Meet Me in Monaco Read online

  Frontispiece

  Publicity shot of Grace Kelly during her time at MGM.

  Dedication

  For Grace

  Epigraph

  The idea of my life as a fairy tale is itself a fairy tale.

  —PRINCESS GRACE OF MONACO

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Frontispiece

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Part One: Head Notes

  1. Sophie

  2. James

  3. Sophie

  4. James

  5. Sophie

  6. James

  7. Sophie

  8. James

  9. Sophie

  10. James

  11. James

  12. Sophie

  13. James

  14. Sophie

  15. Sophie

  16. James

  17. Sophie

  18. Sophie

  Part Two: Heart Notes

  19. James

  20. Sophie

  21. Sophie

  22. James

  23. Sophie

  24. James

  25. Sophie

  26. James

  27. Sophie

  28. James

  29. Sophie

  30. James

  31. Sophie

  32. James

  33. Sophie

  34. James

  35. Sophie

  36. James

  37. James

  38. Sophie

  39. Sophie

  40. James

  41. Sophie

  42. James

  43. Sophie

  44. James

  45. Sophie

  Part Three: Base Notes

  46. Sophie

  47. James

  48. Sophie

  Acknowledgments

  P.S. Insights, Interviews & More . . .*

  About the Authors

  About the Book

  Praise for the Work of Hazel Gaynor and Heather Webb

  Also by Hazel Gaynor and Heather Webb

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Part One

  Head Notes

  The initial impression of a perfume; the notes that greet the nose immediately and evaporate quickly.

  YES SHE CANNES!

  * * *

  Grace Kelly attends her first film festival.

  Angeline West reports for the Herald.

  May 1955

  Following her recent controversial suspension from MGM Studios after refusing to make the picture Tribute to a Bad Man, Grace Kelly has had an interesting couple of months. But a surprise Oscar win for her role in The Country Girl returned her to the MGM studio executives’ favor, and Miss Kelly was the undisputed Queen of Hollywood once more as she arrived in Cannes as part of a special American delegation for the eighth annual film festival.

  Dressed in a demure two-piece suit, wearing her trademark white gloves, and carrying her favored Hermès handbag, Miss Kelly was first greeted by a swarm of international photographers and adoring fans in Nice as she alighted from the overnight train from Paris. Despite looking a little weary after her long journey, she smiled happily for the cameras and patiently signed autographs in the warm May sunshine.

  In addition to a hectic schedule of formal galas and premieres at the festival, Miss Kelly said she hopes to manage a little sightseeing while on the stunning Côte d’Azur.

  Stunning is the right word for Miss Kelly. Hollywood’s brightest star already has Cannes, and this reporter, completely dazzled.

  1

  Sophie

  Cannes

  May 1955

  Each scent holds a mystery, its own story. That was the first lesson Papa taught me. “To be a parfumeur is to be a detective, Sophie,” he’d say, bent in deep concentration over the mixing tube with a dropper of perfume oil. He would mix the solvent and sniff, mix and sniff, until he was satisfied. Only then would he soak a mouillette, a narrow strip of paper, and hand it to me. “What do you see?” he’d ask.

  Because that was the real question: where the scent took me. I would inhale and be whisked away in an instant. A touch of jasmine hinted at carefree days in the sun. Woodsmoke conjured a cool autumn night and rich cassoulet for supper. Dry earth evoked our home in Grasse: a stone farmhouse surrounded by sunflower and lavender fields, windows standing open to wash the rooms with fresh air. I could almost taste the dust from the parched earth on my tongue as I fell into a memory of paper with smudged ink—the telegram announcing my father’s death.

  Papa’s nature wasn’t suited for war; part scientist, part artist, he was a gentle man who loved nothing more than the fragrant fields of Provence and the bounty they provided for his parfums. The day he left us to join the fight against the Nazis, I was a young girl just blossoming into womanhood and the lavender was in full bloom, painting the hillsides in shades of purple and blue. It was the last time I saw him, a silhouette against the sun-soaked horizon. That was the day Maman took over the finances of the family business, and the day I first understood that life did not always work out the way you wanted it to.

