Monet's Angels Read online

  ‘Mon dieu, she is doing well.’

  ‘She is trying her best, Papa,’ said Blanche. ‘I think you should go and change and I will offer the young lady an aperitif. You would accept one, mademoiselle?’

  Another triumph, Judith told herself, the mistress of the house extending an invitation! ‘I’d be enchanted,’ she replied.

  She went to sit with Blanche on the balcony, and an ugly girl wearing a surgical boot carried out a tray with glasses of Dubonnet and a bowl of olives on it.

  ‘What a beautiful evening,’ Blanche said. ‘I am beginning to appreciate this fine weather after several months of mourning.’

  ‘Oh my God, who?’

  ‘My mother,’ Blanche said simply. ‘There is nothing so dreadful as to lose your mother. You suddenly feel like an orphan.’

  Judith found this an odd comparison. Blanche’s mother must have been the same age as her grandmother. She had a vision of the old woman who could not remember anything, of a remark an uncle had made of its being ‘better for her if she died.’ The idea of her own mother, her youthful, ambitious mother, dying just wouldn’t cross her mind.

  ‘Maybe she was suffering?’ she suggested.

  Blanche glanced over to her and laughed. ‘Oh dear, I forget how young you are. You think that being old adds up to suffering. You’re like my laundry maid, Lilli, who cannot, however hard she tries, imagine I was once young…younger than she is now.’

  Judith disliked the spotlight being put on another young woman, although Lilli was only a servant.

  ‘She is a very pretty and intelligent young woman who has her sights set on a certain young man. I will tell you something, Judith, I would dearly love to see them married.’

  Judith smiled. ‘That’s all they seem to do round here. They don’t want to achieve anything, just get married and have children.’

  Blanche nodded. ‘Achieve, yes, that is something you and I have in common, the desire to make something of our lives. You are a woman after my own heart.’ She hesitated then continued, ‘I’ve been wondering, Mademoiselle Judith, my father enjoys your company so much, would you visit us regularly while you are in Giverny?’

  – TWENTY-FOUR –

  JUDITH

  D

  orothy and Paul Young lived in a pretty cottage, a few streets away from Le Pressoir. The hollyhocks and roses Judith was now accustomed to seeing everywhere in Giverny crowded the front garden; smaller red roses trailed against the white walls and above the green painted door. She raised the heavy doorknocker shaped like a lion’s head and let it drop with a thud. Footsteps came hurrying to answer it.

  ‘Judith, honey, come right in.’

  She was startled to see that Dorothy was wearing a tea gown, something she had not glimpsed since she left New York. This one was in shell pink silk, the skirt elaborately flounced and trimmed with a plain bodice of the same material. Over it, she wore a loose coat made of lace, transparent enough to show that, in spite of her full figure, she wasn’t wearing a corset. The delicate shade of the silk showing through the lace work gave a charming effect.

  Dorothy led the way into a parlour whose walls were hung with pictures.

  ‘Mostly Paul’s,’ she explained, ‘though there are one or two by his impressionist friends.’

  The flowery patterned curtains and sofa, the vases of lilies, carnations, and yet more roses, seemed to echo the intense bouquet of the perfume she wore. Judith, well schooled by her mother, identified it as Quelques Fleurs. Set between two rosewood chairs, again with flower-patterned seats, was a small table covered with a lacy cloth and on it a cake stand and a tea set.

  ‘Now sit yourself down,’ said Dorothy. ‘Let me pour the tea and then we can talk.’ She indicated a lavish looking cake on the stand. ‘Strawberry short cake; I made it this morning just for us. We can devour the lot without anyone judging us.’

  Judith wondered what it was about this place that made everyone want to eat so much. Mother and her friends were always moaning about their weight and talking about dieting. From time to time, her mother followed the Horace Fletcher regime. She became an annoyingly slow eater, chewing every morsel thirty-two times – one for each tooth – she told Judith, then spitting out the remains.

  ‘Don’t be so foolish, Maurice!’ she scolded her husband when he protested. ‘This way the body absorbs the nutrients it needs without swallowing extra calories.’

