Diplomacy at its very best.
As everyone was saying their goodbyes, I noticed Galante patting his pockets, an unlit cigarette perched between his fingers.
“Here,” I called, emptying the contents of my pockets onto an ornamental stone seat. I tossed a box of matches over to him, like I’d seen someone do in the movies once.
“Merci,” he called, taking a light before throwing the box back to me.
Miss Kelly appeared at my shoulder as I began to return everything to my pockets.
“Excuse me. It’s the strangest thing, but do I know you? I feel as though we’ve met.”
I’d hoped she wouldn’t recognize me. “I don’t think so.” I flashed one of my most charming smiles.
She frowned a little. “Perhaps I’m mistaking you for someone. My apologies.”
“No apology needed. You wouldn’t believe how often I get mixed up with Cary Grant.”
At this, she laughed. “Can I ask what scent that is? It’s quite lovely.”
I realized she’d picked up the scent of the perfume on the business card, which I’d taken from my pocket to find the matches. “Ah, that would be this,” I said, passing the card to her. “It’s a small perfume boutique in Cannes. Near the harbor.”
She placed the card to her nose, closed her eyes, and took in a breath. She smiled.
“Yes. I know it.” She opened her eyes. “I’ve been trying to remember where it was. May I keep this?”
“Be my guest. I have another.”
“Thank you. You’ve been very helpful, Mr. . . .”
“Henderson. James. My friends call me—”
“Jim. That’s right. Well, thank you, Jim.”
I watched for a moment as she stepped into the car, surrounded by her people. Dust flew up from the tires as the sleek vehicle drove away. Her job done, extravagant parties and French boyfriends waited for her back in Cannes. Miss Kelly had surprised me. Yes, she was every inch the Hollywood star, but she was more than that. She was warm and gracious. She had a sense of humor. She was also now in possession of Sophie Duval’s business card. Perhaps she wanted to thank Sophie for offering a hiding place when I was giving her the chase. Whatever the reason, Miss Duval had clearly left an impression on Miss Kelly. Just as she had on me.
As the little French chap and his Peugeot took me back to Cannes, I reflected on how I’d arrived as a late addition to the film festival assignment, nothing much expected or asked of me other than to take one decent shot of Grace Kelly that we could use to satisfy the British public’s fascination with her. Having spent the afternoon in the company of Grace and Rainier, I would leave Cannes with images only a handful of other photographers had. Surely, Sanders would get off my back now.
Buoyed by my eleventh-hour stroke of good fortune, I decided to take one last trip to the perfume shop, keen to leave Miss Duval with a better impression of me. If I could tell her I’d just given Grace Kelly her business card, perhaps she might even give me a smile.
Back at the hotel, I freshened up, chose a shirt that wasn’t as creased as the others, topped everything off with my favorite Homburg hat, and made my way back to the boutique. What I was going to say when I got there, I wasn’t quite sure. It wasn’t in my nature to apologize, but perhaps I’d been a little presumptuous taking a photo of Miss Duval without asking her permission first. She clearly thought I was paparazzi crass. English paparazzi crass, at that. The very worst. And yet, for some inexplicable reason, I wanted to see her again before I returned to London.
Just before I reached the boutique, I stopped to check my reflection in the window of a nearby boulangerie. I adjusted my tie, checked my breath against the palm of my hand, and strolled casually toward the shop, only to discover a sign on the door saying Fermé.
I checked my watch. Closed for the day.
Deflated, I shoved my hands in my pockets and made my way back to the hotel. When it came to Sophie Duval, it seemed that luck most definitely wasn’t on my side.
QUEEN OF HOLLYWOOD MEETS PRINCE OF MONACO
* * *
Grace Kelly in surprise visit to Prince’s Palace.
Angeline West reports for the Herald.
This may be the first time Grace Kelly has attended the Cannes Film Festival but she is making it count. Yesterday she shook hands with His Serene Highness Prince Rainier III of Monaco in an unconventional meeting believed to have been arranged by Paris Match magazine and MGM Studios. Although this reporter didn’t manage to secure an invitation to the exclusive tête-à-tête held at the Prince’s Palace in Monaco-Ville, sources say the meeting was a rather rushed and unremarkable affair.
Miss Kelly made certain to be back in Cannes in time for the gala dinner held in her honor that evening. And her reaction to meeting the reclusive prince? “He is a very charming man.”
A Prince Charming, indeed.
Having made quite an impact at her first Cannes festival, Miss Kelly is due to leave town early next week. It is understood she will spend time in Paris before returning to America to begin shooting her new picture, The Swan, in which she will play a princess alongside her leading man, Alec Guinness, who will play the part of a prince.
5
Sophie
After a steaming bowl of moules frites and a glass of rosé, I strolled back to the shop slowly to enjoy the sun on my face and the light breeze blowing off the water. It was a perfect day to luncheon outdoors, and it had refreshed me as much as I’d hoped it would. Maman had called several times over the course of the morning, but I’d avoided her. The familiar stab of guilt swept over me nevertheless, as it always did when I left Maman to her own devices. She needed someone to entertain her, pick out her clothes, clean up after her, and I was the only one to do it. But today I just couldn’t face her.
“I’m back,” I called out as I entered the shop. “You should have come with me, Natalie. It’s a gorgeous day. I had lunch on the terrace at Maxime’s.”
Natalie shot me a look of warning and pointed to the office door. “Madame Duval is here to see you.”
My heart sank, along with my good mood. Ignoring the phone calls hadn’t worked after all.
Maman was slouched in my office chair, her hair mussed from the wind, or lack of combing. I suspected the latter. She wore lipstick the color of bubble gum that didn’t suit her complexion. Her clothes were badly fitting and in need of being pressed. She was my opposite in every way: loud, sloppy, and eternally unsatisfied with her lot in life. Though she had always been a difficult woman, since Papa’s death her flaws were amplified. I loved her on some level—she was my mother after all—but I didn’t like her, and I had trouble understanding what Papa, such a gentle soul, had fallen in love with all those years ago. Dealing with her at all tied my stomach into knots.
“Why haven’t you returned my calls?” she demanded between kisses to each of my cheeks. “I told you it was urgent.”
A whiff of sunshine and jasmine wafted from her skin and I was transported back to the hillside in Grasse, in my white cotton dress and hat, happy amid my flower fields. At least Maman had the good sense to wear one of our parfums in public. It was an interesting choice of fragrance, though. I wondered who she wished she could be. In spite of my acute sensibility of people, my mother’s true self evaded me. Pickled in brandy, she also evaded herself.