Naughty In Nice

by Rhys Bowen

  I came out of the hotel and stood on the steps, wondering what to do next. Certainly not go back to the house of horror. I decided to take a look at the town and turned inland past the grounds of an elegant villa until I came to an area of commerce. Shops were just opening up their shutters and shopkeepers were putting out their wares. They called across to each other, good-natured insults and salutations in the strong southern dialect. I reached a little cobbled square, lined with more outdoor cafés, and suddenly there, drinking coffee, were my two new acquaintances from the train. I went over to them, delighted to see friendly faces.

  “How good to see you,” I said. “I thought you were staying at a villa.”

  “Oh, we are,” Vera replied. “But Coco has to meet a man from Grasse to discuss her new perfume, so we had the chauffeur drive us into town. But I’m surprised you’re so pleased to see us. We thought we’d been given the cold shoulder, didn’t we, Coco?”

  “We were mortified. We did not know what we had done to offend you,” Coco Chanel agreed.

  “What do you mean?”

  “We spotted you yesterday evening, going into the casino. We called out to you but you passed us without saying a word.”

  “The casino? I wasn’t at the casino. I was at the villa all evening.”

  “Strange.” Vera looked at Coco. “I could have sworn it was you.”

  “Absolutely. You must have a twin.”

  “How fascinating,” I said. “I wish I had been at the casino. I spent a dreadfully dull evening with my family.”

  “You must come and dine with us sometime,” Vera said. “Our hostess has an excellent chef.”

  “What do you mean, dine?” Chanel demanded. “You must come to the villa this afternoon so that I can fit you for the clothes you will wear when you model for me at the unveiling of my collection.” She held up a warning hand as I was about to speak. “Do not say no. I will not hear of it. I absolutely insist. You are the look that I want—the true British aristocrat, isn’t she, Vera?”

  “Oh, rather,” Vera agreed.

  I felt my face going red. “No, really, you don’t want me. I’ll do something terrible and embarrass you, I know I will.”

  “Nonsense.” Coco laughed. “As Vera will tell you, it is quite impossible to embarrass me. I have survived all kinds of scandal in my life. I have developed a very thick skin. So come to the villa. Try on the clothes. You will see that what I ask you to do is not so terrible. Shall we say three o’clock?”

  It certainly was tempting. I might be invited to stay for dinner and have something decent to eat. And I’d be away from my relatives.

  “All right,” I said. “I will come.”

  “It is called Villa Marguerite,” Vera said. “Out on the Petit Corniche—that’s the headland you see if you face to the east. You’ll need to take a taxicab. It’s too far to walk.”

  “The Petit Corniche? Is it anywhere near Sir Toby Groper’s place?”

  “My dear, positively on top of him.” Vera laughed. “We look down on his gardens and his swimming pool. Lovely place it is too—private beach and dock. And you should see the size of his yacht. I believe it’s bigger than the Duke of Westminster’s, isn’t it, Coco—and that’s saying something.”

  That settled it. If becoming a fashion model was the only way to have a chance to meet Sir Toby, then I’d have to do it, and pray that I didn’t make too big a fool of myself.

  I arrived home to find the relatives sitting on deck chairs on the lawn. They looked quite peeved as I approached.

  “Where have you been all this time?” Fig demanded.

  “I went to have coffee with friends in town,” I said.

  “Friends?” Fig demanded. “I didn’t know you had friends here. Did you know she had friends here, Binky?”

  I could see her brain working. If she has friends, she can stay with them. That was what she was thinking.

  “Actually, people I met on the train,” I said. “One of them is a relative of sorts. Vera Bate Lombardi. Do you know her?”

  A look passed between them. “Know of her . . .” Ducky said.

  “Isn’t she the Duke of Cambridge’s . . .”

  “Yes,” Ducky said firmly.

  “And Coco Chanel, the dress designer,” I added.

  “Chanel? You know Chanel?” The two women’s faces immediately lit up.

  “Yes. I’m going to be modeling for her new collection,” I said breezily. “She’s unveiling it at a big party in a few days’ time.”

