Meet Me in Monaco Page 3

  “I’ve discovered something,” I said, unable to suppress the excitement emerging again, like the ribbons of bubbles winding to the surface in my glass.

  “Well, if this is why you were late, do go on.”

  “I’m in the process of developing a new fragrance. I think it could be a real breakthrough, Lucien. This may be it, the one I’ve been waiting for.” I held out my champagne glass.

  “That’s wonderful. Congratulations.” He clinked his glass against mine.

  “Thank you. It’s been so many years . . . if Papa . . . I wish . . .” I felt a lump form in my throat and swallowed hard. “If I could only talk to him about it. He would understand better than anyone.”

  “I know, chérie,” Lucien said, lifting my hand to his lips. “I know.”

  I longed to tell Lucien more, to explain my ideas and my plans, but he humored my passionate musings only to a point. He was a true businessman, almost clinical in the execution of his work at times. He thought I let my emotions overtake my good sense too often. But our differences were what drew him to me in the first place, and the same was true for me. Opposites attract, after all. Recently, he had hinted at our relationship becoming more serious in the not-too-distant future, and he’d made it clear I would be busy maintaining his properties—the house in Cannes, the yacht, the Paris apartment—and playing hostess to his millionaire clientele. I would be expected to step back from the perfume business—at least to some degree—to make way for our family. I hadn’t argued or worried. I knew he would change his mind in time. He knew how much Duval meant to me. Lucien often made offhand comments like this, but when it came down to it, he loved me and would support me, I was sure of it.

  “Will you join me for a digestif after the party later?” he asked, changing the subject. “With the film festival in town, I can hardly manage the invitations. Grace Kelly is here with her boyfriend, or one of her leading men. It’s hard to keep up with her.”

  “Oh?” For some reason I didn’t tell him she’d visited the boutique. “I didn’t know she had a boyfriend.”

  He leaned forward, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “She doesn’t. Not officially. But she can’t keep her eyes off Jean-Pierre Aumont. They’re all over the newspapers. How convenient that they’re here at the same time. Rumor has it he’s the only reason she agreed to come to Cannes at all. Then there are the rumors she’s already engaged to that fashion designer, Cassini.” He leaned back in his velvet chair and laughed lightly. “Good for her, I say. Use your beauty to your full advantage.”

  Lucien enjoyed all the gossip and scandal that circulated during the film festival. He came alive as the boats packed the harbor and plenty of new, fascinating people filled the bars and hotels of Cannes and other nearby towns on the Côte d’Azur. Perhaps he enjoyed it a little too much. I was amazed at the energy he had, the endless hours he spent among the crowds, floating from one yacht party to the next. He acquired all the right invitations, managed to meet all the right people. Lucien Marceau charmed everyone he met. With his dark hair, aquiline nose, and expensive wardrobe, he always made an impression. Eyes followed him as he sauntered through a packed room dressed in Lacoste stripes and foulard, tied expertly at his neck, or attired in an elegant dinner jacket that complemented his build. It was no wonder he was so successful in business. It never bothered me that he sat firmly at the center of every party, while I receded quietly to a corner with a friend or two to talk more privately. When Lucien was happy, everything was easy. I only wished he would take a little more interest in the things that made me happy, too.

  “I’m tired tonight, chéri,” I said, laying down my fork. “You go on to the party without me.”

  He flashed one of his contagious smiles and kissed my hand. “Fine, but tomorrow night, pas d’excuses.”

  The waiter reappeared with a tray of fresh oysters. Lucien squeezed a wedge of lemon over the shellfish and we ate in silence until the potage of creamed asparagus soup arrived.

  “What are you thinking about?” Lucien asked, tearing off a chunk of baguette and noticing my distraction. “You look like you’re working out a plan for world domination.”

