Free The Dress Thief by Natalie Meg Evans Page A

the chimney stacks. They woke me this morning.’
    Mémé’s brows furrowed. ‘Pigeons? You are sure?’
    ‘Spring’s here and they’re pairing. Don’t they make a racket?’ As her grandmother nodded slowly, Alix burst out, ‘Oh, Mémé, you got upset over nothing, walkedall this way and you’ll have to go up those stairs again.’
    ‘I am all right. It’s my hands that hurt. I don’t walk on my hands.’
    Mlle Boussac glanced at Danielle’s feet, her expression hardening. ‘Alix has a point, Madame, considering you sprained your ankle so recently. What will your doctor say when he hears you walked across Paris to come here?’
    Mémé, oblivious to danger signals, inspectedher ankles carefully. ‘Have I sprained my ankle? I don’t think so. I’m stronger than I look.’
    Mlle Boussac did not challenge Alix immediately. But after Mémé left, Alix was summoned before the head of department. While he looked on in stern silence, Mlle Boussac asked Alix if she had lied. ‘On 4 th March you claimed your grandmother needed to visit the doctor and requested time off.’
    Alix admittedit.
    ‘You wanted to see a young man, I suppose.’ Anger flooded Mlle Boussac’s cheeks.
    Alix agreed. A young man, yes. It was simpler.
    ‘It seems, Alix Gower, I have been mistaken in my estimation of your character. The company may tolerate one misstep but not two.’
    The head of department was inclined to agree. Alix was invited to collect her coat and leave the premises.
    On Rue du Louvre shestared around, her hand over her mouth. The air was thick with exhaust fumes. Outlines of buildings melted under her shocked gaze. She’d been sacked. What was she feeling … relief?
    Maison Javier
.
    Out of one job, she had no choice but to take another. As she crossed the street, she wondered whether her English caller had reached his brother and saved his Spanish friend.

Chapter Seven

    He often came to this church to hear its organ and view its famous Delacroix murals. ‘Jacob Wrestling with the Angel’ was his favourite. But today he couldn’t face Jacob, a man abandoned to a combat he could not win. So he found a seat, bent his head and prayed she’d come. He wasn’t sure she’d got his letter inviting her to meet him inside thechurch of St-Sulpice. He’d left the note with a concierge, who’d promised to ‘find someone to take it upstairs’ before pushing it into her grimy apron.
    He wished someone was playing the organ today. Bach ideally, something complex and ear-filling. In its midweek silence, this monumental interior made him feel judged. And alone – though on the other side of the aisle a handful of women moved theirlips in prayer.
    She wouldn’t come. He should never have suggested a church for a meeting. But he’d wanted somewhere they could speak in whispers without attracting notice.
    ‘Whenever I’m here I marvel at the money you Catholicsspend providing a home for God. It says much for your confidence in his presence.’
    He whipped round to see Danielle Lutzman settling behind him. His immediate thoughtwas,
She’s aged so much since she came to see me
. Was it a year ago that she’d called at Boulevard Racan to ask his help to get her granddaughter into some employment? That once-handsome face was now a wizened apple, dwarfed by a sombrous hat.
    ‘I come sometimes to hear the organ,’ she said, misreading his shock. ‘A Jewess may hear a little Bach or Handel without taking anything that is not rightfullyhers. It is the nearest I come to God, and my father would have shaken me, my husband too. Bolshevists to the bone. The only music my father liked was the clatter of falling monarchies.’
    ‘What would he have made of this place?’
    She stared upward. ‘He’d have wanted it made into a grain store.’ Fastening spectacles on her nose, she said, ‘I received your note but I’ve been unwell. A little mad,I think. Would you believe, I thought a pigeon on my roof was that liver-worm Hitler