  ‘Ridiculous,’ he had replied, ‘and very off putting, my dear, to those in your company. As for that foolish woman, that Dolly Kendall, what about her and her leech diet?’

  ‘It seems to work,’ her mother had declared. ‘She has lost a lot of weight.’

  Judith found the idea of attaching a blood-sucking creature to her arm disgusting and neither did she have the patience to do all that masticating. In her view, it was simpler to restrict what one ate.

  Dorothy poured the Earl Grey tea and, in spite of Judith’s protests that she did not as a rule eat sweet things, took up a cake knife and cut her a generous slice of the concoction, laden with strawberries and oozing cream.

  ‘Afternoon tea,’ she sighed. ‘I think it is probably my favourite meal. I do have such a sweet tooth. I’m reminded of our own Henry James and what he wrote about tea. “There are few hours in life more agreeable than the hour dedicated to the ceremony known as afternoon tea.” I couldn’t agree more.’ She licked some cream from her lips and giggled, ‘and of course, you know what the French call this time? La fif o’clock, the four to five when a lady may entertain her lover.’

  Judith gazed at her. ‘Really? Is that what happens here?’

  ‘Don’t look so surprised, young lady. It’s probably also the time when her husband has an assignation. That’s what I like about the French, they are so open minded about these things, open and honest, not to mention they adore their food.’

  And don’t care how fat they get, Judith mused. She thought of Monet’s remark about food being a gift from God.

  As if Dorothy read her thoughts, she said, ‘Come on, young lady, eat up. I hope you’re not affected by this dieting nonsense. You’re far too skinny, men like something to cuddle.’

  Judith forked up a sliver of cake. The union of ripe juicy fruit and thick Normandy cream was divine. It was just a pity that something so nice should be bad for one.

  ‘Now come on, tell all, I’ve been dying to hear,’ urged Dorothy.

  The recounting of her visits to Le Pressoir allowed her to ignore the cake on her plate while Dorothy, an eager audience, finished her slice and cut herself another. She was a good listener only murmuring, ‘oh my’ now and again and ‘well I never’ when Judith told her about the sketches Monet had made of her.

  ‘And now his daughter Blanche has invited me to be a regular visitor,’ she finished.

  ‘It sure seems you have made a hit,’ Dorothy declared. ‘Pass me your cup and I’ll top you up.’

  Judith watched her pour. ‘It’s true, we get on so well.’ She hesitated for a moment and then decided to plunge in. ‘Dorothy, you remember our conversation on the terrace when you spoke of French men?’

  Dorothy laughed, showing her big teeth. ‘I surely do.’

  ‘Well the fact is I’ve met one myself.’

  ‘You naughty little thing! Oh, don’t get me wrong. I thoroughly approve. Who is he? Someone from Giverny?’

  ‘He works in Monet’s garden.’

  ‘Not M’sieur Breuil, he’s quite old.’

  ‘No, an under gardener, his name is Michel and he’s very attractive. I invited him to have a drink on the hotel terrace and he came and afterwards, we walked in the garden. But then… oh, Dorothy, it was all so romantic just him and me, and I thought he might kiss me but he didn’t. The truth is I didn’t know how I was supposed to behave.’

  Dorothy set down her cup. ‘I thought you told me you had a fiancé. Don’t you know how to behave with him?’

  ‘Yes, but that�
�s different. We’ve known each other since we were children.’

  ‘I see.’ She seemed to suggest ‘how boring.’ ‘Well, you know what you must do? You must flirt. I’m surprised you haven’t tried it, a pretty girl like you.’

  ‘I wouldn’t know where to begin.’

  ‘You know what they say? Practice makes perfect.’ Dorothy rose from her chair and moved around the room, gesturing with her arms so that the lacy sleeves fell away, revealing pale, plump flesh. ‘Alrighty, first of all eye contact, that’s essential when flirting, but don’t overdo it or you’ll put him off. Ask questions and listen. It’s flattering to have someone show a genuine interest in your opinions, what you like and don’t like and your experiences. Don’t tense up and cross your arms, or hunch over like you’re enduring a blast of cold air. Lean toward the person you’re flirting with and imitate their body language in a subtle kind of way. Then compliments: everyone loves to get compliments, and that’s a great way to flirt.’

