The Heart of the Ritz

by Luke Devenish

  ‘The women in her family wear the pants,’ said the film star.

  The three women looked at Polly meaningfully.

  Lana Mae drew herself up in her armchair. ‘Take a good long look at this Temple of Venus you see here before you,’ she said to Polly, indicating herself. ‘I come from a town so goddam hick that if we’d had a set of tracks I would have been born on the wrong side of ’em. Did it stop me? No. Did it stop your Aunt Marjorie? God no! That dame just had way too much talent and style.’

  ‘Do you know,’ Alexandrine addressed the other two women in the room, ‘that afternoon, on the train, when one by one we made our way along the corridor to see what Marjorie’s celebrated niece actually looked like, she knew my dress was by Madame Lanvin – and she told me so as well?’

  ‘Did she now?’ said Lana Mae, taking a sip of her second cocktail.

  ‘It was only because it was the same dress as the one in the magazine I was reading,’ said Polly, self-conscious now.

  The confession seemed to disappoint Alexandrine.

  Lana Mae squinted at her. ‘How old are you again, honey?’

  ‘Sixteen,’ said Polly.

  ‘I’d already hitched and ditched my first husband at sixteen,’ sighed Lana Mae, polishing a ring on her dress. ‘It’s a perky age and I miss it.’

  ‘At sixteen I made a pass at a priest in Pigalle and got a full fifty francs for it,’ Zita declared.

  ‘And I took a bribe to marry my Jew,’ said Alexandrine.

  Polly gawped at all three of them.

  ‘At sixteen years old, you can no longer let yourself be treated as a child, puss,’ Zita told her through a fall of cigarette ash, ‘you must demand the world treats you as a woman.’

  ‘Marjorie would have told you the same, surely,’ Alexandrine wondered, ‘in all her long letters?’

  Polly thought about the things that Marjorie had said to her on the train. She thought about that first ever glass of champagne. She nodded. ‘I see now that she did.’

  Alexandrine smiled at her kindly again. Then she looked to the other two, before receiving their resigned nods. She got to her feet, moving to the bureau in the corner of the sunny room. Alexandrine opened the drawer and took out a lavender-coloured envelope. She laid it upon Polly’s knee.

  The envelope had a single typewritten word on it: Polly.

  ‘What is inside it?’

  Alexandrine didn’t quite meet her eye in answering this. ‘Your instructions, darling.’

  Polly opened the envelope. It contained a letter, also typewritten, and wholly in French.

  Dear Polly,

  You’ve been given this letter, so that means that I’m dead. That seems a very melodramatic thing to type upon the page, but there it is and I’m sorry. Quite possibly you are angry with me, too.

  It is such an awful shock to be told that one might die at any time. It sends a person a little silly. I know I’ve been silly, but in my head, I’ve been trying to do my best with it all. To me, what I’ve done in the time that I have been given since the doctor broke the news to me makes sense, but to you perhaps it doesn’t. There’s such a lot to take on and consider, you see, before death happens, especially if you don’t know precisely when it will happen, only that it will. It causes one to try to make decisions only on what’s important. And so, I have tried.

  There are many things I hope to do with you, and for you, Polly, now that you’re here with me in France. I have been so looking forward to them. These are things relating to your growing up and becoming a woman. I cannot know here, writing this letter to some unknown date in the future, whether I will have done any of them yet, or if I have, just how many. I can only hope that I will have started on the path, and made a good start, before the time comes.

  But when it comes – which it must and will – you will not be left on your own. We are each other’s only family, which makes my dying more painful for you, I know, but I also want you to know there are other families to love.

  I have another family. A good one. Alexandrine, Lana Mae and Zita. I call them the Girls.

  Those three darlings have been like daughters to me, at times. At other times, more often really, they’ve been like sisters. Having you to take care of has filled me with purpose, Polly, something I’ve not had for such a very long time. You mean more to me than the life I led before you came here and I’m grateful. Yet all the same, that life should now become yours.

  If God has been kind, then you are already embarked upon it, with me by your side, and you will have already met the Girls, making what I write here superfluous. But if not, and if God has asked for me sooner, then this is what you should know:

  The Girls will look after you and look out for you. I have set aside a good deal of money for them to do so in my will. Listen to what they say.

