Page 69 of The Seven Sisters

‘A little, I suppose,’ shrugged Margarida. ‘Sometimes he’s asked me to play the piano in here.’

As Bel focused her attention on Monsieur Cocteau, she didn’t notice a young man emerge from the melee in the café and make his way over to their table.

‘Mademoiselle Margarida, I have missed your presence for too long. And Mademoiselle Izabela, is it not?’

Bel dragged her gaze back from the Cocteau table and looked up, straight into the eyes of Laurent Brouilly. Her heart began to beat hard against her chest at the sight of him.

‘Yes. My apologies, Monsieur Brouilly, I was miles away.’

‘Mademoiselle Izabela, you were feasting your eyes on a far more fascinating personage than myself,’ he said as he smiled at her. ‘I didn’t realise that you two ladies knew each other.’

‘We’ve only recently begun to,’ explained Margarida. ‘I am helping to introduce Izabela to the delights of Montparnasse.’

‘Which I’m sure she appreciates very well.’ Laurent cast Bel a glance that said he clearly remembered every word of their last conversation.

‘As you can imagine, every artist in the café has begged to paint her,’ continued Margarida. ‘But of course, I’ve told her to beware.’

‘Well, for that I must thank you. Because as Mademoiselle Izabela knows, she was promised to me first. I’m happy that you have preserved her artistic virtue for me,’ Laurent said with a smile.

Perhaps it was the alcohol, or the excitement of simply being a part of this incredible new world, but Bel shivered in pleasure at his words.

A deeply tanned young man had appeared simultaneously with Laurent and now stepped forward to make a request.

‘Mademoiselle Margarida, we at Monsieur Cocteau’s table are asking for you to entertain us with your marvellous skill on the piano. He is asking for his favourite. You know the one?’

‘Yes.’ With a quick glance at the clock that hung over the central bar, Margarida acquiesced. ‘I would be honoured, although I could never match up to the superb keystrokes of Monsieur Ravel,’ she announced as she stood and bowed her head in the direction of Ravel’s table.

Bel watched Margarida as she swept through the crowd and sat down on the stool which Ravel himself had only recently vacated. A cheer went up from around the room.

‘May I sit down so I can enjoy her playing?’ Laurent asked Bel.

‘Of course,’ she replied, and Laurent joined her on the narrow seat, his hip pressed against hers as he squeezed in beside her on the banquette. Bel once again marvelled at the easy physical intimacy these people took for granted.

As the resonant opening chords of Gershwin’sRhapsody in Bluefilled the café, its occupants quietened. Bel watched as Laurent surveyed the many glasses, most still sitting untouched on the table, chose one and clasped his lean, strong fingers around it.

Under the table, Laurent placed his other hand casually on his thigh as any man would. But as the minutes passed, he moved it so that it came to rest in the crevice that was formed where their thighs touched. Bel held her breath, half convinced that the touch must be accidental, but she was sure she could feel his fingers gently caressing her thigh through her dress . . .

Her entire body tingled, and the blood began to rush wildly through her veins as the music rose to its own climax.

‘Mademoiselle Margarida is truly gifted, is she not?’ Bel felt Laurent’s warm breath on her ear and she nodded dumbly in agreement.

‘I had no idea of her musical talent,’ she said as the room once again erupted in applause. ‘She seems to have so many different gifts.’ Her own voice sounded strange to her – muffled, as though she was swimming under water.

‘I’m a great believer that when one is born creative,’ commented Laurent, ‘it’s as if your soul is a sky filled with shooting stars; a globe that is constantly turning towards whichever muse captures your imagination. Many of the people in this room can not only draw and sculpt, but they can write poetry, encourage beautiful sounds out of instruments, make audiences weep with their acting skills and sing like the birds in the trees. Ah, mademoiselle.’ Laurent stood up and bowed in admiration as Margarida returned to their table. ‘You were avirtuoso.’

‘Monsieur, you are too kind,’ Margarida said modestly as she sat down.

‘And I believe we will be sharing anateliersoon. Professor Landowski tells me you are to take up an internship with us in the next few weeks.’

‘He has suggested it, but I wasn’t intending to tell anyone until it’s confirmed,’ said Margarida, signalling the waiter to bring her the bill. ‘I will be honoured if he will have me there.’

‘He thinks you show great ability. For a woman, that is,’ Laurent teased.

‘I will take that as a compliment.’ Margarida smiled at him as the bill arrived and she laid a few notes on top of it.

‘And perhaps if you are there in the studio, you could act as chaperone while I take time to sculpt Mademoiselle Izabela?’ suggested Laurent.

‘It may be possible to arrange, but we shall have to see,’ said Margarida, her eyes again darting between Laurent and Bel and the clock behind the bar. ‘We must take our leave.À bientôt, Monsieur Brouilly.’ She kissed him on both cheeks, as Bel too rose.