[Fen Churche 02] - Night Train to Paris

Magda was a good student though, she practised and sketched and drew all she could, but she never accomplished a great deal beyond what you might call holiday art.’
‘Holiday art?’
‘You know, the sort of souvenir watercolour you might bring home from a sojourn in Italy? But she was a good student of mine. She was never one for coming up with her own compositions and she enjoyed the tasks I set of copying the greats. I wouldn’t be surprised if she does indeed have a rather robust version of my little Delance.’ She waved her hand towards the painting on the wall. ‘I do enjoy the challenge of taking something and copying it. Even if I do add my own artistic flair sometimes. What was it your father always said about me?’
Fen wasn’t sure it would be polite to mention all the things her father had said about his flamboyant colleague at the école, so just widened her eyes in curiosity at her old teacher.
‘He said, “Rose, I would as soon have your sunflowers on my wall than that Van Gogh chap’s. He might have pushed the boundaries of fine art, but your copies allow time for the soul to catch up”!’
Fen laughed. Her father’s specialisms were Florentine architecture and draughtsmanship, and he rarely talked about the more emotive side of art, but she loved that he had made Rose feel special, which was so typical of his generous spirit.
‘And on that cheery note,’ Rose winked at Fen, ‘shall we have another, what you English might call, cuppa?’
‘Oh yes, let’s,’ Fen replied and helped Rose clear up the tea tray.
A few moments later and the pot of mint tea was refreshed and Rose had brought out some garishly pink wafer biscuits from the back of a cupboard, saying, ‘Contraband no doubt. But a very grateful ex-student of mine sent them from Holland. Now, dear girl, let’s sit down and have a proper catch-up. Tell me all about your dear parents and that dashing brother of yours…’
A couple of hours later and the mint tea had morphed into champagne (‘a payment in kind’, Rose had explained, from a grateful portrait client) and the teacups replaced with crystal coupe glasses.
Simone had come home from her work at the atelier and Fen had enjoyed the half-hour they’d spent wafting in and out of each other’s bedrooms, deciding what to wear for their evening jaunt. James’s kind words in the gallery earlier had persuaded her that joining them could be rather fun after all and as she hadn’t packed much in the way of fancy clothes, Rose had lent her a brightly coloured tea dress, which Fen now cinched in at the waist with the matching fabric belt. The gaudy red roses on the yellow background made Fen feel cheered, and she didn’t care that it was probably a few years out of date, and possibly a few sizes too big. She pulled on the sleeves to make sure they puffed out like they should and she set her hair in the victory rolls she’d learned to do for the dances at The Spread Eagle in Midhurst.
‘You should try this colour,’ Simone said, nudging Fen out of the way in front of the bathroom mirror and pouting as she applied the deep red tint to her lips.
‘It’s rather fabulous,’ agreed Fen, pursing her own lips and accepting the lipstick from Simone.
With her hair done, lipstick on and new dress just about fitting, she felt like a different person. A person still grieving, but one who would enjoy seeing a new side of Paris; a Paris liberated and full of hope, a Paris that she was old enough now to experience properly, but also a Paris that might hopefully remind her of the simpler days of her youth.
James buzzed the doorbell and caused Tipper to yap at him.
‘Shush, you little brute,’ Rose slurred slightly as she wobbled in front of one of her paintings, a paintbrush in one hand, a champagne coupe in the other. ‘Come in!’
Moments later, James was in the studio, having picked up the squirming little ball of fluff that was Tipper and winced as his teeth dug playfully into his forearm.
‘He’s a feisty chap, isn’t he?’ James said to Rose, who had put her paintbrush and glass down and was pouring James some champagne.
‘Like all men, he bares his teeth to get what he wants.’
James let Tipper jump out of his arms and accepted the proffered glass from Rose. ‘Are we all so bad?’ He raised his glass to his hostess, who in turn arched an eyebrow at him.
‘Oh women are quite, quite worse.’ She winked and grinned at him. ‘Thank you for a splendid lunch today, Captain. I do hope the bill wasn’t as painful as one of Tipper’s little love bites.’
‘Not at all, my pleasure.’ He raised his glass again and then took a sip. ‘Ah, this is the good stuff.’
‘I didn’t know you were a connoisseur?’ The voice was Fen’s, who had emerged from her bedroom, the first of the two young ladies to finish her toilette.
‘I’ve had my share.’ James smiled at her. ‘You look very nice by the way. Like the dress.’
Before Fen could make a joke about him being a real Champagne Charlie, Simone opened her bedroom door and Fen wondered, if she had had a yardstick handy, if she could have measured to the eighth of an inch how far James’s jaw dropped at the sight of the beautiful young woman.
‘Good evening, Mademoiselle Mercier,’ James blurted out slightly and Fen watched with increasing embarrassment on the poor man’s behalf as he accidentally spilt a few drops of champagne on himself as he reached over and took Simone’s hand to kiss it.
Rose winked at Fen and gave the pair a withering look, before pouring the dregs of the bottle into Simone’s glass, which she’d brought with her from the bedroom. ‘Now drink up you three and be off with you,’ she said, barely concealing the