Meet Me in Monaco Page 4

  She hesitated for a moment before replying with a luminous smile. “He is a very charming man.”

  Diplomacy at its very best.

  As everyone was saying their goodbyes, I noticed Galante patting his pockets, an unlit cigarette perched between his fingers.

  “Here,” I called, emptying the contents of my pockets onto an ornamental stone seat. I tossed a box of matches over to him, like I’d seen someone do in the movies once.

  “Merci,” he called, taking a light before throwing the box back to me.

  Miss Kelly appeared at my shoulder as I began to return everything to my pockets.

  “Excuse me. It’s the strangest thing, but do I know you? I feel as though we’ve met.”

  I’d hoped she wouldn’t recognize me. “I don’t think so.” I flashed one of my most charming smiles.

  She frowned a little. “Perhaps I’m mistaking you for someone. My apologies.”

  “No apology needed. You wouldn’t believe how often I get mixed up with Cary Grant.”

  At this, she laughed. “Can I ask what scent that is? It’s quite lovely.”

  I realized she’d picked up the scent of the perfume on the business card, which I’d taken from my pocket to find the matches. “Ah, that would be this,” I said, passing the card to her. “It’s a small perfume boutique in Cannes. Near the harbor.”

  She placed the card to her nose, closed her eyes, and took in a breath. She smiled.

  “Yes. I know it.” She opened her eyes. “I’ve been trying to remember where it was. May I keep this?”

  “Be my guest. I have another.”

  “Thank you. You’ve been very helpful, Mr. . . .”

  “Henderson. James. My friends call me—”

  “Jim. That’s right. Well, thank you, Jim.”

  I watched for a moment as she stepped into the car, surrounded by her people. Dust flew up from the tires as the sleek vehicle drove away. Her job done, extravagant parties and French boyfriends waited for her back in Cannes. Miss Kelly had surprised me. Yes, she was every inch the Hollywood star, but she was more than that. She was warm and gracious. She had a sense of humor. She was also now in possession of Sophie Duval’s business card. Perhaps she wanted to thank Sophie for offering a hiding place when I was giving her the chase. Whatever the reason, Miss Duval had clearly left an impression on Miss Kelly. Just as she had on me.

  As the little French chap and his Peugeot took me back to Cannes, I reflected on how I’d arrived as a late addition to the film festival assignment, nothing much expected or asked of me other than to take one decent shot of Grace Kelly that we could use to satisfy the British public’s fascination with her. Having spent the afternoon in the company of Grace and Rainier, I would leave Cannes with images only a handful of other photographers had. Surely, Sanders would get off my back now.

  Buoyed by my eleventh-hour stroke of good fortune, I decided to take one last trip to the perfume shop, keen to leave Miss Duval with a better impression of me. If I could tell her I’d just given Grace Kelly her business card, perhaps she might even give me a smile.

  Back at the hotel, I freshened up, chose a shirt that wasn’t as creased as the others, topped everything off with my favorite Homburg hat, and made my way back to the boutique. What I was going to say when I got there, I wasn’t quite sure. It wasn’t in my nature to apologize, but perhaps I’d been a little presumptuous taking a photo of Miss Duval without asking her permission first. She clearly thought I was paparazzi crass. English paparazzi crass, at that. The very worst. And yet, for some inexplicable reason, I wanted to see her again before I returned to London.

  Just before I reached the boutique, I stopped to check my reflection in the window of a nearby boulangerie. I adjusted my tie, checked my breath against the palm of my hand, and strolled casually toward the shop, only to discover a sign on the door saying Fermé.

  I checked my watch. Closed for the day.

  Deflated, I shoved my hands in my pockets and made my way back to the hotel. When it came to Sophie Duval, it seemed that luck most definitely wasn’t on my side.

  QUEEN OF HOLLYWOOD MEETS PRINCE OF MONACO

  * * *

  Grace Kelly in surprise visit to Prince’s Palace.

  Angeline West reports for the Herald.

