Read Online A Week in Paris by Rachel Hore - Free Book Online Page B

became subsumed in the great swell of sound that filled the concert hall. It felt better with an audience. Not only were the acoustics different in a room full of people, richer and warmer, but the air was vibrant with their expectation. The applause when it came made Fay feel part of something huge and important.
    ‘They seem very appreciative,’ said James Davenport, the second violin who sat to her right and with whom she shared a music stand. He gave her a thin smile that somehow went with his sparse white hair and greyish complexion. She knew he’d played in the orchestra for many years, but had hardly said anything to her until now. She’d thought him rude, but now she wondered if it was a natural reserve rather than dislike that kept him aloof.
    Afterwards, she walked with Sandra to a dinner given by the orchestra’s generous sponsor in a grand hotel on the nearby Rue du Faubourg St-Honoré. First, though, there was a drinks reception and they were shown into a room furnished with antiques where chandeliers glittered overhead and there was champagne. The bubbles slipped down easily, making her feel light and happy.
    ‘Where’s Colin, do you think?’ she asked Sandra, looking round at the crowds. She hadn’t seen their conductor since the performance.
    ‘No idea.’
    ‘Who are all these people anyway?’
    ‘Friends of the Foundation, I suppose. Hello,’ Sandra murmured, ‘here comes our Frank.’
    Frank was full of the news that the colourful, womanizing Minister for Culture was there. Fay drifted off to speak to some of the other musicians, then found herself being introduced to the Head of the cultural foundation that supported them – an austere older man who was extremely complimentary about the performance that evening. This made Fay’s heart glow with pride to be a part of it all.
    When she bumped into her again a few minutes later, Sandra whispered, ‘Frank thinks that blonde in the Dior dress over by the window is the Minister’s mistress.’ Her blue eyes sparkled with intrigue. ‘I think that can’t be true because I was introduced to the woman she’s talking to as his
wife
.’
    ‘No, surely not!’ Fay replied, staring in fascination at the two expensively dressed women in apparent intimate conversation. She was about to say how Parisian this was but when she turned back, Sandra had vanished again.
    ‘
Encore du champagne, mademoiselle?
’ A waiter hovered at her elbow.
    ‘
Non, merci.’
She’d already had her glass topped up at least twice and without anything to eat was beginning to feel hot and dizzy. She made her way over to some French windows spread open to the night air and stepped out onto a narrow balcony. There she delved into her gold evening bag for cologne which she dabbed on her temples and leaned over the balustrade to look down the street.
    Now that the shops were shut the traffic had died down. Several doors along on the opposite side of the street was a café, its tables spilling out onto the street. Fay listened to the ring of plates and cutlery, the quick French voices and sudden bursts of laughter. From somewhere inside wafted the notes of an accordion and a woman singing. It was a tune she knew, she realized with surprise, a tune that she’d been humming – when was it? Only the other day. She closed her eyes, and as she listened to the music a scene came to mind unbidden. A girl in a dress the colour of cornflowers singing this same song. ‘
Il ne m’aime plus, ni moi non plus.
’ Where had that come from?
    ‘Fay? Hello, are you all right?’ A man’s voice spoke beside her.
    She opened her eyes and straightened. ‘Yes, yes – of course.’ His voice was familiar, but she couldn’t see him clearly at first, then he came into focus. He was about her age with smooth fair hair in a side parting, and kind blue eyes. He was holding a reporter’s notebook with a Biro clipped to the coiled wire binding. She gazed at him in amazement. It couldn’t be, it