“I’m tired tonight, chéri,” I said, laying down my fork. “You go on to the party without me.”
He flashed one of his contagious smiles and kissed my hand. “Fine, but tomorrow night, pas d’excuses.”
The waiter reappeared with a tray of fresh oysters. Lucien squeezed a wedge of lemon over the shellfish and we ate in silence until the potage of creamed asparagus soup arrived.
“What are you thinking about?” Lucien asked, tearing off a chunk of baguette and noticing my distraction. “You look like you’re working out a plan for world domination.”
I laughed. My thoughts had circled the meeting with Miss Kelly, then alighted on that irritating photographer, James Henderson. I pushed him quickly aside and returned to the thrill of my new discovery in the workshop. “I think this new fragrance could be the beginning of something really special. Perhaps I could launch a new line, like I’ve always wanted. I would need to speak to the accountant but—”
Lucien squeezed my hand. “Mon amour, you know you can’t afford this. You already spent the money I gave you over a year ago. I know how much you enjoy your work, but this grand venture of yours would stretch your resources too thin. Think of the time it would take to make a name for yourself among the big perfume houses. You would be competing with the most famous names in Paris. Your parfums sell just fine here, in your shop in Cannes, and in Grasse.” He dipped a bit of bread into his soup. “Besides, there’s the problem of your maman to consider.”
Maman. I sighed. She wouldn’t go for my idea at all. In fact, she didn’t care a wit for Duval. She cared only about her brandy and an “occasional” hand of vingt-et-un. Her habit had controlled our lives for as long as I could remember. Papa had argued and pleaded with her, and sometimes shouted until the panes on the windows shook. She would change her ways for a time and he would forgive her, but it never lasted. Somehow, he’d managed to keep us and the business afloat. I was now trying to do the same, but I hadn’t yet created a fragrance that would catapult Duval to the next level. Lucien was right. We couldn’t easily compete with the established reputations of the large perfume houses, even if we did have the funds. Yet I couldn’t help feeling I was finally on the right path. All I needed was a new line featuring a star fragrance. I could give Maman her own allowance then and safeguard the rest of the finances. And I could continue to do what I loved most, whether or not she drowned herself in cheap wine.
“This could be it, Lucien. The one I’ve been searching for. I’ll talk to Maman. I—”
“Let’s not talk about expenditures tonight, chérie. I hate to see you upset. Financial strain, your maman, what-ifs.” Lucien poured us each another glass of champagne, waving the sommelier away dismissively. “It will only spoil our evening.” He checked his Rolex. “What little of it there is left.”
My good humor dissolved as my dreams collapsed under the weight of hard reality. “Yes, you’re right. Let’s leave it.”
He saw my disappointment and kissed my hand again. “We will talk about this more, I promise. I want to hear all about it. But later. After you’ve had time to think about your new fragrance, scribble down your ideas. Perhaps devise a plan. How does that sound?”
I nodded, accepting his argument even as a stubborn part of me disagreed. I laid my knife and fork on the edge of my plate. Suddenly, I wasn’t hungry anymore.
4
James
Hollywood stars were elusive, but the Cannes sunset was impossible to miss. It was my favorite time of day, everything slowly mellowing to a soft rose-gold glow as the town shimmered. The light was too good to ignore, and I was glad to have an unused roll of film to catch it. I sought out interesting silhouettes and shadows and angles, focused on the way the water glistened like silk. It was where I felt happiest, framing the scene. Landscapes gave me all the time I needed to get the perfect composition. People, on the other hand, were unpredictable and erratic. Walsh kept telling me I had a good instinct for faces and should do more portraiture, but I didn’t want to believe him. Scenery was my safe space. I understood it. People, I only ever got remarkably wrong.
As I walked along La Croisette, it was as if the whole town had exhaled. Everything relaxed in the fresh evening breeze, the palm trees rustling their leaves like hula girls shaking their grass skirts. As I strolled past the Duval boutique, I took one of the business cards from my pocket. The scent of Sophie’s perfume was still captured on the slim piece of card. I brought it to my nose and breathed in. Sensual, but feminine. Perfectly French. It was surely no coincidence that I’d seen her again, and I couldn’t stop thinking about the look in her eyes when I’d snapped her in the shop. Confused. Hurt. Vulnerable. Some people have a way of expressing themselves that the camera loves and enhances. I was no expert in portrait photography, but I sensed that Miss Duval had a face the camera loved, and I couldn’t wait to get back to London to develop the image I’d taken of her. In the meantime, I had far more important things to think about. I had one day left in Cannes. One day to photograph a Hollywood icon or lose my job, and what chance would I ever have of making a proper home for Emily and me if that happened. Emily deserved the best, and I was determined to find a way of giving it to her. None of this was her fault, after all.
Back at the hotel I dialed Walsh’s room. I hadn’t seen him at dinner and it wasn’t like Teddy Walsh to miss a meal. The phone rang several times before he picked up.
“Hello.” His voice was sleepy, slightly slurred.
I pulled the receiver away from my ear as he coughed violently on the other end. “Walsh? It’s Jim. Are you drunk?”
“I’m sick. Come up. I need to talk to you.”
My old man used to say I was the luckiest kid he’d ever known. I’d get the best hand in the games of poker we played at Christmas. I’d find money in the street. I’d roll a six every time I needed one. The older I got, the more my luck seemed to run out, but that was about to change.
“I’ve been invited to a private press op tomorrow,” Teddy explained as I poured him a glass of water and drew his curtains. “Pulled in a favor from a friend of a friend who works for Paris Match. Turns out the magazine’s movie editor, Pierre Galante, has arranged a meeting between Grace Kelly and Prince Rainier at the royal palace in Monaco. It seems that Galante, his wife—Olivia de Havilland—and the editor in chief of Paris Match, cooked up the idea over dinner in the dining car on the train from Paris to Nice, and Kelly’s people at MGM agreed to it. ‘The Prince and the Queen of Hollywood.’ I can already see the headlines.”
I flopped onto the end of Walsh’s bed. “Prince who? I’ve never heard of him.”
“Neither had Miss Kelly by all accounts. Apparently she’s not very keen on the idea. She believes her schedule is already far too tight. I suspect she’d prefer to stay in Cannes with that Aumont chap who seems to follow her everywhere, but it’s all arranged. A small group of photographers have been invited to capture the meeting on camera. Good publicity for American-French relations, and all that.”
I sat up and pushed my hair from my forehead. “And you’re stuck in bed with the plague, so I get to take your place at the palace?”