Page 9

The attendant helps us onto the train and I’m struck by the beauty of the interior.

It gleams. The corridor is panelled in wood, with intricate marquetry depicting flowers and birds.

Even with all this beauty about me, though, I can’t stop watching Katherine Forster.

She moves with grace while I’m clumsy, all arms and legs.

The attendant stops and opens the compartment door with a flourish.

Our overnight bags are there already. The compartment is tiny.

It would have been ample for me alone, but for two it will be like dancing on a matchbox to move around each other.

Maybe it is like a girls’ school, as she mentioned.

‘How marvellous.’ Mrs Forster turns to me and grins. ‘May I have the top berth?’

The current arrangement with a sofa does not show the top berth, but I can picture it.

‘Yes,’ I say, almost falling onto the small table with a lamp by the window.

In the mirror on the door to the next compartment, I see my reflection.

I don’t belong here. Katherine Forster does.

From the pearls around her neck to the gloves on her hands she is elegance personified.

The jaunty little scarf at my neck, which this morning I thought was chic, looks tired and trite.

The attendant opens a door to reveal the washbasin. Everything is functional and beautifully made. The small space is maximised by toiletry holders and a mirror fixed to the wall above the basin.

‘Your dinner reservation is at nine,’ he says. ‘And I will prepare your beds while you are dining, if that is acceptable.’

‘Of course,’ Mrs Forster replies. He bows and backs out, closing the door behind him.

‘Well, this is going to be fun.’ She throws herself onto the sofa, slips off each glove and sighs. ‘All we need now is a drink.’

I don’t need a drink but I could do with a bit more space so I can be further away from her. It’s too intimate, but as much as I don’t want to be, I’m entranced.

‘You do drink, don’t you?’

‘Of course.’ During my stay in Paris I developed a taste for red wine and champagne. So different to the cider I would normally choose. My father used to enjoy wine, but since my mother’s death he’s turned to whisky and beer.

‘Excellent. Then we shall have a blissful time relaxing, reading and sipping cocktails without talk of Il Duce and Mr Hitler. I am quite done with all that.’

I try not to stare. Nellie’s husband is quite taken with both leaders.

He is particularly fond of the fascist view that women must stay in the home.

I don’t agree with that, and it isn’t just because Nellie has changed so much since she married him.

‘Your husband is a fascist?’ I ask. Nellie never looked any further than marriage, but this woman in front of me is so sophisticated that surely her life isn’t bound so tightly.

‘He leans very strongly that way and it’s so boring.

’ She pulls the pin out of her hat and removes it.

With graceful movements of her fingers, she fluffs her hair.

‘We must make ourselves respectable for dinner.’ She glances at the watch on her wrist. ‘We have just over half an hour to transform ourselves into fascinating creatures of the night.’

I think of the green silk blouse and black crêpe trousers I packed to wear in the evening on the train. Mrs Forster probably has chiffon and diamonds with her.

There is a tap on the door and I assume it will be her maid from second class, although I did not see one while we were waiting to board the train.

‘Come in,’ says Mrs Forster.

The door opens and a waiter stands there holding a bucket of ice with a bottle of champagne and two glasses.

‘Monsieur Rossi sent this as a small gesture of thanks.’

I take a step back.

Mrs Forster claps her hands. ‘I like this Signor Rossi.’

‘May I open it, madame?’ the waiter asks.

‘Of course,’ she says, giving him a warm smile.

A resounding pop fills the air just as the train pulls out of the station with a jolt.

He pours two glasses and hands them to us, then with a flourish takes a piece of paper from his breast pocket, handing it to Mrs Forster.

‘From your husband,’ he says before disappearing, closing the door behind him.

She leans back and takes a gulp of the champagne.

Only then does she open the note with a sigh.

I can’t look away as she reads. Her face is so expressive and so beautiful.

My fingers burn to touch it, and as I can’t do that, I long to sketch it.

Instead, I take a sip of champagne. The bubbles tickle my nose.

‘Well, that is simply the best news.’ She folds the letter.

‘What is?’ I ask, looking into my glass rather than at her.

‘Simon will be dining alone with Signor Rossi. Apparently it’s proving too difficult to alter the planned seating for dinner at such short notice.

’ She takes another gulp before she continues.

‘He also says that Marlene Dietrich is on the train. How divine.’ She tilts her head and studies me.

I try not to flush. ‘You remind me of her in a way.’

I cough. I’ve been compared to many things in my twenty years, but a famous film star is not one of them. I sink onto the banquette and give up trying not to study her. She must be thirty or so. There are fine lines around her eyes, but her actions strike me as younger, much closer to my age.

She stands and opens a garment bag. ‘Now, which gown should I wear this evening for my dinner with you?’

‘You would look marvellous in anything,’ I practically stutter.

‘Thank you.’ She looks over her shoulder at me as she pulls out a cerise satin gown.

‘This suits my mood.’ She drains her glass and refills it.

Her glance at my still full glass is disparaging.

I take a large sip, hoping it won’t rise up my nose.

My weeks in Paris haven’t changed me into a cosmopolitan woman; I remain a country girl.

