Meet Me in Monaco Read online

  A wide grin split his face. “Quite right. I’m a ridiculous fool and should be on my way.” He touched the brim of his hat in salutation and turned to go but when he reached the door, he hesitated. “Actually, before I go, can I ask what perfume it is you’re wearing? It’s really rather lovely.”

  I turned to meet his gaze. “And you are rude—”

  A flash went off. I was blinded by the light, and my hand flew to my eyes. “What are you doing?”

  He shrugged. “If I can’t have a photograph of Grace Kelly, I might as well have one of a furious French girl.” With that, he left, laughing as he closed the door behind him.

  Furious French girl? How dare he! As I roughly turned the shop sign to Fermé, I watched him light a cigarette and saunter off down the street. The familiar aroma of leather and balsam lingered in the shop where he’d stood. Despite my bad humor, the scent provoked memories of happier times.

  That was the third lesson Papa taught me. “To be a parfumeur is to be a keeper of memories, Sophie. Every scent will remind you of something, or someone.”

  It was only as I walked back to the office to assure Miss Kelly he’d gone that I realized who the English photographer reminded me of.

  James Henderson reminded me of Papa.

  2

  James

  The scrum of press photographers was already ten deep outside the Palais des Festivals on La Croisette by the time I arrived. I was late, as usual. Lucky for me, so was Grace Kelly. I’d already missed one chance to photograph her and I really couldn’t afford to bugger things up again—if, indeed, it was Grace Kelly I’d chased into the perfume shop yesterday. Thanks to Mademoiselle Duval I would never know for certain. I had to admire her, I suppose. If she’d really hidden a Hollywood star in the back of her poky little boutique she would have had quite the story to tell her friends over dinner. I wondered if she’d mentioned me at all.

  I pulled one of her business cards from my jacket pocket. Sophie Duval, Parfumeur. Cannes. Grasse. Snooty, beautiful Sophie Duval. Infuriatingly French. And impossible to stop thinking about while the scent of her perfume lingered on the card. I returned it to my pocket and pushed my way through the mob, grateful for the gentle warmth of the afternoon sunshine after a morning of rain.

  As I elbowed my way through the pack, I looked for Teddy Walsh. He’d promised to save me a space at the front as he always did. He was good to me that way. I might be late but I wasn’t giving up a front-row view just because I’d overslept. A photo op like this—Cannes Film Festival, glamorous Hollywood stars—promised the opportunity to find something extra special through the lens and favors were being pulled in faster than the day’s catch. We’d do pretty much anything for the best shot. Bribes. False promises. Tip-offs and spare film begged from here and borrowed from there. That’s how it was in our line of work, and when a leading Hollywood actress was in town, the stakes rose even higher and our morals sank even lower.

  I lifted my camera above my head and fired off a couple of speculative test shots of the crowd as I made my way forward. My eye was drawn to the contrast of the press pack’s dark suits against the vivid blue sky. Colors and landscape were what really interested me. Celebrities, not so much. The fact was, I’d be much happier photographing the Riviera’s cliffs and coves and terrifying switchback roads than I was photographing platinum blondes. But landscapes were for artists, and I was nothing but a hack, just a regular nine-to-five press photographer with bills to pay and an editor breathing down my neck. That was what kept me elbowing my way to the front, treading on toes. “Oi! Watch it, Henderson.” “Get out of the way, Lanky.” “Give a fella a chance, would you.” I ignored their griping and insults. All I cared about, all any of us cared about, was the shot that would keep the boss happy and the paychecks rolling in. I’d had my last warning and Sanders was not the type to go back on his word. Cannes, or bust. That was the deal.

  Pushing on into the crowd, I was surrounded by a wall of noise as flashbulbs were tested and film was loaded. Old friends greeted each other with a hearty slap on the back. The smell of tobacco clung to suit jackets and smoke wound from Gauloises cigarettes dangling from lips while busy hands fiddled with equipment. The familiar smell and the huddle of men sent me straight back to billets in Southampton as we waited to cross the Channel to the beaches of Normandy, but I pushed the memory away, like I always did, and moved on toward the front of the pack, the sickly sweet scent of cheap aftershave and brilliantine making my head throb.

