The Last Will And Testament Of Daphné Le Marche. Kate Forster

       what do you hide up your sleeve?

       Is it a postcard

       from the place where dreams are discarded?

       Is it your revenge plan:

      a vulture’s kiss: stolen and flown?’

      Elisabeth felt her heart tighten and her breath squeezed her lungs until she thought she would explode.

      ‘You translated that from French? So quickly?’ she asked.

      ‘I know Louise de Vilmorin’s work,’ he said. ‘Did you know she was engaged to Antoine de Saint-Exupéry?’

      Elisabeth nodded and she wondered if in fact he would be more than just the thief of her innocence.

      ‘Dinner? Tonight?’ he asked, tucking the book under his arm.

      ‘OK,’ was all she could reply.

      ‘I will pick you up. Where do you live?’ he asked politely.

      Elisabeth thought of the grotty hostel and the pictures of Samantha Fox.

      ‘Can I meet you here? I work till late,’ she lied.

      ‘Of course,’ he answered and he reached down and kissed her on each cheek.

      ‘Au revoir, Elisabeth,’ he said and then left her alone while he paid for the book at the counter.

      It was only after that she realised she didn’t know his name and she rushed to the counter to see if he had left a clue with his credit card.

      ‘He paid cash,’ said the girl at the till. ‘Wasn’t half handsome, wasn’t he?’

      Elisabeth spent the rest of the afternoon as though flying on a flock of wild birds, seeing London below as a fantastic adventure that finally she was beginning to undertake.

       * * *

      Henri was waiting for her when she left the bookstore at six in the evening. The streetlamps were turning on and the crisp autumn air made everyone look like smokers as they hurried home. Henry was leaning against a post box, wearing the same suit as earlier in the day, but this time with a camel coat draped over his shoulders.

      He looked incongruous against the streetscape with a group of punks walking past, their hair pointed upwards and their mouths downturned.

      ‘Hello,’ she said as she walked towards him. She was aware of the unfashionable coat she wore compared to his but she had a silk scarf she had found in lost property and had artfully wound it around her neck, just like she had seen Catherine Deneuve do in a television commercial.

      He reached out and touched the scarf, ‘So chic,’ he said with a smile and then leaned down and kissed her on the cheek again.

      He smelt of tobacco and soap and something else she couldn’t quite name.

      ‘What is that scent?’ she whispered in his ear while his face was still close to hers.

      ‘Opoponax,’ he said back to her.

      She pulled away. ‘A pop of what?’

      Henri laughed and she thought it was the most beautiful sound in the world.

      ‘Opoponax, it’s the sweet cousin of myrrh. It was used by the Ancient Romans as incense and helps people learn others secrets and portends the future like the Sibyls.’

      Elisabeth thought her legs would give way and she clutched his arm.

      Henri, however, seemed calm as he held her steady.

      ‘You need a drink, oui?’

      ‘Oui,’ she said feebly and allowed him to lead her to the bar at Claridge’s.

      She didn’t know men who wore a scent like Henri and even knew its history. Her father had an old bottle of Eau Savage that Elisabeth’s mother had bought duty free on a trip to Singapore, and he wore it only at special events, which was about three times a year.

      Henri helped her out of her coat, and she felt ashamed of her wool skirt and plain white blouse so she kept the scarf around her neck.

      ‘What will you drink?’ he asked her and Elisabeth shrugged as she slid into the private booth.

      ‘I don’t know, what do you think?’

      She didn’t think she could ask for a pint at Claridge’s but she didn’t know any other drink other than cask wine.

      ‘Champagne,’ he stated and then ordered a bottle of Taittinger for them with a selection of cheeses to share.

      Elisabeth realised how hungry she was and placed her hand on her stomach to stop it protesting about the paltry cup of soup that had masqueraded as lunch.

      ‘I don’t know your name.’ she said suddenly, as though speaking her thoughts aloud.

      ‘Henri Le Marche,’ he answered, as he sat back in the booth.

      ‘I’m Elisabeth Herod,’ she said and she put out her hand in a formal manner.

      Henri laughed and took her hand and gallantly kissed it as Elisabeth laughed.

      ‘Sorry, I think it’s the environment, it’s very posh, isn’t it?’ she whispered.

      ‘Shall we go somewhere else?’ Henri asked, his handsome face now worried. ‘I didn’t know where you might like to go, but my mother always says Claridge’s is best when you’re in London.’

      Elisabeth tried to hide her smile as she nodded in agreement but Henri noticed.

      ‘You don’t agree?’

      ‘I don’t really know,’ she said, deciding to be honest. ‘I’m from Australia, here on a gap year. The nicest place I’ve been to so far has been Harrods and even then the staff looked at me like I was going to steal something.’

      Henri laughed. ‘You will tell me if you’re not happy here?’

      The waiter arrived with the champagne and made a show of displaying it to Henri, who waved his approval with his hand.

      When their glasses were filled, Henri picked up his glass. ‘To books,’ he said.

      She felt herself smiling. ‘To books,’ she echoed and took a sip of the champagne, savouring the taste.

      ‘Gosh, that’s lovely,’ she said, as she watched the beads burst up in the glass.

      ‘It is,’ said Henri, and he took another sip. ‘Beeswax,’ he said then paused. ‘And blackberries.’

      Elisabeth took a sip from her glass. ‘And apple,’ she added, remembering the cider she had drunk at her brother’s twenty-first birthday party.

      Henri beamed at her. ‘Yes, apple.’

      The waiter brought the cheese and they were silent until he left.

      ‘Do you work in the wine area?’ she asked, watching how he held his glass by the stem and not the bulb.

      ‘No, I work in the family business,’ he said, leaning forward and smearing Brie onto a wafer-thin piece of toast and handing it to her.

      Elisabeth took the offering gratefully and popped it into her mouth.

      ‘We make cosmetics,’ he said with a shrug. ‘My grandfather started it and now my mother runs it.’

      ‘And you will take over one day?’ asked Elisabeth, as he handed her more cheese.

      ‘I hope not,’ said Henri with a sigh.

      ‘What would you rather do?’ Elisabeth sipped her champagne, as he thought.

      ‘I would like to write books,’ he said.

      She