Read Online The Dress Thief by Natalie Meg Evans - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Natalie Meg Evans
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stuck to her vow all the following week. Here she was, finishing another Saturday night on Rue du Louvre, another night shift. As Sunday’s dawn edged through the blinds of the exchange building, Alix pulled off her headphones and thought longingly of coffee. Sweet, strong coffee. She checked her watch. Less than an hour to go. At least she’dbeen kept busy. Usually the night shift was quiet, but today the din of switches selecting and clicking drowned the murmurings of her colleagues as they processed calls.
‘Bad weather over the channel. Sailings cancelled from all ports,’ the night shift supervisor had reported. Caller after caller was being told they must wait over an hour to alert family and friends in Britain that they werestuck in France. Alix swivelled her seat from side to side. Ooh, her back! She must not think of strong, sweet coffee …
A light flashed in front of her and she plugged an answering cord into the jack and crammed on her headphones. ‘Which destination, please?’ When the answer came ‘London’ she preparedto inform another traveller that he would have to be patient. But there was no chance as thecaller snapped, ‘Get me Abbey 2310. I need a line right now!’
He spoke English, which annoyed her as it implied that her French was not perfect. In the starchiest English she could command, she said, ‘I’m sorry, sir, lines to England are full. Waiting time is eight hours.’
The girl sitting beside her shot Alix a startled look and whispered, ‘Eighty minutes, Mlle Dujardin said. Not eight hours,Alix.’
Alix pretended not to hear.
Her caller was less than impressed too. ‘It’d be faster to swim.’
‘Do you like fog?’
‘Is that what I’m up against?’
‘It’s like mutton fat. Everything that moves is cancelled. The world needs to call London because Londoners love to discuss fog the way other people talk about vintage wine. There are infinite varieties.’ Aware she was drifting towards insolence,she re-starched her voice. ‘I will tell you when we can set up your call.’
‘Are you English?’
‘No.’ He had a nice voice now he wasn’t ordering her about. Sexy, even. But that didn’t get him off the charge of rudeness. ‘I’m half English.’
‘May I say, the half that is speaks it very well.’
‘That’s why I am employed here.’
‘Of course. Look, I’m a journalist, and it’s vital I speak to my Londoneditor before he wakes and leaves for the day.’
‘Your name, please?’ she asked.
‘Verrian Haviland.’ He spelled both names for her.
‘And your party, sir?’
‘Jack Haviland, Abbey 2310.’
‘I thought you said “your editor”.’
‘Who happens to be my brother.’
‘I see. Your present location?’
‘Laurentin’s hotel by Gare du Nord, in the passage behind the kitchen, unpleasantly close to the lavatory,shouting over clattering pans into a phone that smells of garlic and stale tobacco. Will you put me through?’
Alix choked back a giggle as much from shock as amusement. She shot a look behind her. The supervisor, Mlle Dujardin, sat a few feet away, writing up a report. Familiarity, especially giggling, was strictly forbidden. ‘I have to send every request to another section or issue a “requestand schedule” card. I can’t influence the connecting switchboard.’
‘But you could prioritise?’ He had a graze in his voice as if he smoked too heavily, but he sounded cultured. Alix wondered what he was doing in that kitchen corridor. She knew the places near Gare du Nord station. They opened before dawn to feed railway porters, road sweepers and tired prostitutes.
She said, ‘Not without appropriateauthorisation.’
‘And that would be too much to ask of a stiff-necked telephone operator?’
Her fingers hovered over the plug. One pull would terminate. But she surprised herself by answering sweetly, ‘It would be. Fortunately for you, I’m not stiff-necked … Well, I am, but only because I’ve been working
‘Bad weather over the channel. Sailings cancelled from all ports,’ the night shift supervisor had reported. Caller after caller was being told they must wait over an hour to alert family and friends in Britain that they werestuck in France. Alix swivelled her seat from side to side. Ooh, her back! She must not think of strong, sweet coffee …
A light flashed in front of her and she plugged an answering cord into the jack and crammed on her headphones. ‘Which destination, please?’ When the answer came ‘London’ she preparedto inform another traveller that he would have to be patient. But there was no chance as thecaller snapped, ‘Get me Abbey 2310. I need a line right now!’
He spoke English, which annoyed her as it implied that her French was not perfect. In the starchiest English she could command, she said, ‘I’m sorry, sir, lines to England are full. Waiting time is eight hours.’
The girl sitting beside her shot Alix a startled look and whispered, ‘Eighty minutes, Mlle Dujardin said. Not eight hours,Alix.’
Alix pretended not to hear.
Her caller was less than impressed too. ‘It’d be faster to swim.’
‘Do you like fog?’
‘Is that what I’m up against?’
‘It’s like mutton fat. Everything that moves is cancelled. The world needs to call London because Londoners love to discuss fog the way other people talk about vintage wine. There are infinite varieties.’ Aware she was drifting towards insolence,she re-starched her voice. ‘I will tell you when we can set up your call.’
‘Are you English?’
‘No.’ He had a nice voice now he wasn’t ordering her about. Sexy, even. But that didn’t get him off the charge of rudeness. ‘I’m half English.’
‘May I say, the half that is speaks it very well.’
‘That’s why I am employed here.’
‘Of course. Look, I’m a journalist, and it’s vital I speak to my Londoneditor before he wakes and leaves for the day.’
‘Your name, please?’ she asked.
‘Verrian Haviland.’ He spelled both names for her.
‘And your party, sir?’
‘Jack Haviland, Abbey 2310.’
‘I thought you said “your editor”.’
‘Who happens to be my brother.’
‘I see. Your present location?’
‘Laurentin’s hotel by Gare du Nord, in the passage behind the kitchen, unpleasantly close to the lavatory,shouting over clattering pans into a phone that smells of garlic and stale tobacco. Will you put me through?’
Alix choked back a giggle as much from shock as amusement. She shot a look behind her. The supervisor, Mlle Dujardin, sat a few feet away, writing up a report. Familiarity, especially giggling, was strictly forbidden. ‘I have to send every request to another section or issue a “requestand schedule” card. I can’t influence the connecting switchboard.’
‘But you could prioritise?’ He had a graze in his voice as if he smoked too heavily, but he sounded cultured. Alix wondered what he was doing in that kitchen corridor. She knew the places near Gare du Nord station. They opened before dawn to feed railway porters, road sweepers and tired prostitutes.
She said, ‘Not without appropriateauthorisation.’
‘And that would be too much to ask of a stiff-necked telephone operator?’
Her fingers hovered over the plug. One pull would terminate. But she surprised herself by answering sweetly, ‘It would be. Fortunately for you, I’m not stiff-necked … Well, I am, but only because I’ve been working
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