  Finally, I found Walsh. “Afternoon,” I said, shoving in beside him, a barrage of complaints following from those behind. My height had never won me any friends.

  “Jesus, Jim. You look bloody awful. What happened to you?”

  I shrugged and grabbed Walsh’s camera, peering into the back of the flash lamp. My face was peppered with day-old stubble and dark shadows lurked beneath my eyes. My shirt collar was creased. My leather jacket had seen better days. Teddy was right. I looked terrible. “Life happened to me, Teddy,” I joked, handing his camera back to him. “You don’t look too good yourself, I might add.”

  “It’s this damned cough. It’s keeping me awake at night.”

  “You should see someone about that. Or quit the smokes.”

  “Where’ve you been anyway?” Walsh mumbled, ignoring me, a cigarette dangling from his bottom lip as he adjusted the shutter speed on his camera. “She’ll be here any minute.”

  “Phone call to Emily. It’s her birthday. She wanted to tell me about her new chemistry set. I couldn’t exactly hang up on her.”

  Teddy offered a sympathetic slap on the shoulder and that was all there was to say about it.

  We swapped lenses and checked settings for range and lighting, aperture and framing, the usual routines done almost without thinking. Just as well since I was a little groggy after too much cheap vin rouge last night. I didn’t even like red wine but everything had felt better by the time I’d reached the end of the bottle. I could have done without the headache, but I didn’t have time to think about it as a sleek, gunmetal-gray American sedan pulled up outside the venue.

  Behind me, someone said, “This is it, boys! She’s here.” The car doors opened. The hunt was on. Flashbulbs went off like a ricochet of bullets. Pop! Pop! Pop! The cry went up all around me. “Miss Kelly! Miss Kelly! Grace! This way! Over here! Give us a wave! How are you finding France?” Like trained animals, we all responded to the clicking, clattering, clamoring madness of the moment, all for the tantalizing possibility that she might—just might—turn in our direction and give us the shot.

  Apart from Marilyn, Grace Kelly was the Hollywood star everyone wanted to capture. We’d all imagined what it would be like to see our picture on the front page of the Times, or the Washington Post. We’d all written our Pulitzer acceptance speeches in our heads. One perfect shot from the hundreds we took. One image captured on film, and our reputations—our careers and futures—could change instantly. It was the ridiculous simplicity of it that kept us showing up time and time again, even when our puce-cheeked editors tossed our latest efforts into the bin in a rage, and threatened us with one more chance, or we were toast. While I didn’t enjoy the thrill of the chase like I once had, I couldn’t easily give it up, either. Like a stalker hunting its prey, I was on high alert: eyes wide, ears pricked, hands as steady as iron rods as I held my camera, took aim, and pressed the shutter.

  Except, I didn’t.

  I froze.

  As Grace Kelly stepped from the car, all I could do was stare. There was something about the way she moved—glided, almost—the way her smile lit up her face, the way she held her head at the perfect angle to catch the sunlight against her cheek. She was the epitome of femininity, gloriously photogenic, and I was captivated. I wanted to study her. Frame her. Light her. Get closer to her. And in my moment of hesitation, everyone else got the shot. By the time I’d gathered my wits and pressed the shutter, she’d turned to walk inside, and it was over.

  Wa
lsh whistled through his teeth. “She’s something else, isn’t she? Did you get a good one?”

  I slung my camera strap over my shoulder, ran my hands through my hair, and lit a cigarette. “Didn’t get a sodding thing.”

  Walsh laughed as he packed up beside me. “What? How? She was right there!”

  I took a long drag on my cigarette and blew the smoke skyward. “Camera playing up again.” Walsh rolled his eyes. He’d heard me blame my camera too many times recently. I tipped my head back, releasing the tension in my neck and shoulders, narrowing my eyes against the sunlight. “I could get used to these blue skies,” I remarked. “They make England seem so bloody miserable.”

  “England is bloody miserable.” Walsh stopped what he was doing and looked at me. “Is everything all right, Jim? You seem a bit bloody miserable to be honest. More than usual, I mean.”