  The Girls are my gift to you: the gift of my other family. Think of them like your guardian aunts. Think of them as being just like me – only three.

  The Girls are exemplars of womanhood. They are standards of how a modern woman should live and be in this world. I mean you to learn from them. From their lives. From their experiences. From their independence. Write down what they say. They are teachers. They have been given the task of giving you lessons, but not like school.

  You will get lessons in Fashion.

  You will get lessons in Fine Living.

  You will get lessons in what being a modern woman means.

  Trust in the Girls. Believe in them. Let them be your aunts. They will never lie to you.

  Aunt Marjorie xxxx

  Polly had another cry when she had finished reading. The three women – the Girls – comforted her, avoiding platitudes and simply being there while she wept.

  Afterwards, feeling numb, and cradling a cup of tea, Polly said, ‘I never even knew she could use a typewriter.’

  Alexandrine shifted awkwardly. ‘Well, I suppose there’s a lot you never knew.’

  The Girls waited for further comments from Polly, but she just stared at the letter in her lap. Why was it typed, she wondered, and not handwritten, as every other letter from Marjorie had been? And why was it in French, when between themselves they always wrote – and spoke – in English?

  ‘Haven’t you got any questions for us, honey?’ Lana Mae wondered, worried.

  Polly looked up at her. ‘You say I didn’t know my aunt, Mrs Huckstepp. Well, this letter proves I didn’t. And do you know what else it proves?’ Polly took a deep breath. ‘She didn’t know me.’

  The three women were stunned.

  Polly tried hard to swallow the confusion she felt. ‘I’m sorry – I’m just very shocked by this. Forgive me. I didn’t mean to say such a dreadful thing.’

  ‘You’re upset. After everything that’s occurred, that’s to be expected,’ said Alexandrine.

  ‘We’re going to look out for you, puss,’ said Zita. ‘Marjorie’s left you plenty of cash. Everything’s taken care of.’

  ‘You’ll like us, honey.’ Lana Mae smiled. ‘We’re fun, you’ll see.’

  Polly did her best to be encouraging back. ‘I already like you. And I can see that you’re fun.’

  ‘Then what is it, darling?’ Alexandrine asked her gently.

  Vivid in Polly’s memory was the final conversation she’d had with her aunt where they had talked of Polly’s future as something meaningful and good. Yet where was this in her final letter? Had she really been willed to these women like a lapdog?

  Something wasn’t right about the letter – about any of it. Marjorie’s shocking death; the coincidence of her three best friends travelling on the same Riviera train; the gun in the green Hermès handbag. Facts were being kept from her; secrets were being held. Yet Polly had no one else.

  ‘It’s nothing,’ she said, eventually. ‘Nothing at all. I’m sorry.’ She smiled at them, forcing herself to present the attitude that they – and Marjorie – apparently wished for. ‘I feel very grateful for everything my aunt put in the letter,�
�� she said. ‘I feel very protected and loved.’

  ‘Good,’ said Alexandrine. ‘That’s so good, darling. We’re all very pleased.’

  But the uncertainty in her eyes didn’t match her words.

  * * *

  ‘Oh God, I feel guilty,’ said Lana Mae, picking the olive from her empty glass.

  ‘Shhh!’ said Alexandrine. She made sure the sitting room door was tightly closed, before returning to the sofa. Polly had gone to her bedroom, leaving the three women alone.

  ‘Well, what have we done?’ said Lana Mae. ‘How will we ever live with it?’

  ‘We did what we had to do, and we’ll live with it as we do with any of our other secrets,’ said Alexandrine, firmly, with a particular look to Zita. ‘What choice was there?’

  Zita grimaced. ‘Too late to go losing it now, puss,’ she said resignedly to Lana Mae.

  ‘Oh God,’ wailed Lana Mae. ‘What if she finds out?’

  ‘She won’t,’ said Zita. ‘We’ll play our parts.’

  ‘You’re the actress, honey, not me.’

  ‘How hard can it be? “Guardian aunt.” We could do it in our sleep.’ Zita looked to the other two. ‘Couldn’t we?’

