Belle - Lesley Pearse [163]
A bony, stoop-shouldered woman came through a door by the staircase. Her grimace was presumably the nearest she could get to a smile. Belle asked for a room, holding up one finger to signify it was for one person. The woman nodded and said fifty centimes.
That sounded cheap enough to Belle, so she agreed and was handed a key attached to a six-inch-long piece of metal, then the woman beckoned her to follow and led the way up to the fourth floor. She opened a door and Belle went in. It was a small room, the furniture and rug on the floor old, but it looked and smelled clean.
‘Thank you,’ Belle said. ‘It’s fine.’ She was too tired now even to try to think what the French for that would be.
The woman gave her a hard look. ‘No visitors,’ she said in English. ‘Two nights in advance. One franc, if you please.’
Belle blushed, assuming the woman knew what she was. But as she got her purse out she realized the woman was suspicious of her only because she had no luggage.
‘I had my suitcase stolen,’ she lied. ‘Tomorrow I must buy new clothes.’
The woman nodded, but her face remained stern. ‘Petit déjeuner de sept à neuf.’
Belle understood the words for breakfast but not the rest. ‘Which hour?’ she asked, holding up her fingers.
‘Seven until nine,’ the woman said curtly. ‘Salle de bain dans le couloir.’ Then she walked out, shutting the door behind her.
Belle assumed that meant the bathroom was down the corridor. She prodded the bed. It was hard and almost certainly lumpy, but she resisted the urge to cry. Instead, she thought how good the meal she’d just eaten was, congratulated herself on finding a room, and told herself that everything would look better in the morning.
Belle woke at the sound of people in the passage outside her room. She knelt up in bed and pulled the curtain back a little. The sky was getting light, so she guessed it to be around seven-thirty, but there was no view, just the houses opposite which looked much the same as those on her side of the street.
She had slept well. The bed had been surprisingly comfortable, the sheets had smelled of lavender and the blankets and eiderdown were very warm. She put her coat over the camisole she’d slept in, picked up the very thin towel folded on the chair, and went to find the bathroom.
The bathroom was very clean, though very cold, and the water was cold too. But she took off her camisole, stood in the bath and washed herself all over. She wished she had a toothbrush as her mouth tasted nasty.
Fifteen minutes later Belle went down to the dining room. To her surprise it was an unexpectedly warm and inviting room painted bright yellow. The tablecloths on the six tables were blue check, and a stove was blazing away. She took the empty table closest to the stove, wrapping her coat tightly round her so her evening dress couldn’t be seen. There were two couples eating, and one man alone who was reading a newspaper. He glanced at Belle and half smiled.
The woman from the night before came in shortly after Belle had sat down, carrying a tray. This was the breakfast, a pot of coffee, a jug of milk, some croissants in a basket, butter and jam. The woman wasn’t as old as Belle had thought the previous night, probably only in her thirties, but she made no effort with her appearance. Her worn black dress fitted where it touched her and her hair was in such a tight bun that it looked as though she’d painted her head a dull brown. She also had a black and white checked scarf tied around her neck which looked very odd, almost as if it was hiding something on her neck. The previous evening she’d worn one too, but that had been plain black and less obvious.
There was nothing at all about the woman to suggest Belle had anything in common with her, but she couldn’t resist attempting to befriend her, if only to discover who painted the pictures in the hall.
As she put the breakfast on the table Belle smiled at her.