  I sighed. “It’s Emily, mostly. I feel like a rat for missing her birthday. Again. Apparently it’s a big deal turning ten.”

  “I wouldn’t worry about it too much. Girls need their mothers. It’ll be all pretty dresses and tea parties. I’d say you’re better off leaving them to it.”

  I smiled, but I couldn’t agree. Emily wasn’t like other little girls of ten. She preferred to read stories about scientists and explorers than to sip tea from china cups and play princesses. She needed a father. And I was doing a marvelous job of proving myself entirely inadequate for the role.

  “And there’s the small matter of my employment,” I added, changing the subject. “Sanders will burst a blood vessel when I turn up with a few out-of-focus shots of the back of Kelly’s head.” I tossed my cigarette onto the ground, and shoved my hands in my pockets. “Don’t suppose you fancy a quick drink?”

  Walsh hesitated, torn between commitment to me and dedication to the job. “Sorry, pal. Can’t. Have to get these back to the desk. I’ll catch you later for dinner. And go easy on that wine. You’re becoming far too French!” He placed a hand on my shoulder. “Don’t beat yourself up about Emily. Children are far more forgiving than adults. You’ll make it up to her.”

  I was grateful for the reassurance. Teddy Walsh was like a brother to me—always there to offer good advice, always looking on the bright side.

  We’d seen things during the war that nobody should ever see, let alone young men away from home for the first time. Teddy was all optimism and silver linings. He lived each day for the sheer surprise of it and had a way of focusing on the present that I envied. Like looking through a good-quality lens, being around Teddy made things clearer, sharper. Even Marjorie (the former Mrs. Henderson) conceded that Teddy was good for me, and Marjorie didn’t often dwell on the good in people.

  Teddy was right, of course. Emily would forgive me. Even if I had been in London, taking her out for the afternoon would have become complicated. Marjorie would have made certain of that. And yet a familiar pang of guilt settled in the pit of my stomach. Was this life of chasing news stories and starlets around the world a symptom or a cause? Was I really a bad father, or was I simply afraid to try to be a good one? A few days ago, I’d woken up in my flat in Clapham, wondering if there was anything in the refrigerator for breakfast as I listened to the rain pelting the windows. This morning, I’d woken up in a beachfront hotel in Cannes, the sun glistening on the water as I breakfasted on an omelette and croissants. Life as a press photographer took me to some surprising places, but it was what it took me away from that appealed to me. It took me away from the lingering shadows of war. It took me away from the spectacular mess I’d made of my marriage. It was, after all, easier to focus my lens on something, or someone, other than myself. But my job also took me away from the one thing I really cared about. It took me away from my daughter.

  As the press pack dispersed, I wandered along La Croisette, stopping at a tabac to buy a picture postcard. I took lunch alfresco at the Hôtel Barrière Le Majestic and wrote the postcard over a café crème. Emily enjoyed my weekly phone call home, but it was the postcards I sent that she looked forward to the most. She kept them in a treasure box under her bed, tied with a lemon-yellow ribbon.

  I sat for a long time, people-watching, listening to the incomprehensible babble of French conversation around me, wondering how it was that everyone here appeared to be so much happier and relaxed and in love than people did in London. People touched and kissed and caressed here, not caring who was watching. Maybe it was the weather, or the sea, or the cheap wine. Maybe it was that indefinable French je ne sais quoi. Whatever it was, it made my dour Englishness all the more apparent. I wondered if a person could change if they lived somewhere like this. Would Riviera life rub off on me?

  While I wondered if I could improve myself by becoming more French—and tried not to think about how bad the reprimand from Sanders would be when I told him I’d missed the shot of Grace Kelly—I saw a familiar face across the street. Sophie Duval. She was standing outside a small arcade of designer boutiques beneath the hotel, struggling to stop her skirt from blowing up above her knees in the breeze. I pushed down the brim of my hat and watched her for a moment, amused by her annoyance. Or perhaps she was more upset than annoyed, I couldn’t quite tell. Either way, I decided to go over and offer an apology for my rather abrupt manner in her shop. Perhaps I would pick up a bottle of Duval perfume for Emily as a belated birthday present.