  This may be the first time Grace Kelly has attended the Cannes Film Festival but she is making it count. Yesterday she shook hands with His Serene Highness Prince Rainier III of Monaco in an unconventional meeting believed to have been arranged by Paris Match magazine and MGM Studios. Although this reporter didn’t manage to secure an invitation to the exclusive tête-à-tête held at the Prince’s Palace in Monaco-Ville, sources say the meeting was a rather rushed and unremarkable affair.

  Miss Kelly made certain to be back in Cannes in time for the gala dinner held in her honor that evening. And her reaction to meeting the reclusive prince? “He is a very charming man.”

  A Prince Charming, indeed.

  Having made quite an impact at her first Cannes festival, Miss Kelly is due to leave town early next week. It is understood she will spend time in Paris before returning to America to begin shooting her new picture, The Swan, in which she will play a princess alongside her leading man, Alec Guinness, who will play the part of a prince.

  5

  Sophie

  After a steaming bowl of moules frites and a glass of rosé, I strolled back to the shop slowly to enjoy the sun on my face and the light breeze blowing off the water. It was a perfect day to luncheon outdoors, and it had refreshed me as much as I’d hoped it would. Maman had called several times over the course of the morning, but I’d avoided her. The familiar stab of guilt swept over me nevertheless, as it always did when I left Maman to her own devices. She needed someone to entertain her, pick out her clothes, clean up after her, and I was the only one to do it. But today I just couldn’t face her.

  “I’m back,” I called out as I entered the shop. “You should have come with me, Natalie. It’s a gorgeous day. I had lunch on the terrace at Maxime’s.”

  Natalie shot me a look of warning and pointed to the office door. “Madame Duval is here to see you.”

  My heart sank, along with my good mood. Ignoring the phone calls hadn’t worked after all.

  Maman was slouched in my office chair, her hair mussed from the wind, or lack of combing. I suspected the latter. She wore lipstick the color of bubble gum that didn’t suit her complexion. Her clothes were badly fitting and in need of being pressed. She was my opposite in every way: loud, sloppy, and eternally unsatisfied with her lot in life. Though she had always been a difficult woman, since Papa’s death her flaws were amplified. I loved her on some level—she was my mother after all—but I didn’t like her, and I had trouble understanding what Papa, such a gentle soul, had fallen in love with all those years ago. Dealing with her at all tied my stomach into knots.

  “Why haven’t you returned my calls?” she demanded between kisses to each of my cheeks. “I told you it was urgent.”

  A whiff of sunshine and jasmine wafted from her skin and I was transported back to the hillside in Grasse, in my white cotton dress and hat, happy amid my flower fields. At least Maman had the good sense to wear one of our parfums in public. It was an interesting choice of fragrance, though. I wondered who she wished she could be. In spite of my acute sensibility of people, my mother’s true self evaded me. Pickled in brandy, she also evaded herself.

  “Well?” She crossed her arms.

  I sighed. It was always urgent with Maman. I should have taken her call. Now the rest of the day would be wasted. “What is it?”

  “Michael Lever rang again. He’s willing to double his offer.”

  My eyes widened. The fifty hectares of land we owned in Grasse had captured the attention of several real estate developers in recent years but I’d been adamant about turning them away. Yet, this offer meant I would never have any debt again, as long as I kept Maman away from Monte Carlo’s casinos. But where would our jasmine and cloves and tuberose grow then? To imagine the rows of brilliant lavender flattened by a plow took my breath away. I didn’t care about the money, not when it meant destroying everything I loved and had worked for my entire life, and which Papa and my grandfather had worked for so tirelessly before me.

  “Non,” I said definitively. “It doesn’t matter what the offer is, my answer is still no.”

  My mother’s eyes tightened. “I am tired of watching you chase your tail, just to make ends meet. We are barely covering our expenses.”

  I clenched my jaw to hold back the comments that rose to my tongue. She could stop wasting our money on her late-night spending sprees for one, and two, she could work for a change. Oversee the factory so we could cut expenses, or perhaps she could help develop a new partnership with a detergent company, and I could strike that off my growing list of ideas to expand Duval. With the new fragrance I was developing and tourist season just beginning, I could use the help. But dear Maman worked best from her chaise longue with a glass in her hand, barking orders at a maid we couldn’t afford.