  ‘Why don’t you just give the part its proper name, honey,’ said Lana Mae. ‘Mother.’

  Zita’s face fell. ‘Oh Christ,’ she said. ‘Who are we fooling?’

  ‘Polly,’ said Lana Mae. ‘We’re fooling that innocent girl. Which is why we oughta be ashamed of ourselves.’

  Alexandrine was not having any of this. ‘I can’t believe these cold feet from you. We looked high and low for a letter among Marjorie’s things, or have you forgotten?’

  ‘You know what I think?’ said Zita. ‘She never wrote one at all.’

  ‘Oh, she wrote one,’ said Alexandrine. ‘She told me she’d written one months ago when she got involved in all this –’ the words caught in her throat, ‘– in all this “business” again.’

  ‘This “business” got her dead,’ said Lana Mae, bleakly.

  ‘We don’t know that,’ Alexandrine hissed.

  ‘Sure, we do, we just don’t want to admit the possibility of it,’ said Lana Mae. ‘Whether she fell or was pushed, it amounts to the same.’

  ‘Pushed?’ Alexandrine turned on her. ‘She wasn’t pushed. Don’t say something so ridiculous. Who do you imagine would push Marjorie from the train?’

  Lana Mae fixed her with a look. ‘She was caught up in something she shouldn’t have been – just like she was in the last war. She couldn’t help herself. Not even French and yet she acted like Saint Joan herself.’

  Alexandrine opened her mouth to say something and then closed it again. She looked to Zita who had fallen conspicuously, guiltily quiet. A look passed between them that was missed by their American friend. The Comtesse collected herself and began again: ‘Marjorie was worried about her heart condition,’ Alexandrine insisted. ‘She was worried about what might happen to Polly, because she was worried about how much time she had left.’

  Zita closed her eyes.

  ‘She was worried that whatever secret “business” she was doing for France wouldn’t get done before her ticker got her,’ said Lana Mae. ‘That’s why she wanted us here at the Riviera, isn’t it? She wanted one of us to finish off the job.’ Lana Mae swigged her drink. ‘Well, it turns out she had a higher opinion of us than we deserved. Let’s face it, girls, courageous we ain’t. Our answer to Marj would have been a big fat no.’ She turned to the film star. ‘Ain’t that right, Zita?’

  Zita cast another glance at Alexandrine. ‘Sure, puss. Whatever you say . . .’

  Lana Mae frowned. Zita’s reply had rung hollow. ‘That is the reason Marjorie wanted us here, right?’ she asked her. ‘I mean, you took the call, didn’t you, honey?’

  Zita said nothing.

  Lana Mae looked to the Comtesse. ‘Or was it you, Alexandrine?’

  Alexandrine cleared her throat. ‘I made the call. I told Marjorie it was essential we see her . . .’

  Lana Mae was thrown. ‘Is there something you’re not telling me?’

  Alexandrine gamely took the conversation reins and returned to the original topic. ‘Lana Mae, enough of this nonsense, Polly is what is important here and nothing else. That poor child has suffered. More than anyone should at her age.’ She looked emotionally at the other two. ‘You know her mother died giving birth to her – and you know her father killed himself.’

  They did know.

  ‘Poor woman,’ said Lana Mae, softer now. ‘She never lived to love her own child. And she’s such a sweet child, too.’

  Zita nodded. ‘What an idiot he was. Lost all his money and blew out his brains for it.’

  ‘A cowardly act,’ said Alexandrine. ‘He left nothing for his daughter. Polly had no idea of anything.’

  Lana Mae wiped another tear from her eye. ‘That kid’s had lousy luck.’

  ‘We found Marjorie’s will,’ reminded Alexandrine. ‘Thank heavens the money side of things is clear.’

  ‘Just not the moral side,’ Lana Mae despaired. ‘They’re not Marjorie’s words that Polly read, honey, they’re ours.’

  ‘But they’re like Marjorie’s words,’ said Alexandrine. ‘The sort of thing she might have said.’

  ‘But she didn’t say ’em, did she? How do we know what she would have wrote down? It could have been something different. Oh God, can we really do this, girls?’ Lana Mae pleaded. ‘With this stupid damn war? We don’t even know what the future holds.’

