Authors: Rhys Bowen
Naughty In Nice (13 page)
Mummy laughed melodiously. “See? I knew there was something of me in you after all.”
The outfit Chanel expected me to wear was hanging from a rail. It looked very strange to my eyes—the tweed so tweedy, the blouse so lacy and the pants so chic and elegant. I put it on and stared at myself in the mirror.
“Formidable,” Coco said, nodding as if very pleased with what she saw. “What did I tell you, Vera?”
“You’re going to wow them, old thing,” Vera agreed.
“Is there supposed to be a necklace?” I put my hand up to my bare neck.
“There is. One of the queen’s, which at this moment is residing safely in the bank vault,” Vera said. “I’ll collect it right before the event and have two stout gendarmes to accompany me and keep an eye on it. I promised Her Majesty that I wouldn’t take any chances.”
“But it will be the crowning touch. You will see,” Coco added. “But we need shoes. They must be very high. Do you have any high-heeled wedges?”
“I don’t really wear high heels. I’m so tall.”
“Definitely high heels,” Coco said. “Vera, you must go and buy her a pair this instant. What size?”
“English size seven,” I said, wincing, because I do have big feet.
Vera departed. Coco clapped her hands. “Now off with the clothes and we get to work.”
The shoes arrived—the heels very high. I staggered around like a person on stilts. “No, like this!” Coco commanded. “Again. Glide, not stomp.”
After a grueling two hours of working with Chanel, practicing my walking and turns, I finally headed back to the Villa Gloriosa in a taxicab. I thought they would be glad to see the back of me, but both Fig and Ducky seemed seriously put out. “Well, that’s gratitude for you,” Fig said, glancing at her sister.
“But there wasn’t room for me here,” I said. “I couldn’t go on camping out in the library.”
“But Maude was so looking forward to your sharing her room. She actually moved her dolls, all by herself. And she was looking forward to your French lessons too.”
I suspected that Maude was only looking forward to sharing her room with me so that she could boss me around. “I’m sure I can come to visit and give the children an occasional French lesson,” I said, “but I might suggest that Nice is full of French people who would be more useful at teaching French than I. Besides, my mother looks forward to spending time with me.”
“Is it wise to stay with your mother?” Fig asked. “I mean, she does have a reputation.”
“Well earned,” I replied with a smile. “And anyway, I need to be on hand to work with Coco Chanel.”
“Chanel is staying with your mother?” The two women exchanged looks of pure venom.
“One of her best clients, I understand,” I said. I was actually enjoying myself for the first time in ages.
“It just shows you that virtue doesn’t pay,” Ducky said.
“You and I have been faithful wives and mothers while Georgie’s mother has had a string of men—usually someone else’s husband—and she winds up with her own villa and the money to afford Chanel, while we have ten-year-old tweeds.”
“Ah, but she’s stunningly good-looking,” I said. “And she was a great actress too.”
They had no answer to this one, so I bundled Queenie and my clothes into a taxi and left the Villa Gloriosa, for good, I sincerely hoped.
Chapter 12
January 25, 1933
At Villa Marguerite. Much more glorious than the Gloriosa.
Divine, in fact. Good food, sun—at least there would be
sun if Madame Chanel were not working me every second.
At Villa Marguerite. Much more glorious than the Gloriosa.
Divine, in fact. Good food, sun—at least there would be
sun if Madame Chanel were not working me every second.
The next two days I was drilled by Coco Chanel over and over again and eventually I began to believe that I could actually do this.
“You see,” she said. “You are turning into an elegant woman before my eyes. All it took was a little molding. You will dazzle them tonight. Now go and rest.”
“I was thinking of going down to the beach for a swim,” I said. “How do I get down from here?”
“I understand that is Sir Toby’s private beach,” Coco said, “so you should not go there. If we wish to swim we must do so from the rocks. And I do not wish you to risk injuring yourself before my soiree. Besides, the ocean is too cold.”
As soon as she had gone I went into the grounds. I was not about to obey her; I was dying for a swim. It had also occurred to me that meeting Sir Toby by accident on my way down to the beach—which of course I didn’t realize was private—would be my only chance to get into that villa. I put on my bathing suit—a hopelessly girlish and unflattering garment of sagging black wool—then my stoutest sandals and made my way to the back of the property where the tamed gardens gave way to rocky cliffs. I’d spent my life climbing and clambering over rocks in Scotland so I was able to pick an easy route downward. Of course the mountains in Scotland are granite, which doesn’t crumble. Here the cliffs were sandstone, which does. I put my foot on a rocky outcrop, which promptly gave way, and I found myself slithering down ungracefully. I came to a halt in the bushes by Sir Toby’s pool. The villa stood right behind it, French doors open. This wasn’t a good idea—it smacked of trespassing and would not put me in Sir Toby’s good books. I might even find myself shot or attacked by guard dogs.
I was looking for a way to climb back up to safety when I heard voices—raised voices. At first I couldn’t make out words but they were having a good old fight. Then they came closer.
“You bastard!” a woman’s voice screamed.
“Do you think I’m stupid, you little tramp?” a man’s deep voice responded.
Then the woman stepped out onto the terrace and turned to glare into the house. “You will regret this, I promise you. Olga does not forgive or forget.” She waved a fist, as if in a curse. Then she snatched up a bag she had left lying on a table and stalked away. This was no time to meet Sir Toby. I made my way back up the cliff.
