Midnight Girls (15 page)

Allegra couldn’t imagine why anyone who already looked so perfect would want to think about a face lift. She had no idea how old Romily’s mother was but her skin looked unlined, her complexion like a soft, velvet peach, and every time she moved there was a delicious citrussy waft of scent. No wonder Romily felt under pressure to live up to this unutterably glamorous mother.

Athina de Lisle turned to her daughter and unleashed a rapid stream of French which Allegra couldn’t follow at all. Romily replied and a conversation began while Allegra passed the time looking at the pictures and books and admiring the massive flower arrangements. She noticed that all the pollen-bearing stamens had been snipped out of the lilies.

‘Do excuse us, Lady Allegra,’ Athina de Lisle said at last. ‘I’m just running over a few very tedious matters with Romily – family things. Too boring to bother you with. Now,’ she put down her tea cup and stood up, smoothing down her silk skirt and giving a slight tilt of the head towards Allegra, ‘I will see you both later at dinner. I have an appointment first. Romily will show you around the house, and to where you are staying.’

The moment she had left the room, the atmosphere relaxed.

‘Come on,’ Romily said, ‘We’ll do the tour.’

The two girls spent a happy afternoon with Romily
showing
Allegra some of the grander rooms, and then taking her to the guest suite, which made her think again of a luxurious hotel. Her rucksack had already been unpacked and stowed away in a cupboard, her belongings arranged in drawers or carefully laid out on the desk.

‘Now, let’s go and find you some clothes,’ Romily said, and they returned to her dressing room to rifle through the drawers, shelves and rails for suitable dinner clothes.

They emerged in time for drinks, Romily in a short sky blue pleated silk cocktail dress by Celine, and Allegra in a classic Givenchy long black dress with tight sleeves that looked demure but was actually very sexy, especially with her long blonde hair piled up loosely and fastened with a clip that looked like a large diamond butterfly.

‘You look fantastic,’ Romily said. ‘Black suits your pale English skin and that fair hair. It can wash me out if I’m not careful, but you’ll always look amazing in it.’

‘I can’t believe this dress!’ Allegra marvelled. ‘It looked like nothing on the hanger, but it feels wonderful. And it’s so flattering!’

‘That is
cut
, darling,’ said Romily loftily. ‘The magic of the proper dressmaker. Honestly, once you understand what good clothes can do …’

Allegra laughed. ‘I’m just not going there, Rom. I can’t afford to get a couture habit, or even a designer one. I’m strictly thrift shop and High Street, I’m afraid.’

‘We’ll see,’ Romily said with a grin. ‘Tomorrow, we go shopping.’

Madame de Lisle might have been disappointed to see a real English lady turning up in shabby jeans and a T-shirt, but she was clearly mollified by Allegra’s appearance at dinner that evening. She looked approvingly at the way the black dress clung to her guest’s long slender body, and the dark
red
lipstick Romily had painted on her mouth, and herself took Allegra round to introduce her to the guests who had gathered in the drawing room for an apéritif. Once again the atmosphere was more formal than at English dinner parties. Allegra had often peeked round doors at her parents while they were entertaining, and their parties seemed to be characterised by noise, chatter, hilarity, and many bottles of wine. This French gathering was quiet, calm and polite in the extreme: the young men she was introduced to were very smart in crisp shirts, ties, dark jackets and highly polished shoes, and they bowed to her when they were introduced. One tanned man with sparkling eyes and gleaming white teeth even bent and kissed her hand.

‘Lady Allegra, may I introduce Prince Jean-Christophe du Condé de Villeneauve,’ said Madame de Lisle.

Allegra nodded graciously, thinking,
Cripes, it’s a bloody prince kissing my hand. What next? Will my glass coach suddenly wheel up at the door?

She tried to imagine Xander kissing someone’s hand when he was introduced to them and the idea seemed ludicrous, but it felt natural here. Even Romily’s brother, Louis, who was only fourteen and should have looked weirdly grown up and preppy in his Ralph Lauren shirt, chinos and blazer in other surroundings, seemed normal. He was a miniature version of his father, Charles de Lisle, who gushed over Allegra for several minutes before returning to an important-looking businessman.

I feel ridiculously adult
, she thought, clutching her glass in one hand and trying to look as though she spent every night of her life in such polished surroundings.
It’s brilliant fun. Imogen would love it
.

