Alice-Miranda in Paris 7 Read online

  About the Book

  Alice-Miranda and her friends are in Paris with a group of teachers from Winchesterfield-Downsfordvale and the Fayle School for Boys. The students have a very exciting opportunity: to sing at Paris Fashion Week. The amazing city is humming with excitement and outrageous fashion choices – quite often coming from Mr Lipp, the children’s choir conductor. But a couple of France’s best known designers are harbouring serious secrets, and when Christian Fontaine has some expensive fabric stolen just days before his show, Alice-Miranda and her friends realise there is a darker side to the glitz and glamour of the famous city.

  Contents

  Cover

  About the Book

  Title

  Dedication

  Glossary of French terms

  Chapter 01

  Chapter 02

  Chapter 03

  Chapter 04

  Chapter 05

  Chapter 06

  Chapter 07

  Chapter 08

  Chapter 09

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  And just in case you’re wondering

  Cast of Characters

  Also by Jacqueline Harvey

  About the Author

  Even more Alice-Miranda

  Copyright Notice

  Loved the book?

  For Ian, who took me to Paris, and for Sandy, without whom this journey might never have begun.

  Glossary of French terms

  anglais

  English

  atelier

  artist’s workshop

  au contraire

  on the contrary

  bonjour

  hello

  Ça vous dérange?

  Do you mind?

  croque monsieur

  a toasted ham and cheese sandwich

  délicieux

  delicious

  désolé

  sorry

  Fil d’Or

  golden thread

  hôtel de ville

  town hall

  Île de la Cité

  island in the middle of the river Seine

  merci

  thank you

  mon amour

  my love

  mon nom est . . .

  my name is . . .

  Non chinchilla! Vigogne, tu comprends?

  Not chinchilla! Vicuna, you understand?

  Nous avons été volés!

  We have been robbed!

  oui

  yes

  Pont d’Arcole

  bridge across the Seine

  Pont de l’Archevêché

  bridge across the Seine (literally ‘the Archibishop’s bridge’)

  privé

  private

  Que faites-vous?

  What are you doing?

  Sacré bleu

  An exclamation of surprise

  Christian Fontaine cradled his chin in his left hand and tapped his forefinger against his lip.

  ‘It’s breathtaking,’ his assistant Adele sighed. ‘I think it’s the most beautiful gown you have ever created.’

  Christian said nothing. He reached forward to stroke the buttercup-coloured silk of the dress’s skirt. He hadn’t used that colour for years. When Adele had suggested that it would be perfect for the final gown in the show, he’d agreed. Now, he didn’t know if he could bring himself to include the gown, fabulous as it was. It was her colour. It always would be.

  Christian turned and stared through the window across the rooftops of Paris. They seemed to go on forever. He wondered where on earth she could possibly be.

  Pain gripped his chest. He closed his eyes and tried to remember. Her laugh, her smile, the way she would call him mon amour. It was hard to believe how many years had passed. He could almost smell her perfume, the memory seemed so real. Why did you do it? He thought to himself. Why, when I loved you so much?

  ‘What’s wrong, monsieur?’ said Adele. She had been worried about her boss for weeks. This gown seemed to have caused him more angst than anything else in the collection.

  ‘Nothing is wrong, Adele. I am just . . . surprised.’ He looked at her and smiled. Over the years, Christian had employed many assistants but Adele was by far his favourite, despite knowing almost nothing about fashion when she started. At the time, he’d wondered if she would last a week. She had confused bolts of fabric with metal bolts used for construction; it had not been a promising start. But she was a fast learner and she made him laugh, which no one else had managed in years.

  ‘Surprised? Why?’

  ‘I did not think I had the capacity for anything as lovely as this.’ He stared at the gown once more.

  Adele wondered what he was talking about. All of Christian’s gowns were stunning.

  ‘Do you have a pencil?’ Christian asked. ‘I seem to have misplaced mine.’

  Adele fished around in her apron pocket. She found a pencil, along with the envelope she’d forgotten to pass on to him earlier. She held both items out in front of her.

  ‘Oops,’ she said, biting her lip.

  ‘What is this?’ Christian frowned at the fancy script that spelled out his name.

  ‘An invitation to Madame Rochford’s townhouse tomorrow evening. She’s hosting a dinner party and everyone will be there.’ Adele smiled at him expectantly.

  Christian shook his head. ‘Please telephone Madame Rochford and let her know that I am unable to attend. And send her something from the collection as a thank you for her kindness.’

  Adele did nothing to hide her disappointment. ‘But monsieur, Madame Rochford is so lovely. And so . . . single.’

  ‘Yes, she is,’ Christian replied. ‘But I am far too busy.’

  Adele sighed. ‘You will never find love if you spend all your time here, monsieur.’

  ‘Thank you for your concern, Adele,’ Christian said sharply.

  The young woman rolled her eyes. ‘Don’t blame me when you’re old and lonely.’ She glanced at the clock on the wall. ‘Oh dear, is that the time? I must run some errands before I meet Jacques for lunch. He said he has a surprise for me.’ Adele winked at her boss. ‘Is there anything else you need?’

