by Rhys Bowen
Mummy sighed. “Darling, this is the Riviera. Sooner or later you wind up at the same party as everyone else. And one always bumps into everyone one knows at the casino. Speaking of which, we have to send someone for your things and we’ll take you with us to the casino tonight.”
“No, you will not,” Coco said firmly. “She is not to appear in public before she has modeled my creation at my soiree. I want to create a stunning surprise with her.”
“You might well do that, when she falls off the catwalk and lands in the lap of the nearest dowager duchess,” Mummy said.
“Do not pay attention to your mother,” Coco said. “I have faith in you. When I have finished training you, nobody will know you are not a professional. Come, we go to work now.”
“Where should I send Franz to pick up your clothes, darling?” Mummy asked.
“I’d better go in person,” I said. “It wouldn’t be polite just to have someone grab my clothes and vanish with them.”
“It didn’t sound to me as if they’d been ultrapolite to you.”
“No, but as Nanny always said, a mark of true breeding is treating everyone with respect. Besides, I shall enjoy seeing their faces when they find out I’m going to be staying with Coco Chanel.”
Mummy laughed melodiously. “See? I knew there was something of me in you after all.”
The outfit Chanel expected me to wear was hanging from a rail. It looked very strange to my eyes—the tweed so tweedy, the blouse so lacy and the pants so chic and elegant. I put it on and stared at myself in the mirror.
“Formidable,” Coco said, nodding as if very pleased with what she saw. “What did I tell you, Vera?”
“You’re going to wow them, old thing,” Vera agreed.
“Is there supposed to be a necklace?” I put my hand up to my bare neck.
“There is. One of the queen’s, which at this moment is residing safely in the bank vault,” Vera said. “I’ll collect it right before the event and have two stout gendarmes to accompany me and keep an eye on it. I promised Her Majesty that I wouldn’t take any chances.”
“But it will be the crowning touch. You will see,” Coco added. “But we need shoes. They must be very high. Do you have any high-heeled wedges?”
“I don’t really wear high heels. I’m so tall.”
“Definitely high heels,” Coco said. “Vera, you must go and buy her a pair this instant. What size?”
“English size seven,” I said, wincing, because I do have big feet.
Vera departed. Coco clapped her hands. “Now off with the clothes and we get to work.”
The shoes arrived—the heels very high. I staggered around like a person on stilts. “No, like this!” Coco commanded. “Again. Glide, not stomp.”
After a grueling two hours of working with Chanel, practicing my walking and turns, I finally headed back to the Villa Gloriosa in a taxicab. I thought they would be glad to see the back of me, but both Fig and Ducky seemed seriously put out. “Well, that’s gratitude for you,” Fig said, glancing at her sister.
“But there wasn’t room for me here,” I said. “I couldn’t go on camping out in the library.”
“But Maude was so looking forward to your sharing her room. She actually moved her dolls, all by herself. And she was looking forward to your French lessons too.”
I suspected that Maude was only looking forward to sharing her room with me so that she could boss me around. “I’m sure I can come to visit and give the children an occasional French lesson,” I said, “but I might suggest that Nice is full of French people who would be more useful at teaching French than I. Besides, my mother looks forward to spending time with me.”
“Is it wise to stay with your mother?” Fig asked. “I mean, she does have a reputation.”
“Well earned,” I replied with a smile. “And anyway, I need to be on hand to work with Coco Chanel.”
“Chanel is staying with your mother?” The two women exchanged looks of pure venom.
“One of her best clients, I understand,” I said. I was actually enjoying myself for the first time in ages.
“It just shows you that virtue doesn’t pay,” Ducky said.
“You and I have been faithful wives and mothers while Georgie’s mother has had a string of men—usually someone else’s husband—and she winds up with her own villa and the money to afford Chanel, while we have ten-year-old tweeds.”
“Ah, but she’s stunningly good-looking,” I said. “And she was a great actress too.”