  I laughed. My thoughts had circled the meeting with Miss Kelly, then alighted on that irritating photographer, James Henderson. I pushed him quickly aside and returned to the thrill of my new discovery in the workshop. “I think this new fragrance could be the beginning of something really special. Perhaps I could launch a new line, like I’ve always wanted. I would need to speak to the accountant but—”

  Lucien squeezed my hand. “Mon amour, you know you can’t afford this. You already spent the money I gave you over a year ago. I know how much you enjoy your work, but this grand venture of yours would stretch your resources too thin. Think of the time it would take to make a name for yourself among the big perfume houses. You would be competing with the most famous names in Paris. Your parfums sell just fine here, in your shop in Cannes, and in Grasse.” He dipped a bit of bread into his soup. “Besides, there’s the problem of your maman to consider.”

  Maman. I sighed. She wouldn’t go for my idea at all. In fact, she didn’t care a wit for Duval. She cared only about her brandy and an “occasional” hand of vingt-et-un. Her habit had controlled our lives for as long as I could remember. Papa had argued and pleaded with her, and sometimes shouted until the panes on the windows shook. She would change her ways for a time and he would forgive her, but it never lasted. Somehow, he’d managed to keep us and the business afloat. I was now trying to do the same, but I hadn’t yet created a fragrance that would catapult Duval to the next level. Lucien was right. We couldn’t easily compete with the established reputations of the large perfume houses, even if we did have the funds. Yet I couldn’t help feeling I was finally on the right path. All I needed was a new line featuring a star fragrance. I could give Maman her own allowance then and safeguard the rest of the finances. And I could continue to do what I loved most, whether or not she drowned herself in cheap wine.

  “This could be it, Lucien. The one I’ve been searching for. I’ll talk to Maman. I—”

  “Let’s not talk about expenditures tonight, chérie. I hate to see you upset. Financial strain, your maman, what-ifs.” Lucien poured us each another glass of champagne, waving the sommelier away dismissively. “It will only spoil our evening.” He checked his Rolex. “What little of it there is left.”

  My good humor dissolved as my dreams collapsed under the weight of hard reality. “Yes, you’re right. Let’s leave it.”

  He saw my disappointment and kissed my hand again. “We will talk about this more, I promise. I want to hear all about it. But later. After you’ve had time to think about your new fragrance, scribble down your ideas. Perhaps devise a plan. How does that sound?”

  I nodded, accepting his argument even as a stubborn part of me disagreed. I laid my knife and fork on the edge of my plate. Suddenly, I wasn’t hungry anymore.

  4

  James

  Hollywood stars were elusive, but the Cannes sunset was impossible to miss. It was my favorite time of day, everything slowly mellowing to a soft rose-gold glow as the town shimmered. The light was too good to ignore, and I was glad to have an unused roll of film to catch it. I sought out interesting silhouettes and shadows and angles, focused on the way the water glistened like silk. It was where I felt happiest, framing the scene. Landscapes gave me all the time I needed to get the perfect composition. People, on the other hand, were unpredictable and erratic. Walsh kept telling me I had a good instinct for faces and should do more portraiture, but I didn’t want to believe him. Scenery was my safe space. I understood it. People, I only ever got remarkably wrong.

  As I walked along La Croisette, it was as if the whole town had exhaled. Everything relaxed in the fresh evening breeze, the palm trees rustling their leaves like hula girls shaking their grass skirts. As I strolled past the Duval boutique, I took one of the business cards from my pocket. The scent of Sophie’s perfume was still captured on the slim piece of card. I brought it to my nose and breathed in. Sensual, but feminine. Perfectly French. It was surely no coincidence that I’d seen her again, and I couldn’t stop thinking about the look in her eyes when I’d snapped her in the shop. Confused. Hurt. Vulnerable. Some people have a way of expressing themselves that the camera loves and enhances. I was no expert in portrait photography, but I sensed that Miss Duval had a face the camera loved, and I couldn’t wait to get back to London to develop the image I’d taken of her. In the meantime, I had far more important things to think about. I had one day left in Cannes. One day to photograph a Hollywood icon or lose my job, and what chance would I ever have of making a proper home for Emily and me if that happened. Emily deserved the best, and I was determined to find a way of giving it to her. None of this was her fault, after all.

  Back at the hotel I dialed Walsh’s room. I hadn’t seen him at dinner and it wasn’t like Teddy Walsh to miss a meal. The phone rang several times before he picked up.