  The death notification arrived the following spring, along with Papa’s papers and personal effects. Dirt, blood, fear. The scent of a life so cruelly lost. Like all scents, it imprinted itself on my memory, and that was where I kept him now. A memory. An unanswered question of what might have been.

  I sighed as I corked a small glass bottle and returned it to its place on the tray in my office. Nearly closing time, I stood and stretched, rolled my head from side to side to release a crick in my aching neck. I spent most of my time working on new scent combinations or overseeing the three perfumers who assisted me in my workshop in Grasse; they developed commercial scents to be sold to detergent companies, while I created fine parfums. That was my specialty: luxury fragrances. I blew out a tired breath. I wished I were in Grasse now.

  During the tourist season, Papa had always insisted I accompany him to our little boutique overlooking the waterfront in Cannes. He wanted me to be the face of Duval one day, teaching me how important it was to mingle with our clients. Despite his humble background, he found it easy to make polite conversation with the wealthy tourists who came and went each year. I felt more at home among the hundreds of vials in our workshop, or rooting through the fields beneath the vast southern skies to track a new scent, but that shy child now found herself running the business. I played the part of confident socialite quite well, when necessary. I had to. I couldn’t bear the thought of disappointing Papa.

  I’d spent the last two weeks in Cannes at my apartment in the old medieval quarter of Le Suquet and the boutique. I’d remain in the city until the end of August, making occasional trips to the workshop in Grasse to check on things there. Mostly to check on Maman. A bitter taste flooded my mouth at the thought of her. I would have to visit her sooner or later. And I couldn’t help but hope this time would be different, that I’d find her happy and healthy and not slumped over a half-empty bottle. I’d been hoping for the same thing for as long as I could remember.

  “Natalie, could you check the shelves, please?” I called as I grabbed the keys and locked the door that separated the front of the shop from the office at the back. “It’s nearly closing time.” My feet ached from new shoes. My head ached from trying to conjure a new scent.

  “We did well today,” Natalie said. She brushed a long strand of lightly silvered hair behind her ear. “Thank goodness for wealthy movie stars. I can’t believe I met Bernard Blier! He bought three bottles for the woman on his arm. She was exquisite.”

  I smiled at her enthusiasm. “So you said.”

  Natalie Buzay was beautiful, elegant, and warm. Everything my mother was not.
Natalie took great pride in her work and the shop, and it showed in all that she did. I was grateful for her dependable presence; she’d known my father well and he’d entrusted the shop to her while he worked in Grasse the rest of the year. She was an excellent saleswoman, and enjoyed meeting the occasional Hollywood star and the affluent tourists that visited the shop. Though I enjoyed watching old movies with my elderly neighbor in Grasse, Madame Clouet, fame and wealth didn’t impress me. My heroes worked at the great perfume houses: Guerlain, Fragonard, and Molinard.

  “It’s a shame you’d already left for lunch,” Natalie remarked as she combed the rows of glass shelves, moving bottles a fraction to the left or right, wiping away invisible dust. Everything just so. “You always seem to miss the really big names.”

  “Yes, such a shame,” I mumbled as I sifted through the register, pulling notes from the drawer and placing them into a zippered bank bag.

  It had been a long week and I was ready to get home, sit on the balcony, and read a book over a glass of wine. I glanced at my wristwatch, hoping it would read six o’clock. I frowned. We had a quarter of an hour until closing.

  As if on cue, the front door opened, bringing a fresh sea breeze rushing inside. My circle skirt billowed around my calves and a swathe of dark curls blew across my face. I grumbled under my breath, annoyed by the way the wind always twisted my hair into knots.

