We'll meet again

It was one afternoon. I had been visiting the Baileys. I had come home a little earlier than usual. I sat down in the salon, thinking over my conversation with Janet. She had been telling me that the company had suggested that, because of the way things were going in Europe, it might be necessary for their staff in Paris to make a hasty exit.

"It is looking more and more grim," she said. "Things are really working up to a climax. Geoff says that it was inevitable after Hitler had taken Czechoslovakia. That really was the last straw. And now, all this talk of Lebensraum and his designs on Poland... I know he says he has no quarrel with Britain... unprepared as we are, Geoff thinks that if he sets foot in Poland we shall declare war.”

I have to confess that my own affairs concerned me so much that I had little thought to spare for those of Europe, which indicated how foolish I was, for Europe's troubles were those of us all.

However, that day I was early coming back, and as I sat in the salon the door opened and a woman, whom I had never seen before, walked into the room with the casual air of one who is very familiar with her surroundings.

She was attired in a peignoir merely, and her feet were bare. For a moment I thought I must be in the wrong house. Her long black hair hung loose; she had almond-shaped dark eyes, a pert retrousse nose with a short upper lip. She was tall and I could detect beneath her peignoir her full bosom and narrow hips. She was very attractive.

I had risen to my feet in amazement and then, immediately behind her, I saw Jacques.

He said casually: "Hello. You are back then. This is”

“Mimi?" I said.

"Mimi the model," she said. She had a very strong French accent.

"I am Dorabella," I stammered.

Her gaze flickered over me. I returned it, summing her up as coolly as she did me.

Then I said to myself: But it is natural that an artist's model should be in an artist's studio in a state of undress since she would have been posing for him.

"Dorabella has come from England," said Jacques.

He went to the cabinet and poured out wine.

I felt bewildered. I was asking myself what relationship there was between Jacques and Mimi. I really knew. But Jacques did not seem in the least embarrassed. Then I supposed he would not. That worldliness which I had once so much admired was obvious, but now I was less enchanted by it.

I tried to appear as nonchalant as they were.

"Mimi," I said lightly." 'They call me Mimi, but my name is Lucia."“

Mimi looked puzzled and Jacques said: "La Bohr.”

I went on. "I am Dorabella from Cos’ fan tune, and my sister is Violetta from La Traviata. You see, my mother was very interested in opera.”

Mimi nodded. "It is amusing, yes.”

"Very," said Jacques coolly, implying that it was not in the least so.

We sat there sipping our wine; they talked in French too rapid for me to follow all the time. I caught names of various people, some of whom I had met, but I could not really get the gist of their conversation.

Once or twice they turned to me and said something in English.

I finished the wine, set down my glass, and said I had something to do.

I guessed the relationship between them, and I was not quite sure how I felt about his infidelity. Being myself, my first consideration was what effect it would have on me.

What a position I was in! Here was I, alone in a strange country, having left my own in a manner which would make it difficult for me to return. We were on the brink of war. The man whom, in my absurd dreaming, I had imagined I would be with forever, had made it clear that he had never intended our liaison to be anything but a passing one.

What a fool I had been! Never in my worthless life had I been in such danger. In every other petty escapade my sister had been at hand to rescue me. Now she was mourning me for dead.

What should I do? Where should I turn?

As usual, one side of me sought to placate the other. She is only a model. Artists have their models. They are casual in their behavior.

Casual indeed... in their love affairs, slipping from one to the next, and the last one is as dead as the first one they ever had. This was the bohemian life which I had been so eager to sample. Oh, if only I could go back! But no... "The moving finger writes…” Well, it had written and where now? Oh, Violetta, why are you not here with me?

I must be careful. I must work out what I should do. Was I going to leave Jacques before he told me to go? Where could I go to? How?

Return to Caddington? Face Violetta, my parents? It was the only way.

They loved me. They would be happy to have me back. But how could I explain? And yet... what else? Think, I told myself. Don't rush into something as you usually do as you did into this. You have to do something. You can't go on here.

This is over... for him and for you. Thank your stars you are not in love with him any more than he is with you.

I would speak to him. I would ask him exactly what his relationship with mi was. How many others were there? I would be calm, practical.