  “Hello.” His voice was sleepy, slightly slurred.

  I pulled the receiver away from my ear as he coughed violently on the other end. “Walsh? It’s Jim. Are you drunk?”

  “I’m sick. Come up. I need to talk to you.”

  My old man used to say I was the luckiest kid he’d ever known. I’d get the best hand in the games of poker we played at Christmas. I’d find money in the street. I’d roll a six every time I needed one. The older I got, the more my luck seemed to run out, but that was about to change.

  “I’ve been invited to a private press op tomorrow,” Teddy explained as I poured him a glass of water and drew his curtains. “Pulled in a favor from a friend of a friend who works for Paris Match. Turns out the magazine’s movie editor, Pierre Galante, ha
s arranged a meeting between Grace Kelly and Prince Rainier at the royal palace in Monaco. It seems that Galante, his wife—Olivia de Havilland—and the editor in chief of Paris Match, cooked up the idea over dinner in the dining car on the train from Paris to Nice, and Kelly’s people at MGM agreed to it. ‘The Prince and the Queen of Hollywood.’ I can already see the headlines.”

  I flopped onto the end of Walsh’s bed. “Prince who? I’ve never heard of him.”

  “Neither had Miss Kelly by all accounts. Apparently she’s not very keen on the idea. She believes her schedule is already far too tight. I suspect she’d prefer to stay in Cannes with that Aumont chap who seems to follow her everywhere, but it’s all arranged. A small group of photographers have been invited to capture the meeting on camera. Good publicity for American-French relations, and all that.”

  I sat up and pushed my hair from my forehead. “And you’re stuck in bed with the plague, so I get to take your place at the palace?”

  “Exactly.”

  A broad smile spread across my face as I crawled over the bed and planted a kiss on his forehead. “I bloody love you, Teddy Walsh! Sanders will have no excuse to fire me now.”

  “Don’t muck this up, Jim. It’s a bit obscure but you know how popular Kelly is right now. This could turn into big news.”

  I promised I wouldn’t muck it up. “Scout’s honor. I’ll get the shot.”

  He rolled his eyes and waved me away with a weary hand as another coughing fit left him gasping for breath.

  “You sure you’ll be all right?” I asked. I wasn’t used to seeing him so listless. “You’re not going to die or anything? I should probably warn the chambermaids if you are.”

  He attempted a smile. “Not planning to. I’d say I’ll last the night anyway. Now get lost, will you? You’re making me feel worse.”

  * * *

  The following morning, I got a lift to the palace with Walsh’s contact from Paris Match, a diminutive fellow with fat fingers and limited English. We traveled in silence as his little Peugeot 203 struggled up the steep winding roads, gears crunching as he did his best to keep up with the American sedan MGM had provided to drive Miss Kelly to the palace. Pierre Galante was accompanying her, along with Olivia de Havilland.

  “Hollywood stars pop up as often as champagne corks in this part of the country,” I said, as much to myself as to my companion. He didn’t reply. I was glad to see he kept his eyes firmly on the road. I rolled down the window and pulled back the seat, stretching out my legs as much as the cramped space would allow. I settled my gaze on the passing scenery and tried not to think about the sheer drop-off to our right. The sea was vivid blue far below the steep mountainsides. The scent of salt and orange blossom mingled with the tobacco from my cigarette; the relaxed holiday feel of it all made me smile. Perhaps everything was going to be okay after all, thanks to Walsh and a dozen dodgy oysters, and Grace Kelly and a prince.

  * * *

  At the palace, an aide explained, rather awkwardly, that His Serene Highness was a little delayed. He offered to escort our party on a tour of the palace while we waited.

  Miss Kelly didn’t seem too impressed and kept glancing at her wristwatch, but she managed a polite smile as she was introduced to the group of photographers and reporters. She shook all our hands, one after the other.

  “James Henderson, British press,” I said when she reached me. “Jim, to my friends.”

  She smiled warmly, said, “Hello, James,” and moved quickly on to the chap beside me who was sweating profusely. He wiped his hand on his lapel before offering it to her. I was glad, on her behalf, that she wore wrist-length white gloves.