  A tall, slim woman in pink Capri pants and a crisp white blouse closed the door behind her. Large dark sunglasses and a colorful headscarf concealed most of her face. “That’s some breeze! It reminds me a little of California,” she remarked, moving quickly to the far corner of the shop, away from the windows.

  I noted the woman’s elegance and soft American accent. Another tourist.

  “Good afternoon, madame.” Natalie jumped into action, switching easily into her heavily accented English. Working in a town that attracted so many tourists meant having a good grasp of the English language. Papa had been quite firm about this. “May I help you find something in particular?” she prompted. “We have a divine new perfume we’ve just developed. Printemps. Springtime. It’s very popular with the Americans.”

  “I’ll just take a look around first, thank you.” The woman picked up a bottle, turned it over, and placed it back on the shelf without even smelling a sample. She picked up another and did the same before throwing an anxious look over her shoulder, toward the door.

  I studied her from behind the counter. She hadn’t removed her sunglasses, and her behavior was a little odd, as if she were hiding from someone. Her clothes were pristine. A Hermès handbag hung from her arm. A few strands of blond hair had escaped from the headscarf and fell around her temples. Upon closer inspection, she appeared to be breathing hard.

  “Madame, can I help you?” I offered, stepping forward.

  She flinched and turned. Giving me a shy smile, she approached the counter. A cloud of vanilla and lilac enveloped me. A sugary perfume with a heavy floral bouquet and vanilla base note. It didn’t quite suit her.

  Finally, she removed her sunglasses. “Yes, you can help me, actually. If you would be so kind.”

  My reply stuck in my throat. Eyes the color of the Mediterranean looked back at me as I stared at her creamy skin and strong, straight nose, her perfectly sculpted lips and cheekbones—I knew that elegant face. I’d seen it a dozen times on the covers of magazines. I’d seen it on the big screen. She was a favorite of Madame Clouet.

  “Grace Kelly,” I whispered.

  Natalie stood dumbstruck, her feather duster poised in midair.

  “Yes,” Miss Kelly replied with a slight smile, casting another nervous glance over her shoulder. “I’m Grace.” She held out a white-gloved hand. “Hello!”

  I took her hand, thinking how American her greeting was, but I couldn’t make my lips move to say anything in reply. The one Hollywood star I knew something about, the most beautiful and famous woman in the world, was standing in front of me. In my boutique.

  “You were going to help me?” Grace prompted, sweetly.

  I cleared my throat. “Yes, of course. How can I . . . what can I do for you, Mademoiselle Kelly?”

  “Please, call me Grace.”

  I noted the sincerity in her voice, and despite my racing pulse, managed a smile. “Of course. What can I do for you? Grace.”

  She leaned closer as if to divulge a secret. “I’m being followed by a photographer. He’s terribly persistent. I thought I’d given him the slip, but he reappeared on the promenade. I ducked behind a palm tree and raced across the street, and, well, here I am. It sounds like a scene from a movie, doesn’t it?” Relief and annoyance warred in her eyes. “I think I’ve lost him, but is there another exit from your store? Just in case? They can be terribly persistent. The British are the worst.”

  I nodded. “There’s an exit through the back, but it’s very close to the street. He might see you.” She looked a little disappointed. “Perhaps if you wait in my office for a few minutes, he’ll be on his way and you can duck out then,” I suggested. “Will that do?”

  “Oh yes. Thank you.” She touched my hand. “Thank you so much. I only wanted to take a walk through this beautiful town, and along La Croisette. It’s so fresh beside the water. I wanted to escape the madness of the festival for a few hours. I suppose I was silly to hope for such a thing.”

  There was something a little melancholy in her tone, a childlike vulnerability I didn’t expect from someone in her position.

  “Can we perhaps interest you in trying a new perfume, Mademoiselle Kelly?” Natalie offered, sliding behind the counter with her usual easy charm.

  Though her tone was professional, I knew what she was up to, and shot her a warning look. She wanted to gossip with her friends about how she’d sold perfume to Grace Kelly, but now was not the time to play saleswoman.