  She returned to her seat and leaning forward, cut a third slice of the cake. ‘And finally, smile, it is the most powerful flirting tool you can use. Everyone loves to see a pleasant, happy face, and a smile sends all the right messages.’

  Judith laughed. ‘My golly, there seems to be an awful lot to it.’

  ‘Not really,’ said Dorothy ‘You already have a lovely smile, you may well be a natural flirt.’

  She had been so fascinated by what Dorothy was telling her, she found she had eaten the cake and Dorothy, seeing her plate empty, had swiftly cut and given her another slice.

  ‘Alcohol always helps to loosen them up,’ she remarked in a casual manner. ‘Why not have champagne, served in the garden?’

  Judith was startled by the genteel outward appearance of Dorothy and these suggestions of what lay within. She found her intriguing, a woman after her own heart, not caring a fig for convention. How she ever became married to that funny little man, she could not imagine.

  Dorothy laughed. ‘I just love the expression on your face, honey. You make me feel quite wicked, suggesting such a thing.’ She sighed and reached for the teapot. ‘Oh to be young and innocent, to have everything before you! I’ll tell you something, if I had my time again I’d…’ she paused as if fearing an eavesdropper then continued, lowering her voice, ‘I’d never have married Paul, free thinking though he is.’

  ‘What would you have done?’ Judith was curious.

  Dorothy appeared thoughtful. ‘Well, it is lovely here and I do have my fun, but I think I would have stayed in America. I was having such a wonderful time in St. Louis, all those balls and parties. I had my share of gentlemen callers, I can tell you.’

  ‘Then why…?’

  ‘It’s hard to tell. Paul came along and he was so very different from the men I knew, a painter who was going to study in Paris, la vie bohème and all that.’ She finally seemed to have finished with her plate and set it down on the table. ‘I remember a party he came to. I was actually with someone else, but he came over and introduced himself and after that we couldn’t stop talking. We ended up sitting in the conservatory and my partner of the evening gave up and went home. Paul was the kind of person I had never met before, you see, Judith, and I was fascinated by his life. He dressed like a painter; I remember a red scarf he wore round his neck and he had a moustache. My parents had someone else in mind for me to marry but in the end they gave in and I married Paul.’

  Judith sipped the last of her tea. ‘But that’s wonderful. You did what you wanted to do. You went where your heart led you. Isn’t that swell?’

  ‘It seemed like it at the time, but looking back I think my parents knew me better than I did. I love elegance and beauty, you see, and those things cost money. Paul sells but not enough to provide that, we have a struggle at times. He would do so much better in America, but he won’t think about going back. This frock, for example, it’s very old.’

  ‘It’s still lovely,’ Judith put in.

  ‘Well thank you, honey. But you know what I mean, its so passé. Look at you so divinely à la mode; you radiate ease and money. I would love to have a bob, but I couldn’t maintain it.’

  In the silence that followed, Judith gazed round the room. She saw details she hadn’t noticed before: the carpet was worn and threadbare in places, the flowery fabric was cheap; she suspected the mahogany console table was a copy. The furniture in her parents’ house was always the genuine article. She could see the difference. But did that matter?

  ‘Does it matter?’ she asked Dorothy. ‘I’d give anything to be living the life you have here in Giverny.’

  The other shook her head. ‘Then you are wrong. A long vacation as you are having is pleasant. A summer flirtation is the icing on the cake. But live here for some time and the attraction wanes. You realise the differences in culture, the fact that the locals don’t accept you, will never accept you. I had felt so rootless, Judith, so alone until I decided to take lovers, as Paul does, I know. I realise I have gained a reputation here but I don’t much care. They are a provincial lot and have nothing better to do than talk about each other. They probably think I am a jezebel.’

  As if she realised she had said too much, her expression changed and she smiled. ‘Ah well young Judith, it has been swell to have you here.’

  ‘I’ve really enjoyed it,’ Judith replied, realising the correct time for taking tea had passed. ‘Thank you and for the cake, it was delicious.’

  ‘Well, I actually got you to eat some.’

  They laughed and Dorothy saw her to the door.

  ‘Come again, it’s been lovely to talk.’