  ‘Yes, we do,’ said Zita. Then, bleakly, ‘The future holds krauts . . .’

  Lana Mae stared at her. ‘Oh my God, you are keeping something from me – I can see it in your face. What is it, Zita, tell me right now.’

  Zita looked desperately to Alexandrine.

  The Comtesse shrugged, grim, before steeling herself. ‘Zita is keeping something from you and when you hear what it is you’ll know why.’

  The American looked shocked and then vindicated as the film star shrank into her chair.

  ‘In our long years of faithful friendship,’ said Alexandrine to Zita, reassuringly, ‘we have always shared our very worst secrets – and always we’ve been glad that we did. I can’t carry the burden of this one alone anymore. Lana Mae needs to know now, too.’

  Zita held her American friend’s eye, vulnerable.

  ‘Spit it out then,’ Lana Mae told her.

  Bitterly ashamed of herself, Zita did so. All of it.

  * * *

  Afterwards, when Lana Mae had recovered as best she could from the shock, she asked, ‘And what is Polly gonna know about this?’

  ‘None of it,’ said Alexandrine, emphatic.

  Lana Mae was sceptical. ‘You think we can keep it from her? She’s Marjorie’s niece. You can bet your patootie she inherited more than money from her aunt. I think the kid’s got her smarts.’

  Zita had been left exhausted by what she’d confessed. She looked up from her armchair, fragile. ‘If Polly is smart and she guesses what I’ve done, then good luck to her, puss,’ she said. ‘A woman needs smarts if she wants to get by in this shithole world. And if Polly’s got enough to see the truth of me, then maybe she’ll be smart enough to see why I did it, too.’

  ‘It won’t come to that,’ Alexandrine was hasty to reassure her, ‘we won’t let it, darling. We’re your friends, aren’t we? We keep each other’s secrets to the bitter end. That’s what we’ve always done. We won’t do otherwise now.’

  ‘We’re women,’ Lana Mae said. ‘Wars are different for us than for men. Men start wars, and they finish ’em, while we girls just go along for the ride.’

  ‘Wars are for women to endure,’ agreed Alexandrine. She reached out and took Zita’s hand across the little table and squeezed it. Lana Mae took her other hand and did the same.

  Zita’s eyes filled with tears as she clutched at her two dearest friends. She was made humble, as ever, by their wellspring of love for her – their love for each other.


  ‘What men fail to understand is that, for us, endurance means compromise,’ said Alexandrine, taking a deep breath. She let her lungs fill with air, then released it, purging herself. ‘If Polly should learn of your actions, darling, then perhaps enough of our good influence will have rubbed off on her before she does – enough for her to understand what compromise for a woman really means in war . . .’

  3

  10 May 1940

  A hired, chauffeur-driven Rolls-Royce Silver Ghost met the four of them as they alighted from the first class sleeping carriages at Gare de Lyon. The breathtakingly beautiful capital of France stood at the centre of the Girls’ shared cosmos. It was Paris that Marjorie had always called ‘the life’, and now it was to be lived by her niece.

  ‘Where are we going again?’ Polly asked, trying to gain a better view of the splendours that passed the window from where she sat in the Rolls, squeezed between Alexandrine and Zita. She had the Hermès handbag on her lap – Marjorie’s handbag. The gun was still inside. Polly had almost come to believe that her aunt had intended her to have possession of the gun all along – as bizarre as this idea was, it made more sense to Polly than the words in Marjorie’s last letter.

  ‘We’re going home,’ said Lana Mae. ‘Home sweet home, honey. There’s no place like it.’ She had popped a champagne bottle, its contents unchilled but by no means unpleasant. She passed the crystal glasses around, liberally filling them, not thinking twice about including Polly in the celebration. Not one of them batted an eye when Polly took what was only her second sip of bubbles in her life. No one even asked her if she liked them, which made her feel a little sad.

  ‘They’re not as bad this time,’ she whispered, somewhat surprised. Then she asked, ‘What is the address again?’

  ‘The Place Vendôme,’ said Alexandrine, as if that answered everything. ‘Sit back and relax, darling.’ She cast a smile at her friends. ‘In a little while, you might even start to recognise a few things.’