When I got to my room I was met by an excited Queenie.
“Cor, miss. Did you hear that? A right going-on down there, weren’t it? Going at it hammer and tongs. They was using words no lady or gentleman ought to use. It was just like the pictures—or outside the Three Bells on a Saturday night.”
“That just shows you that money does not make breeding, Queenie,” I said.
I tried to rest, but I was too keyed up. Now that I had time to worry, I was picturing all the things that could go wrong at tonight’s affair. I didn’t want to make a spectacle of myself. I must have been insane to have agreed to parade up and down in front of a crowd of rich and famous people. Why on earth had I agreed? Wanting to meet Sir Toby was only half of the explanation. Coco Chanel had such a forceful personality that it was hard to say no to her.
Late that afternoon we took a taxi into town. I found that the event was to take place at the casino on the pier.
“We’ll drop you off at the Negresco while Vera and I go to check that my models have arrived safely from Paris,” Coco said. “Have some tea. We will come for you to rehearse when we are ready.”
I was glad to know that the rest of the collection would be modeled by girls who knew what they were doing, even if they would show me up as a hopeless amateur. As we came into the hotel foyer an elegant, gaunt and obviously well-bred woman was standing at the reception desk, hands on hips.
“That’s the best room you have?” she was asking in strident English.
“
Oui
, my lady. The hotel is full because of the fashion show tonight. People have come from all over the Riviera.”
Oui
, my lady. The hotel is full because of the fashion show tonight. People have come from all over the Riviera.”
“Well, I suppose it will have to do for now,” she said, flinging the end of a mink stole angrily over her shoulder. “And I don’t want my husband to know that I am here, is that clear? He is not to be told.”
“Of course, Lady Groper.”
I observed her with interest. So that was the absent wife. I wondered if Sir Toby had been tipped off to her arrival and thus had thrown out his mistress. If she was staying here, and she came in to take tea, maybe I would have a chance to strike up an acquaintanceship with her and thus gain access to the villa. But I had no time for scheming now. My heart was already thumping with anticipation.
Tea was brought to me in the paneled bar just off the foyer. I sat and sipped, trying to stay calm and observing the elegant people who passed. So many people with so much money. Were we really in a depression? When Vera arrived to collect me, we passed another woman standing at the reception counter, also speaking English but with an American drawl this time.
“Yes, I know I told you we wanted the room for a month,” she snapped, “but I’ve changed my mind. We’ve been invited to go cruising on a friend’s yacht and we’ll be leaving in the morning.” I recognized her instantly, even with her back to me. It was Mrs. Simpson.
“What?” she asked, as the reception clerk must have murmured something. “No, I do not intend to pay for a room I won’t be using. Ridiculous. You’re lucky that I put this place on the map by staying here in the first place.”
With that she turned to sweep away and saw me. “Good God, it’s the actress’s daughter,” she said. “I shouldn’t have thought the Negresco was your style, honey. What are you doing here?”
“Actually, I’m staying with my mother at her villa,” I said evenly, not prepared to let her rile me this time.
“Ah, so that’s it. Mummy’s finally bringing you out into society, is she? About time. But she’d better keep a close eye on you here. There’s no stiff upper lip when the British are abroad.” She gave a dry chuckle. “Incidentally, I saw your mother at the casino last night, but minus the German beau. Is that affair finally passé?”
“Not at all. He’s busy working in Germany and my mother needed sunshine, as simple as that.”
Mrs. Simpson was still giving me that patronizing smile I found so annoying. “It’s never as simple as that, honey. I’d like to bet she has her eye on another man.”
“You would know about those things more than I,” I said. “Will your husband be going on your cruise with your friend?”
“Of course. I like to keep my men where I can see them.” She laughed as she walked past me and up the staircase, trailing her fur coat behind her. I turned away to join Vera, who was waiting for me at the doorway.
“So you’ve met our famous American, I see. She’s quite a character, isn’t she?” She waved to Mrs. Simpson and smiled.
“You like her?”
“I find her amusing. She’s part of my set, and she wears Chanel suits. I don’t think ‘like’ comes into it,” Vera said. “Come on. Coco’s ready for us.”
I made a mental note to find out if that friend Mrs. Simpson had mentioned really was the Prince of Wales, and whether her husband was going to accompany her on the yacht. Then I had no time for any thoughts.
I was led across the boulevard and onto the pier. It was designed very much in the style of piers at home—an ornate domed iron-framed building in the Middle Eastern style with lots of minarets. As we stepped inside the foyer the last rays of evening sun were shining through the glass dome above our heads, bathing the scene with an unreal pink glow. Vera walked briskly ahead across the foyer and through an arched doorway. One of the two long casino rooms had been cleared of gaming tables and a catwalk had been erected down its center. Around it were rows of gilt chairs. This room had a normal ceiling from which several impressive chandeliers hung. At one end curtains were draped around a doorway. We passed through these to find ourselves in a dressing room. The real models had arrived from Paris and were already occupying the room—tall thin girls with pouty red lips and black Marcel waved hair, with names like Chou-Chou and Frou-Frou and Zou-Zou. They eyed me with amusement and talked about me behind their hands, never once thinking that I understood French rather well.
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