Ari squeezed himself into his tired old dinner jacket. It was the end of term and he was looking forward to the summer break when he would have leisure to visit the museums and sleep late. He hated social gatherings but he was very fond of Gillian who was a relative of the Goldsteins. She had been a small child when he left Scotland in 1949 to go to Israel full of Zionist fervour, and he had hardly noticed the curly-haired child who attached herself to him at family gatherings. Now she was married to a British diplomat who was based in Paris. Almost as soon as they arrived in the city she had contacted him, treating him like her long-lost uncle. It embarrassed him but pleased him too. He had always been a loner but it was pleasant to feel that he had some kind of relation, and he would attend her birthday party out of affection for her.
He took a taxi to their apartment near Parc Monceau. Nervously he rang the bell downstairs and was admitted by a liveried doorman. He puffed up the stairs and as he stood on the landing and rang the doorbell, he heard the noise of the party and almost took flight. Before he could bolt, the door opened and Gillian gathered him into her arms.
‘Uncle Ari!’ kissing him on both cheeks, she drew him into the fray. He liberated the bunch of flowers that had almost been crushed by her embrace and she took them to the kitchen to look for a vase, leaving him alone and ill at ease. Hugh, her husband, greeted him warmly and introduced him around but Ari wasn’t very good at small talk.
As usual, he stayed on the outside of the group waiting for an opportunity to leave, but before he could, Gillian came along with a tall redhead in tow.
‘Uncle Ari. Remember we spoke about getting you an assistant? This is my friend Libby. We were at school together and she has run away from England and is looking for a job,’ she said. Libby gently demurred but Gillian went on, ‘She loves history, she speaks a bit of French, she can type and she is available to start right away. Libby, this is my uncle, Aristide Mayer.’ She then plunged back into the crowd, leaving the two standing together awkwardly. Libby was the first to speak.
‘Please, don’t mind Gillian, I know she means well. It was a pleasure to meet you.’ She turned to go, but Ari put up a hand to stop her.
‘Wait. She’s right of course. I do need someone and I have to confess I would rather have someone recommended to me than have to go through the painful process of interviewing total strangers.’ He looked at her a bit anxiously over his spectacles. ‘Tell me about yourself.’ He was as surprised at his own quick response, as she was patently startled by the Scottish-accented English he spoke. ‘Och aye, my accent. I learned tu speak English in Scotland! Some Sassenachs wudnae call it English but it’s the best I can do!’ he chuckled and then he spoke with a less exaggerated intonation. ‘As a teenager, I lived in a village outside of Edinburgh for some time during the 40’s and there they speak with a much softer accent . . .’ he twinkled at her. They found some chairs and spent a while chatting. Libby was a friendly, relaxed young woman who put Ari at his ease and in a short time he felt as though he had known her for years.
‘My office is in a huge muddle, if you must know. My previous assistant left me about six months ago and I have no system, so be warned. Would you be able to start right away?’ Libby nodded.
‘Good. It is the start of the summer break but it would be helpful to have the place in working order for when the new term starts in September.’ He thought for a moment. ‘Oh, and I’d better get a key made for you so that you can come and go even when I’m not in.’ He took out his handkerchief and tied a knot in it to remind himself to do it. Ari left once he had made arrangements with her to start work the following Monday, noticeably relieved that he wasn’t obliged to stay longer. Libby understood. She wished that she could disappear too, but she knew Gilly would winkle her out and urge her to mingle.
She circulated for a while, but there was a limit to her tolerance of trivial chatter. Libby found it much easier to stand quietly with a glass of wine and look out of the window at the street below. She was thankful for the offer of a job. She had arrived in Paris a few weeks before and already she was bored with Gillian’s round of tea parties and cocktail parties and dinner parties. She now had an excuse not to have to tag along to every event that Gilly attended. She had fled England after her romance with Donald had ended. Gilly had insisted that she come to Paris to get as far away from ‘that awful man’ as she could. ‘That awful Donald’ popped into her mind unbidden. She remembered vividly the last time she had seen him. He was very dashing, with thick curly brown hair worn slightly long, and a neatly clipped moustache. He worked as a photographer for the social pages of a London newspaper and was inclined to wear well-tailored suits in colours to match his mood. That last evening though, he had been dressed in unrelieved black, with a crisp white shirt that was probably Christian Dior. Elegant gold cufflinks had gleamed at his wrists. With his thick fringe, which he periodically smoothed back from his brow with a shapely hand, the effect had been very theatrical. She had been able to predict what was coming. The funereal black suit could only mean ‘Bad News.’ She had been right. The upshot had been that he’d decided to go back to his ex-girlfriend.
She had been aware that he had expected her to plead and cry, but she had been too astonished to say anything. She had looked regretfully at the antique engagement ring with seven garnets set in gold filigree that she’d worn for three years. She had loved it and if pride hadn’t got the better of her she would have kept it. She had pulled it off her finger and placed it on the table, and then she had left. With her ego dented, she had had to remind herself that her first emotion had been relief. It had rankled though, that he’d had the final word.
After a few days spent wavering between heartache for her loss and excitement at the prospect of a new beginning, she had mentally dusted herself off and began to formulate plans to escape. The legacy from Uncle William had been sitting in the bank waiting for her to make up her mind about how to spend it. With Donald out of the picture, she had known exactly what to do when Gillian invited her to visit, and she ran away to Paris.
She was very grateful for the opportunity to get work, as she didn’t want to be a drain on her friendship with the Tildens. She knew she was welcome to stay with them, but she needed to earn some money so that she could pay her way. She didn’t want to spend her inheritance yet. Maybe later in the year she would go to Venice as she had always wanted to.
She finished her wine but didn’t want to leave her quiet corner from where she could unobtrusively watch the crowd. People were still arriving. The usual lot, almost in diplomatic uniform, she thought with an inward chuckle, but what is it about men in tuxedoes? Even the most unappealing blob looks dashing in a tux! Then several guests appeared in the doorway at the same time. They were greeted by Hugh Tilden who drew a tall dark-haired man aside. That one’s not bad, thought Penny. Not your usual British ambassadorial type; hmmm, dashing! Definitely not a blob! She turned to look out of the window, her thoughts far away.