  Christian shook his head. ‘No, thank you, Adele. I’m going to cut the cape, but you can go.’

  There was one piece left to finish the collection. It was the most expensive by far and Christian hadn’t wanted to start it until the last of the gowns was done. Hand-dyed in the same buttercup shade as the gown, it would be a simple cape, made from the finest yarn in the world. He’d been warned that the fabric was so delicate it could be damaged when dyed, but he’d been willing to take the risk. He would work through the night to get it done – it wouldn’t be the first time and surely wouldn’t be the last either.

  Christian was famed for the breadth of his talents. He not only designed but cut and sewed his creations,
particularly the show-stopper gowns. He preferred to work alone on the fourth floor, while the seamstresses’ sewing machines hummed like beehives on the floors below. It hadn’t always been this way.

  Adele gathered her handbag and a small pile of letters for the post.

  ‘Are you nervous?’ she asked. Adele would have been petrified. The bolt of fabric was worth more than her year’s wages.

  Christian shook his head again. ‘I must treat this piece like any other.’

  ‘Except that it’s not, really,’ Adele reminded him.

  ‘Are you trying to make me anxious?’ Christian scolded. ‘Why don’t you run along and get your jobs done.’

  He walked towards the climate-controlled storeroom and opened the door.

  ‘Adele,’ he called. ‘Has anyone been in here today?’

  His assistant scurried back across the warehouse floor and stood in the doorway.

  ‘No, monsieur,’ she replied.

  Christian looked at the shelf.

  ‘It’s not here,’ he said. ‘And there are other bolts missing too.’

  Adele’s eyes widened. ‘Perhaps someone has been tidying up?’ she suggested hopefully as she scanned the immaculately kept shelves.

  Christian Fontaine prided himself on having the neatest storeroom and workroom in the business. His staff knew that they moved things at their peril.

  ‘Get everyone up here now,’ he growled. ‘If someone has moved that fabric, they will be moving too – straight to the unemployment line.’

  Adele scampered away to round up the staff. Her mouth was dry and her heart was thumping.

  Christian knew that the next few minutes were really just a formality. He’d been robbed and whoever had done it had known exactly where to look.

  ‘Oh wow, look at that!’ Jacinta exclaimed as she pointed at an impressive building in the distance. The limestone mansion glistened in the summer sunshine.

  ‘It’s the hôtel de ville,’ Millie replied. She had been consulting her guidebook as the group marched along the northern side of the river Seine. ‘But it’s not a hotel. It’s the mayor’s office. Pretty fancy, hey?’

  ‘I’ll say. Paris is so beautiful,’ said Jacinta, as the children passed yet another magnificent row of townhouses. ‘It’s no wonder they call it the City of Love.’

  ‘I think they call it the City of Light, don’t they?’ Millie corrected her.

  ‘Love, light, whatever. When I’m older I want to be proposed to under the Eiffel Tower.’ Jacinta glanced back towards Lucas, who was dawdling along with Sep. ‘Did you hear what I said?’ she asked.

  ‘What?’ the boys replied in unison.

  ‘The Eiffel Tower, my proposal?’

  Sep and Lucas shrugged.

  ‘Oh, forget it.’ Jacinta rolled her eyes. ‘You’re such . . . boys!’

  Millie and Alice-Miranda exchanged giggles.

  A small group of students from Winchesterfield-Downsfordvale Academy for Proper Young Ladies and Fayle School for Boys made up the Winchester-Fayle Singers. The choir had formed in the months since the schools’ very successful joint production of Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs. Led by Fayle’s English and Drama teacher, Harold Lipp, and accompanied by Winchesterfield-Downsfordvale’s Music teacher, Cornelius Trout, the group had quickly grown into an accomplished ensemble. Mr Lipp had been thrilled to receive an invitation to bring the group to perform in Paris during Fashion Week, when the world’s best designers show their seasonal collections to the rest of the world. This year the organisers were keen to involve choral groups to give the festival a very different sort of flair. The Winchester-Fayle Singers hadn’t been the organisers’ first choice, but when another choir had pulled out at the last minute, Mr Lipp was offered the opportunity by his sister, who worked for the event.

  So, twenty students and eight adults from the schools had arrived in Paris early that morning and been dropped in the centre of the city, from which point Miss Grimm had led them on a very long walk. Their bags were being delivered to the hotel, so they’d be there when the rooms were ready later in the afternoon. The choir had a week to explore the city and prepare for their series of performances.

  Millie and Alice-Miranda walked ahead of the other girls, quickly catching up to the headmistress.

  ‘Excuse me, Miss Grimm,’ said Alice-Miranda. ‘May I ask where we’re going now?’

  ‘Notre Dame.’ Ophelia Grimm pointed towards the Île de la Cité, a small island in the middle of the Seine. ‘Mr Trout has organised a practice session for himself on the organ in preparation for the performance and I thought we could listen while we tour the cathedral. I’m sure that his playing will be wonderful as always,’ she said. ‘Although I do hope he keeps that ridiculous hand waving to a minimum,’ she whispered to herself.

