Monsieur Paul de Gue, for instance,’ Jenny said mischievously. ‘I’ve got a feeling that Paul will live to bless this evening. Seriously, doesn’t the Pirate King out there remind you of someone?’
‘I don’t think so.’ Lissa took a last look in the mirror. ‘Who were you thinking of?’
‘I don’t know. Just for a second—as you opened the door—he looked familiar.’
‘It can only have been for a second. I don’t think familiarity is his strong point. In fact I’m expecting to be turned into a pillar of ice as the evening wears on,’ Lissa said drily.
On her return to the living room, she found Monsieur Denis standing by the small sideboard looking at a glossy magazine. It was one of their landlady’s few personal indulgences that she liked reading magazines that showed ‘how the other half live’, as she put it, and she always passed these magazines on to the girls and seemed disappointed that they were not more interested in the gala evenings and hunt balls that were largely featured.
This particular magazine had been pushed under the door when the girls came home from work with a note attached: ‘Wait till you see this’. Neither of them had even scanned through it, however, because Paul’s parcel with the brooch had also been delivered.
‘Don’t tell me,’ Jenny had commented, picking the magazine up from the carpet. ‘Her favourite deb’s just got herself engaged to her favourite chinless wonder.’
As Lissa entered, Raoul Denis flung the magazine down and turned towards her. She was startled to encounter a sudden blaze of anger in his eyes, but before she could fully assimilate this, or begin to wonder at the reason, it had faded, and the mask of rather enigmatic aloofness had returned.
Lissa smiled rather more cheerfully than she actually felt. She wished now that she had turned down his invitation and spent the evening by the fire with a book. He hardly seemed likely to turn into a boon companion from what she had seen of him so far.
‘I’m quite ready, monsieur.’ She turned to Jenny, who was standing behind her. ‘ ’Bye, love, have a wonderful time at Roger’s. I suppose you’ll be spending the night there.’
‘Well, his mother is full of wedding talk and lists into the small hours, so I might as well take a nightie and a toothbrush,’ Jenny said, smiling.
‘I’ll 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
