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‘Oh… well,’ said Marianne, giving a shrug.
‘Don’t be so modest, madame,’ said Madame Duchanelle, a gleam in her green eyes as she smiled sweetly. ‘It must have been hard work spending so much time on your back.’
Gilbert gasped. ‘How dare you! She did no such thing!’
There was a sudden hush as all the diners turned to stare. There was a scrape of a chair as Busch turned towards them. His face, going from merry to wary in an instant, like a finger primed on a trigger.
Marianne, however, threw back her head and laughed. She touched Madame Duchanelle’s arm like they were the very best of friends. ‘Oh, you naughty thing. The only thing that hurt was my knees in scrubbing these floors. Don’t mind her, Gilbert, she is only teasing.’
Gilbert turned red, and Marianne flashed him a warning look, her face turning to marble.
He was reminded once again of that time he’d seen something else come over her face, when Busch had touched her and she’d flinched. Like a mask had slipped.
She bent to whisper something in the hairdresser’s ear, and then to Gilbert’s surprise the hairdresser laughed uproariously. There was another scrape of chair, as Busch settled back in his seat, and soon the officers had returned to their drinking and carousing. It was like nothing had happened. Except for the beacons of red that were the tips of Madame Duchanelle’s ears.
