to Celeste’s side, where she took her daughter’s hand.
Glancing back to the steps of the church, she saw Dominic Bertiull staring at her and she wasn’t sure if she should feel flattered or scared, or a little of both.
Elisabeth, London, 1983
In London, 1983, the cultural landscape was shifting. Nothing was as it seemed and the roles that people were so familiar with were changing before people’s eyes.
Boy George was changing music with his gender-bending costumes and make-up, a film about a female welder and dancer was number one and Margaret Thatcher had just been re-elected for a second term as Prime Minister.
It was also the year Elisabeth Herod met Henri Le Marche.
As with the most extraordinary of relationships, their meeting was completely ordinary. Elisabeth worked at the bookstore, Hatchards in Piccadilly, and Henri had asked her opinion on The Name of the Rose. She had to admit to him that she hadn’t read the book, but she had heard only good things.
She decided that Henri had a look of a poet, taking in his rumpled suit but expensive silk tie and uncombed hair. His French accent was as delicious as a chocolate soufflé and she thought he would be the perfect man to lose her virginity to while she was in London.
He asked what was the last book she read, and she took him to the poetry corner and pulled out a slim volume and handed it to him.
Henri seemed as interested in her, which was lovely since her dark hair, dark eye combination seemed so uninteresting to English boys at the time. Samantha Fox was on Page Three of the Sun and the boys who were living in the hostel had images of her stuck to every bathroom wall.
Just seeing Ms Fox’s large breasts made Elisabeth feel uncomfortable, and she always glanced down at her own chest, lacking in everything compared to Samantha’s.
Henri turned the book over in his hands and then read aloud in French, ‘Louise Lévêque de Vilmorin—Poèmes.’ And then looked up at her. His blue eyes widened, and his dark hair fell over his face.
She quelled a desire to move it from his forehead so she could see his eyes again.
‘You speak French?’
‘Oui,’ she said, aware her Australian accent might ruin the romance of the moment.
‘And you read French poetry?’ he asked, a smile playing on his face.
‘Oui,’ she said again. Oh yes, she was definitely flirting now.
From the corner of her eye, Elisabeth could see her manager coming towards them and she snatched the book from him and put it back on the shelf.
‘Elisabeth, are you helping this gentleman?’ asked Bernard, the snivelling manager who reminded her of a court fop.
‘She is,’ said Henri, in an accent somewhat thicker than he had used with Elisabeth. ‘She is so knowledgeable and her taste is sublime, you are very lucky to have such a woman to work for you.’
Bernard almost bowed and then gave a rare, thin-lipped smile to Elisabeth. ‘She is a wonderful girl, who knew an Australian could be educated as well as she is. Please let me know if you need anything else.’
Bernard left them, walking backwards, and bumped into a table of discounted travel books. When Elisabeth turned her attention back to Henri, he was holding the book of poems again and he read to her,
‘Fiancée of a million deviations
what do you hide up your sleeve?
Is it a postcard
from the place where dreams are discarded?
Is it your revenge plan:
a vulture’s kiss: stolen and flown?’
Elisabeth felt her heart tighten and her breath squeezed her lungs until she thought she would explode.
‘You translated that from French? So quickly?’ she asked.
‘I know Louise de Vilmorin’s work,’ he said. ‘Did you know she was engaged to Antoine de Saint-Exupéry?’
Elisabeth nodded and she wondered if in fact he would be more than just the thief of her innocence.
‘Dinner? Tonight?’ he asked, tucking the book under his arm.
‘OK,’ was all she could reply.
‘I will pick you up. Where do you live?’ he asked politely.
Elisabeth thought of the grotty hostel and the pictures of Samantha Fox.
‘Can I meet you here? I work till late,’ she lied.
‘Of course,’ he answered and he reached down and kissed her on each cheek.
‘Au revoir, Elisabeth,’ he said and then left her alone while he paid for the book at the counter.
It was only after that she realised she didn’t know his name and she rushed to the counter to see if he had left a clue with his credit card.
‘He paid cash,’ said the girl at the till. ‘Wasn’t half handsome, wasn’t he?’
Elisabeth spent the rest of the afternoon as though flying on a flock of wild birds, seeing London below as a fantastic adventure that finally she was beginning to undertake.
* * *
Henri was waiting for her when she left the bookstore at six in the evening. The streetlamps were turning on and the crisp autumn air made everyone look like smokers as they hurried home. Henry was leaning against a post box, wearing the same suit as earlier in the day, but this time with a camel coat draped over his shoulders.
He looked incongruous against the streetscape with a group of punks walking past, their hair pointed upwards and their mouths downturned.
‘Hello,’ she said as she walked towards him. She was aware of the unfashionable coat she wore compared to his but she had a silk scarf she had found in lost property and had artfully wound it around her neck, just like she had seen Catherine Deneuve do in a television commercial.
He reached out and touched the scarf, ‘So chic,’ he said with a smile and then leaned down and kissed her on the cheek again.
He smelt of tobacco and soap and something else she couldn’t quite name.
‘What is that scent?’ she whispered in his ear while his face was still close to hers.
‘Opoponax,’ he said back to her.
She pulled away. ‘A pop of what?’
Henri
