0,99 €
Mehr erfahren.
- Herausgeber: WS
- Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
- Serie: The Saint-Maurice Mysteries
- Sprache: Englisch
A quiet Beaujolais village. A gruesome murder. What they need is… a pin-up photographer?
Don’t you hate it when a sexy young man shows up on your doorstep and wants to be your assistant? My criminal ex-husband’s nephew seems to think I need him. But even in this rural French village, my photography business is doing very well, thank you.
The moment he arrives, the village is overrun with poison pen letters, and the old postmistress turns up dead. I convince myself it’s a coincidence, until one of those nasty letters finds its way into my letterbox. Is my unwanted assistant as innocent as he seems, or has my past finally caught up with me?
If I turn a blind eye, who will prevent another murder?
Death by Naked Ladies is a clean cozy mystery with an amateur woman sleuth and a hint of romance. If you like your cozies with a good puzzle plot, start reading Death by Naked Ladies now!
Das E-Book können Sie in Legimi-Apps oder einer beliebigen App lesen, die das folgende Format unterstützen:
Seitenzahl: 302
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023
Ähnliche
Death by Naked Ladies
A Clean Cozy Mystery with a Bit of Ooh-la-la
Christa Bakker
A quiet Beaujolais village. A gruesome murder. What they need is... a pin-up photographer?
Don’t you hate it when a sexy young man shows up on your doorstep and wants to be your assistant? My criminal ex-husband’s nephew seems to think I need him. But even in this rural French village, my photography business is doing very well, thank you.
The moment he arrives, the village is overrun with poison pen letters, and the old postmistress turns up dead. I convince myself it’s a coincidence, until one of those nasty letters finds its way into my letterbox. Is my unwanted assistant as innocent as he seems, or has my past finally caught up with me?
If I turn a blind eye, who will prevent another murder?
Contents
Can I stay here?
The Harley stopped on my driveway just as I stepped outside to get my breakfast baguette. The loose leather jacket and closed helmet told me nothing about my daybreak visitor, drawing my eyes to the faded jeans stretched over his muscles. That was some pair of legs getting off that machine. He turned towards the house and lifted the helmet, freeing floppy gold locks that shimmered in the early morning sunlight.
My breath caught in my throat when I recognised him.
‘Thibault?’
He flashed me a smile that could dazzle the neighbours across the valley.
Oh. My. Lady. The nerdy seventeen-year-old had grown up since I last saw him. ‘You look good.’
‘Thanks. I wish I could say the same.’
Oh, it was him all right. My ex’s nephew, the spotted one in a family of black sheep. At least parts of him were decent. Though his name was Thibault, everyone called him Beau. It used to be sort of a teasing nickname, but apparently he’d grown into it.
‘What happened?’ I asked, gesturing up and down his body.
He grinned. ‘I figured out that life gets easier if you look like you can handle it.’
Did he now? ‘So what brings you here?’
He raked a hand through his hair and unzipped his jacket, trying to hide a flash of embarrassment. Then the dimples were back in place. ‘I escaped.’
Uh-oh. How old was he now? About ten years my junior, if I remembered correctly… Twenty-one. Hm. ‘So?’
‘So can I stay here?’
Like I didn’t see that one coming. He was a nice guy, but I wasn’t keen on renewing contact with my ex-in-laws. My hesitation broke his cool.
‘Look, Julie, I wouldn’t have come here if I had anywhere else to go. You’re the most normal person I know, even though you take pictures of people’s butts. Please?’
‘My photographs are vintage-style pin-ups. I call them art.’ The glint of sunlight on chrome caught my eye as I chewed the inside of my lip. ‘Is that a ’59 Harley-Davidson Duo-Glide?’
His face went suspicious. ‘Yyyeeeeees?’
‘If you let me use it in a shoot, you can stay the night.’
‘Two.’
I scrunched my eyes at him.
He held his palms up. ‘Come on, that’s my baby! And you’ve got to give me a fighting chance. Maybe I can help you out with something?’
I eyed him again, still not sure what to make of this. ‘Are those working muscles or gym muscles?’
With a mischievous smirk he grabbed me by the waist and lifted me above his head.