  “And she wants you to be a model? You, of all people?” Fig looked at me as if she couldn’t believe Chanel could be that desperate.

  “I’m exactly the type she wants for her new collection,” I said. “I’m going to her villa this afternoon to try on clothes. I probably won’t be back for dinner, so don’t wait for me.”

  Frosty silence.

  “We rather hoped you’d be a help with the children, not rushing off every second,” Fig said. Ducky nodded.

  “I thought you brought Podge’s nanny with you,” I couldn’t resist saying. “You don’t exactly check up on him too often at home.”

  “He comes down to us every teatime, doesn’t he, Binky?” Fig sounded affronted. “Every teatime regularly. And of course we brought Nanny. What we were hoping for was some schooling from you. He needs to learn to read and write.”

  “And Maude shouldn’t fall behind in her lessons either,” Ducky said. “Not if she’s to get into a top school. We have her down for Roedean, you know.”

  “Then I’m afraid I’d be hopeless,” I said. “I only know how to walk around with a book on my head.”

  “You speak French,” Fig said. “You could teach the children that.”

  She was determined that somehow I was going to earn my keep. I glanced down at her, thinking what an unpleasant person she was. I had observed several murders in my life. Hers, I believe, would be justified.

  To show willingness to a point I gave both children a half hour’s drilling in French. I rather wished I knew more naughty words. I’d have taught them those—especially Maude. Lunch was even grimmer than dinner and breakfast had been. A small square of cheese was placed in the middle of the table with more bread, some tomatoes and olives.

  “We like to eat lightly at lunchtime,” Ducky said. “Healthy for the digestion.”

  After lunch they went for a siesta. I put on my least unfashionable frock, applied a touch of rouge and lipstick and set off for the Villa Marguerite. I had been told it was too far to walk, but there was no hope of finding a taxicab closer than the seafront. It was a delightfully warm afternoon, and the beach looked so inviting—with its gay changing cubicles, lines of wicker chaises, topped with bright blue cushions, and bright blue umbrellas. I was a little disappointed to find that the beach was made of stones, not sand, but nobody else seemed to mind. People in bathing suits were sunning themselves. I observed them, amazed at the daring nature of the bathing suits. Many of the women’s suits were absolutely backless and the men wore what could only be described as black underpants. Nanny would have swooned on the spot.

  Not too many of the bathers dared to put more than a toe in the ocean, I noticed. The brave ones were nearly all children. There was one particular little boy with a mop of dark curls who ran fearlessly into the waves, then ran out again, screaming, as a bigger wave approached.

  A man got up from a deck chair and took his hand, leading him to the water this time and helping him to jump over the waves. He had similar dark curls and there was something familiar about the way his hair curled at the nape of his neck. Then he turned around and my heart did a flip. It was Darcy. As I watched he looked back at a slim, dark-haired woman lounging on a wicker beach chair in a strapless bathing top, her long black hair curling seductively over one shoulder. She must have said something because he burst out laughing and ruffled the child’s hair. So it was true. He had a mistress in France and a child that he had never told me about.

  I felt as
if a knife was ripping my insides in half. I just wanted to get away. I stumbled onward, colliding with an old colonel, who barked at me, “I say, watch it!”

  I muttered an apology and kept on walking, faster and faster, as if walking fast enough could take away my pain. At last I reached the old port and had to stop. I was out of breath and had a stitch in my side. I was also leaving the desirable part of town. There didn’t appear to be any taxicabs around here. I had to retrace my steps to the boulevard before I found one. The road started to climb, giving me a view down at the port with its collection of expensive yachts mingling with simpler fishing boats, and then the town was left behind and the road hugged a rocky headland, with the sparkling sea on one side and elegant villas clinging to steep cliffs. They ranged from the traditional Mediterranean villa, pastel colored with gay shutters, to neoclassical or horribly spare and modern. Before us was now a new bay, dotted with lovely white yachts. The cab turned off the main road and dropped to a small, secluded cove.

