would be happier. “You know, I don’t think want to go back there.”
“But there is a job to do. Your grandfather is relying on you.”
“Yes but…” At that moment, I did not think I could cope with whatever may or may not be lying in wait for me.
Laurent sensed my reticence and said: “I will come with you. There is nothing to be afraid of. I am sure we can put your ghost to rest.” He let out a laugh. He was not taking it seriously. It was a game to him. When all was said and done, he was a lawyer and lawyers seldom do anything without recompense. Like as not he would hit me with a big bill for his services. He was probably getting a percentage of the estate anyway, for handling the legalities in France.
“No. I will go alone. If I need you, I will telephone your office.” I doubted I would ask him for anything. Although I found him hugely attractive, I could not allow myself to be taken in by his charm.
“I’m very tired now. I’ll talk to you tomorrow. Thank you for the meal. It was… well, it was delightful.” I did not want to appear ungracious, and the meal had been good. If circumstances had been different…
I sighed. Circumstances were not different.
Laurent pursed his lips and observed me in the way that way that older men sometimes reserve for younger women; it was not so much lustful as fatherly.
“Please. I can help you. You say Berthe Chalgrin was an opera singer. No?”
“Yes. Yes, that is correct.”
“Then I will make enquiries. There are extensive archives for the Opera. I will find what I can and let you know. Do you agree?”
“That’s very kind. Thank you.” I had not realised there might be documentation of my great aunt’s career. “If it’s not too much bother.”
Laurent nodded. “No, no. No bother. I will come when I have something to tell you.” He took my hand, and smiled wistfully. “Au revoir,” he said.
I pulled my hand away quickly, and bade him goodnight.
Chapter 6
I was determined to sleep. I persuaded the kitchen to let me have a glass of hot milk and I downed it together with a shot of Courvoisier before turning in. It did the trick and I woke the following morning with a slight headache, which dissipated in the steam of the shower. At least I felt a little more human and the veil of uncertainty about the apartment seemed to have lifted somewhat. I had made some decisions. If he was still alive, I would consult with my father’s old friend, Jacques Le Brun. He knew more than anyone about antiques. If I could recruit his help, then things might go a little more swiftly. The last thing I wanted was to be fleeced by an avaricious dealer when the time came to sell. Jacques, I was sure, would act on my behalf.
A bouquet awaited me at the front desk. I pulled out a card and read: “Beautiful flowers for a beautiful woman. Laurent.”
What was I to do? I handed the bouquet to the receptionist.
“Could you put these in water please?”
“ Mais oui Madam .”
I would deal with Laurent later. I asked for a directory and the use of a telephone. It was a long shot but I hoped that Jacques Le Brun had a telephone. I imagined it buried beneath a pile of disparate artefacts, and thought it likely that even if he heard it, he would not answer. I was wrong. He picked up on the second ring.
“ Oui ,” came his gruff voice.
“ Monsieur Le Brun ?
“ Oui .”
“It’s Sophie, Sophie Chalgrin? Do you remember me? You were friends with my father, Marc Chalgrin.” I did not bother with my married name. I thought it would confuse him.
“ Ah oui , Sophie. Yes. You were a little girl, and now not so little I think.”
“That’s right. We used to visit you. I remember your house with such fondness. Do you mind if I ask… are you still there?”
“ Oui . But of course. Are you in Paris? It would be marvellous to see you.” It had to have been fifteen years at least. I could not say if my father had kept in touch with him.
“May I?” I said.
“But there is a job to do. Your grandfather is relying on you.”
“Yes but…” At that moment, I did not think I could cope with whatever may or may not be lying in wait for me.
Laurent sensed my reticence and said: “I will come with you. There is nothing to be afraid of. I am sure we can put your ghost to rest.” He let out a laugh. He was not taking it seriously. It was a game to him. When all was said and done, he was a lawyer and lawyers seldom do anything without recompense. Like as not he would hit me with a big bill for his services. He was probably getting a percentage of the estate anyway, for handling the legalities in France.
“No. I will go alone. If I need you, I will telephone your office.” I doubted I would ask him for anything. Although I found him hugely attractive, I could not allow myself to be taken in by his charm.
“I’m very tired now. I’ll talk to you tomorrow. Thank you for the meal. It was… well, it was delightful.” I did not want to appear ungracious, and the meal had been good. If circumstances had been different…
I sighed. Circumstances were not different.
Laurent pursed his lips and observed me in the way that way that older men sometimes reserve for younger women; it was not so much lustful as fatherly.
“Please. I can help you. You say Berthe Chalgrin was an opera singer. No?”
“Yes. Yes, that is correct.”
“Then I will make enquiries. There are extensive archives for the Opera. I will find what I can and let you know. Do you agree?”
“That’s very kind. Thank you.” I had not realised there might be documentation of my great aunt’s career. “If it’s not too much bother.”
Laurent nodded. “No, no. No bother. I will come when I have something to tell you.” He took my hand, and smiled wistfully. “Au revoir,” he said.
I pulled my hand away quickly, and bade him goodnight.
Chapter 6
I was determined to sleep. I persuaded the kitchen to let me have a glass of hot milk and I downed it together with a shot of Courvoisier before turning in. It did the trick and I woke the following morning with a slight headache, which dissipated in the steam of the shower. At least I felt a little more human and the veil of uncertainty about the apartment seemed to have lifted somewhat. I had made some decisions. If he was still alive, I would consult with my father’s old friend, Jacques Le Brun. He knew more than anyone about antiques. If I could recruit his help, then things might go a little more swiftly. The last thing I wanted was to be fleeced by an avaricious dealer when the time came to sell. Jacques, I was sure, would act on my behalf.
A bouquet awaited me at the front desk. I pulled out a card and read: “Beautiful flowers for a beautiful woman. Laurent.”
What was I to do? I handed the bouquet to the receptionist.
“Could you put these in water please?”
“ Mais oui Madam .”
I would deal with Laurent later. I asked for a directory and the use of a telephone. It was a long shot but I hoped that Jacques Le Brun had a telephone. I imagined it buried beneath a pile of disparate artefacts, and thought it likely that even if he heard it, he would not answer. I was wrong. He picked up on the second ring.
“ Oui ,” came his gruff voice.
“ Monsieur Le Brun ?
“ Oui .”
“It’s Sophie, Sophie Chalgrin? Do you remember me? You were friends with my father, Marc Chalgrin.” I did not bother with my married name. I thought it would confuse him.
“ Ah oui , Sophie. Yes. You were a little girl, and now not so little I think.”
“That’s right. We used to visit you. I remember your house with such fondness. Do you mind if I ask… are you still there?”
“ Oui . But of course. Are you in Paris? It would be marvellous to see you.” It had to have been fifteen years at least. I could not say if my father had kept in touch with him.
“May I?” I said.
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