The Man Who Understood Women Read Free Page B

Christmas.’
    ‘Oh, Noelle, that makes everything perfect. I shall keep it as a surprise for Daddy. What time do you arrive? I’ll come to meet you.’
    ‘There’s no need. I’m at the airport now, waiting for the plane. And Mummy …’
    ‘Yes, pet?’
    ‘Mummy, I’m bringing someone …’
    ‘That’s fine, darling; the spare bed’s made up. What a wonderful Christmas we’ll all have together. Who is it?’
    ‘Mummy, it’s Graham.’
    ‘Graham?’
    ‘It’s Graham I’m bringing home. Graham Gardner. We want to get married.’
    Fleur held the telephone receiver away from her a little and stared at it. Then she said, ‘Noelle, darling, what on earth are you talking about?’
    ‘Graham’s here in Paris. He’s been here ages. He has a wonderful job in Kenya, starting after Christmas. I love him and we want to get married.’
    Fleur blinked at the Christmas roses in the silver vase on the mantelpiece and said nothing.
    ‘Mummy, are you there?’
    ‘Noelle. Noelle, dear, you must come home at once. We’ll have a talk. I should never have let you go. We can discuss everything with Daddy. Of course you can’t get married, not for ages. Don’t worry, dear. Just come straight home. We’ll sort everything out. It’s so difficult with this crackly phone …’
    ‘And it’s all right to bring Graham?’
    Fleur thought. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I think Graham had better come with you.’
    When Noelle had rung off, Fleur replaced the receiver and put on her shoes. There was a knock at the door.
    ‘Come in.’
    A head appeared. ‘The pineapple au kirsch in the silver or the crystal, madame?’
    ‘Not now, Odile.’ Fleur waved her hand. ‘The silver … no, the crystal. Anything you like; don’t worry me.’
    She dialled the number of the gallery where Simon had an exhibition of his paintings, and waited for what seemed far too long while they tried to find him. When he finally came to the phone, he listened carefully to what she had to say. Then he said, ‘I’ve always rather liked Graham. He’s a good chap.’
    ‘Simon, do be sensible; she’s talking about marrying him and going to Kenya or some such place. We shall have to be absolutely firm, Simon, without being too unkind. What time will you be home?’
    ‘Not before eight. I have to see that everything’s properly covered.’
    ‘Try to be earlier. Noelle always listens to you. And do remember, Simon, she’s only a child.’
    ‘Of course,’ Simon said, ‘it’s out of the question. Don’t worry, my darling. See you later.’
    From across the park, drowning the noise of the traffic, Christmas bells began to ring. Fleur shut the window to keep out the noise so that she could think. Sitting tensely now on the very edge of the sofa, she lit a cigarette and remembered that it had been the week before Christmas that Noelle was born. But then there had been no Aubusson, no gold damask and no Christmas roses.
    Noelle had been born in Paris, in a room at the very top of a tall old house on the Left Bank. It was snowing. Large flakes drifted down from an uncompromising sky, covered the Ile de la Cité and settled on the rich apartments of the Avenue Foch and the blank-eyed dwellings of Montparnasse with silent impartiality until everything was white and frozen. There was no escape from the cold. They had an oil stove that did little or nothing to heat the vast, draughty room, which was bedroom, living room, dining room, nursery and studio, and whose rent they could barely afford to pay.
    It was the coldest Christmas Fleur had ever known, and her first away from the comfortable home where she had been born. Looking back, she was unable to feel the draught that swept day and night through the shut windows and under the door, or the icy chill of the floorboards beneath her bare feet,as she slipped reluctantly out of a warm bed at the first thin, pathetic wail of her week-old baby. On Christmas Eve, Noelle, born a week early, lay sleeping in her crib.