Paris Kiss Read Free Page B

Nothing! You’re all lunatics!’ The door slammed behind her.
    The windows were a blaze of copper from the setting sun when Rodin put his hand over Camille’s. ‘Stop! She is perfect now. Never overwork your piece, always leave some life in the clay.’
    And he tipped his hat and left.
    Camille and I stood looking at each other in the silence he left behind. Then we both grinned and I grasped her hands and swung her round.
    â€˜Rodin says I have talent!’
    Camille laughed and pushed a strand of hair out of my eyes. ‘Of course you have talent, Jessie Lipscomb from Peterborough. Do you think I would let any old riff-raff share my studio? Come on, let’s celebrate.’
    She sat down with an ‘ ouf! ’ on one of the rickety chairs we’d grouped around an old tea chest we’d covered with a silk shawl. I fetched the coffee pot from the stove and a bottle of brandy Camille had stolen from her mother’s kitchen. Once we were sipping our laced coffee, Camille pulled a silver case from her pocket and lit Turkish cigarettes for both of us. It had taken me a while, but I’d soon got the hang of smoking by copying Camille.
    She squinted at me through a cloud of aromatic smoke. ‘Oh, that’s good,’ she sighed.
    Hooking her heels over the packing case, she stretched her arms above her head. I heard her back crack and felt in my own bones the familiar weariness of the sculptor. We often spent twelve hours at a stretch in the studio, hefting clay, mixing plaster and working from the top of a ladder – all in a corset and bustle, our long skirts dragging behind us under cumbersome dustcoats. I looked down at my sage-green dress that I had picked out so carefully in London and twitched its skirts out of the dust in irritation; it was ruined.
    Camille, who in her workman-like navy blue dress with white collars and cuffs always made me feel overdressed, pointed at my filthy hem. ‘Your fine skirt is dirty.’
    All at once I was fed up being trussed up like a butcher’s goose. Nobody knew me here and I could do exactly as I pleased without fear of scandal or upsetting my parents. I could sit in a café without a chaperone and work when I liked in my own studio with undraped models, and learn from the most revolutionary sculptor of my time. Legros was right: in Paris, I could be free. I stood up and ripped off my dustcoat and started to unfasten my high-necked jacket. Camille helped me, laughing as we struggled with the tiny row of buttons. She peeled it away from my arms, her breath warm on my neck. I unhooked my skirt and it fell to the floor. I stood facing her, my arms folded, waiting. Camille shrugged and in a few minutes we were both in our bloomers. We stood at the studio window and watched a flock of starlings swoop and turn in the violet sky.
    When it was time to go home, we locked up and went downstairs. Outside, in the rue Notre-Dame-des-Champs, most of the atelier windows were open to let in the last of the light, and the warm air was full of the sound of hammering. Camille walked with a slight limp and she stumbled on the uneven cobbles. I slipped my arm through hers without comment and she pressed her weight against me.
    â€˜You know, Jessie, finding a new friend, it’s like falling in love.’
    â€˜Yes. Just like falling in love.’

Chapter 3
    Asylum of Montdevergues
    September 1929
    In the milky light that spilled into the waiting room, Camille looked for a moment like her young self. She held on to my hands as if reluctant to let me go.
    â€˜How could I not have recognised my own Jessie?’
    â€˜Well, it’s been a long time.’
    â€˜A lifetime ago, another world,’ she said with such sadness that my heart contracted. ‘The first time I saw you I knew we would be friends. How beautiful and proud you were, when you walked into the studio in all your finery. You were all dressed up like a fashion plate; do