They had no answer to this one, so I bundled Queenie and my clothes into a taxi and left the Villa Gloriosa, for good, I sincerely hoped.
Chapter 12
January 25, 1933
At Villa Marguerite. Much more glorious than the Gloriosa.
Divine, in fact. Good food, sun—at least there would be
sun if Madame Chanel were not working me every second.
The next two days I was drilled by Coco Chanel over and over again and eventually I began to believe that I could actually do this.
“You see,” she said. “You are turning into an elegant woman before my eyes. All it took was a little molding. You will dazzle them tonight. Now go and rest.”
“I was thinking of going down to the beach for a swim,” I said. “How do I get down from here?”
“I understand that is Sir Toby’s private beach,” Coco said, “so you should not go there. If we wish to swim we must do so from the rocks. And I do not wish you to risk injuring yourself before my soiree. Besides, the ocean is too cold.”
As soon as she had gone I went into the grounds. I was not about to obey her; I was dying for a swim. It had also occurred to me that meeting Sir Toby by accident on my way down to the beach—which of course I didn’t realize was private—would be my only chance to get into that villa. I put on my bathing suit—a hopelessly girlish and unflattering garment of sagging black wool—then my stoutest sandals and made my way to the back of the property where the tamed gardens gave way to rocky cliffs. I’d spent my life climbing and clambering over rocks in Scotland so I was able to pick an easy route downward. Of course the mountains in Scotland are granite, which doesn’t crumble. Here the cliffs were sandstone, which does. I put my foot on a rocky outcrop, which promptly gave way, and I found myself slithering down ungracefully. I came to a halt in the bushes by Sir Toby’s pool. The villa stood right behind it, French doors open. This wasn’t a good idea—it smacked of trespassing and would not put me in Sir Toby’s good books. I might even find myself shot or attacked by guard dogs.
I was looking for a way to climb back up to safety when I heard voices—raised voices. At first I couldn’t make out words but they were having a good old fight. Then they came closer.
“You bastard!” a woman’s voice screamed.
“Do you think I’m stupid, you little tramp?” a man’s deep voice responded.
Then the woman stepped out onto the terrace and turned to glare into the house. “You will regret this, I promise you. Olga does not forgive or forget.” She waved a fist, as if in a curse. Then she snatched up a bag she had left lying on a table and stalked away. This was no time to meet Sir Toby. I made my way back up the cliff.
When I got to my room I was met by an excited Queenie.
“Cor, miss. Did you hear that? A right going-on down there, weren’t it? Going at it hammer and tongs. They was using words no lady or gentleman ought to use. It was just like the pictures—or outside the Three Bells on a Saturday night.”
“That just shows you that money does not make breeding, Queenie,” I said.
I tried to rest, but I was too keyed up. Now that I had time to worry, I was picturing all the things that could go wrong at tonight’s affair. I didn’t want to make a spectacle of myself. I must have been insane to have agreed to parade up and down in front of a crowd of rich and famous people. Why on earth had I agreed? Wanting to meet Sir Toby was only half of the explanation. Coco Chanel had such a forceful personality that it wa
s hard to say no to her.
Late that afternoon we took a taxi into town. I found that the event was to take place at the casino on the pier.
“We’ll drop you off at the Negresco while Vera and I go to check that my models have arrived safely from Paris,” Coco said. “Have some tea. We will come for you to rehearse when we are ready.”
I was glad to know that the rest of the collection would be modeled by girls who knew what they were doing, even if they would show me up as a hopeless amateur. As we came into the hotel foyer an elegant, gaunt and obviously well-bred woman was standing at the reception desk, hands on hips.
“That’s the best room you have?” she was asking in strident English.
“Oui, my lady. The hotel is full because of the fashion show tonight. People have come from all over the Riviera.”
“Well, I suppose it will have to do for now,” she said, flinging the end of a mink stole angrily over her shoulder. “And I don’t want my husband to know that I am here, is that clear? He is not to be told.”
“Of course, Lady Groper.”