  “I’m on the verge of something breathtaking, Maman. I’ve just mastered a combination of—”

  “You are just like your father,” she cut in, waving a hand dismissively. “Full of ideas and promises that do nothing but cost us more.”

  A flush of anger rushed to my cheeks. My father had been full of hope and longing and believed in our future, and I was just the same. We were dreamers, Papa and I, but we also worked hard and with passion—neither of which Maman could, or even tried to, understand. Her love of books and gardening, her interest in anything really, had withered away with her drinking, curling in on itself like the leaves on the sunflowers that grew in our garden.

  And you are so
full of spite, I wanted to say. Instead, I clenched my teeth, trying to tamp down my temper. She always brought out the worst in me.

  The doorbell jingled. Natalie popped her head around the office door.

  “I’ll just pull this shut,” she said, discreet as ever.

  Maman’s gaze flicked to Natalie, taking in her floral dress, the elegant sweep of silver hair brushing her shoulders. When Maman glanced at me again, her lips pinched as if she’d eaten something sour. She had never liked Natalie, but her dislike had only grown over the years.

  Graciously, Natalie smiled back at Maman in her ever-charming way, as if she’d noticed nothing, and closed the office door for our privacy.

  “I need a little more time, Maman,” I said, trying to keep the pleading out of my voice. “I will prove to you this can work and then we won’t have to sell. I’m really close.”

  She rolled her eyes. “You are wasting your time. You know as well as I do that the market is shrinking. More and more parfum is made from synthetics now. Soon enough, our fields of flowers will be unharvested and left to rot, then nobody will pay the price we deserve.”

  I hated this topic of conversation, the possibility of the artisan side of the industry disappearing and with it, our craft and all the beauty it brought to the world. Each time my assistants broached the subject at the factory, I shut it down quickly. It crushed the joy I took in my work and destroyed a little piece of my soul. I couldn’t imagine a world composed only of chemicals and plastics and manufactured food. Fake this, fake that. Didn’t anyone care anymore about the true essence of nature and beauty, and a life well-lived? I couldn’t imagine how Papa would feel about this new world in which we lived. In some ways I was glad he wasn’t here to see it.

  I rubbed my temples. “Maman—”

  She held up her hand. “You have until the end of the year to develop this new fragrance, and the spring to launch it. I’ve already spoken to Lucien about it, and he agrees. If we don’t see a solid increase in sales by next summer, we will meet with our lawyer and Monsieur Lever.”

  I smiled. “By next summer I will tell Michael Lever what to do with all of his British pounds.”

  How to handle Lucien was another matter entirely.

  * * *

  I breathed a sigh of relief as my mother left. I had just enough time to finish a few things before we closed, and I’d promised myself I wouldn’t spend all evening working. For months I had mixed new scents and taken notes until midnight—until my temples ached and rosemary began to smell the same as gravel. My nose needed a rest. I needed a rest.

  The telephone interrupted my thoughts.

  Wiping my hands on a cloth, I reached for the receiver and cradled it on my shoulder. “Bonsoir, Duval.”

  “Bonsoir, may I speak to Miss Sophie Duval?” A soft American accent drifted through the line.

  My heart skipped a beat. I knew that voice. “Oui, I am Sophie Duval. How can I help you?”

  “Miss Duval, this is Grace Kelly. We met the other day when I took refuge in your shop. I hope you remember.”

  How could I forget? There was something about meeting one of the most famous women in the world that had a way of sticking with you. “Yes, Miss Kelly. Of course. It is lovely to hear from you again.”

  “I have your business card here in my hand and it has the most wonderful smell.” She laughed lightly. “Of course it does, you’re a perfumer.” She cleared her throat as if she, too, was a little nervous.

  I tried to remember when I had given her my business card. I couldn’t recall. . . .

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t know why I’m nervous. Sometimes I feel like a silly American in this town. The French women are all so effortlessly glamorous.”

  Her sincerity made me like her even more.

  “I’m calling because my sister Lizanne is getting married soon, and I would love to bring her a special gift,” she continued. “One of your luxurious perfumes would be perfect, I think. Do you have a suggestion?”

