business of it, being there at eight
forty-five a.m. as the doors opened and the fine Parisian women strolled in, their hats
high, their waists painfully narrow, their faces framed by fur or feathers. I loved
being free of the shadow my father’s temper had cast over my whole childhood. The
drunks and reprobates of the 9th
arrondissement
held nofears for me. And I loved the store: a vast, teeming cornucopia of beautiful things.
Its scents and sights were intoxicating, its ever-changing stock bringing new and
beautiful things from the four corners of the world: Italian shoes, English tweeds,
Scottish cashmeres, Chinese silks, fashions from America and London. Downstairs, its new
food halls offered chocolates from Switzerland, glistening smoked fish, robust, creamy
cheeses. A day spent within La Femme Marché’s bustling walls meant being
privy to a daily glimpse of a wider, more exotic world.
I had no wish to marry (I did not want to
end up like my mother) and the thought of remaining where I was, like Madame Arteuil,
the seamstress, or my supervisor, Madame Bourdain, suited me very well indeed.
Two days later, I heard his voice again:
‘Shop girl! Mademoiselle!’
I was serving a young woman with a pair of
fine kid gloves. I nodded at him, and continued my careful wrapping of her purchase.
But he didn’t wait. ‘I have
urgent need of another scarf,’ he announced. The woman took her gloves from me
with an audible
tut
. If he heard he didn’t show it. ‘I thought
something red. Something vibrant, fiery. What have you got?’
I was a little annoyed. Madame Bourdain had
impressed on me that this store was a little piece of paradise: the customer must always
leave feeling they had found a haven of respite from the busy streets (if one that had
elegantly stripped them of their money). I was afraid my lady customer might complain.
She swept away with her chin raised.
‘No no no, not those,’ he said,
as I began sortingthrough my display. ‘Those.’ He
pointed down, within the glass cabinet, to where the expensive ones lay. ‘That
one.’
I brought out the scarf. The deep ruby red
of fresh blood, it glowed against my pale hands, like a wound.
He smiled to see it. ‘Your neck,
Mademoiselle. Lift your head a little. Yes. Like that.’
I felt self-conscious holding up the scarf
this time. I knew my supervisor was watching me. ‘You have beautiful
colouring,’ he murmured, reaching into his pockets for the money as I swiftly
removed the scarf and began wrapping it in tissue.
‘I’m sure your wife will be
delighted with her gifts,’ I said. My skin burned where his gaze had landed.
He looked at me then, the skin around his
eyes crinkling. ‘Where are your family from, you with that skin? The north? Lille?
Belgium?’
I pretended I hadn’t heard him. We
were not allowed to discuss personal matters with customers, especially male
customers.
‘You know my favourite meal?
Moules marinière
with Normandy cream. Some onions. A little
pastis
. Mmm.’ He pressed his lips to his fingers, and held up the
parcel that I handed him. ‘
À bientôt
, Mademoiselle!’
This time I dared not watch his progress
through the store. But from the flush at the back of my neck, I knew he had stopped
again to look at me. I felt briefly infuriated. In St Péronne, such behaviour would
have been unthinkable. In Paris, some days, I felt as if I were walking the streets in
my undergarments, given how Parisian men felt at liberty to stare.
Two weeks before Bastille Day there was
great excitement in the store; the chanteuse Mistinguett had entered the ground floor.
Surrounded by a coterie of acolytes and assistants, she stood out with her dazzling
smile and rose-covered headdress, as if she had been more brilliantly drawn than anyone
else. She bought things without caring to examine them, pointing gaily at the displays
and leaving assistants to
forty-five a.m. as the doors opened and the fine Parisian women strolled in, their hats
high, their waists painfully narrow, their faces framed by fur or feathers. I loved
being free of the shadow my father’s temper had cast over my whole childhood. The
drunks and reprobates of the 9th
arrondissement
held nofears for me. And I loved the store: a vast, teeming cornucopia of beautiful things.
Its scents and sights were intoxicating, its ever-changing stock bringing new and
beautiful things from the four corners of the world: Italian shoes, English tweeds,
Scottish cashmeres, Chinese silks, fashions from America and London. Downstairs, its new
food halls offered chocolates from Switzerland, glistening smoked fish, robust, creamy
cheeses. A day spent within La Femme Marché’s bustling walls meant being
privy to a daily glimpse of a wider, more exotic world.
I had no wish to marry (I did not want to
end up like my mother) and the thought of remaining where I was, like Madame Arteuil,
the seamstress, or my supervisor, Madame Bourdain, suited me very well indeed.
Two days later, I heard his voice again:
‘Shop girl! Mademoiselle!’
I was serving a young woman with a pair of
fine kid gloves. I nodded at him, and continued my careful wrapping of her purchase.
But he didn’t wait. ‘I have
urgent need of another scarf,’ he announced. The woman took her gloves from me
with an audible
tut
. If he heard he didn’t show it. ‘I thought
something red. Something vibrant, fiery. What have you got?’
I was a little annoyed. Madame Bourdain had
impressed on me that this store was a little piece of paradise: the customer must always
leave feeling they had found a haven of respite from the busy streets (if one that had
elegantly stripped them of their money). I was afraid my lady customer might complain.
She swept away with her chin raised.
‘No no no, not those,’ he said,
as I began sortingthrough my display. ‘Those.’ He
pointed down, within the glass cabinet, to where the expensive ones lay. ‘That
one.’
I brought out the scarf. The deep ruby red
of fresh blood, it glowed against my pale hands, like a wound.
He smiled to see it. ‘Your neck,
Mademoiselle. Lift your head a little. Yes. Like that.’
I felt self-conscious holding up the scarf
this time. I knew my supervisor was watching me. ‘You have beautiful
colouring,’ he murmured, reaching into his pockets for the money as I swiftly
removed the scarf and began wrapping it in tissue.
‘I’m sure your wife will be
delighted with her gifts,’ I said. My skin burned where his gaze had landed.
He looked at me then, the skin around his
eyes crinkling. ‘Where are your family from, you with that skin? The north? Lille?
Belgium?’
I pretended I hadn’t heard him. We
were not allowed to discuss personal matters with customers, especially male
customers.
‘You know my favourite meal?
Moules marinière
with Normandy cream. Some onions. A little
pastis
. Mmm.’ He pressed his lips to his fingers, and held up the
parcel that I handed him. ‘
À bientôt
, Mademoiselle!’
This time I dared not watch his progress
through the store. But from the flush at the back of my neck, I knew he had stopped
again to look at me. I felt briefly infuriated. In St Péronne, such behaviour would
have been unthinkable. In Paris, some days, I felt as if I were walking the streets in
my undergarments, given how Parisian men felt at liberty to stare.
Two weeks before Bastille Day there was
great excitement in the store; the chanteuse Mistinguett had entered the ground floor.
Surrounded by a coterie of acolytes and assistants, she stood out with her dazzling
smile and rose-covered headdress, as if she had been more brilliantly drawn than anyone
else. She bought things without caring to examine them, pointing gaily at the displays
and leaving assistants to
Similar Books
