“Here, here!” a gentleman said, taking a sip from his martini. “Get this lady a glass!”
The others smiled and nodded their agreement as a waiter set a champagne coupe before me.
Grace was gregarious and confident amid her peers, quite different from the soft-spoken woman I’d seen in my shop and talked with on the telephone.
After the champagne had been poured, she leaned in closer to me and said, in a conspiratorial whisper, “Lizanne would kill me if she heard me call her my baby sister in public, especially in front of a studio executive and Hitch.” She laughed playfully and I was struck again by her charm.
“We won’t tell your sister,” I replied with a smile. And then I processed what she had said. “Hitch? As in Alfred Hitchcock?”
“The very same.”
I scanned the faces of the four men at the table. And there he was, sloping nose, balding, plump and jolly, his cheeks stained pink from booze and laughter. I could hardly believe it. I was sitting among Hollywood royalty—and I couldn’t be more out of place. I glanced down at my simple white linen dress tied at the waist with a light blue sash, my tasteful but simple heels.
Grace placed the box of parfum on the table “Mind if I try it out first? We won’t tell Lizanne that, either!” She winked playfully.
“Please do,” I said. “It’s called Nuit Douce. The scent evokes the gentle caress of a warm Mediterranean night. Every ingredient is from the hills near my workshop in Grasse. In fact, it’s one of my favorites.” I felt the anxiety drain away and my limbs relax as I described the different varieties of flowers we grew and how we harvested them. This was my world, one in which I moved freely and with confidence.
She opened the monogrammed box and removed a small glass stopper from the bottle inside. A soft smile tugged at her lips as she inhaled the scent. Her eyes widened. She inhaled again, deeper this time. After a moment, she closed her eyes. “It’s . . . I’m . . . it’s perfect,” she breathed. “There’s something almost sparkly about it. I smell a hint of the sea. I’m on a yacht under the stars, tethered to a dock in the Mediterranean, the scent of roses on the breeze.” Her eyes flew open. “Sophie, you have a gift.”
My head spun with the praise. “You’re very kind. I was raised among flowers and perfume. My papa taught me everything he knew.”
“You all just have to smell this,” Grace gushed, and passed the precious bottle around the table. “If you don’t buy something from Duval for your wives and girlfriends before you leave Cannes, then I can’t speak for your intelligence.”
Everyone laughed, and passed the bottle around, remarking appropriately as they each smelled my parfum. I thought of how proud Papa would have been. He would have celebrated with a carafe of rosé on the terrace amid our fields, and then we would have talked about a million ways to use this opportunity to help promote our name, our reputation. Above all, he would have loved to know Grace. She was the epitome of everything he admired in a person: elegant, kind, effervescent even.
“I see empty glasses all around. How about another bottle of champagne?” A striking man who’d been introduced as Jean-Pierre, and couldn’t take his eyes off Grace, motioned to a waiter.
“What a wonderful idea, darling,” Grace said, her eyes glittering like jewels. “In fact, why don’t you stay and eat with us, Sophie? There’s no need to rush off, unless you have plans, of course?”
I didn’t have plans. I rarely did, except when Lucien insisted I join him at some extravagant party or business dinner. It felt good to make a plan of my own for once. “That would be wonderful.” I didn’t hold back a grin this time.
As the waiter poured another glass of Dom Pérignon, a bubble of joy rose in my throat and I suppressed the urge to laugh. I rarely let down my guard, and never indulged in too much champagne, but tonight was special. I already knew it was a night I’d never forget.
When Nuit Douce reached Alfred Hitchcock, his brow arched in surprise. “You should wear this on set, Gracie. You’re going to need it to seduce that prince. He could use a little aphrodisiac to get him going.”
She leaned toward me to explain. “He means that my character falls for a prince in a film I’ll be starring in later this fall. It’s called The Swan. Dear Hitch isn’t directing this one so he makes derisory comments about it at every opportunity. It’s too bad, really. He’s my favorite director by far.” She winked at him. “Don’t worry, Hitch darling. I’ll bathe in the stuff and light the prince’s fire.”
Everyone laughed.
“Well, there’s plenty more parfum, should you need it,” I said, my tongue loosening beneath the champagne, the company, the wonderful praise for my work. I felt giddy to have a new friend in Grace. She had a natural and elegant way of making me feel welcome. I suspected she did that for anyone who spent time with her.
We feasted on rich bouillabaisse and crab beignets, and the fresh catch of the day served Provençale. To cap it off, they served my favorite pear and hazelnut clafoutis for dessert. By the time the sixth bottle of champagne was uncorked and poured, I felt so light-headed I could float away. I’d stopped caring how much my portion of the bill would be, and about the fact that my dress wasn’t made by a designer, or that I was the only person at the table not associated with Hollywood in some way. They’d all been so kind and funny and full of vitality, I’d forgotten my usual reserve and laughed along with them.
“Grace, this has been a lovely evening,” I said, clutching her hand. “Thank you for the invitation.”
“I do hope you’ll keep in touch,” she said, smiling. “I have a feeling I’ll want a lot more of your perfumes.”
Another surge of joy flooded my chest. “I’d like that very much.”
“In fact, let me give you the address of the studio.” She rummaged in her handbag for a scrap of paper and a pen and hastily jotted down an address for MGM Studios in California.
The waiter brought the check and Hitch quickly scooped it up, peeled a wad of cash from his money clip, and handed the bill back to the waiter.
I pushed away my half-finished glass of champagne, too full to consume another drop. I was relieved to be spared my share of the cost. The meal must have been hundreds of francs.
Just then, I caught sight of a familiar form at a table near the windows at the back of the restaurant. I knew that dark, waving hair, the shape of those shoulders in a suit jacket. Lucien.
He’d told me he had dinner plans this evening, but he hadn’t mentioned where, or with whom. I frowned as a beautiful platinum-blond woman laid her hand on his arm. A twinge of jealousy put a damper on the fine time I’d had. Should I approach the table? I didn’t want to make a scene, and she could very well be another of his cousins. He had so many of them.
At that moment, Hitch threw his head back and belly-laughed at some remark or other, drawing the attention of several other patrons in the restaurant. Including Lucien. He turned to impart an imperious glare at the table of loud Americans when he spotted me.
I waved with my fingertips.
His eyes widened a fraction and then he put on his best nonchalant expression. It was one I’d seen a thousand times as he greeted millionaires and movie stars from all over the world. He wanted to look debonair and unfazed, as if he were just as important as they were. I suppose, in a way, he was. I watched as he excused himself from the table and made his way toward me.