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.
Except I couldn’t see her, not like any normal father could see his daughter. Even if I did have a box of special French bonbons for her, I couldn’t see Emily without first having to navigate a tricky labyrinth of prior arrangements with her mother. Dealing with Marjorie was like dealing with a talking calendar: “Not today, James. We already have plans.” “Sunday? Emily has Sunday school. You should know that by now.” “I’m afraid Saturdays are inconvenient.”
Our conversations followed a well-worn path. Even as I dialed the telephone number, I knew that my plans to see Emily that afternoon would be firmly dashed.
“You can’t just show up on the doorstep and expect us to drop everything so you can spend time with her,” Marjorie huffed. “You dash off on this whim and that whim. . . .”
“They’re called assignments, Marge. It’s my job to dash off. The news tends not to work around Emily’s rigid schedule.”
“Which is why you were an impossible husband and an unreliable father. Emily needs routine and stability, James. Not another ‘Wish You Were Here’ postcard from God knows where. Honestly, you’re infuriating.”
Marjorie Loftus (as she was, once again) was a barrister’s daughter, which made it difficult to argue with her without feeling as if you were being cross-examined in the witness box. She’d said it so often, I expected the words Honestly, you’re infuriating would be inscribed on her headstone when the time came. I had loved her once, albeit briefly. The hangover of war makes for peculiar decisions and actions. Ill-judged peacetime romances were inevitable, as were the resulting children. Of course I did the honorable thing and married her, although we both knew it would never last. It was almost a relief when she left me for the other chap. Horace. Harvey. Whatever he’s called.
After a particularly terse conversation, it was eventually agreed that I could see Emily on Wednesday, after school. The bonbons and I would have to wait a little longer.
* * *
Monday morning arrived with blue skies and birdsong, as if London was mocking my silly affection for her comforting gray woolliness. I felt unusually jolly as I walked to Clapham Common station to begin my commute to Fleet Street. Sanders always got in early so I expected he would be waiting to deliver his verdict on the photographs I’d dropped through the office letterbox on my return from France. He wasn’t one to mince his words, and the photographs weren’t, after all, quite what he was expecting. Given the circumstances, I had no business being cheerful, but London put on an impressive performance that morning, like a vaudeville showgirl, all sequins and feathers and fluttering fans.
I stood on the right side of the escalator, content to let my thoughts stray back to Cannes while frantic city workers rushed past, determined to get to the office a minute or two quicker. It struck me that—fond as I was of dear old London—I hadn’t seen enough of the Côte d’Azur or, more specifically, of Mademoiselle Duval. Like when a broken movie reel whirred to a halt halfway through the picture, I felt cheated, the story left tantalizingly suspended in a projection booth. I wanted to know how it ended.
I wrestled my way onto the Northern line train, northbound to Tottenham Court Road, avoiding eye contact with the pretty brunette who got off at Waterloo along with the man with the limp. I smoked two Pall Malls as I read other people’s newspapers over their shoulders before changing to the Central line, eastbound, to Chancery Lane. My commute was one of the few predictable things in my life. I liked the little oddities of the routine. It was nice to switch off, let my feet take me where they needed to go instead of having to consult travel documents and maps and interpret incomprehensible road signs as I so often did when I was on a foreign assignment. Spat out of the Tube station as if I were a dazzled mole, I was propelled along the street in a tsunami of suits and bowler hats toward the office on Fleet Street. The familiar smells of tobacco and furniture polish made me smile, despite the knots in my stomach.