Paris Kiss by Maggie Ritchie Page A

Camille and I sat on her bed talking. Through the open window we could hear distant music, a woman singing a love song. Camille rested her head on my shoulder and we listened for a while.
    â€˜Jessie, are you in love?’
    Her curls tickled my nose. I smoothed them down, and wondered what to say. I suppose I was: I had known William since I was a child and couldn’t imagine my life without him. But I had never experienced the heady emotions I’d read about in novels.
    Camille prodded me. ‘It’s not a hard question. Do you have a young man?’
    â€˜Yes, I do, William Elbourne. Our families expect us to marry.’
    She sighed and sounded wistful. ‘You’re so lucky not to have any impediments to your love, to know what lies ahead.’
    I didn’t say anything for a while. William was as familiar to me as the air I breathed, but sometimes I wished for more: a grand passion that would knock the breath out of me.
    â€˜And you, Camille, do you have someone?’
    She hesitated and I thought she was about to tell me something about her obvious crush on Rodin – I did not suspect the seriousness of their affair then – but instead she stood up and walked over to the window. I went to join her and we leaned our elbows on the balcony railing and looked out over Paris, twinkling with lights. It was a clear night and the stars hung in the velvet sky like jewels in a cape. A cool breeze came off the Seine and I shivered; Camille put her arm around my waist.
    â€˜When shall we tell Rodin that we can work with him?’ I said.
    â€˜Tomorrow we’ll go to my old college, the Colarossi. One of the sculptors from Rodin’s atelier attends the morning class. We can give him a message for Rodin.’
    Camille pulled me towards the bed. ‘Why don’t you stay here tonight? I’m too excited to fall asleep just yet.’
    I climbed under the sheets with her. We lay there without speaking for a while, listening to the chanteuse .
    â€˜I wonder what the men in Rodin’s studio will make of us,’ I said.
    She shrugged. ‘They’ll just have to put up with it. What can they do? Rodin himself has appointed us.’
    I wasn’t so sure. At South Ken, the studio where the male sculptors worked sounded like a construction site, the men shouting above the racket, cursing like East End stevedores. They were notorious brutes to women. I didn’t imagine the ones at Rodin’s studio would be any different.
    â€˜We’re in for a fight,’ I said.
    Camille took my hand and squeezed it. ‘Are you frightened?’
    I grinned at her. ‘What, of a bunch of muscle-bound fatheads? Not a bit of it!’
    Camille laughed and she grabbed my hand. We lay, our fingers intertwined, our faces close together on the pillow; in the moonlight her eyes were a fathomless black.
    â€˜ Ma petite anglaise ,’ she said. ‘Together we can do anything.’

Chapter 9
    Villeneuve
    September 1929

    Louise had aged well. Her hair, an improbable blonde, was shingled in the latest style, her lips carefully painted crimson, and her skin powder-pale with rouged cheeks. She perched on a chaise longue, slim in a chic black jersey dress.
    â€˜Chanel,’ she said when I complimented her, touching the silk scarf at her throat. Hermès, no doubt. ‘Jessie! After all these years, it’s incredible.’ Her polite smile died when I told her why I was there. ‘You want Camille to come and live with you in England?’ I gave her Charpenel’s letter. She took it in manicured hands, nails as red as her mouth.
    â€˜As you can see,’ I said. ‘The doctor says she’s well enough to leave the asylum, with the right care.’
    Louise shook her lacquered head. ‘This is preposterous, out of the question.’
    I had been expecting this. ‘If you won’t let me take her home with me, she could come and live here. It’s so