The Garden Of Dreams. Sara Craven
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see you tomorrow evening, then. Don’t forget, it’s my turn to do the shopping.’
‘Yes, but I’ll willingly do it, if you’re going out with Paul.’ Jenny began, but she was interrupted by the incisive voice of Monsieur Denis.
‘Time is running short, mademoiselle. I suggest you reserve these domestic details for another occasion.’
Lissa kept her temper in check. After all, he was a friend of Paul’s, but she could feel the colour burning in her cheek as she went to the door. ‘Beast!’ she raged inwardly. ‘Arrogant beast! How dare he speak to me like that? I wish I’d let him go to this wretched party on his own!’
If Monsieur Denis was aware of her unspoken resentment he gave no sign of it. They did not speak as they descended the stairs and went into the street, where a low-slung maroon saloon car was parked by the pavement.
‘If I’m going to be miserable tonight at least it will be in comfort,’ Lissa thought, unwillingly regaining her sense of humour, as Monsieur Denis opened the passenger door and helped her into one of the cream leather bucket seats.
The same rather strained silence persisted in the car for the first part of the journey. Lissa stole a look at her companion and was reluctantly forced to the conclusion that Jenny was right. ‘He is a dish,’ she thought. ‘Or he would be if he could bring himself to smile occasionally. But perhaps he was very fond of the girl he was going with tonight, and he’s just disappointed and I’m getting the backlash. But he didn’t have to ask me, if he didn’t want to. He was under no obligation at all. It can’t be that. Perhaps he just doesn’t like blondes. I’m sure there must be something about me personally that’s annoyed him. He can’t be like this with everyone, or he would have been murdered years ago. Well, someone’s got to say something, so here goes.’
Trying to keep her voice light, she said, ‘I believe we are going to a cocktail party, monsieur. May I know where?’
‘At Fontaine House.’
‘Fontaine Fabrics?’ Lissa gasped.
‘That is correct, mademoiselle. You know the company?’
‘I’ve heard of it, of course, monsieur. Who hasn’t? And of course the designs are often featured in our magazines. They’re gorgeous, but I’m afraid the price puts them out of my range. Working girls and Fontaine Fabrics don’t go together, I’m afraid.’
‘It is true we supply mainly to couture houses,’ he agreed. ‘After all, if our fabrics were to be put on to the mass market, they would no longer have that exclusive quality which is their main value. However, we are not indifferent to the demands of this market, and we have certain plans, although I would have thought in many ways it was plentifully supplied already.’
He reached down and touched a fold of chiffon peeping from her velvet coat. ‘This design is most charming, par exemple.’
‘You surprise me, monsieur. I didn’t think you had noticed.’ Now why did I say that? Lissa wondered miserably, and waited to be swept by another icy blast.
‘You are mistaken, mademoiselle. You will find that I miss very little.’ His voice was almost affable, but his expression was as grim as ever.
It was almost as if he was warning her about something. But what? They were complete strangers, and if there was any justice or mercy, they would never meet again after this evening, so what could be prompting his extraordinary attitude?
And Paul? She bit back a smile. What would he make of her sardonic companion? Just shrug, probably, and order some champagne.
The car drew smoothly and noiselessly to a halt and the door was opened by a commissionaire. Lissa was helped out and conducted through wide glass doors into an enormous tiled foyer, empty but for a huge white reception desk, holding several telephones and the latest in switchboard and intercom systems. The decor was bare to the point of austerity, the plain white walls relieved only by what Lissa at first took to be very good abstract paintings, but what she realised were actually framed prints of some of Fontaines’ most successful designs.
Monsieur Denis guided her past the lift, his hand firmly gripping her elbow. Lissa was acutely conscious of his touch for a reason she could not have explained even to herself.
‘The party is being held on the mezzanine,’ he explained. ‘You do not object to climbing a few stairs?’
‘Of course not.’
At the top of the short flight, a white quilted door faced them. Monsieur Denis held it open for her to pass through and they came into a gallery crowded with people. The party seemed to be in full swing, and laughter and chatter ebbed and flowed on all sides, with the chinking of glasses. Deft-footed waiters carried trays of glasses and canapés between the chattering groups of people.
‘May I take your coat, madam?’ A smiling woman in a black dress appeared at her elbow.
‘Thank you.’ Lissa undid the clasps, and was immediately aware of whose hands were slipping the coat from her shoulders. She found her pulses had quickened, and was furious with herself.
‘What would you like to drink?’ Monsieur Denis inquired.
‘A dry sherry, please.’ She forced herself into composure as a waiter hurried up in answer to his nod. He ordered her sherry and a whisky for himself, then turned back to her.
‘A cigarette?’ He offered her the slenderest of gold cases.
‘Thank you.’ Lissa opened her bag and produced her lighter. He took it from her and sent the little flame soaring with a practised flick of his thumb.
‘How clever.’ Lissa smiled at him, deliberately overcoming her nervousness. ‘I can never get it to work for me first time.’
‘The mechanism is a little stiff, I think.’ He examined the lighter, black brows raised. ‘A pretty toy, très élégant. I compliment you on your taste.’
‘I am afraid the credit is due elsewhere, monsieur. It was a present from a friend.’
‘Ah,’ he said, and there was a note in that monosyllable that sent hot, indignant colour flooding her face again. At that moment the waiter returned with their drinks, and she was obliged to take hers with a murmur of thanks.
More people were arriving all the time, through a door in the centre of the gallery which Lissa guessed led to the lifts they had bypassed. She was surprised when each of the newcomers was loudly announced by a master of ceremonies, stationed at the door.
‘No one announced us,’ she thought. ‘We came in through a side door. I hope to heaven he’s not a gatecrasher or something frightful like that, but he spoke of Fontaines as if he belonged to it. It must be all right.’
She turned to look for an ash tray and a tall man, rather bald, with glasses, came hurrying towards them.
‘Raoul, my dear fellow! So delighted you could make it. We don’t get together nearly often enough for my liking. Why didn’t you give us more warning? Helen would have laid on a dinner party. She’s just looking for an excuse.’
‘Hélas, I must return to Paris very soon.’ Monsieur Denis was actually smiling at last, a genuine smile that lit up his face and made him look younger and incredibly attractive. How old was he? Lissa wondered. Early thirties, surely. He was slim for his height, but he looked wiry and he moved with a kind of whiplash grace.
There was something about him, just as Jenny had said. Only a resemblance so fleeting that she couldn’t relate it at all. Probably some film star, she thought. Lissa herself rarely visited the cinema, but Jenny and Roger went regularly. In fact Jenny always declared it was Roger’s resemblance to Steve McQueen which had attracted her in the first place. Again, this was a resemblance visible only to Jenny, Lissa thought amusedly.
‘Mademoiselle Fairfax, may I present to you Max Prentiss, the managing director of Fontaine-London.’