I observed her with interest. So that was the absent wife. I wondered if Sir Toby had been tipped off to her arrival and thus had thrown out his mistress. If she was staying here, and she came in to take tea, maybe I would have a chance to strike up an acquaintanceship with her and thus gain access to the villa. But I had no time for scheming now. My heart was already thumping with anticipation.
Tea was brought to me in the paneled bar just off the foyer. I sat and sipped, trying to stay calm and observing the elegant people who passed. So many people with so much money. Were we really in a depression? When Vera arrived to collect me, we passed another woman standing at the reception counter, also speaking English but with an American drawl this time.
“Yes, I know I told you we wanted the room for a month,” she snapped, “but I’ve changed my mind. We’ve been invited to go cruising on a friend’s yacht and we’ll be leaving in the morning.” I recognized her instantly, even with her back to me. It was Mrs. Simpson.
“What?” she asked, as the reception clerk must have murmured something. “No, I do not intend to pay for a room I won’t be using. Ridiculous. You’re lucky that I put this place on the map by staying here in the first place.”
With that she turned to sweep away and saw me. “Good God, it’s the actress’s daughter,” she said. “I shouldn’t have thought the Negresco was your style, honey. What are you doing here?”
“Actually, I’m staying with my mother at her villa,” I said evenly, not prepared to let her rile me this time.
“Ah, so that’s it. Mummy’s finally bringing you out into society, is she? About time. But she’d better keep a close eye on you here. There’s no stiff upper lip when the British are abroad.” She gave a dry chuckle. “Incidentally, I saw your mother at the casino last night, but minus the German beau. Is that affair finally passé?”
“Not at all. He’s busy working in Germany and my mother needed sunshine, as simple as that.”
Mrs. Simpson was still giving me that patronizing smile I found so annoying. “It’s never as simple as that, honey. I’d like to bet she has her eye on another man.”
“You would know about those things more than I,” I said. “Will your husband be going on your cruise with your friend?”
“Of course. I like to keep my men where I can see them.” She laughed as she walked past me and up the staircase, trailing her fur coat behind her. I turned away to join Vera, who was waiting for me at the doorway.
“So you’ve met our famous American, I see. She’s quite a character, isn’t she?” She waved to Mrs. Simpson and smiled.
“You like her?”
“I find her amusing. She’s part of my set, and she wears Chanel suits. I don’t think ‘like’ comes into it,” Vera said. “Come on. Coco’s ready for us.”
I made a mental note to find out if that friend Mrs. Simpson had mentioned really was the Prince of Wales, and whether her husband was going to accompany her on the yacht. Then I had no time for any thoughts.
I was led across the boulevard and onto the pier. It was designed very much in the style of piers at home—an ornate domed iron-framed building in the Middle Eastern style with lots of minarets. As we stepped inside the foyer the last rays of evening sun were shining through the glass dome above our heads, bathing the scene with an unreal pink glow. Vera walked briskly ahead across the foyer and through an arched doorway. One of the two long casino rooms had been cleared of gaming tables and a catwalk had been erected down its center. Around it were rows of gilt chairs. This room had a normal ceiling from which several impressive chandeliers hung. At one end curtains were draped around a doorway. We passed through these to find ourselves in a dressing room. The real models had arrived from Paris and were already occupying the room—tall thin girls with pouty red lips and black Marcel waved hair, with names like Chou-Chou and Frou-Frou and Zou-Zou. They eyed me with amusement and talked about me behind their hands, never once thinking that I understood French rather well.
One look at them and it was obvious that I’d stick out like a sore thumb. But I couldn’t back out now. Chanel put us through a final rehearsal. The other girls strutted out, hips thrust forward and shoulders swinging, managing to look sexy and glamorous in whatever Chanel made them wear. My turn came and I managed to walk up and down the catwalk. But my feet felt like lead and I was sure I looked like an unsteady, ungraceful schoolgirl. The behind-the-hand giggles from the other models seemed to indicate that my suspicion was right.