  “I’m told the prince won’t be long, gentlemen,” she said brightly, when she’d been introduced to us all. “And I suppose a prince is entitled to make an entrance! Perhaps we could use the time to take some photographs inside?”

  The consummate professional, she took control with ease and charm. I’d expected her to be more aloof, hardened by the Hollywood machine. But there was nothing aloof about Miss Kelly. She was absolutely charming. Playful almost, as bemused to find herself at a royal palace in Monaco as the rest of us. Her soft American accent and girl-next-door look were a far cry from the dazzling star we usually saw turned out in furs and diamonds. Her garish floral dress reminded me of the wallpaper in my mother’s living room but it was no doubt the height of Paris fashion.

  I followed the other reporters and photographers into the grand palatial rooms. Walsh had urged me not to draw attention to myself. “Look a little bored, if anything,” he’d suggested. “You’re good at that.” I did my best, but it really wasn’t easy in such ostentatious rooms and in the presence of such a striking woman.

  If she was reluctant to be there, Miss Kelly didn’t let it show for a minute. She posed when and where asked, her trademark smile illuminating every room we visited, making our job easy. We photographed her looking at marble busts and armory and portraits of the Grimaldi family. In each setting, she turned on the charm for the cameras. I was impressed, and more than a little amused, with her ability to look absolutely fascinated by so many inanimate objects. Maybe she was the perfect woman to stroke the prince’s ego after all. I’d heard he could be difficult to engage in conversation at best, and about as interesting as a marble statue at worst.

  After several posed photos in the library, I took a lovely shot of Miss Kelly walking along a long balcony, shafts of sunlight bursting between the ornate colonnades. She stopped for a moment, placing her hands on the stone balustrade as she gazed out over the courtyard below. She looked extraordinarily at home, as if she visited palaces all the time. I had to hand it to her. She was a fine actress indeed.

  Eventually, it was announced that the prince had arrived and we were all escorted to a grand sort of parlor, where he stood awkwardly beside a fireplace. He didn’t strike me as being especially princely, or handsome even. He looked pretty ordinary in his dark suit. I wondered if Miss Kelly was thinking the same thing.

  Our cameras clicked and whirred somewhat intrusively as the two were formally introduced. Miss Kelly removed the glove from her right hand and bobbed a little curtsey. The prince was horribly stiff, bending at the waist as he leaned forward to shake her hand. The poor man looked terrified, afraid to take another step toward her. He didn’t even remove his dark sunglasses, which I thought was odd for a photo op and really rather rude to Miss Kelly, but she didn’t bat an eyelid and looked for all the world as if she met princes in palaces every day.

  “I’d get much closer to her if I were him,” someone muttered behind me, which made me laugh and then cough. I apologized as everyone stared at me for interrupting the moment. I kept my head down after that, suddenly very intent on adjusting the levers and settings on my camera.

  When one of the photographers suggested the light may be better outside, Pierre Galante—who appeared to have appointed himself in charge of proceedings—asked us all to step out into the gardens, where the two, again, posed stiffly beside a large formal hedge. Miss Kelly made polite conversation with the prince, putting him at ease. She was far more relaxed in front of the cameras, politely suggesting where they should stand to find the best light and angles. We followed a little way behind as Rainier gave Miss Kelly a tedious tour of the palace zoo.

  “Poor girl. She looks bored stiff,” I remarked.

  “She didn’t even want to be here,” the chap beside me whispered as we followed behind at a discreet distance. “She tried to cancel several times. I think she’d rather be somewhere else with someone else.” He winked.

  I couldn’t help feeling the same way as my thoughts turned back to Emily. I imagined her tugging on my sleeve, determined to ask her question. “Is he really a prince, Daddy? Shouldn’t he be wearing a crown?”

  Finally, we assembled at the foot of a sweeping marble staircase, preparing for the final shot before Miss Kelly and the prince descended the steps together, now chatting happily and looking far more relaxed.

  As Miss Kelly prepared to leave and we packed up our equipment, a reporter asked if she’d enjoyed the meeting.