  I smiled as pride swelled in my heart. “I’m sure I can find something she would like, but I need to know a little about her.”

  Grace paused on the line for a moment as if thinking. “Well, Lizanne is very athletic. Loving and strong. And a little wild. She’s the youngest so she always gets her way.”

  “Can you tell me a few of her favorite things? Her favorite holiday, her favorite clothing, her favorite memory, perhaps? Memories, dreams, and desires are entwined with scent. Since I cannot meet her, I need to grasp a little of who she is to make the best choice.”

  “I see, yes. Well, Lizanne has done some acting as well. She’s pretty and confident. Funny. She loves her old wool sweaters and thick socks, and hiding under a blanket with a book. She never hides who she is, not for a minute. We all wish we could be more like her,” she added quietly. “She is rather a favorite.”

  I wondered if I detected a twinge of sibling rivalry in her voice.

  “I know just the thing,” I said after a moment’s pause. “When should I expect you?”

  “I was hoping to . . . well, would you mind having it delivered to the Carlton hotel on Friday? I’ll be here another few days before the festival ends and I leave for Paris, but I won’t have time to stop into your boutique before then. My schedule is tight, with the film festival and the press.”

  I felt silly for assuming she would call to the shop to pick it up herself. Of course she wouldn’t. She was Grace Kelly. “I will deliver it myself.”

  “Would you?” Grace was clearly delighted. “That would be wonderful. Why don’t I meet you in the lobby around seven o’clock? Would that be convenient?”

  “Perfect,” I breathed, unable to contain my excitement. I would be meeting Grace again, and even better, she wanted one of my parfums!

  “Terrific. I look forward to it.”

  “Grace, I’m sorry, just one more thing?”

  “Yes?”

  “Did someone give you my business card? I like to make a note of my referrals.” I couldn’t believe I had been so remiss as to not give her a card myself.

  She laughed lightly. “You won’t believe it, but you remember that awful press photographer who chased me into your shop? James Henderson is his name. He was at a photo op with me at the Prince’s Palace in Monaco. I recognized him immediately, although he acted dumb and made out that we had never met. He turned out to be a nice enough fellow. He emptied his pockets to give someone a light and I recognized the fragrance from your boutique on the card he was carrying and, well, voilà, as you might say!”

  I gripped the phone a little tighter. That photographer had given her my card? How had he found himself in the palace in Monaco? Hesitantly, I said, “He proved to be useful after all, then.”

  She laughed. “I suppose he did.”

  “Thank you, Grace. I will be at the hotel on Friday with the perfect fragrance for your sister.”

  I hung up the phone, buzzing with joy. I nearly skipped to the display shelves and studied the array of fragrances. Lizanne Kelly, based on Grace’s description, was a tomboy, confident and friendly, but she probably didn’t realize she wanted to be soft and feminine at times, even a touch exotic. I ran my hand over several bottles. Nuit Douce. That was the one. I gift-wrapped it in a dainty black box tied with silver ribbon and slipped it into my handbag.

  Later, as I left the shop, I wondered why James Henderson had done me the kindness of passing my card along when I’d been so rude to him. “To be a parfumeur is to believe in magic, Sophie. We must learn to trust our instincts, to accept that there isn’t always a practical explanation, but to let things be.” I smiled at the memory of Papa’s words, tugged a shawl around my shoulders against the cool evening air, and headed home as the horizon blazed with a glorious sunset.

  6

  James

  London

  They say the man who is tired of London is tired of life, so I was relieved to find myself falling for her grand old charms as soon as I stepped off the plane. There was something comforting about the murky drizzle and the stuffy awkwardness with which friends and family greeted each other. For all that I’d enjoyed the easy alfresco atmosphere of Cannes, returning to dependable old London was like pulling on a favorite woolen cardigan, worn for comfort rather than style, the first thing you reach for when you take off your shirt and tie at the end of the working day. Yes, London was cold. Yes, the sky was grayer than an African elephant, but it was home. It was also the only place in the world where I could see my stubborn, curious, funny little girl.