The Girl You Left Behind

him. Instead he touched my arm lightly, and motioned me
     towards the throng of people. ‘How wonderful to bump into you,’ he said. I
     began to make my excuses, stumbling over my words, but he held up a great hand.
     ‘Come, Mademoiselle, it is a public holiday. Even the most diligent must enjoy
     themselves occasionally.’
    Around us the flags fluttered in the
     late-afternoon breeze. I could hear them flapping, like the erratic pounding of my
     heart. I struggled to think of a polite way to extricate myself, but he broke in
     again.
    ‘I realize, Mademoiselle, that
     shamefully, despite our acquaintance, I do not know your name.’
    ‘Bessette,’ I said.
     ‘Sophie Bessette.’
    ‘Then please allow me to buy you a
     drink, Mademoiselle Bessette.’
    I shook my head. I felt sick, as if in the
     mere act of coming here I had given away too much of myself. I glanced behind him to
     where Mistinguett was still standing amid her group of friends.
    ‘Shall we?’ He held out his
     arm.
    And at that moment the great Mistinguett
     looked straight at me.
    It was, if I’m honest, something in
     her expression, the brief flash of annoyance when he held out his arm. This man, this
     Édouard Lefèvre, had the power to make one of Paris’s brightest stars
     feel dull and invisible. And he had chosen me over her.
    I peeped up at him. ‘Just some water,
     then, thank you.’
    We walked back to the table. ‘Misty,
     my darling, this is Sophie Bessette.’ Her smile remained, but there was ice inher gaze as it ran the length of me. I wondered if she remembered me
     serving her at the department store. ‘Clogs,’ one of her gentlemen said from
     behind her. ‘How very … quaint.’
    The murmur of laughter made my skin prickle.
     I took a breath.
    ‘The emporium will be full of them for
     the spring season,’ I replied calmly. ‘They are the very latest thing.
     It’s
la mode paysanne
.’
    I felt Édouard’s fingertips touch
     my back.
    ‘With the finest ankles in all Paris,
     I think Mademoiselle Bessette may wear what she likes.’
    A brief silence fell over the group, as the
     significance of Édouard’s words sank in. Mistinguett’s eyes slid away
     from me. ‘
Enchantée
,’ she said, her smile dazzling.
     ‘Édouard, darling, I must go. So, so busy. Call on me very soon, yes?’
     She held out her gloved hand and he kissed it. I had to drag my eyes from his lips. And
     then she was gone, a ripple passing through the crowd, as if she were parting water.
    So, we sat. Édouard Lefèvre
     stretched out in his chair as if he were surveying a beach while I was still rigid with
     awkwardness. Without saying anything, he handed me a drink and there was just the
     faintest apology in his expression as he did so, with – was it really? – a hint of
     suppressed laughter. As if it – they – were all so ridiculous that I could not feel
     slighted.
    Surrounded by the joyful people dancing, the
     laughter and the bright blue skies, I began to relax. Édouard spoke to me with the
     utmost politeness, asking about my life before Paris, the politics within the shop,
     breaking offoccasionally to put his cigarette into the corner of his
     mouth and shout, ‘
Bravo!
’ at the band, clapping his great hands
     high in the air. He knew almost everybody. I lost track of the number of people who
     stopped to say hello or to buy him a drink; artists, shopkeepers, speculative women. It
     was like being with royalty. Except I could see their gaze flickering towards me, while
     they wondered what a man who could have had Mistinguett was doing with a girl like
     me.
    ‘The girls at the store say you talk
     to
les putains
of Pigalle.’ I couldn’t help myself: I was
     curious.
    ‘I do. And many of them are excellent
     company.’
    ‘Do you paint them?’
    ‘When I can afford their time.’
     He nodded at a man who tipped his hat to us. ‘They make excellent models. They are
     generally utterly unselfconscious about their bodies.’
    ‘Unlike me.’
    He saw my blush. After a brief hesitation,
     he placed his hand over mine, as if in apology. It made me colour even more.
     ‘Mademoiselle,’ he said softly. ‘Those pictures were my failure, not
     yours. I have …’ He changed tack. ‘You have other qualities. You
     fascinate me. You are not intimidated by much.’
    ‘No,’ I agreed. ‘I
     don’t believe I am.’
    We ate bread, cheese and olives, and they
     were the best olives I had ever tasted. He