The Girl You Left Behind

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 gather items in her wake. We gazed at her from the sidelines
     as if she were an exotic bird, and we merely grey Parisian pigeons. I sold her two
     scarves: one of cream silk, the other a plush thing from dyed blue feathers. I could see
     it draped around her neck, and felt as if I had been dusted with a little of her
     glamour.
    For days afterwards I felt a little
     unbalanced, as if the excess of her beauty, her style, had made me aware of its lack in
     myself.
    Bear Man, meanwhile, came in three more
     times. Each time he bought a scarf, each time somehow ensuring that it was I who served
     him.
    ‘You have an admirer,’ remarked
     Paulette (Perfumes).
    ‘Monsieur Lefèvre? Be
     careful,’ sniffed Loulou (Bags and Wallets). ‘Marcel in the post room has
     seen him in Pigalle, chatting to street girls. Hmph. Talk of the devil.’ She
     turned back to her counter.
    ‘Mademoiselle.’
    I flinched, and spun around.
    ‘I’m sorry.’ He leaned
     over the counter, his big hands spanning the glass. ‘I didn’t mean to
     frighten you.’
    ‘I am far from frightened,
     Monsieur.’
    His brown eyes scanned my face with such
     intensity –he seemed to be having an internal conversation to which
     I could not be privy.
    ‘Would you like to look at some more
     scarves?’
    ‘Not today. I wanted … to
     ask you something.’
    My hand went to my collar.
    ‘I would like to paint you.’
    ‘What?’
    ‘My name is Édouard Lefèvre.
     I am an artist. I would very much like to paint you, if you could spare me an hour or
     two.’
    I thought he was teasing me. I glanced to
     where Loulou and Paulette were serving, wondering if they were listening.
     ‘Why … why would you want to paint
me
?’
    It was the first time I ever saw him look
     even mildly disconcerted. ‘You really want me to answer that?’
    I had sounded, I realized, as if I were
     hoping for compliments.
    ‘Mademoiselle, there is