‘All right! All right, you can stay. Put me down!’ When I was back on my feet, I straightened my pencil skirt. ‘Idiot,’ I muttered. Still, he was a charming idiot. I wondered if he’d let me photograph him.
He shrugged and turned to pick up his backpack. On the back of his leather jacket was an embroidered emblem of the Beaujolais Bikers with his name, spelled T-Bo, across the top. A biker in my house. This was such a bad idea. Oblivious to my thoughts, Beau turned the lion’s head doorknob in the middle of the white wooden door and ambled into my personal – private – space. ‘Where do I sleep?’
I hurried after him and blocked his path before he could get past the kitchen. I did not want him getting comfortable here. ‘There’s a spare bedroom above my studio. I use it as a changing room if I have a group shoot. You’ – I waved my index finger at him, imitating the way I’d seen his mother do it – ‘are to vacate the room, if not the premises, when there are naked women around!’
He uttered a dramatic sigh, but then nodded. ‘Okay. Where is it?’
I marched him back outside and led the way along the high wall connecting the house with the large barn that now functioned as my studio. In the middle of that wall, a couple of huge wooden doors led to the courtyard created by the house’s L-shape. We could have gone through the kitchen and crossed the courtyard to my studio from there, but I wanted it to be quite clear that he was not to invade my life any more than absolutely necessary.
The main house retained its 1770s façade, but other than an enormous yellow stone fireplace and some cupboards built into the wall, nothing of the old farmhouse remained. Most of the houses in this part of the Beaujolais had enormous cellars with wine presses and tanks, but mine had been a farm all those centuries, not a winery. It did leave me with a big barn, though, and for my purposes, that was much more practical.
A new glass front door was the first thing I’d put in after my great-aunt had signed the property over to me. I had used all my savings to turn the barn into the glorious modern studio we were now entering, but that door was the crowning glory. Every time I opened it, it was as though I was opening the door to my new life. My studio had been finished only three months ago, but because it was made to my specific design, it felt as though it had always been a part of me. It just needed that door so I could open it up.
Most of the walls inside were white, to make the most of the light, but colourful forties and fifties memorabilia and props in strategic places added life to the space. The life of a Golden Age Hollywood movie star.
I still can’t believe how lucky I am to be doing this. Plenty of women love to be photographed as a fifties pin-up. Not the feathers-and-corsets kind, mind you. The whoops-did-my-skirt-just-fly-up kind. It’s not the shape or the size of the woman, it’s the sass. Every woman has that sass, and I love to draw it out and capture it with my camera.
As he entered my studio, Beau pointed out the collection of beautiful bottoms on the wall, both bountiful and more economically sized. ‘I like the variety.’
I shrugged. ‘I don’t like to discriminate. Everyone has a right to look pretty.’
‘As long as they pay you for it, huh?’
‘Girl’s gotta live. Do you want to stay here or not?’
He hurried along, passing my office on the left and the little kitchen area on the right, behind which an open spiral staircase led to the bedroom. Upstairs had the same white walls as my studio below, but in contrast to the polished concrete downstairs, the dark stained wooden floorboards lent this space a homey feel. Instead of buying more streamlined furniture, I’d decorated with some of the classic pieces my aunt had left behind. Most of my clients never saw this floor anyway. I only used it for larger groups so they could change together instead of having to cram into the small dressing area downstairs.
Thibault gave the place a short, appraising look and threw his backpack into a corner.
I folded my arms. ‘Will it do, your majesty?’
‘I’ll be gracious about it.’
I huffed. ‘Right. Bathroom through here…’
‘Oh good, plenty of room for all my creams and tonics.’
I glared at his tiny backpack but decided to let it pass. ‘Kitchen over here.’
‘That’s not a kitchen. The bathroom is bigger!’
‘You’ll only be here for two nights. Leave the gourmet meals until you find another kitchen to sleep in.’ I was beginning to wonder why I’d let him stay in the first place. Old time’s sake, I supposed.
He only grumbled a little at that, probably realising his situation did not allow him to antagonise me. An odd mix of sweet and sour emotions rolled over his face. ‘Thank you, Juju.’
