremely frustrating for a woman like me,’ she added with complete honesty. ‘Mind you, it’s not hard to guess that you two—er—had something going; the air nearly sizzled around you. What a shot in the eye for Sondra Grant.’ She sighed with obvious pleasure.
‘Who’s she?’
Madame opened her eyes very wide. ‘His fiancée—well, his unofficial fiancée—you didn’t know?’
‘I don’t know anything about him, other than that he can be an absolute——’
‘Then I will tell you.’ Madame sat forward eagerly, and took not the slightest notice of Martha’s protest. ‘He is the son of my late ’usband’s brother—in reality we bear the same name but I chose to use my maiden name for my business. Now you think it’s strange that I should have married a Scot? Not at all; the Macquaries ‘ave married French women often; the family is half French anyway because——’
‘I know about the liqueur,’ Martha said drily. ‘That’s how we met in Australia—at a cocktail party but serving liqueur instead.’
‘Ah!’ Madame looked suddenly enlightened then she became serious again. ‘But do you know that Simon has literally saved the family company from fading into oblivion and turned it into a highly profitable concern again? Because he is a brilliant businessman—dynamic. Why, without his advice even I wouldn’t be where I am today and—–’
‘Madame—’ Martha stood up ‘—I’m really not interested. I’m sorry—–’
‘So he was the one?’
‘The one what?’
‘Who ’urt you, Martha. Look—–’ Madame became angry at last ‘—don’t take me for a fool, Mees Winters!’
‘I’m not!’ Martha denied. ‘But he is your nephew—Oh, this is impossible,’ she whispered suddenly, and was horrified to find she had tears welling. Tears because she could see a new life she’d just begun to believe in shattering before her eyes.
‘What’s that got to do with it?’
‘What’s what got to do with it?’ Martha asked impatiently, dashing at her eyes with the back of her hand.
‘That he’s my nephew?’ Madame said with more of her old arrogance.
‘Everything, I should imagine. I hate him, he...despises me, and I couldn’t even begin to tell you how much. We could be tripping over each other all the time, but you obviously admire him tremendously and—–’
‘So you think I automatically take his side, Miss Martha?’
‘Yes!’
Madame stood up and arranged her robe regally around her. ‘Then you do not even begin to understand me, Martha Winters,’ she said chillingly. ‘I do not only design exquisite clothes but I am a very fine judge of character as well as human nature. I’m also a Frenchwoman through to my bones and as such I know a lot about men, so I would never dream of saying, This man is my nephew therefore he must be all honour and virtue. No. Instead I say to myself, This is a man, first and foremost, and we all know what bastards men can be sometimes—this is what I say!’
Martha stared at her then sat down abruptly, dropped her face into her hands and started to laugh a little wildly. ‘But you hardly know me from a bar of soap!’
‘True,’ Madame conceded. ‘But I like you. So, hate Simon if you wish to. It will not affect me. But it also might not deceive me entirely.’
Martha looked up. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Chérie,’ Madame said kindly, ‘you do not deceive me for one moment. However, before you get your ’ackles all in a knot again, I will say not one word more!’ And for once in her life she didn’t.
Neither did Martha. For the simple reason that she rather felt as if she’d had all the stuffing knocked out of her.
But she was back at work the next morning and Madame’s avowed liking for her didn’t prevent Madame from putting her through a gruelling day, or from telling her she looked like a sack of potatoes in a certain outfit.
It was almost a fortnight before she saw Simon Macquarie again, then she saw him twice in two days.
The first time was at a pub in Fulham Road. It was a hot, dry Friday with an uncharacteristically merciless sun beaming out of an English sky. It had been a torrid week work-wise as well and she was only too happy to escape the salon during her lunch-hour and the depths of the pub had looked cool and inviting so she’d ordered a Caesar salad and a glass of iced tea. It had taken a few minutes to notice that Simon was among a group on the other side of the