Poor Imogen did not even know Allegra was in Paris and would be horribly jealous when she found out. But her friend had been taken off to visit her grandparents, and it
was
once Allegra was on her own, slouching round Foughton and trying to avoid her pile of reading, that she’d hatched the plan to get herself to Paris. Everybody else was away enjoying themselves – Xander was out in Argentina playing polo with some rich friend, and her parents were on a smart yacht somewhere – so why on earth shouldn’t she? But she knew Imogen would be furious that she’d made the much-discussed trip to Paris without her.

Over dinner in the dining room, she felt guilty again that Imogen was missing this. The food was extraordinary and exquisite: the first course was creamed Breton sea urchins served with a quail’s egg and caviar; after that there was pigeon served on a bed of beetroot, with truffled potatoes and miniature garlic carrots.
That’s the nicest thing I’ve ever put in my mouth!
she thought. Salad followed, and then a magnificent cheese board, and last of all a fresh clementine sorbet of such exquisite flavour that Allegra couldn’t speak, but only concentrate on the burst of sweetness over her tongue. A different wine accompanied each course, but by the time they were on the cheese she was feeling woozy and tired so drank only water until her head cleared. Conversation was mostly in French but occasionally, as a courtesy to her, in English.

‘No, no, I don’t think so. It’s a matter of the head over the heart. Don’t you think so, Lady Allegra?’

She looked up, startled. She had just been chasing the last crystals of sorbet round her bowl and now someone was talking to her and she hadn’t a clue what they meant. She saw that the important-looking businessman Monsieur de Lisle had been talking to earlier was now fixing her with a dark-eyed gaze. She had been introduced to him but couldn’t remember his name.

‘Er …’ she said, playing for time. He came quickly to her rescue.

‘We are talking about love, of course,’ he said in a thick French accent. ‘What else would you expect in France? The prince here says the heart must win out. He is young and romantic. But I say – the heart is all very well, but it must be the head that governs such matters. What is your opinion?’

‘Oh.’ She glanced over at the prince, who was looking at her expectantly, and then back at the businessman with his heavy-jowled face, large nose and wide mouth. ‘The heart, I suppose.’

‘But of course.’ He laughed and lifted his glass to her. ‘You are young and beautiful. Naturally you can follow your heart and it will lead you somewhere amazing, I have no doubt. Perhaps you will think differently in a year or two when your heart has been broken.’

Allegra felt herself blush scarlet although she hardly knew why she was so embarrassed, and her gaze dropped to the table cloth. She wanted to look back at the prince, who was, she realised, very good-looking and attractive, but she couldn’t.

‘Come, Paul, enough teasing! You cannot expect girls to know their minds on this. Let them experience love first,’ said one of the older women.

‘Mariette …’ began Madame de Lisle, frowning.

The other woman held up her hand. ‘No, no, Athina, I know you must advise caution and being sensible … that is your job as a mother … but I need have no such scruples. They must experience passion – grand passion. Or what is the point of being alive?’

From under her lashes, Allegra shot a glance at Romily who seemed quite composed although there were two high spots of colour on her cheeks. She realised that the businessman, Paul, was still staring at her with an unashamedly direct gaze.
But he’s so old and ugly
, she thought.
How can he look at me like that? It’s as though he already knows exactly what I look like with my clothes off! I wish he’d stop. He’s fat and revolting
.

‘Passion is all very well, but it is perfectly possible to fall madly in love with the person who will also make the best husband,’ said Athina de Lisle, drily. ‘And now, I think, coffee and petits fours are next-door. Shall we go through?’

She rose to her feet and everyone followed.

‘How hideously embarrassing!’ Allegra hissed as she and Romily met at the door to the drawing room.

‘Was it?’ her friend said, looking mildly surprised. ‘Don’t worry, everyone talks like that here. Love, love, love. It’s all they seem to care about. Come on, we can have a cigarette now, if you want one.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes. And a
digestif
, if you like.’

A few minutes later she and Romily were standing out on the terrace, looking out over the courtyard below and the twinkling lights of Paris beyond, fragrant cigarettes in their hands. Allegra exhaled a stream of smoke, feeling luxuriously full, just nicely drunk and utterly relaxed.
I’ll sleep well tonight
, she thought.

