central shopping area.
‘Mademoiselle! Here! Can you help
me?’
I would have noticed him even if he
hadn’t been shouting. He was tall and heavy set, with wavy hair that fell around
his ears, at odds with the clipped styles of most of the gentlemen who came through our
doors. His features were thick and generous, the kind my father would have dismissed as
paysan
. The man looked, I thought, like a cross between a Roman emperor and
a Russian bear.
As I walked over to him, he gestured towards
the scarves. But his eyes remained on me. In fact, they stayed on me so long that I
glanced behind me, concerned that Madame Bourdain, my supervisor, might have noticed.
‘I need you to choose me a scarf,’ he said.
‘What kind of scarf,
Monsieur?’
‘A woman’s scarf.’
‘May I ask her colouring? Or whether
she prefers a particular fabric?’
He was still staring. Madame Bourdain was
busy serving a woman in a peacock-feather hat. If she had looked up from her position at
the face creams, she would have noticed that my ears had turned pink. ‘Whatever
suits you,’ he said, adding, ‘She has your colouring.’
I sorted carefully through the silk scarves,
my skin growing ever warmer, and freed one of my favourites: a fine, feather-light
length of fabric in a deep opalescent blue. ‘This colour suits nearly
everybody,’ I said.
‘Yes … yes. Hold it
up,’ he demanded. ‘Against you. Here.’ He gestured towards his
collarbone. I glanced at Madame Bourdain. There were strict guidelines as to the level
of familiarity for such exchanges, and I wasn’t sure whether holding a scarf to my
exposed neck fell within them. But the man was waiting. I hesitated, then brought it up
to my cheek. He studied me for so long that the whole of the ground floor seemed to
disappear.
‘That’s the one. Beautiful.
There!’ he exclaimed, reaching into his coat for his wallet. ‘You have made
my purchase easy.’
He grinned, and I found myself smiling back.
Perhaps it was simply relief that he had stopped staring at me.
‘I’m not sure I –’ I was
folding the scarf in tissue paper, then ducked my head as my supervisor approached.
‘Your assistant has done sterling
work, Madame,’ he boomed. I glanced sideways at her, watching as she tried to
reconcile this man’s rather scruffy exterior with the command of language that
usually came with extreme wealth. ‘You should promote her. She has an
eye!’
‘We try to ensure that our assistants
always offer professional satisfaction, Monsieur,’ she said smoothly. ‘Butwe hope that the quality of our goods makes every purchase
satisfactory. That will be two francs forty.’
I handed him his parcel, then watched him
make his way slowly across the packed floor of Paris’s greatest department store.
He sniffed the bottled scents, surveyed the brightly coloured hats, commented to those
serving or even just passing. What would it be like to be married to such a man, I
thought absently, someone for whom every moment apparently contained some sensory
pleasure? But – I reminded myself – a man who also felt at liberty to stare at shop
girls until they blushed. When he reached the great glass doors, he turned and looked
directly at me. He lifted his hat for a full three seconds, then disappeared into the
Paris morning.
I had come to Paris in the summer of 1910,
a year after the death of my mother and a month after my sister had married Jean-Michel
Montpellier, a book-keeper from the neighbouring village. I had taken a job at La Femme
Marché, Paris’s largest department store, and had worked my way up from
storeroom assistant to shop-floor assistant, lodging within the store’s own large
boarding house.
I was content in Paris, once I had recovered
from my initial loneliness, and earned enough money to wear shoes other than the clogs
that marked me out as provincial. I loved the
‘Mademoiselle! Here! Can you help
me?’
I would have noticed him even if he
hadn’t been shouting. He was tall and heavy set, with wavy hair that fell around
his ears, at odds with the clipped styles of most of the gentlemen who came through our
doors. His features were thick and generous, the kind my father would have dismissed as
paysan
. The man looked, I thought, like a cross between a Roman emperor and
a Russian bear.
As I walked over to him, he gestured towards
the scarves. But his eyes remained on me. In fact, they stayed on me so long that I
glanced behind me, concerned that Madame Bourdain, my supervisor, might have noticed.
‘I need you to choose me a scarf,’ he said.
‘What kind of scarf,
Monsieur?’
‘A woman’s scarf.’
‘May I ask her colouring? Or whether
she prefers a particular fabric?’
He was still staring. Madame Bourdain was
busy serving a woman in a peacock-feather hat. If she had looked up from her position at
the face creams, she would have noticed that my ears had turned pink. ‘Whatever
suits you,’ he said, adding, ‘She has your colouring.’
I sorted carefully through the silk scarves,
my skin growing ever warmer, and freed one of my favourites: a fine, feather-light
length of fabric in a deep opalescent blue. ‘This colour suits nearly
everybody,’ I said.
‘Yes … yes. Hold it
up,’ he demanded. ‘Against you. Here.’ He gestured towards his
collarbone. I glanced at Madame Bourdain. There were strict guidelines as to the level
of familiarity for such exchanges, and I wasn’t sure whether holding a scarf to my
exposed neck fell within them. But the man was waiting. I hesitated, then brought it up
to my cheek. He studied me for so long that the whole of the ground floor seemed to
disappear.
‘That’s the one. Beautiful.
There!’ he exclaimed, reaching into his coat for his wallet. ‘You have made
my purchase easy.’
He grinned, and I found myself smiling back.
Perhaps it was simply relief that he had stopped staring at me.
‘I’m not sure I –’ I was
folding the scarf in tissue paper, then ducked my head as my supervisor approached.
‘Your assistant has done sterling
work, Madame,’ he boomed. I glanced sideways at her, watching as she tried to
reconcile this man’s rather scruffy exterior with the command of language that
usually came with extreme wealth. ‘You should promote her. She has an
eye!’
‘We try to ensure that our assistants
always offer professional satisfaction, Monsieur,’ she said smoothly. ‘Butwe hope that the quality of our goods makes every purchase
satisfactory. That will be two francs forty.’
I handed him his parcel, then watched him
make his way slowly across the packed floor of Paris’s greatest department store.
He sniffed the bottled scents, surveyed the brightly coloured hats, commented to those
serving or even just passing. What would it be like to be married to such a man, I
thought absently, someone for whom every moment apparently contained some sensory
pleasure? But – I reminded myself – a man who also felt at liberty to stare at shop
girls until they blushed. When he reached the great glass doors, he turned and looked
directly at me. He lifted his hat for a full three seconds, then disappeared into the
Paris morning.
I had come to Paris in the summer of 1910,
a year after the death of my mother and a month after my sister had married Jean-Michel
Montpellier, a book-keeper from the neighbouring village. I had taken a job at La Femme
Marché, Paris’s largest department store, and had worked my way up from
storeroom assistant to shop-floor assistant, lodging within the store’s own large
boarding house.
I was content in Paris, once I had recovered
from my initial loneliness, and earned enough money to wear shoes other than the clogs
that marked me out as provincial. I loved the
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