I laugh. ‘It’s meant to be romantic. Bitten by the love bug; have you never heard of such a thing?’
‘This is why I steer clear of romance mumbo jumbo. It’s nonsensical.’
‘You know what else is nonsensical?’
‘Let me guess: me trying to avoid painting because I had a late night with JP?’
I make a show of feigning surprise. ‘You can read minds too!’
‘Urgh, why are you so spritely this morning? I much prefer it when you’re grumpy and monosyllabic.’
‘Because…’ I make jazz hands purely to annoy her further. ‘I wrote three chapters last night. And not once did I butcher the hero. I’m at the start of Chapter Four and he’s still alive and well with all his appendages intact.’
She heaves a sigh. ‘How depressing. I hoped you really were going to pivot into writing crime novels. You might try and hide it, but underneath that sweet romance writer persona lies a black heart, just like your favourite cousin.’
‘Who, Eloise?’
Manon gasps. ‘See, youareevil!’ Our cousin Eloise is rather elitist and doesn’t often have a kind word to say about anyone. Eloise is the child my uncle talked about in the group chat who demands a new wardrobe of designer label clothing every summer. Even though we’re adults now, our parents still expect us to attend gatherings at their family chateau on the outskirts of Lyon whenever we’re invited. Which is far too often for Manon’s liking.
‘Oh I don’t know, maybe we judged Eloise too harshly in the past. Shouldn’t we let bygones be bygones? Why don’t I invite her here for Christmas?’
With that, Manon takes it upon herself to tackle me like the lady she is not. When I finally disengage from her octopus-like hold, we’re on the floor, legs akimbo, hair a mess, breathing hard and laughing uncontrollably, when I glance up to see Noah standing there, hands in pockets, a look on his face that implies he’s been there for some time and still doesn’t know what to make of the scene before him.
‘A writer in her natural habitat, eh? I’ve always hoped to see one in the wild.’
I bite down on my lip in embarrassment. What must he think! Manon crash-tackling me to the floor, like she’s some kind of wrestler putting me in an arm bar. I wish I could say this didn’t happen often, but Manon often practises her jujitsu submissions on me. She’s shockingly strong, especially when she boa-constrictors herself around my poor body in her efforts to bend my limbs in unnatural ways until I’m forced to tap out.
‘Not so haughty now, is she?’ Manon teases, holding a hand to help me up. She keeps insisting I’m acting stiff and modulated around Noah, like a well-mannered robot; well, that just went out the window.
‘Can I help you, Noah?’ Best to pretend he hasn’t just witnessed two adult women fighting to the death, me to survive, Manon to win. I give him a wide smile that feels a little forced, but still.
Manon frowns and steps close, whispering, ‘What’s with the lockjaw?’
‘It’s my “nothing to see here” smile.’
‘Please don’t. Rethink that for everyone’s sake.’
Noah coughs and clears this throat. He probably heard what Manon said, but at this point can it really get any worse? ‘Iwondered if I could steal a moment of your time? I did some research into our mystery. If we could chat in’ – he darts a glance around the room – ‘the secret library?’
‘Sure, sure.’
Manon yawns. ‘So I guess I’m painting alone?’
‘Unless you can get JP to help, but last I saw of him he was still sleeping.’ Two can play at that game!
‘You little spy!’
29
7 DECEMBER
I open the door to the secret library and am once again assailed by the scent of the past, the vanilla smell of thick parchment and the earthiness of leatherbound books. Dappled wintry sun shines through the lace drapes, bathing the room in a sepia tone.
‘What have you found?’ I ask as Noah takes his position on the bed, and I sit at the leather chair.
‘I did some digging into published female French writers in the twenties and compiled a list of names for us to research. There’s a few we can rule out immediately like Colette, Anaïs Nin, Gertrude Stein…’ He rattles off a number of well-known female authors. ‘Because they were married or in relationships and published up until their deaths. However, there are a few that fell off the radar and who I haven’t been able to find many details for. It’s like they vanished. Of course, there could be various reasons for this: they settled into more maternal roles, gave up writing, moved away, or any number of legitimate reasons, and so the history books go blank at that point.’
‘Ooh, exciting to have a shortlist already though. Let me see.’