Not that my parents didn’t educate me, but unless we were visiting my grandfather in London, we lived simply.

Fancy things are not me. The call of the quayside and the pull of the cliffs are what hold my attention.

Only art and words take me away from these things.

In my work I focus on the everyday, if one can call the beauty of Cornwall everyday.

But it is, for those of us who live and work there.

My time in Paris has pushed me to look elsewhere for the mundane.

The back alleys, the docks along the Seine and the bars at night.

I would sketch, watch and listen. It has been another type of education. My eyes have been opened.

Mrs Forster tops up my glass. ‘You are too tall to call a mouse, too pretty, too.’ She strokes my cheek and winds a strand of my hair around her finger.

I can’t breathe. ‘The colour is like gold caught in the sunrise, tinged with orange.’ She closes her eyes and I try to compose myself.

No one has ever spoken to me this way. I drink more of my champagne. Already the alcohol fizzes in my head.

She peers into my bag. The green blouse is visible. ‘This colour is perfect for you,’ she says as she pulls it out and gives it a shake. ‘Oh, it’s only a top.’ The look she sends me is full of disappointment.

‘I didn’t think I’d need proper evening wear on the train.’

Mrs Forster purses her mouth. ‘Darling girl, Marlene Dietrich is on board. What chance have we of being noticed if you are dressed . . .’ she pauses and takes out my crêpe trousers, ‘like a man . . . or a mouse.’

‘I try not to draw attention to myself.’

She laughs. ‘That is obvious, my dear, but you are beautiful and young, and quite frankly the world needs to know this.’

‘Do they?’ The question spills out of my mouth.

She bends down to look me directly in the eyes. ‘They do. Beauty fades, so embrace it while you have it.’ She stands straight. ‘It may be all you have to hold on to.’ Her left hand, bearing a large ruby, lies flat against her heart. Drama or real feeling I’m not sure, but I am entranced.

She takes another gown out of her bag. ‘I think this will do. We are about the same height, and the colour will set off that glorious head of hair.’ The dress she holds is all the shades of a peacock feather. I’ve never seen anything so beautiful. My mouth dries.

‘I couldn’t.’ I vigorously shake my head. ‘Of course you can, and you will.’ She glances at her watch. We have fifteen minutes.’ She pulls the blind on the window. ‘I’m so pleased I left my maid behind. We can help each other. This will be so much fun.’

I only met her an hour ago, and now she is removing her clothing in front of me. Without a pause, she pulls her dress up and over her head, and I look down. The pattern in the carpet repeats every three inches. It would be too busy if it weren’t for the subtle shades of umber used.

‘Surely you’ve seen a woman undress.’ She stands before me in nothing more than a garter belt, stockings and pearls. I immediately return my attention to the carpet. ‘If I didn’t know better, I would say you’ve never seen a woman nearly nude before.’

That’s it. Nearly nude makes it so much more. That is what I discovered in Paris. You are an artist , I tell myself.

But I’m not wearing my artist’s hat now, keeping everything focused on lines and angles, shadows and light. This is different, closer and more real.

She picks up her glass and drinks deeply. When it’s empty, she carelessly pulls the cerise gown over her head and turns her back to me. ‘Would you be a dear and deal with the buttons.’

I cough to cover my nerves. The buttons begin just above her rounded bottom and stop halfway up her back. Her vertebrae are clearly visible on her slender frame.

She steps away. ‘Now it’s your turn.’

I flush.

‘No need to feel shy.’ She picks up the champagne bottle and refills her glass, then tops mine up again. ‘Dutch courage, you clearly need it.’

I drink it all, then put the glass down and fumble with the buttons on my blouse. My trousers are no easier, but finally I stand in my tap pants and bra. My shape is awkward, with large breasts yet slim hips.

‘You’ll have to take off the bra – it’s not cut low enough for the dress.’ She holds the glorious creation out.

Reluctantly I remove my bra and take the dress from her.

I step into it with care, not sure how it will fit me.

She turns me around and encourages it into place with cool fingers, leaving a tingling where she touches.

When she is satisfied, she rotates me so I face her.

She smooths the fabric across my ribcage and I lose the ability to breathe.

Her touch is like silk caressing my skin.

I can’t look at her. My face is flushed.

‘That is the way it should fit.’ She smiles and runs her hands down her sides.

‘Oh, Sheba, you’ve missed a button.’ She presents her beautiful back to me.

I have indeed missed one entirely and need to undo the top three, revealing a birthmark by her first lumbar vertebra.

My fingers graze the rose-coloured mark.

‘Ah, you’ve spotted my flaw.’ She laughs. ‘Or God’s kiss, as my mother always called it.’

‘It does look like a kiss.’

‘More like a lover’s than God’s, unless he’s Apollo.

’ She laughs wickedly. ‘Simon hates it. He says it shows how bad I am. He thinks it’s the evil within seeping out.

’ She waltzes out the compartment door while I contemplate how he could think such a thing.

Mrs Forster has been nothing but kindness.

Focusing on that thought, I race to catch up with her. The air drifting in from the open windows is sultry, or maybe that is simply how I feel watching Mrs Forster weave her way through the carriages.