Alice-Miranda in Paris 7 (19 page)

‘Can we take her home soon?’ Cecelia asked the doctor.

‘
Oui
, madame. I have given her something for the pain and tonight she must rest quietly,’ he replied.

‘But that means I’ll miss our performance at Notre Dame too,’ Jacinta frowned. ‘My one and only solo.’ It wasn’t turning out to be a good day at all.

‘I’m sure Miss Grimm will let one of us keep you company,’ Alice-Miranda decided. ‘You can’t stay at the hotel on your own.’

‘Don’t worry, darling,’ Cecelia smiled at the girl. ‘We’ll work something out.’

Ambrosia Headlington-Bear was busily sifting through a pile of newspapers. She’d traipsed all over Paris before finding the right library. Whoever decided that the French word for bookshop should be
librairie
had something to answer for – she needed archived newspapers, not romance novels, and she wasn’t about to find the former in a bookshop. Finally she had found the right place and she was determined to locate the information she needed. But, of course, as she didn’t speak or read French, it was going to be more difficult than she had originally thought.

‘Excuse me, madame?’ Ambrosia approached a tiny woman who was manning the information desk. ‘I was wondering if you could help me?’

To her surprise the woman replied in perfect English.

‘Oh thank goodness,’ Ambrosia gushed. ‘You saved my life.’

‘Oh my dear, you’re not the first. I’ve saved countless lives by the very fact that I can speak the same tongue. Now, how may I be of assistance?’

‘I’m looking for anything that’s been written about a new designer called Dux LaBelle,’ Ambrosia explained. ‘I’m afraid that I really don’t know much about him, other than he’s up-and-coming and he doesn’t seem to have a past.’

The woman motioned for Ambrosia to take a seat at one of the long research tables. She scurried away and returned a few minutes later with her arms full. ‘If he’s anyone in this city, you should find something about him in here,’ said the librarian as she deposited a pile of magazines on the table beside Ambrosia. ‘And I’ll have a look to see what we have online – it’s easier to search the newspapers through the database. I’m afraid that most of the text is in French, but if you come across something you’d like translated I can assist with that too.’

‘Thank you
so
much,’ Ambrosia smiled. She flicked through the first magazine. It seemed to be a French equivalent of
Gloss and Goss
, but with more fashion and fewer celebrities. There was nothing about Dux in that one, or the twenty others that she scoured. She’d just have to keep on looking. Seriously, who knew that being an investigative journalist would be such hard work? Ambrosia’s phone vibrated in her pocket. At least she’d remembered to put it on silent. There were two missed calls, both from Cecelia Highton-Smith. She would call her back later. It was probably just an invitation to dinner. At the moment she had far more important things on her mind.

Fabien Bouchard slipped between the sheets and pulled up the covers. He closed his eyes tightly and waited. But not for long. His mother’s footsteps echoed on the stairs and then he heard the door open.

She didn’t say anything but he could hear her approaching his bed. He shivered as though the warmth had been sucked from the room.

‘Fabien, wake up.’ She sat down beside him and rested her hand on his head.

Fabien roused slowly and yawned. He stretched his arms above his head, then lay back looking at his mother.

‘Mama? What time is it?’ he whispered.

‘It is the middle of the afternoon. You have slept for hours so perhaps you should be getting up now. I want you to begin practising for the show.’

Fabien’s mouth was dry. ‘I thought you wouldn’t be back until the evening. You have so much sewing.’

‘
Oui
, but there have been interruptions,’ she replied, stony-faced.

Nerves clawed at his stomach. He wondered when she would ask him about the boy downstairs and how he knew his name. But she just stared at him.

‘You are a good boy, Fabien,’ she said.

‘And you are a wonderful mama.’ He reached out to hug her.

She narrowed her eyes and kept her arms by her side.

‘Mama?’ Fabien blinked innocently.

‘Do you want to destroy us? To take away everything we have worked for?’ she hissed.

‘I – I don’t understand.’ Fabien felt as if there were a piece of croissant stuck in his throat.

‘Your uncle has trusted you and this is how you repay him.’ She stood and walked to the window. ‘You think it is more important to play with stupid boys than build our lives.’

‘I was not playing with anyone.’ Fabien wondered how much she knew.

She scurried back towards the bed. ‘You are lying!’ she spat. Her eyes were wild and she looked set to explode.

He’d never seen her like this before.

‘I . . . I’m not. I don’t know what you’re talking about, Mama.’

‘Get up!’ she shouted.

‘Mama, please calm down. Please,’ he begged. ‘I didn’t mean to upset you. Uncle Claude told me about your sickness. It was selfish and stupid to go out. I’m so sorry. I just wanted to feel the sunshine.’

Sybilla Bouchard flinched. ‘What did you say?’

‘I went out, to the park,’ Fabien explained.

‘No, not that. What sickness?’ Lines knitted her brow.