I bit my lip, knowing full well why I’d let him in. He was a happy little puppy in a home full of mean old junkyard dogs. I could never have turned him away. But if his happy little puppy dog eyes got to me, he might not see the necessity of leaving my man-free sanctuary sooner rather than later.
‘Don’t mention it.’ I turned towards the stairs. ‘I was actually on my way to the boulangerie. Do you want something?’
‘I ate, thanks.’
As I descended the spiral stairs, he threw himself outstretched onto the sofa opposite the bed, rubbing his face with his hands. Escaped, huh? I was dying to know what that meant, but now clearly wasn’t the right time to ask. I always thought he was quite happy living with his mother, but then, I hadn’t talked to him in five years. He’d tell me what had happened in due time. Maybe nothing, maybe everything, but it was probably best that he’d left. Even with Franck out of the picture, that family was nothing but a bad influence. And they didn’t deal too well with curiosity…
Fancy coming here, though! He must really have had nowhere else to go. We hadn’t seen each other since before my divorce. I shuddered. Best to leave the past in the past for now. I’d have to revisit it soon enough if Beau would open up.
My stomach rumbled as I closed the door to the studio behind me. I’m not usually an early riser, but after waking at six I hadn’t been able to fall back asleep. I’d decided to get an early start on my paperwork. Since the bakery didn’t open until seven, I’d had to postpone breakfast. Even more with the unexpected arrival of Blondie. But he was now safely tucked away, and I was determined to continue with my regular day.
Golden-red vines rustling around me, I drank in the crisp morning air. Autumn really is the best time to be in the Beaujolais. I said hello to a gendarme crawling up a wall, but since that’s what we call a certain red and black beetle, he took no notice. Pulling my cardigan closer around me, I stepped on my still long shadow. Leaving this little village nine years ago had felt like a liberation, but returning to it after all that had happened was a true homecoming. The familiar smiles, the lack of noise apart from insects and bird song, the explosion of sweetness from a dark purple grape stolen off the vine – it all filled me with a warm sense of belonging.
Saint-Maurice was still the same. I don’t think I was. Thibault’s arrival had got me remembering my time in Villefranche. I had only been there for eight years. Eight looong years. No, that wasn’t fair. I’d loved it at first. When Franck was still fun. But he’d messed with my head and my life enough that it took me a long time, even after I’d got back in touch with people from my old life, to accept my great-aunt’s offer and return to Saint-Maurice. I’d lived in limbo for months while they were working on my studio, coming over in every free hour from Villefranche, a ten-minute drive away. With the completion of my beloved studio, I’d gladly said farewell to Villefranche to return to a village where I both did and did not belong. But this? This countryside, this view? Oh, they were more than part of me. They were all of me.
My aunt’s – my – house was located just outside the village, on a gorgeous plot of land on the sunny side of a valley, surrounded by vineyards. This past summer, I had my clients take their pictures in or beside the little stream that ran across the valley. With the foliage overhead, it was often cooler than the pool I’d secretly put in behind the house. I was still waiting for my brother to blab about that to my aunt. She’d never expressly forbidden its construction, but we all knew she saw pools as new-money status symbols. She – and other relatives – had already said plenty about what I do for a living and how it might soil the family name. Strangely, the mumblings had died down somewhat now that my weirdness had been confined to the village. Maybe they thought they could keep an eye on me here. Or maybe my weirdness simply stood out less among those of the other inhabitants they knew so well.
I smiled and stopped for a moment, taking in the view. The Saône valley stretched out to my right. On a clear day, you could see all the way to Mont Blanc from here. I took another deep breath. I should have brought my camera along – the light was perfect. I squeezed one eye closed as I looked for the right framing of the valley behind my house. Cascading trees on the left, excellent. And the gravel road on the right led the eye straight to… Yuck. Auguste’s out-of-use wine tanks – concrete and rusted metal cubes of more than a man’s height – were bang in the middle of my composition. I tried moving around a little, but he’d dumped the old cuves exactly where they would not be hidden by some well-placed bushes or an overhanging branch. Not even the brambles growing over them would hide them completely.