  ‘I will,’ Judith said but she was not sure she meant it.

  The afternoon had unsettled her and she stepped out into the heat, which had now become oppressive, feeling disorientated. At the end of Dorothy’s street she paused, glancing from right to left, left to right, wondering where to go from here. She glanced at her watch, it was five o’ clock and for once she felt disinclined to sit alone with a cocktail on the hotel terrace and gaze down at the tennis players. There was nowhere else she could go. She had tried sitting in one of the cafés and felt out of place, conscious of the local people’s stare. She thought she would walk a little by the river and set off, briskly. As she went, images of New York came into her mind: she and her mother, moving through the rooms of the Met, taking in the latest exhibition… always the slight shock when one left that hushed atmosphere and paused for a moment, standing at the top of the steps, gazing down, to be greeted by the noise of Fifth Avenue; tea at the Waldorf where women, smartly dressed like themselves, chatted and laughed; her bedroom, she sitting at her dressing table in her petticoat, wondering what to wear for dinner that night. The expression on Charlie’s face as she entered the drawing room, hearing him exclaim how pretty she looked. Judith felt herself caught up in a wave of nostalgia so that she scarcely saw the village church, the slate roofs of the low houses, the road that now ran by the banks of the river.

  Dorothy’s words had depressed her and for the first time since her arrival the idea of dining at Hotel Baudy did not appeal. She walked for a while then sat and gazed at the river, its surface sparkling in the sun. A boat went by, crowded with young people singing a French song, all seeming to be having a wonderful time. Judith watched them until they disappeared round a bend in the river. Then she felt something in her stir and she rose and walked briskly back in the direction she had come, shaking off the gloomy feeling that had come over her. She would put Dorothy’s words out of her mind. The woman was middle aged, in an entirely different situation to her own. Maybe she was even jealous that she, Judith, had the attraction, the flair to get what she wanted; that was probably it. By the time she reached the hotel, all her determination had returned. Michel was coming again tomorrow evening and tonight she would consult Madame Baudy on champagne. Nothing and no-one was going to stop her.

  – TWENTY-FIVE –

  ROBERT

 
W

  ith a sense of déjà vu Robert saw her before she saw him, so that, for a moment, she seemed like a stranger. Her dark head outlined by the sun, she was deep in conversation with Madame Baudy.

  ‘Yes, but I should like your very best,’ he heard her say as he approached.

  He hesitated, curious to hear the reply.

  ‘I believe we have some bottles of Dom Perignon and Veuve Clicquot in the cellar.’ Angelina Baudy smiled at him. ‘Bonsoir, M’sieur Harrison.’

  Judith turned her head and stared at him. He indicated he would wait for her at one of the terrace tables and she shrugged, and then resumed her conversation. He ordered a beer and lit a cigarette, watching her gesticulate with her hands, the slight tilt of her head as she listened to what the other woman was saying. He hoped she would decide to join him; he wanted to bring up the subject of Dorothy Young.

  Earlier he had been surprised to catch sight of Judith leaving the woman’s house. What on earth was she doing visiting someone like that? It was common knowledge in Giverny the woman was up to no good, that the locals mistrusted her. At least, that husband of hers had the sense to play further away from home. Robert had gone out to post a letter and, by chance, looked down the street just as Judith and Dorothy had emerged among the roses. He had hurried on, not wanting her to think he was spying. Then he paused to watch, as she seemed to hesitate before walking away in the opposite direction. The hushed, deserted air of the village, the sun beating down on the slight figure, seemed to create an aura of isolation about her. Probably she had become lonely and latched onto Dorothy, if it had not been the other way round. As he made his way to the tennis court, he was feeling guilty and played badly. He decided he would try to make it up with her at the first opportunity; she wasn’t as much wayward as just impervious to her behaviour’s effects on others.

  He sipped his beer. If he were honest with himself, Harry had something to do with his change of heart. Robert was growing rather tired of his friend’s jealous reaction if he so much as gave anyone else more than a few minutes’ attention. There was a part of him that belonged to no-one, he had tried to explain, and Harry was being too possessive. The row over Robert’s playing a singles with another artist had infuriated him.