  “Villa Marguerite,” the cabby said. It was set behind a high stone wall, but through the wrought-iron gates I glimpsed a charming square traditional villa, a sort of warm pink with dark green shutters and a red-tiled roof, set amid manicured lawns. I opened the gate cautiously and went up the raked gravel drive to the front door.

  It was opened by a white-capped maid. I told her I had come to see Madame Chanel and she was expecting me. She bobbed a curtsy and invited me into a cool marble foyer.

  “Please wait here,” she said in French.

  “Who is it, Claudette?” a rich voice echoed down the stairs.

  “A visitor for Madame Chanel, Madame,” the maid said.

  “Madame Chanel is out on the terrace. I’m just going out. I’ll escort her myself.”

  The speaker came down the stairs, elegant in scarlet wide-legged pajamas and a little Japanese jacket. Her blond bobbed hair was a perfect shining cap, and her eyes still as wide and blue as any schoolgirl’s. They opened even wider when she saw me.

  “Good God, Georgie, what are you doing here?”

  “Hello, Mummy,” I said.

  Chapter 11

  January 23, 1933

  At the Villa Marguerite. Delightful day.

  She tapped down the marble staircase in high-heeled backless shoes to embrace me. We kissed, half an inch from each other’s cheeks as usual.

  “But nobody told me you were coming to the Riviera,” Mummy said, pouting as if I’d been keeping secrets from her.

  “You didn’t exactly let me know you were going to be here,” I pointed out. “Or invite me to stay.”

  “Darling, I thought you’d be busy in London, romping around with the delicious Darcy.”

  “Well, the delicious Darcy is no longer in London and no longer delicious,” I said.

  “Oh, dear. What happened?”

  “He has another woman,” I said.

  Mummy shrugged. “He wasn’t the type to stay around for long, was he? Never mind. Plenty of other fish in the sea.”

  “For you, maybe. Not for me. Where’s Max?”

  “At home in Germany.” She made a face. “Suddenly it’s all work, work, work. You know what Germans are like. I told him I needed sunshine and gaiety but he wouldn’t budge from his silly old factories. They are making new and clever tanks that can fire on people miles away and go over buildings, I gather. So militaristic, the Germans. It’s all to do with that silly little man Hitler. Everyone is saying he’s going to get into power. How can anyone take him seriously with that mustache? He looks like a hedgehog.” And she laughed gaily.

  “It is good to see you,” I said, smiling because one had to smile when my mother was around. “So you fled to the Riviera alone, then?”

  “Had to, darling. Couldn’t stand that dreary winter another second. So who are you staying with?”

  “With Fig and Fig’s sister.”

  “Oh, God. You’re not!”

  “I am and it’s beyond awful. I have to sleep on a camp bed in the library, Mummy, and they hardly eat any food and Foggy Farquar tried to fondle me.”

  “Well, you must come and stay here, of course,” Mummy said. “We’ll send someone for your things right away.”

  “Do you think the owner of the villa would mind?”

  She laughed again. “Silly child. I’m the owner.”

  “You?”

  “Don’t you remember I told you that the divine Marc-Antoine had given me a little villa on the Riviera?”

  “Marc-Antoine—was he the racing driver?”

  “Killed so tragically and so young. I adored him, you know. I really believe he was my one true love.”

  “Mummy, you’ve had so many one true loves.”

  “But not like Marc-Antoine. And he gave me this little villa just before he was killed. He must have had a premonition, I believe. ‘I want you to think of me and be happy, chérie,’ he said.” And she gave a shuddering and dramatic sigh that would have had the audience weeping in every West End theater.

  “This is supposed to be a ‘nice little villa’?” I looked around the spacious foyer, up the wide sweep of marble stairs to the gallery with rooms going off it in all directions. “It looks rather grand to me.”

  “Not by Riviera standards. Anyway, it suits me very well. My little bolt-hole, I call it. Whenever the world is unkind, I rush straight here.” She took my hands. “Let me take a look at you. Rather pale and pasty faced. You need sun and fresh air and feeding up. Come on out to the terrace.” She took my hand. “How funny that you didn’t know this was my villa. So you came to see Coco—I can’t think why. You certainly can’t afford her clothes.”