I stomped my foot on the ground. It was the response of a three-year-old, I knew, but somehow it always calmed me down when there was nothing I could do about whatever was bothering me at the time, and I’d have to let it go. So I turned, rinsed my neighbour’s unsightly cuves from my brain, and continued my walk.
‘Bonjour, madame. Going for a baguette?’ Monsieur Durand, my neighbour’s neighbour, joined me at the end of his lane and gave me his precise smile. Not too friendly, not too distant. Everything about Monsieur Durand was just so. The way he dressed was not too formal, not too casual. His hair was not too stylish, not too old-fashioned. Even his face was not too handsome, not too ugly. He kept everything well under control. I wished him good morning and addressed the issue of the baguette.
‘I might as well. See if there’s any new gossip about.’
Monsieur Durand lifted an eyebrow. ‘I wouldn’t have thought you the type.’
‘I shouldn’t, really. But these village people are just so fascinating. You never know if Marilène will wash those curtains or not. And what if Jean-Baptiste suddenly changes his favourite brand of cigarette?’
He chuckled. ‘I see. Life in the city has left you snobbish about us simple country folk.’
‘Naturally.’ I snorted. Though I liked making fun of village life, there was a reason I’d moved back to it. Village gossip might not be important in the grand scheme of things, but it was mostly innocent and brought a sense of community. The Durands had moved in only a few years ago, after living in Villefranche all their lives. You could live here for twenty years and still be the newcomer, but they’d soon felt at home. All this according to my mother, of course. I hadn’t been here to see it, but she was the mayoress. She was supposed to know. At least, again, according to her. Well, what would you expect in a village of less than twelve hundred people?
So whether or not the Durands counted as simple country folk was not my decision to make. Whenever I met Madame Laura Durand in the street, she’d always stop to ask how I was and showed genuine interest in the titbits I offered. But she’d get fidgety after the first few sentences, shuffling her feet and looking down the road to whatever event she was supposedly late for. She was a sweet and soft-spoken woman with a body you could squeeze through a letterbox, and I had the feeling we’d quite like each other if she’d give me the chance. One of these days I’d trick her into having an actual conversation.
As we passed the first houses built in the golden yellow stone that had earned the region its name of Les Pierres Dorées, Monsieur Durand did seem to fit in, though. He strolled along the narrow asphalted pavement, greeting early risers here and there. The council gardeners had parked their water tank on the pavement to tend to the planters that lined the village square, and as we moved around it, Monsieur Durand greeted them by name. My stomach tingled with a hint of jealousy, though I told myself it was hunger. Even before I moved to Villefranche, I’d never known the gardeners’ names. I made sure to remember them now. The sturdy, grey-haired one, André. The thin, brown-haired one, Tino.
Across from the church that had always been too big for the size of the congregation, the boulangerie overlooked the square, wedged in between the hairdresser’s and the butcher’s. The ancient wooden beam across the front of the building showed in faded letters the name of the baker’s grandfather, along with some of the goodies he’d offered. The same things still on offer today, naturally. Though it was only seven thirty in the morning, we weren’t the first customers. Celine, the baker’s daughter, was serving an elderly lady with the sweet smile that never seemed to leave her face. I let Monsieur Durand go first while I fought the urge to buy one of those delicious almond croissants. I won, but only barely.
‘Madame Belmain here was hoping for some juicy news,’ Monsieur Durand announced, handing over the euro twenty-five for his flûte.
Celine threw me a sideways glance. ‘This is the bakery. You need the butcher’s. But they don’t open until eight.’
We all laughed politely as Monsieur Durand wished us a good day and left.
‘The butcher’s doesn’t open until eight? Celine, this is news to me. They must have changed their schedule.’
Celine opened her eyes wide. ‘Oh yes. In 1943, I believe.’ She slid a baguette in a bag for me. ‘Oh, now you’ve got me going. I don’t even mean it. And I don’t believe you do, either. Those few years in the city haven’t made you that blasé.’
I tapped my bank card against the machine. ‘Honestly, the level of predictability is what drew me back here. No surprises, what you see is what you get. It’s a dream.’
