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Back The Lollipop Shoes
Chapters (96)
  1. Cover
  2. About the Book
  3. The Lollipop Shoes
  4. Dedication
  5. ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
  6. PART ONE
  7. 1
  8. 2
  9. 3
  10. 4
  11. 5
  12. PART TWO
  13. 1
  14. 2
  15. 3
  16. 4
  17. 5
  18. 6
  19. 7
  20. 8
  21. PART THREE
  22. 1
  23. 2
  24. 3
  25. 4
  26. 5
  27. 6
  28. PART FOUR
  29. 1
  30. 2
  31. 3
  32. 4
  33. 5
  34. 6
  35. 7
  36. 8
  37. 9
  38. PART FIVE
  39. 1
  40. 2
  41. 3
  42. 4
  43. 5
  44. 6
  45. 7
  46. 8
  47. 9
  48. 10
  49. 11
  50. 12
  51. PART SIX
  52. 1
  53. 2
  54. 3
  55. 4
  56. 5
  57. 6
  58. 7
  59. 8
  60. 9
  61. 10
  62. 11
  63. 12
  64. PART SEVEN
  65. 1
  66. 2
  67. 3
  68. 4
  69. 5
  70. 6
  71. 7
  72. 8
  73. 9
  74. PART EIGHT
  75. 1
  76. 2
  77. 3
  78. 4
  79. 5
  80. 6
  81. 7
  82. 8
  83. 9
  84. 10
  85. 11
  86. 12
  87. 13
  88. 14
  89. 15
  90. 16
  91. 17
  92. 18
  93. 19
  94. Epilogue
  95. About the Author
  96. Also by Joanne Harris

He fixes Roux with a malevolent stare and says: ‘Who is she?’

‘She?’ says Roux.

Thierry crosses the room in three strides, clipping the Christmas tree in his path and scattering presents over the floor. He thrusts his white-bearded face towards Roux.

‘You know,’ he says. ‘Your accomplice. The one who helped you cash my cheque. The one the bank’s got on CCTV – and who by all accounts has ripped off more than one sucker in Paris this year—’

‘I don’t have an accomplice,’ says Roux. ‘I never cashed your—’

And now I can see something in his face, a dawning of something, but it’s too late.

Thierry grabs him by the arm. They’re so close now, reflections in a distorted mirror, Thierry wild-eyed, Roux very pale—

‘The police know all about her,’ Thierry says. ‘But they’ve never been so close before. She changes her name, see? Works alone. But this time she made a mistake. She hitched up with a loser like you. So who is she?’ He’s shouting now, his face as red as Santa’s own. He fixes Roux with his drunken glare. ‘Who the hell is Vianne Rocher?’

10

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Monday, 24th December
Christmas Eve. 10.55 p.m.

WELL, ISN’T THAT the million-dollar question?

Thierry is drunk. I can see that at once. He reeks of beer and cigar-smoke, which clings to his Santa Claus costume and that absurdly festive cotton-wool beard. Beneath it his colours are murky and threatening, but I can tell he’s in poor shape.

Across from him, Vianne is white as an ice statue, her mouth half-open, her eyes ablaze. She shakes her head in helpless denial. She knows Roux would not give her away; and Anouk is speechless, twice stricken, first by the touching little family scene she has glimpsed behind the kitchen door, second by this ugly intrusion when everything seemed so perfect at last—

‘Vianne Rocher?’ Her voice is blank.

‘That’s right,’ says Thierry. ‘Otherwise known as Françoise Lavery, Mercedes Desmoines, Emma Windsor, to name but a few—’

Behind her, I see Anouk recoil. One of those names has struck a chord. Does it matter? I think not. In fact, I think the game is mine—

He fixes her with that measuring stare. ‘He calls you Vianne.’ Of course, he means Roux.

Silently, she shakes her head.

‘You mean you’ve never heard that name?’

Once more she shakes her head, and oh!—

The look on her face as she sees the trap; sees how neatly she has been manoeuvred to this very point; understands how her only hope is to deny herself for the third time—