herself to form the words, ‘I’m sorry, Richard, I just can’t.’ But there was such a happy, puppy-dog look about him that was so at variance with the grown-up way he usually looked that Baba felt a sudden great tug of sympathy for him – sympathy, and something else. Neither ardour, nor lust . . . just a profound, sisterly affection. ‘Why do you want to marry me?’ she asked, genuinely curious.
‘Because I love you.’
‘
How
can you love me?’
Richard smiled at her. And then he did something that was so un-Richard that Baba was completely taken aback. He took her hands between his and began to recite Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s ‘How Do I Love Thee?’
‘How do I love thee?’ he said. ‘Let me count the ways . . .
I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life! – and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death.’
And all the while, his eyes never left her face. She felt that nobody in her life before had spoken to her with such artless sincerity, and her tears took her by surprise.
‘Oh! Now look! You’re making me cry. My mascara will run.’
Without hesitation Richard produced a pristine handkerchief from his breast pocket, and Baba couldn’t help but laugh at how quickly he had resumed character. She blew her nose and dabbed carefully at her eyes, and then she looked down at the monogrammed handkerchief between her fingers, twisting it and thinking very hard about what to say.
What
to say? The last thing she wanted to do was hurt this man, who had always been there for her. He was her friend, her confidant, her stalwart. Baba pictured herself as a married woman in a dream kitchen wearing a frilly apron and pureéing baby food, and she pictured herself at some dreary state dinner surrounded by dignitaries, and she pictured herself in bed in a Winceyette nightgown, Richard in stripy pyjamas, both of them reading their books, and she knew that, while this might be a vision of domestic bliss for another girl, it simply was not for her. What she craved was fun and adventure and glamour, and a life free from responsibility. She would not find it with Richard.
Finally she looked up at him and said: ‘I can’t promise to marry you, Richard. But I can promise you that I will think about it.’
‘Thinking about it is a beginning,’ he said with a smile.
And before she could say anything else, Richard took the ring from her and raised her left hand to his lips before sliding the gleaming circlet onto the third finger. As though on cue, the two ladies at the next table pitter-pattered their hands together and beamed affably at the happy couple.
‘How lovely,’ said one, ‘to know that love’s young dream continues to flourish even in the face of war!’
Baba had the decency to blush, a little.
CHAPTER SEVEN
JESSIE
PARIS 1919
EVERY DAY JESSIE got dressed, walked across the river to the studio in Montmartre and disrobed. Every day she struck an ever-more challenging pose, and every day her muscles grew stronger while her spirit grew feebler. She knew her despondency showed in her demeanour, and she suspected that if she didn’t buck up her artist would soon send her packing: but the grim irony was that the more he exhorted her to smile, the more she felt like crying. After several hours she would put her clothes back on, pocket the twenty francs the artist counted out and go back to her room in the Hôtel des Trois Moineaux. She walked the two miles quickly, with her head down, taking care to avoid the eyes of the prostitutes she passed on the streets in the Latin Quarter – those raddled absinthe girls who were suspicious of her youth and beauty, and keen to see her off their patch. Some evenings she’d go and sit by a statue in the Jardin du Luxembourg that lovers tended to use as a meeting point. Jessie persuaded herself that perhaps,
perhaps
Scotch might turn up there, looking for her. Once she had thought she’d seen him striding along an avenue, that
‘Because I love you.’
‘
How
can you love me?’
Richard smiled at her. And then he did something that was so un-Richard that Baba was completely taken aback. He took her hands between his and began to recite Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s ‘How Do I Love Thee?’
‘How do I love thee?’ he said. ‘Let me count the ways . . .
I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life! – and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death.’
And all the while, his eyes never left her face. She felt that nobody in her life before had spoken to her with such artless sincerity, and her tears took her by surprise.
‘Oh! Now look! You’re making me cry. My mascara will run.’
Without hesitation Richard produced a pristine handkerchief from his breast pocket, and Baba couldn’t help but laugh at how quickly he had resumed character. She blew her nose and dabbed carefully at her eyes, and then she looked down at the monogrammed handkerchief between her fingers, twisting it and thinking very hard about what to say.
What
to say? The last thing she wanted to do was hurt this man, who had always been there for her. He was her friend, her confidant, her stalwart. Baba pictured herself as a married woman in a dream kitchen wearing a frilly apron and pureéing baby food, and she pictured herself at some dreary state dinner surrounded by dignitaries, and she pictured herself in bed in a Winceyette nightgown, Richard in stripy pyjamas, both of them reading their books, and she knew that, while this might be a vision of domestic bliss for another girl, it simply was not for her. What she craved was fun and adventure and glamour, and a life free from responsibility. She would not find it with Richard.
Finally she looked up at him and said: ‘I can’t promise to marry you, Richard. But I can promise you that I will think about it.’
‘Thinking about it is a beginning,’ he said with a smile.
And before she could say anything else, Richard took the ring from her and raised her left hand to his lips before sliding the gleaming circlet onto the third finger. As though on cue, the two ladies at the next table pitter-pattered their hands together and beamed affably at the happy couple.
‘How lovely,’ said one, ‘to know that love’s young dream continues to flourish even in the face of war!’
Baba had the decency to blush, a little.
CHAPTER SEVEN
JESSIE
PARIS 1919
EVERY DAY JESSIE got dressed, walked across the river to the studio in Montmartre and disrobed. Every day she struck an ever-more challenging pose, and every day her muscles grew stronger while her spirit grew feebler. She knew her despondency showed in her demeanour, and she suspected that if she didn’t buck up her artist would soon send her packing: but the grim irony was that the more he exhorted her to smile, the more she felt like crying. After several hours she would put her clothes back on, pocket the twenty francs the artist counted out and go back to her room in the Hôtel des Trois Moineaux. She walked the two miles quickly, with her head down, taking care to avoid the eyes of the prostitutes she passed on the streets in the Latin Quarter – those raddled absinthe girls who were suspicious of her youth and beauty, and keen to see her off their patch. Some evenings she’d go and sit by a statue in the Jardin du Luxembourg that lovers tended to use as a meeting point. Jessie persuaded herself that perhaps,
perhaps
Scotch might turn up there, looking for her. Once she had thought she’d seen him striding along an avenue, that
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