Her smile grew wider. ‘Enjoy your dream today, Julie.’
The bell over the door jingled when I left with a little wave to Celine.
I shouldn’t have, really, but the fresh baguette smelled so good that I ripped off a piece and munched on it on the way back, hoping no one would spot me making this unforgivable transgression of food etiquette. The rising sun promised another glorious autumn day. It probably wouldn’t be warm enough for a poolside shoot, but I’d have plenty of warm, natural light in my pictures.
The road leading from the village past my house was not one of the main ones to Villefranche, making it easier to walk alongside it. Passing my brother’s house on the right, I came to Auguste’s vineyards sloping downward from me on the left. Auguste’s land bordered mine, though it enveloped a little plot that held the house belonging to my direct neighbours, the Durands. All three buildings were made of the region’s yellow stone, giving them a warm glow even on a grey day, but in direct sunshine, like today, the houses seemed positively edible.
Laura Durand, wrapped as always in several knitted shawls, pulled the front door closed behind her as I passed their property. ‘Bonjour!’
My greeting startled her, but she recovered with a nervous smile and gave me a finger wave. This was not an unusual reaction, but after my earlier musings, I decided it was time to put my resolution into action and have an actual conversation, whether Laura was ready for it or not.
‘Lovely day, isn’t it?’
She fumbled with her keys. ‘Yes… yes.’
I cursed myself for my clumsy opening. Asking generic questions would produce the same casual small talk I got from everyone else in the village. Strangely, the conversations I had with my clients were often more profound than the ones I had with my neighbours. There’s something about standing around in frilly granny pants that makes people pass the chitchat stage pretty quickly. The things some people tell me, though, I’d rather not know. ‘I love being outside when it’s like this. Any special plans for the day?’
‘I was just on my way to see Madame Braymand.’
Now that was unusual. Madame Braymand, also known to the locals as La Mademoiselle, lived on her own on the other side of the village and, as far as I knew, had no friends, nor did she want anything to do with anyone else. She was my mother’s age, or slightly older, and used to run the post office in the village before they closed it.
‘Oh? I didn’t know you were friends.’
Her laugh was no more than a puff of air, and paired with the frown, it did not sound joyful at all. ‘I wouldn’t call us friends per se.’ She paused, and ordinarily I would have taken the awkward cue and made my goodbyes, but by now I was determined to have that talk. ‘She doesn’t have many friends.’ Another pause, during which I wondered where this was going. Why would you visit someone you don’t seem to like? ‘I felt… that someone should do something. About her. About her loneliness. You know?’ She looked me in the eye. ‘You know.’
And just like that, without even saying much, we’d made a connection. I nodded.
Laura finally relaxed a little. ‘It’s difficult, isn’t it? They all have their own little cliques, the friends they’ve had for years. If you’re not in, you’re… out.’
I nodded again. My homecoming had felt like that. Same home, different occupants. Or different me, more accurately. Was I in – or out?
‘So I go to her to… sort of… stick together.’ Some of her agitation returned when she glanced back at the house. ‘Anyway, I should go. I’d better get back before Pierre misses me. It was lovely to see you again.’
Wait! We’d only just started our Actual Conversation. But she’d already turned towards the village.
‘If you’d like to come over for an apéro some time?’ It had been years since I’d hosted an apéro, a meal at the end of the day consisting of snack-like bites and drinks, but now was as good a time as any to get back in the habit.
She turned with a watery smile. ‘Thank you, no. My husband gets anxious around people.’
The man that had said hello to everyone we met on the way?
Laura had continued on her way but slowed down after a few steps and turned back towards me. ‘Though… you said you like to be outside? I do go for walks… If you’d want to join me?’
I smiled my broadest smile. ‘I’d like that.’
She gave a short nod, pulling on her shawls. ‘Nature is good. Nature won’t… bother you. I’d better go.’
And with that, she was off. I stared after her, not knowing what to make of our conversation but feeling like I might have just made a slightly odd friend. I wondered what else this day would bring.
