I wasn’t giving up that easily. The only thing I had left to lose was my dignity, and what half-decent press photographer had that anyway? I broke into a jog, following the tantalizing scent of her perfume down the sleepy, shuttered streets.
3
Sophie
The sun peeked over the edge of the horizon, sending a glimmering path of gold across the water, its parting gift before retiring for the evening. I would have loved to sit for a while to watch the spectacle, but I was already late for dinner, and Lucien would be irritable.
I walked to Chez Benoît as quickly as I could manage in parley heels. It was never my intention to keep Lucien waiting, but I often got absorbed by my work, wrapped up in a world of fragrance and memories and dreams so that I completely lost track of time. Today, I had a particularly good reason for my delay. I smiled, remembering the flutter of excitement as I’d struck upon something special in my workshop, a seduction of the senses. Ambergris, rich with musk to act as a fixative, note de tête of dried cherry and violets, note de coeur of mimosa and oakmoss, the carefully balanced quantity of ingredients recorded in my journal de fleurs, the notebook where the formula for each Duval fragrance was held. It was Papa’s before it passed on to me. He’d affectionately called it his book of flowers, and the name had stuck. Any parfumeur knew to keep their formulas a closely guarded secret. Science and magic, art and beauty, it was all there in a small vial that would one day become a beautiful glass bottle to be sold. My new fragrance needed more work, but I was close, so close to something exceptional.
I smiled again as I approached the door of the restaurant.
“Bonsoir, madame.” The doorman nodded and held the door open for me. “Monsieur Marceau is waiting at your usual table.”
“Merci, Jacques. I am late.” I shrugged my coat from my shoulders as he took it from me.
“A woman as beautiful as you can never be late, madame.”
I laughed at his easy charm and wound my way through the circular tables, each glowing with candlelight and covered in crisp white linens. Soft piano music mingled with laughter and drifted through the room. The delicious aroma from the kitchens hit me in waves: roast beef, wild garlic, the salty tang of fresh seafood. Lucien’s favorite restaurant in Cannes had quickly become our favorite restaurant in Cannes. Though Chez Benoît was expensive, money was no object to the son of a millionaire real estate developer, although Lucien’s easy way with money made me—the daughter of a humble artisan—feel uncomfortable at times.
He stood as I approached the table and made a point of checking his watch. “If you didn’t look so radiant, I’d be angry with you.” We exchanged kisses on each cheek. He pulled out my chair from the table before the waiter had the chance. “What took you so long?”
“I’m sorry.” I sat, smoothing my floral skirt. “I came from Grasse.” I couldn’t wait to tell him about the progress I’d made that afternoon.
“I’ve been waiting nearly an hour.” He tipped back the rest of his martini and held a finger in the air for the waiter. “We’re ready for the first course, and we’ll have a bottle of the Pommery.”
“Très bien.” The waiter bowed deferentially before rushing from the dining room. They were used to Lucien’s expensive tastes and demanding ways.
“I was considering joining another table,” Lucien said with a hint of humor in his voice. “The Florents are by the front window.”
I reached for his hand and squeezed it. “I will make it up to you.”
“I like the sound of that.” He winked as a smile spread across his face.
The sommelier arrived, uncorked the bottle, and poured a splash of the effervescent liquid into a crystal coupe. I sat back in my seat as Lucien went through the process of tasting before nodding his approval. The vintage was acceptable. Lucien had impeccable taste and wouldn’t settle for less than perfect. I smiled at the sommelier as he poured two glasses and placed the bottle in a silver ice bucket beside the table.
“I’ve discovered something,” I said, unable to suppress the excitement emerging again, like the ribbons of bubbles winding to the surface in my glass.
“Well, if this is why you were late, do go on.”
“I’m in the process of developing a new fragrance. I think it could be a real breakthrough, Lucien. This may be it, the one I’ve been waiting for.” I held out my champagne glass.
“That’s wonderful. Congratulations.” He clinked his glass against mine.
“Thank you. It’s been so many years . . . if Papa . . . I wish . . .” I felt a lump form in my throat and swallowed hard. “If I could only talk to him about it. He would understand better than anyone.”
“I know, chérie,” Lucien said, lifting my hand to his lips. “I know.”
I longed to tell Lucien more, to explain my ideas and my plans, but he humored my passionate musings only to a point. He was a true businessman, almost clinical in the execution of his work at times. He thought I let my emotions overtake my good sense too often. But our differences were what drew him to me in the first place, and the same was true for me. Opposites attract, after all. Recently, he had hinted at our relationship becoming more serious in the not-too-distant future, and he’d made it clear I would be busy maintaining his properties—the house in Cannes, the yacht, the Paris apartment—and playing hostess to his millionaire clientele. I would be expected to step back from the perfume business—at least to some degree—to make way for our family. I hadn’t argued or worried. I knew he would change his mind in time. He knew how much Duval meant to me. Lucien often made offhand comments like this, but when it came down to it, he loved me and would support me, I was sure of it.
“Will you join me for a digestif after the party later?” he asked, changing the subject. “With the film festival in town, I can hardly manage the invitations. Grace Kelly is here with her boyfriend, or one of her leading men. It’s hard to keep up with her.”
“Oh?” For some reason I didn’t tell him she’d visited the boutique. “I didn’t know she had a boyfriend.”
He leaned forward, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “She doesn’t. Not officially. But she can’t keep her eyes off Jean-Pierre Aumont. They’re all over the newspapers. How convenient that they’re here at the same time. Rumor has it he’s the only reason she agreed to come to Cannes at all. Then there are the rumors she’s already engaged to that fashion designer, Cassini.” He leaned back in his velvet chair and laughed lightly. “Good for her, I say. Use your beauty to your full advantage.”
Lucien enjoyed all the gossip and scandal that circulated during the film festival. He came alive as the boats packed the harbor and plenty of new, fascinating people filled the bars and hotels of Cannes and other nearby towns on the Côte d’Azur. Perhaps he enjoyed it a little too much. I was amazed at the energy he had, the endless hours he spent among the crowds, floating from one yacht party to the next. He acquired all the right invitations, managed to meet all the right people. Lucien Marceau charmed everyone he met. With his dark hair, aquiline nose, and expensive wardrobe, he always made an impression. Eyes followed him as he sauntered through a packed room dressed in Lacoste stripes and foulard, tied expertly at his neck, or attired in an elegant dinner jacket that complemented his build. It was no wonder he was so successful in business. It never bothered me that he sat firmly at the center of every party, while I receded quietly to a corner with a friend or two to talk more privately. When Lucien was happy, everything was easy. I only wished he would take a little more interest in the things that made me happy, too.