  “She wants me to model for her new collection.”

  Mummy burst out laughing again. “You, a model? Don’t be silly, darling, you’d be hopeless. Remember how you tripped over your train when you were presented?”

  “She says I have the look she wants,” I replied haughtily. It was all right for me to claim I was hopeless, but not other people, least of all my mother.

  “If you stood still like a statue, maybe. Not if you moved.”

  We emerged to a sun-splashed terrace, built out over the water. Vera and Coco Chanel were sitting at a wicker table, heads together over a sheet of paper. “More like this, I think,” Coco was saying, waving a cigarette in her left hand.

  “Look who I have found,” Mummy announced. They looked up.

  “Ah, my little model,” Coco said, holding out the hand without the cigarette to me. “So you have met our charming hostess, have you, ma petite?”

  “Many times,” I replied. “She’s my mother.”

  “But of course. How silly of me. I should have remembered. It’s just that . . .”

  “I know, we look nothing alike,” Mummy said. “Poor child inherited her looks from Bertie.”

  “And Mummy doesn’t like to admit to me,” I added. “I remind people that she’s old enough to have a grown-up daughter.”

  “Silly child. You know I adore you,” my mother said.

  “Come and sit beside us, ma petite,” Coco said. “I will show you the outfit we have planned for you.”

  “You’re not really serious about using Georgie as a model, are you?” Mummy said. “Coco, darling, the girl was born clumsy. She can’t walk two steps without tripping over her own feet—which are exceptionally large, by the way.”

  “Nonsense, she will be splendid when I have worked with her,” Coco said. “See, ma petite—is this not a fabulous outfit that I have created for you?”

  I looked at the drawing. It was as she had described it—a man’s tweed sports jacket, open to reveal a frilly blouse of ecru lace, black silk pajamas and what looked like an extravagant necklace of pearls and precious stones at the throat.

  “Astonishing,” my mother exclaimed, peering over Coco Chanel’s shoulder. “I don’t think I shall ever want to look as masculine as that, darling.”

  “Ah, but it is so sexy. You will see the eyes of the men at my col
lection.” Coco looked up at Vera and smiled. “They will want to rip that jacket off her—and those pajamas too.”

  “This is my daughter we’re talking about,” my mother said. “She’s led a very sheltered life.”

  “Then it’s about time she learned what the world is all about.” She stood up. “Come. We go to my room and we will try on the clothes.”

  She was about to lead me from the terrace when a scream came up from down below, followed by a large splash. I ran over to the railing and looked down.

  “It’s only that silly woman,” Coco said scornfully. “No class at all. I grew up poor but I learned to acquire class. She has not.”

  I realized that I was looking down onto another property below. There were lovely terraces, full of great terra-cotta urns of spring flowers, and a huge swimming pool above a little cove with private beach. A sleek teak motorboat was moored at a dock and out in the ocean beyond was a vast white and blue yacht. A young woman with brassy blond hair was splashing and wallowing in the pool while a portly older man in a bright red bathing costume stood on the side, laughing at her.

  “You beast. You cruel beast,” she was shouting. “Now you have ruined my hair.”

  “Is that Sir Toby Groper?” I asked.

  “It is. Odious little man,” Mummy said.

  “And that’s his wife?”

  My mother chuckled. “Darling, you are so delightfully naïve. His wife is somewhere else. That is Olga, his mistress. She’s a Russian émigré, claims to be royal but nobody believes her. She probably comes from the gutters of St. Petersburg.”

  “Or she isn’t even Russian, and she comes from the gutters of Paris,” Coco added.

  “Why did you call him an odious little man?” I asked.

  “Because he wanted Max to go into a joint venture with him building racing cars. Max said he wouldn’t trust him an inch. All he wanted to do was to look at Max’s designs and then steal them for his own cars.”

  “So you don’t mix with him socially?”