‘Movie actress. Incredibly pretty. Heart-shaped face and the cutest mouth. Just like you. You should cut your hair, like hers.’ Irène rummaged in a pile of magazines on the floor and held one up to show her. ‘Here. She’s not that well-known yet, but she will be.’
Rosalie scrutinised the photograph of a woman with arresting eyes, her hair curly and cut short in a stylish bob.
‘Glad to see you’ve plucked your brows. I’m going to make them darker though.’
‘I don’t want to look like a clown.’
Irène stared at her, hands on hips in mock offence. ‘As if.’
Many others, older than her, had danced and had funsince the end of the war in 1918. Now, Rosalie, at just nineteen, longed to let off steam too. Paris felt wild with the chance of frivolity and it was her turn, even if she had to keep it a secret. On her way here she’d hidden her skimpy golden costume beneath her father’s old flapping greatcoat.
Paris adored the African American jazz musicians and a lovely man called Saul from New York would be playing for them tonight. He didn’t say much but he was beautiful, with melancholy eyes and an engaging smile. From the changing room, Rosalie could hear him warming up, his sensual floating notes sending her spirits sky-high. He nodded at her as she hurried after Irène, make-up finished, into the wings behind the curtain that hung across the tiny stage.
But despite the fun, there was also danger. Alongside this feeling of liberation and surging optimism – this feeling that anything was possible – a new right-wing movement had formed.
‘Watch out for them,’ Irène had warned just before they went on. ‘And scarper if any come in.’
‘How will I know?’
‘Oh, you’ll know the bastards.’
Inspired by Mussolini’s fascism, the ‘bastards’ called themselves Jeunesses Patriotes and hated communists. Most of the aspiring writers and painters who patronised Johnny’s place werenotcommunists but merely drinkers. They talked about writing and painting and devoured cheap plates ofsaucisse de Toulousewith mashed potatoes, but therewasa bold and growing Communist Party too.There had been clashes on the streets of Paris and Rosalie didn’t want to be caught in the middle of one in a bar. She was taking enough risks without being arrested.
Her strictly conventional family lived in the residential 16th arrondissement, close to the parks. Their high-ceilinged seventeenth-century apartment with two wrought-iron balconies had a wonderful view of the Seine, but back there, where everything and everyone was sleepy, Rosalie felt trapped by her parents’ expectations and false hopes. Here was buzz and colour and life to be lived. And she was determined to live it.
She listened for the music that would be their cue to begin.
‘Not yet,’ Irène whispered and gripped her elbow. ‘Wait until I push you, then go.’
Tonight Rosalie was about to fulfil her destiny by finally becoming the rebellious daughter they’d always accused her of being. She’d learnt long ago that as much as she had disappointed her parents,theyhad disappointed her too. So now, full of nerves but also brimming with excitement, she was doing what she wanted to do.
She wanted to be somebody, whatever it took. She wanted to be different. She wanted to reach for a bigger, more exciting world. A vivid, electric world where dreams might come true.
Then, suddenly, Rosalie’s heart raced as the music changed. This was it. Their cue to get on stage and begin the dance.
Irène nudged her. ‘Go on,’ she whispered.
CHAPTER 7
It was several weeks after Rosalie’s first performance, and another Saturday night in Paris. Johnny’s Bar was sizzling. In fact, everywhere was sparking with so much light and laughter that Rosalie was a little nervous. She felt as if the city might just take off into the air and leave her to be dragged back to her parents’ home. She glanced around, her eyes darting from one face to another. Every single night, in the unlikely event that one of her parents’ friends might be out for a good time, she had to establish that no one they knew was in the audience or bar. Tonight she couldn’t identify anyone and she breathed a sigh of relief. Buzzing now with delicious energy, she felt as if she could soar above the clouds and float there forever. She saw Irène shake her head with such a superior – although not unkind – look that Rosalie bumped straight back down to earth.
‘Away with the fairies again?’
‘Was I?’
‘Feet on the ground, girl. Johnny’s Bar is where it’s at.’
She was right. The bar was here. The bar was now. And it was good enough … for the time being.
Irène stubbed out her cigarette. ‘Come on. Time to face the music.’ And she laughed. ‘Honestly, you and your big ideas.’
‘What about you?’
‘Me? No, I just take what I can get.’
As the dancers began their second routine of the evening, the smoke in the room stung the back of Rosalie’s throat. But she managed to catch her breath and threw herself into twisting her body in rhythm with the music. Dancing was her love, her life, her passion. She smiled at Irène and the other three as they spun around, joyfully swinging their arms wide, reaching high then swooping low almost to the ground before rising with fantastically high kicks. Rosalie was the most balletic of the dancers, a result of a decade of ballet training. And she loved losing herself to the sound of Saul’s beautiful playing when even the air seemed to be vibrating and you could feel the sound of it in your blood and in your bones.
As the routine ended, she heard raised voices and from Irène’s expression could see that her friend had heard them too. Unease was sweeping right across the stage. There had been a feverish air about the night as if the desire for fun had surged; the kind of night when anything might happen. Rosalie had known something had been building although she hadn’t identified it until now, and she wasn’t surprised when a loud crash followed the shouting. Then anothercrash, like a table being tipped over and, in its wake, glass breaking. Saul stopped playing and signalled to the girls to grab their coats and cover up just as a tangle of men fell into the hall from the bar. The men picked themselves up and began snatching up chairs, raising them above their heads and hurling them against anyone who got in their way. Rosalie fled to the changing room to slip on her coat but when she came back out again, she saw one of the young thugs from Jeunesses Patriotes had Saul in a headlock. Everything was noise, confusion and smoke. So much smoke, although she couldn’t see where it was coming from. Her heart thumped against her ribs, instinct telling her to run, but she could not. She had to do something to help and quickly. She ran towards Saul to try to release him, but Irène pulled her back, whispering furiously in her ear. ‘It won’t help. Save yourself.’