A light meal was served to us in a gloomy back room, but I was too nervous to eat. Then it was time to go back to the dressing room, where an elderly Frenchwoman waited to boss us around. Makeup was applied to my face—unfamiliar red lips and kohl-outlined eyes. My hair was styled with a curling iron. I was helped into my outfit. From beyond the door I could hear the buzz of conversation, the chink of glasses and in the background a piano playing. Vera came in carrying a leather jewelry case. We caught a glimpse of a large gendarme, whom Vera motioned to stay at the door.
“Here we are. The famous necklace,” she said. She opened the case. It was stunning. Several rows of perfect pearls, interspersed with clusters of diamonds and teardrop diamonds hanging down at intervals. She made me turn around so that she could put it on me. It felt cold and heavy on my neck. I glanced in the mirror and reacted with surprise. The choker made me look haughty and—well—regal. I noticed the other models staring at me, as if they’d noticed who I really was for the first time. Now I knew exactly how Cinderella felt when she put on that glass slipper and it fit!
Coco went past the curtains that had been rigged at the doorway and we heard thunderous applause. We couldn’t hear the words of her speech but then someone hissed in French, “Zou-Zou, ready, go.” And the first model strutted out of the room to be met with a burst of applause. She was followed by Frou-Frou and Nou-Nou and the others. They reappeared and changed with lightning speed before going out again. My turn was coming closer and closer. I found that I couldn’t breathe.
“Allez, allez,” an elderly Frenchwoman hissed in my ear and pushed me toward the doorway. I stepped out and was blinded by spotlights shining on me and the crackling of flashbulbs from press cameras.
“And for my pièce de résistance I give you the royal look, as modeled by a member of England’s ruling family, Lady Georgiana Rannoch,” Chanel announced.
There was a gasp, and then applause. The catwalk stretched into darkness, looking about a mile long. I was conscious of upturned faces, sparkling jewels, champagne glasses. I forced one foot in front of the other, trying to walk as I had been taught. I was going to do this. I had done harder things in my life. I was not going to stumble. Step followed step. I was going to get through it.
Then, suddenly, my foot wouldn’t move, as if something was holding it fast to the floor. I felt myself pitching forward, stumbling, trying to right myself. I might have done so, but I had reached the end
of the runway. Flashbulbs went off in my face, blinding me. I vaguely heard gasps of horror as I staggered, then pitched forward into blackness. There were screams and shouts of alarm. I braced myself for the moment when I hit the ground. Instead I landed on something soft. There was a grunt, then an exclamation in what sounded like Russian. I opened my eyes and looked up to find that I really had done what my mother had predicted. I had landed in the lap of a large dowager.
Hands grabbed at me.
“Easy on. You’ll be all right.” A young man took hold of me and yanked me off the poor woman’s lap. She was now protesting loudly in Russian and fanning herself.
Faces came into focus in the darkness.
“I say, Georgie, are you hurt?” I was mortified to see it was the Prince of Wales. He took my hand, helping me to right myself.
More flashbulbs popped and the smell of sulfur hung in the air.
“She is in shock, the little one,” said another male voice and again I was more than mortified to see it was the handsome Marquis de Ronchard, pushing past other people to be at my side. “A chair and some brandy. Quickly.”
“Lights. Lights!” someone else shouted and the big chandeliers thrust the room into brightness. I was led away from the catwalk, mumbling apologies to the fat dowager and the world in general.
“Whoever thought that kid could be a model needs their head examined,” I heard Mrs. Simpson’s voice say from close by. “She’s about as graceful as a drunken giraffe.” And she gave that brittle laugh.
“Pay no attention to that awful woman,” my mother said as she pushed past to reach me. “She’s just jealous because you’re young and nubile and she’s old and dried up.” She made sure that lovely voice projected so that Mrs. Simpson would hear. “Darling—are you all right?” Then she leaned closer to me. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
“I don’t know what happened,” I said as Chanel hurried over to us. “It was as if my foot caught on something. One moment I was going forward, the next I couldn’t move.”