Chapter 66
Emma
Silk Amaryllis
In the bar, Betty is sipping her second Champagne cocktail. Emma feels exhausted and would have gladly gone to bed after the first, but she hasn’t wanted to spoil Betty’s fun.
Betty has been talking about how much they have to tell Les, Tamas and Clementine. Emma mentally adds Guy, Mrs Pepperpot, Roberto and Philippe to the list. Perhaps she will go back to the library and seek out the friendly, smiley assistant who helped her right at the start.
Betty is looking thoughtful now, and Emma is reminded of her sudden silence when talking to Alistair earlier. ‘What’s up?’ she asks.
‘Oh, nothing really, love. It’s just I wonder what happened to Violet the night theTitanicsank.’
‘She definitely lived,’ Emma reassures her.
‘Yes, I know– I remember you telling us about her surviving three shipwrecks.’ Betty smiles. ‘It’s just that I feel I’ve got to know her a bit now, and I was wondering how she managed to survive.’
Emma nods. ‘I know what you mean. Alistair said he was sending some more information– maybe we’ll find something in there.’
Betty nods. ‘What else do you want to do while we’re in Paris?’ she asks.
Emma studies the cocktail glass in her hand. ‘I thought tomorrow I’d go to Mum’s apartment and dig out all the old family photos and documents.’ She shrugs. ‘You never know.’
Betty pats her knee. ‘Indeed you don’t. And there’s your family tree to look into, too– I remember you said you were getting somewhere with the Spanish side of the family.’
Emma nods. This is true. Through a few Spanish websites, she has pieced together more on her dad’s family. But as yet, there is nothing that could possibly link her to Violet Jessop.
Betty insists on paying for their drinks, despite Emma’s protestations. As Betty heads to the counter, Emma stands up and crosses the bar, slipping into the ladies’ toilets.
At first, she thinks the crash is someone dropping a colossal pan in the kitchen. Then she sees her phone, spinning towards the bathroom’s outer swing doors, and she realises her legs have gone from under her.
As her head smashes into the sink and she hits the floor, she has no sense of the rest of her body, just the sickening sound of her cheekbone and temple hitting the marble.
There is no pain, just sound.
From where she lies, she watches the door fly open and Betty appears, her face as white as the marble she is stood upon.
Emma watches as a large metal planter rocks back and forward on its side, amaryllis scattered around it. She knows they are too orange to be real. She wants to tell Betty this but finds she cannot speak.
She can only watch as scarlet blood seeps towards the flowers along the grey veins in the marble. She wants to say:Now that’s the colour red they should be.
She comes to as they ease her onto a stretcher. She cannot see Betty anymore, just a man and woman in uniform. There is now no sound, but the pain is crushing her head, eating into her skull, and she tries not to cry out. As she is carried through, drinkers from the bar move aside, hands together, heads bowed as if at a funeral. She sees another man in uniform by the door, relaxed, casual, chatting to the girl from behind the bar. He fancies her, she thinks– and then someone puts a mask over her face, and Emma sinks into the darkness.
Chapter 67
Violet
Hyacinths
It is cold on deck, and she regrets not bringing her winter coat on this trip. Her mind had been set on New York in the spring: the avenues, the parks, the blossom and sunshine that on some days can make it feel like an English summer.
Despite the cold, she likes to come out on deck each evening. She stands back, making room on the promenade for the young men who are heading for a night cap– or three. She has seen that look before– the night is young and so are they. She is young, too, but she feels a hundred years older than the sleek-headed men who walk like they own this deck. Older, yes, but not necessarily wiser. She imagines these men have winter coats in their cabins.
A young woman steps out of a doorway on the arm of an elderly man. She holds the door open for them, and the woman nods at her as she passes by. She leaves behind a fragrance in her wake– an unfamiliar perfume, intense and sweet. But among the mix of scents, there is something she recognises: she is transported back home to the bowl of hyacinths that her sister gave their mother for a birthday present.
She walks past the windows of the first-class lounge and looks in. She smiles to see the banks of flowers, the droplets of water on the petals sparkling like crystals in the light. It pleases her to think that The Purser’s flicking eyes will have alighted on them. She can imagine his smile as he thinks of the daisies at the Ritz. She allows herself a smile, too.
In the glow from the lamps, she can see the gowns she has brushed and hung now filled with flesh and bone. Some women spill from the tops of their dresses, arms plump and white, while others look like the dressmaker has sent them a size too large. Her mother would want to give these women a good meal– whether they wanted it or not. Then there are the women who wear their gowns like a glorious second skin– you cannot see where the shimmering cloth ends and the milk white shoulder begins. They are luminous creatures that turn and glisten in the light, diamonds sparkling as brightly as the stars above her head. These beautiful women walk like they own the world, not just the deck beneath their satined feet. She thinks maybe they are right.