  Alice-Miranda and Millie overheard her and smiled. They both thought Mr Trout’s extravagant organ playing was a highlight of each week’s assembly.

  The group continued walking until the top of an enormous building came into view.

  ‘Is that it?’ said Millie. Her eyes were on stalks.

  ‘Yes, it certainly is,’ Miss Reedy replied. The English teacher was walking right behind Millie and Alice-Miranda. ‘It’s gorgeous. And so much history. Did you know . . .?’ Miss Reedy launched into one of her monologues, firing facts like a volley of cannonballs.

  Millie loved looking at the buildings but, unlike Alice-Miranda, she wasn’t especially interested in knowing every last detail. She decided that she would rather wait for Jacinta and Sloane than listen to Encyclopedia Reedy. She stopped to take a photo, while Alice-Miranda and Miss Reedy went ahead.

  ‘Can you believe that we’re really here?’ Millie asked as she slid between the two older girls. ‘Paris in the summer. It’s lovely, isn’t it?’

  ‘My mother always promised that she’d take me to Paris one day, but I doubt that’s ever going to happen now, seeing that she and Daddy are getting divorced,’ Jacinta huffed.

  ‘But Jacinta, you’re here in Paris, so she doesn’t need to bring you,’ said Millie, shaking her head. ‘How is your mother, anyway?’

  ‘Much better than I thought she’d be,’ Jacinta replied. ‘You know she’s taken up gardening with Nosey Parker, which is a bit of a pain because Mrs Parker has turned up on the back doorstep every weekend that I’ve been home. She insists on me giving her a hug and a kiss and calling her Aunty Myrtle. It’s horrible.’ Jacinta shuddered, and then looked thoughtful. ‘Sometimes I worry that Mummy will get tired of living in the village and start to look for a new husband. I’d like her to stay around now that we’re finally getting to know each other better. She’s quite good fun sometimes.’

  Sloane and Millie nodded. Things between Jacinta and her mother had been tricky for as long as they’d known her. In recent months Jacinta’s parents had separated. Her mother, Ambrosia, had settled in nearby Winchesterfield, where her once extravagant lifestyle was trimmed as tightly as a hedge at Queen Georgiana’s palace.

  ‘Maybe your mother will find a job to keep her busy,’ Sloane suggested.

  ‘Yeah, right,’ Jacinta scoffed. ‘I don’t know what she could do, other than dressing up and looking glamorous, and she’s way too old to start a modelling career now.’

  ‘She might surprise you,’ Sloane said. ‘My mother still does the odd catalogue here and there.’

  ‘And you said that it’s totally embarrassing to see her parading around in nanna knickers for the entire world to see,’ Jacinta retorted.

  ‘Well, at least she’s doing something,’ Sloane hissed, ‘which is more than I can say about your mother!’

  Millie didn’t like where the conversation was heading. Jacinta and Sloane had been so good lately. No one wanted to see a reappearance of their former selves. ‘Have you been to Paris before, Sloane?’ Millie asked quickly.

  Sloane began to nod and then, thinking better of it, she shook her head. Sometimes old habits were hard to break and fibbing was the hardest of
all. ‘My mother hates Paris. Daddy brought her here when they were first married and Mummy imagined that it would be like her favourite old movie, Roman Holiday, except in Paris, of course. But it was a huge disappointment. Daddy says that when he opened the door of their hotel room, Mummy shrieked and marched downstairs, yelling, “How dare you put us in a broom cupboard, that’s just not on!”’ Sloane imitated her mother, hands flying, hair bouncing.

  Millie and Jacinta laughed. ‘I wonder what our rooms will be like,’ Sloane said. ‘I’m not having a broom cupboard either, you know.’

  ‘I don’t think we’ll have much choice,’ said Millie. ‘As long as there’s a bed and a hot shower we really shouldn’t complain. Unless you want to end up sleeping in a park.’

  ‘Ha ha,’ said Sloane. ‘Miss Grimm wouldn’t do that.’

  Ophelia Grimm’s ears pricked up on hearing her name. She turned and looked at the girls behind her. ‘What wouldn’t I do?’

  Millie’s stomach grumbled and she seized the chance to change the subject. ‘Let us starve,’ she said.

  ‘Of course not, Millicent. As soon as we’ve toured the cathedral and heard Mr Trout’s recital, we’ll have lunch.’ Miss Grimm had stopped on the path and was waiting for the group to catch up so they could cross the road together. ‘I hope you like crepes.’

  Millie licked her lips. ‘Yum!’

  The children walked in two lines along the footpath across the Pont d’Arcole, one of the numerous bridges that zigzagged across the river Seine. In the distance, the wailing of sirens grew louder and, as the group turned to see where the noise was coming from, a convoy of three police cars sped across the bridge beside them and skidded to a halt outside a townhouse.

  ‘Cool,’ one of the Fayle students, George ‘Figgy’ Figworth, called out.

  ‘I wonder what’s going on,’ Millie said.

  ‘Probably a murder,’ Figgy replied.

  ‘As if.’ Sloane rolled her eyes.

  Mr Plumpton overheard the young lad’s comment. ‘Master Figworth, I think you have a rather overactive imagination.’