“Maybe it’s time for a change. Do more of that artistic scenery stuff you’re always on about. Maybe he’s done you a favor.”
I appreciated the attempt to throw a silver lining around my cloud, but in all the years I’d known Sanders, the only favors he’d done were for himself.
The office was unusually quiet as I packed up the few things from my desk: a photograph of me and Walsh in uniform, a photograph of Emily as a baby, a battered copy of Moby Dick that I’d been reading for two years and wasn’t even halfway through, an old flashbulb from my first press camera. It wasn’t an awful lot to show for my time at the paper.
I left without sentiment. Without regret. I also left without my wallet, which made everything rather awkward when I returned for it a moment later and had to go through the goodbyes all over again. “It’s au revoir, not goodbye,” I said, repeating the words I’d used just a few minutes earlier. The secretaries smiled thinly from their row of desks. They were already clattering their typewriter keys before I’d closed the door behind me.
By rights, I should have gone straight to the Thames with bricks in my pockets, but I made my way home with a surprising sense of acceptance. As I rummaged in my pocket for change for the evening paper, my fingers found Sophie’s business card. Duval was printed in swirling black typeface on the front. I was about to toss it into the litter bin when the last remnant of the scent and the memory of the look in her eyes made me pause. I slipped the card back into my pocket. I wasn’t tired of London, or of life. I was simply tired of being alone.
The sunset that evening was as pretty as the glass of rosé I’d abandoned in a Cannes restaurant to run after Grace Kelly, a chase that had led me to a small perfume boutique, and to an intriguing woman who had enchanted me even more than Hollywood’s stars. And then I remembered. I still had a photograph of Miss Duval, waiting to be developed.
7
Sophie
Cannes
When Friday arrived, I paced in front of the mirror. The last few days I’d thought of little else beyond meeting Grace; what I should say, what I should wear. As evening fell, I walked to the Carlton hotel, forcing myself to be calm and appear relaxed, to be confident in my choice of perfume, and in myself. Once inside, I took in the elegant décor of marble and smooth wood paneling, the plush curtains and wonderfully fragrant floral arrangements. I searched the faces of the guests milling about, but Grace was nowhere to be seen. I stood by the reservation desk for ten minutes, but still, she didn’t show. My mood deflated a little. Perhaps she’d forgotten. I’d give her another twenty minutes—she was a movie star, after all, and had places to be—and if she didn’t show, I would leave the package for her at the desk.
As I glanced around the lobby, my gaze settled on the restaurant. Perhaps she’d meant I should find her there? I headed for the podium where the maître d’ greeted me.
“Bonsoir, madame. Do you have a reservation?” He put a gloved finger on his registry.
“Not exactly.” The man’s lips pinched, but I continued. “I’m meeting someone here. Miss Grace Kelly. She’s expecting me.”
He squinted in suspicion until his eyebrows formed a straight line. “And your name is?”
“Sophie Duval. Miss Kelly asked me to drop off a wedding gift for her sister.”
He made a scene of running his fingers over the list of names carefully documented in his reservation book, once, twice, and a third time, his forehead scrunched and lips pressed together. At last he said, “I am sorry, madame, but unless your name appears on this list, I cannot let you inside. You understand.”
I felt my cheeks flush with embarrassment—and disappointment. I should leave the parfum at the front desk and get on with my evening. I pulled the beautiful package from my handbag.
“Sophie, is that you?” Grace appeared behind the maître d’. “It just occurred to me they might not let you inside since I didn’t put your name on the list. Lucky, you’ve just arrived!” She extended a hand covered in a black silk opera glove that tapered to her elbow. “It’s nice to see you again.”
Grace looked stunning in a black Oleg Cassini dress, her hair styled into a perfect blond bob curled at the nape of her neck and around her chin. I was glad I’d worn one of my best dresses, though it wasn’t nearly as elegant as hers. But then, who was ever as elegant as Grace Kelly?
I took her hand. “The pleasure is mine, Grace.”
Her gaze dropped to the package in my hand. “Is that for me?”
“The gift for your sister. I hope she likes it.”
“I’m sure she will. Even the packaging is beautiful!” She held up the box of Nuit Douce, running her fingertips over the satin ribbon. “Lizanne will love it. As for payment, I’ll send a courier to your boutique tomorrow, if that’s all right?”
“Of course.” I beamed at the dazzling smile Grace offered me. She was pleased, and I, in turn, was thrilled. Though excitement fluttered in my belly, my nerves tingled with worry. What if she didn’t care for the fragrance? Selecting a parfum for someone else could be presumptuous, in particular without meeting them. Who knew what truly lay in a person’s heart? This was the key to unlocking the perfect scent, unearthing their secret selves. I pushed the doubt from my mind, scolding myself for second-guessing my instincts.
“Say, Sophie, would you join us for a drink?” Grace offered. “I’d very much like to thank you for hiding me in your boutique that day, and now this.” She held up the box of parfum.
“Oh, you’re very kind, but I really couldn’t, I . . .”
She smiled encouragingly. “Oh, do join us. Please.” She leaned forward and lowered her voice. “I’m bored of all the man talk, to be honest. I could use another girl to gossip with.”
I hesitated. Mingling with Hollywood stars was far beyond my level of comfort, but mischief danced in Grace’s blue eyes and I couldn’t resist. “Well, in that case! Oui, I’d be delighted. Thank you!”
“It’s all right, Charles,” Grace said, giving the maître d’ a look that could melt ice. “She’s with me.”
He grew flustered as he straightened his bow tie and stepped aside.
I followed Grace, trying not to stare at the way her dress swayed as she moved, and focused on the beautiful south-facing wall composed almost entirely of windows looking out at the bay.
As we approached Grace’s table, I faltered. Several gentlemen dressed impeccably in light summer suits were laughing and talking and enjoying expensive-looking cocktails from the Carlton’s renowned bar. It appeared I was interrupting a private gathering. Regretting my uncharacteristic impulsiveness, I stood awkwardly at the edge of the table, waiting for direction from Grace.
“Why don’t you sit here, by me.” Grace patted the seat next to her and I slid in beside her gratefully. “Everyone, this is Sophie Duval,” she said, waving her hand at me with a flourish. “She’s the one I told you about, who hid me from that pesky photographer. She owns a lovely little perfume boutique, and her creations are simply divine. She just personally delivered a package for my baby sister. I think I should thank her properly with champagne, don’t you?”