The prince and Louis de Lisle came out to join them and the four of them stood together, chatting idly.

I think I fancy him
, Allegra thought, watching the prince under her lashes as she smoked. He was not tall, but slim and graceful, and looked fresh from the ski slopes with his nut-brown tan and gold lights in his dark hair. He had carefully cultivated stubble, flashing white teeth and limpid brown eyes, and seemed very aware of his own attractiveness, although his flirting was rather formal.
Perhaps all French blokes are like this
, she thought, wondering what it would be like to kiss him. Would the stubble be tickly? Would he want to stuff his tongue into her mouth and thrash it around wildly, like Freddie used to? That romance had faded out a while ago and there hadn’t been anyone since. She couldn’t imagine the prince kissing like Freddie,
not
with his manners. He would probably advance slowly and carefully, in polite little stages, asking her permission in tones of greatest courtesy every step of the way. She giggled.
I must be a bit pissed. Maybe I could get him on his own somehow
. She looked over at Romily to see if she might be amenable to helping her get her hands on the prince, but she seemed unaware of what Allegra was thinking.

‘Ah, so this is where you young ones are!’ It was the businessman. What had Madame de Lisle’s friend called him? Oh, yes, Paul. He squeezed out of the French window on to the terrace and stood beside them, seeming much bigger than anyone else. He turned immediately to Allegra. ‘So, what are your plans while you are in Paris, my lady?’

‘You don’t have to call me that,’ she said, embarrassed. ‘I’m just Allegra.’

‘Very well.’ He smiled at her, and again she had the sense that he was looking right through her clothes. ‘Are you seeing the sights?’

Allegra looked over at Romily who said, ‘We’re shopping tomorrow. Next week we’ll look around.’

‘I hope you’ll allow me to accompany you to the Musée d’Orsay. I assume you’re going?’

‘We hadn’t really planned anything yet, but I suppose we could go there.’ Romily turned to Allegra. ‘It’s the museum with the Impressionists. It’s quite nearby.’

‘One of the most beautiful museums in the world,’ Paul Antoine said. ‘A converted railway station from the Belle Epoque. You must see it. Shall we say Thursday afternoon? I will send my car for you after lunch.’

The girls looked at each other. This wasn’t how they’d intended to spend their time together, but it would be far too impolite to say no.

‘Very well,’ Romily said at last. ‘Thank you, monsieur. We should like that very much.’

Chapter 12

ALTHOUGH SHE MIGHT
not have succeeded in getting her hands on the prince, Allegra was still having a wonderful time. The days in Paris passed by in a delicious whirl of pampering. She did not have to lift a finger and anything she wanted was hers. From the moment she awakened in her enormous bedroom, her clothes were clean and folded, the water hot and plentiful, and she could laze for as long as she liked, ordering breakfast on a tray or having it with Romily in the small breakfast room while they flicked through the day’s papers from across the world. The kitchen was like a five-star restaurant with a limitless menu. Anything she wanted appeared in moments, from freshly squeezed guava juice to bacon and eggs, properly done. Romily was surprised by her friend’s appetite, especially first thing in the morning when she herself ate only some fruit and yoghurt, accompanied by strong black coffee.

The hours were theirs to fill as they pleased, and naturally there was one occupation that they enjoyed above all others: shopping. At first, Allegra was worried by the fact that she didn’t have the money to spend that Romily had. Her allowance was generous by some standards but it had very little purchasing power in the kind of places Romily was taking her: exquisite boutiques that seemed to sell only a few items, but each breathtaking, both in substance and in price. Then there were the
grands magasins
along the boulevard
Haussmann
, and the designer shops around avenue Montaigne, place Vendôme and rue St Honoré. Everything there was so covetable and, what was more, so necessary, at least according to Romily.

‘But you must have at least three pairs of jeans, of course. No one can survive with fewer,’ she explained. ‘And, naturally, you must have key pieces – the white shirts, the black trousers, the perfect heels, the beautiful jacket … and then you will need dresses for smart luncheons, skirts and little tops for afternoon gatherings, cocktail dresses for the soirées …’ It went on and on. Allegra’s purse was drained after only one purchase: a pair of black trousers from Yves St Laurent Rive Gauche that were absurdly flattering and were the most expensive thing she’d ever bought.