But it’s not even lunchtime
Half an hour later it was time to see what use I could make of my uninvited guest. His bike would allow me to try out some new poses, but I wasn’t sure where or how to position it for the best lighting and background. The floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the garden let in a lot of the morning sun. I might even have to diffuse it with the net curtains I used as a scrim. But if I moved the sofa out of the way, I’d at least have enough space. Whether the bike would work against the flowing white curtains… As I made my way through my studio to the stairs, I considered several other corners of it, but none of them seemed to fit a giant motorcycle.
I halted at the bottom of the staircase and called up. ‘Thibault?’
‘Come on up.’
‘Time to show me what you’re made of.’
He waited until I’d climbed the stairs far enough to see him lift his T-shirt. ‘Okay.’
‘Put that away, you idiot!’ Great, now I was blushing. Over a kid! He’d better not get any ideas. ‘I don’t need to see that. Unless…’ Let’s see what he’d make of this. ‘I can use you for the shoot?’
The T-shirt dropped back down. ‘The deal was for my bike.’
Good, situation under control. ‘Certainly. So come help me find a good place for it. My client will be here at ten, and I still need to set up the lighting around it. But I won’t need you after that.’
He made a face, which annoyed me. He was the one asking me for a favour; he had no right being grumpy about it.
‘I know you want to keep an eye on your bike, but this client is one of the more anxious ones. Most get over their hesitation after their initial consultation, but this one was still a little nervous, so I’m not sure how she’ll feel about you hanging around.’
‘Don’t worry, I’m good with nervous women.’ He winked at me.
‘Thibault…’ I groaned.
‘What? It’s the one thing I do well. I make women feel good.’
‘Ugh.’ I shook my head, not even wanting to waste words on this.
‘Trust me, mon poussin,’ he said as he came down the stairs, forcing me backwards.
‘I am not your chickie,’ I protested, but he only laughed.
The bike had better be worth these two days. I made a mental note to ask my client if she would mind a man present at the shoot, and to give Beau a good scowling if he showed when she didn’t want him to. My face apparently thought that was a good idea because I found myself scowling at him already.
Making an effort not to be a premature scowler, I pointed at the corner near the back windows. ‘Maybe there?’
He wrinkled his nose. ‘This place is too white and frilly. Don’t you have a garage or something? Or a barn?’
‘This is the barn.’ I tapped my lip. I’d spent most of my start-up money converting the place and getting rid of as much “authentic” stuff as I could afford. White and frilly was just right for most of my shots, and the rest I shot in the garden, which was also sculpted and manicured into photographic perfection. And now I had to go and bring a man-thing in. Maybe I should just forget about shooting that Harley. But it was rather gorgeous. And it suited my style so well. A simple monochrome backdrop? I could put up a background screen in the garden. That would give me the benefit of the light, but the solid colour might take away from my style.
The sound of Beau’s bike made me turn to the side door. He’d gone outside and opened the big wooden doors in the wall linking my house to the studio. From that wall, a slanted roof extended over part of the courtyard, where Beau now parked his Harley. He was right. The bike did not fit in among my white studio furniture. But when he pushed the doors shut, the roofed entrance to the courtyard provided the perfect background. The baby blue paint on the bike contrasted beautifully with the dirty red gravel and the greyish bare wood of the ancient doors.
I believe I may have performed an excited hop, possibly accompanied by a little clap. Though I don’t remember doing so, Beau’s smug smile said it all.
Straightening my face, I smoothed down my skirt. ‘Can you help me take out some reflectors, and probably a scrim, please?’
As expected, Maile’s beautiful form appeared at ten to client time. I still couldn’t believe my luck in having found her. She looked as if she’d walked straight out of an Elvis-in-Hawaii film: plump red lips, black hair hanging in waves over her shoulders, always wearing bright, flowery pencil skirts over her gorgeous curves. She made all her own clothes and was responsible for most of the items in my wardrobe, both my professional and my private one. The mix of Dior’s New Look and rockabilly might not be all that fashionable in France right now, but a pencil skirt looks great on figures that don’t actually resemble a pencil. And my love of chocolate chip cookies would always set me apart from the standard French figure.