  Leaving a suitable amount of francs on the table, I grabbed my camera, but I kicked the edge of my chair as I stood up and sent it toppling over. The clatter caught Miss Duval’s attention. She looked over to the restaurant, spotted me instantly (I was difficult to miss), turned her back to me, and walked briskly away. I followed, threading through the tightly packed café tables as quickly as my gangling limbs would allow, but by the time I’d pushed past a couple who stopped inconveniently in front of me for a passionate kiss, she’d ducked down a narrow side street and disappeared into the shadows.

  I wasn’t giving up that easily. The only thing I had left to lose was my dignity, and what half-decent press photographer had that anyway? I broke into a jog, following the tantalizing scent of her perfume down the sleepy, shuttered streets.

  3

  Sophie

  The sun peeked over the edge of the horizon, sending a glimmering path of gold across the water, its parting gift before retiring for the evening. I would have loved to sit for a while to watch the spectacle, but I was already late for dinner, and Lucien would be irritable.

  I walked to Chez Benoît as quickly as I could manage in parley heels. It was never my intention to keep Lucien waiting, but I often got absorbed by my work, wrapped up in a world of fragrance and memories and dreams so that I completely lost track of time. Today, I had a particularly good reason for my delay. I smiled, remembering the flutter of excitement as I’d struck upon something special in my workshop, a seduction of the senses. Ambergris, rich with musk to act as a fixative, note de tête of dried cherry and violets, note de coeur of mimosa and oakmoss, the carefully balanced quantity of ingredients recorded in my journal de fleurs, the notebook where the formula for each Duval fragrance was held. It was Papa’s before it passed on to me. He’d affectionately called it his book of flowers, and the name had stuck. Any parfumeur knew to keep their formulas a closely guarded secret. Science and magic, art and beauty, it was all there in a small vial that would one day become a beautiful glass bottle to be sold. My new fragrance needed more work, but I was close, so close to something exceptional.

  I smiled again as I approached the door of the restaurant.

  “Bonsoir, madame.” The doorman nodded and held the door open for me. “Monsieur Marceau is waiting at your usual table.”

  “Merci, Jacques. I am late.” I shrugged my coat from my shoulders as he took it from me.

  “A woman as beautiful as you can never be late, madame.”

  I laughed at his easy charm and wound my way through the circular tables, each glowing with candlelight and covered in crisp white linens. Soft piano music mingled
with laughter and drifted through the room. The delicious aroma from the kitchens hit me in waves: roast beef, wild garlic, the salty tang of fresh seafood. Lucien’s favorite restaurant in Cannes had quickly become our favorite restaurant in Cannes. Though Chez Benoît was expensive, money was no object to the son of a millionaire real estate developer, although Lucien’s easy way with money made me—the daughter of a humble artisan—feel uncomfortable at times.

  He stood as I approached the table and made a point of checking his watch. “If you didn’t look so radiant, I’d be angry with you.” We exchanged kisses on each cheek. He pulled out my chair from the table before the waiter had the chance. “What took you so long?”

  “I’m sorry.” I sat, smoothing my floral skirt. “I came from Grasse.” I couldn’t wait to tell him about the progress I’d made that afternoon.

  “I’ve been waiting nearly an hour.” He tipped back the rest of his martini and held a finger in the air for the waiter. “We’re ready for the first course, and we’ll have a bottle of the Pommery.”

  “Très bien.” The waiter bowed deferentially before rushing from the dining room. They were used to Lucien’s expensive tastes and demanding ways.

  “I was considering joining another table,” Lucien said with a hint of humor in his voice. “The Florents are by the front window.”

  I reached for his hand and squeezed it. “I will make it up to you.”

  “I like the sound of that.” He winked as a smile spread across his face.

  The sommelier arrived, uncorked the bottle, and poured a splash of the effervescent liquid into a crystal coupe. I sat back in my seat as Lucien went through the process of tasting before nodding his approval. The vintage was acceptable. Lucien had impeccable taste and wouldn’t settle for less than perfect. I smiled at the sommelier as he poured two glasses and placed the bottle in a silver ice bucket beside the table.