  “Perhaps another time, Natalie,” I interjected. “Please, Grace, follow me.”

  I fished the keys from my handbag and flipped through them to find the right one. I tried to ignore my excitement and nerves, while the strong fragrance Grace wore irritated my nose. Vanilla was a bold scent, generic but comforting, reminding many of home. But it also covered deep insecurities. Papa used to say that those who wore a bold scent might have a large personality on the surface but often longed for approval.

  “To be a parfumeur is to be a psychologist.” That was the second lesson Papa taught me. He said that everyone had deeply hidden insecurities, and that many people wished to be something more than they were. Our job as parfumeurs was to uncover what that something more was and make it for them. Papa was extraordinarily good at guessing secrets, but I couldn’t help wondering if he was wrong about vanilla. At least this time. I doubted the mighty Grace Kelly had any insecurities.

  “Why don’t you allow me, Sophie?” Natalie offered. “I’d be happy to show Miss Kelly to the cozy chaise in your office. I know you like to do a quick inventory of the shelves before you leave.”

  Though I’d have liked to spend more time with Miss Kelly, I couldn’t very well argue with Natalie without looking foolish.

  Grace held out her hand to me. “Merci, Sophie, is it?”

  I nodded. “Sophie Duval.”

  Her eyes lit up in a smile. “Ah. Duval. You’re the owner?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, thank you again, Sophie. I won’t forget your kindness.”

  “I hope you might return to our shop under better circumstances, one day.”

  “I’d like that very much,” she said, her blue eyes twinkling.

  As Natalie escorted Miss Kelly to the office, the front door opened again. A very tall man peered inside. He lingered on the doorstep, half in and half out of the shop. He wore an old-fashioned Homburg hat and a shabby leather jacket, clearly underdressed for the Riviera. I noticed a camera hung from a strap against his chest. It had to be the photographer chasing Miss Kelly. I took an instant dislike to him.

  “Pardon me, monsieur, we are j
ust closing.” I didn’t bother to hide the irritation from my voice. “We open again tomorrow at nine.”

  In faltering French, he asked if Grace Kelly had come into the shop. His accent was terrible. His incorrect use of vocabulary was almost comical.

  I pursed my lips. English. The worst kind of press hound. Miss Kelly herself had said so.

  I sniffed, and replied in English. “I’m not in the habit of telling strangers whom I have and haven’t sold perfumes to, monsieur. It’s bad for business, and frankly, none of yours.”

  He regarded me a moment through golden-brown eyes and burst into laughter. “Well, aren’t you perfectly French.”

  I felt heat rising to my face. How did Miss Kelly put up with such awful people pestering her all the time?

  “You don’t have to tell me what she bought,” he pressed, casually picking up a couple of business cards from the counter. He glanced at them briefly before slipping them into his pocket. “I’d just like to know whether or not she came in here.” I raised a quizzical brow at him, incredulous he should try to jockey for information as if I were Miss Kelly’s private secretary. “The name’s Henderson, by the way,” he added, extending a hand. “James. Jim to my friends.”

  Seeing my expression and realizing I wasn’t going to shake his hand, or divulge any information, he took off his hat, and ran his hands through his hair, sending it sticking up every which way. I bit my lip to keep myself from laughing.

  “Thing is, miss, I’m having a hell of a day and if I don’t get a decent picture of her—of anyone important, really—I might not have a job to go home to and the cat will be terribly disappointed in me. Not that it’s of any concern to you, but, well, that’s how it is.” He held his hands out in front of him. “Help out a useless English chap, would you?” He tilted his head to one side. “Merci beaucoup?”

  I was suddenly very busy straightening the tissue paper and rolls of ribbon beneath the counter. “I believe the phrase you are looking for is s’il vous plaît. I’m afraid I can’t help you, monsieur,” I added. “If you are so incompetent at your job, I doubt a small perfume boutique can save you.” I glanced up at him.