On top of that, she was a magician with make-up, cutting down significantly on my editing time. Everyone can look pretty, but some people require more assistance to feel pretty. Maile had a gift for making women feel at ease and bringing out their confidence, something I had first-hand experience with. Only after I’d told Maile all about my history did I find out she was married to Thibault’s best friend Gío, who owned the motorcycle shop in Villefranche that they lived above. She’d felt obliged to tell me that, but never mentioned anything to do with Beau or his family afterwards. Today, however, I might press her on that subject.
‘Hi, Juju. What’s on the menu for this one?’
‘I wanted to start off with “Swing It” and maybe “Hold the Phone” or “Hooked”. But I also have Thibault’s Harley to work with, so maybe—’
‘Beau lent you his bike?’ Maile looked shocked, which I thought was odd – I’d expected her to know all about Beau’s ‘escape’.
‘No, I traded the use of it for letting him stay here.’ When that didn’t clear up the confusion on her face, I narrowed my eyes. Clearly, I was not the last person he’d asked for help. If Thibault hadn’t appeared at the top of the stairs, I would have shared my concern with her. Now it would have to wait. ‘Never mind. I’ll need a red dress to complement the baby blue. But I’ll have to experiment with poses.’
When Beau joined us, Maile sent him a bunch of unsubtly questioning looks. His eyes flicked from her to me and back, and he held his palms up.
I sighed. ‘Would you two like me to leave you alone?’
Maile reddened and disappeared to the dressing room. Beau gave me the same palms-up gesture.
I held up my mother finger. ‘I’m on to you. Stay out of sight.’
So of course he stood next to me when my client walked in, looking even more nervous than before. She was forty-four and hoping to surprise her husband with some cheeky pictures of herself because, in her words, he thought her sexier than she thought herself. I was here to remedy that, although she didn’t know it yet.
‘Agathe, good to see you. This is Thibault, my assistant.’
Beau shook her hand with no more than a warm smile. So far so good.
‘Don’t worry, though. I will absolutely send him away if you’d prefer a girls-only shoot.’ When she sized him up, not giving me a yes or no, I added, ‘At any time.’
I talked her through the poses I’d selected for her, which she agreed with, and by the time she went in to Maile, she’d calmed considerably. We’d do the motorcycle shots first, so that if Agathe wanted Beau gone after all, he wouldn’t have to worry about his precious bike. But when I came to collect her from Maile, I found a changed woman.
‘Look how pretty I am!’ She beamed at me.
I smiled. ‘I know. That’s what your husband sees all the time.’
She said nothing but turned back to the mirror. Mission accomplished. I mouthed ‘good work’ to Maile, and got Agathe out of there before she could tear up and ruin her make-up. Beau was waiting outside, giving Agathe a wolf whistle when he saw her. She giggled, but then some of the worry returned to her face.
‘What if all this doesn’t come through in the pictures?’
I wanted to reassure her, but Beau stepped in. ‘You don’t need to worry about that. You are shining today.’ He gave her an intense look that would have made me shiver if it weren’t for his smile. Agathe didn’t seem certain what to make of him either, judging by the nervous laugh that escaped. I’d better make this quick.
‘Agathe, can you get on the motorcycle, please?’
She touched the saddle, but made no attempt to get on. ‘Is it yours?’ she asked Beau.
He smirked. ‘Yes, so you’d better take good care of her. Here, let me help you. Lift your leg. Other leg, ma chèvre.’
I froze. What was he doing? You don’t call a woman twice your age your goat! Agathe blinked twice, then burst out laughing. Somehow, Beau had broken the ice, and everything went smoothly from then on. She didn’t send him away and talked animatedly about her children and her husband, and how she’d thought about doing this shoot for a very long time before giving in.
The red dress with cap sleeves was the perfect colour for her, and the puffy petticoat gave her a floaty appearance, enhanced by the fact that she kept playing with it. Most women aren’t used to having a wide skirt any more, so when they lower their hands and encounter their skirt, the playing comes naturally. I gave her a wrench and told her to sit beside the motorcycle. ‘Turn this way and bend your right knee. No, leave the skirt. It’s supposed to show your garter, remember?’