‘The reason you never leave the house,’ Fabien replied.

‘What are you talking about? I’m not sick,’ Sybilla retorted, confused.

Fabien decided he would try another way to calm her down. His uncle had explained that she might become argumentative and irrational if her illness was mentioned.

‘Of course you’re not sick. But perhaps if you just take some of your medicine,’ he suggested.

She looked at him, her eyes wide. ‘What medicine?’

‘The special medicine that Uncle Claude has,’ Fabien said.

A gulf of silence divided them. For several minutes there was nothing.

Sybilla Bouchard didn’t know what to think.

‘Your uncle is the reason we have anything and don’t you forget it. If it weren’t for his kindness, taking us in, looking after us after your father . . .’

‘After my father
what
?’ Fabien’s voice shook.

Sybilla stopped cold. ‘It does not matter.’

‘It does matter, Mama. I want to know about my father,’ Fabien begged.

‘There is nothing to tell. We are dead to him and he is dead to us.’

‘But he is my father. I have a right to know,’ Fabien shouted.

‘We don’t need anyone else, Fabien. It is just us.’ Sybilla reached out to him but he turned away. ‘I am so sorry. I love you more than anything in the world. I didn’t mean to frighten you.’

She stood and paced the room, stopping at his drawing board. She stared at the pages for several minutes before she spied the corner of the old photograph. She pulled it out and spun around.

‘Where did you get this?’

Fabien looked up. ‘What?’

‘This picture. Where did it come from?’

‘Uncle Claude,’ he replied. ‘He gave it to me yesterday when I was stuck. I thought you had sent him with it.’

‘You’re lying.’ Sybilla’s lip began to tremble. ‘Claude couldn’t have given this to you. It can’t be true. It can’t.’

‘He did!’ Fabien yelled.

Sybilla cried out,
‘Mon amour,’
before she fled from the room, slamming the door behind her.

Fabien wondered what on earth had just happened.

Mr Lipp asked the children to gather for an unaccompanied rehearsal before they set off for Notre Dame. He was annoyed to learn of Jacinta’s accident, particularly as she had a small but vital solo part.

‘I don’t suppose the child could have injured herself tomorrow, could she?’ he muttered under his breath as the group gathered in the courtyard.

‘I’m quite sure that Jacinta hasn’t broken her toe just to inconvenience you, Mr Lipp,’ Mrs Winterbottom tutted.

Harold Lipp checked himself. ‘No, of course not.’

‘Besides, you have an ample array of talent – I’m sure one of the other girls would jump at the chance,’ Mrs Winterbottom suggested.

She was quite right about that, as Sloane was literally jumping about with her arm in the air asking Mr Lipp who would be taking on Jacinta’s part.

‘I don’t know, Sloane. I haven’t really thought about it properly yet,’ he said dismissively.

‘But I know someone who could do it,’ she tried again.

‘Yes, we’ll get to that in a minute. I suppose Ashima has the right tone, or Ivory,’ he mused. ‘Places, everyone. We’re going to attempt a run-through without any accompaniment. And what is that . . . beautiful sound?’ He’d been about to say noise when he realised that it wasn’t noise at all, but some of the sweetest singing he’d heard in a long time.

Sloane had wandered away to look at the fountain and begun singing to herself.

‘Sloane, is that you?’ Mr Lipp was stunned. He’d never heard her sing solo before. ‘That’s extraordinary. How long have you had that voice?’

Sloane shrugged.

‘I’ve just found my replacement for Jacinta’s role tonight. I think we’ll have to talk to her about you taking over for good.’ He winked at the girl, who grinned broadly.

‘Thanks, Mr Lipp, but it might be fairer if we share it next time,’ Sloane replied.

Sep Sykes glanced at her. ‘Seriously, who are you and what have you done with my sister?’ he asked.

‘Haha, Sep. You know, I wanted this part for ages but I didn’t want it like this. It’s not fair to Jacinta either,’ Sloane explained.

‘Wow, Alice-Miranda really is rubbing off on you.’ Her brother punched her gently on the arm.

‘Not that much.’ Sloane thumped Sep as hard as she could.

‘Ow!’ he cried. ‘Real Sloane’s back again.’

She poked out her tongue.

‘Places, everyone. Let’s get this right,’ Mr Lipp urged.

A little while later, a taxi pulled up outside l’Hôtel Lulu. Cecelia paid the driver, then helped Jacinta out. Miss Grimm was waiting to meet them in the foyer.

‘Hello Miss Grimm,’ Alice-Miranda greeted the headmistress.

Jacinta had swiftly mastered the art of the crutches and with the boot in place she manoeuvred herself next to Alice-Miranda and Lucas.

‘Hello Alice-Miranda.’ Miss Grimm turned to Jacinta. ‘You silly sausage. How on earth did you manage to drop a pétanque ball on your toe?’