The Heart of the Ritz

by Luke Devenish

  Zita chuckled, knowingly.

  ‘The Eiffel Tower?’ Polly wondered.

  ‘Plenty of time for that ugly thing later,’ said Alexandrine, dismissive.

  ‘You forget I’ve never been here before,’ Polly said.

  ‘We know you haven’t,’ said Alexandrine, sagely, ‘but all the same, just see.’

  Polly caught a glimpse of one of the white-on-blue street signs fixed to the walls of buildings they glided past. ‘That sign,’ she said, pointing. Their rented Rolls had entered a narrow and otherwise nondescript street. ‘Are we on the rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré?’

  They’d been waiting for her to notice.

  ‘Paradise!’ Zita saluted her, raising her champagne glass.

  ‘Oh, it’s the haute couture district,’ said Polly. ‘Oh look, there’s Houbigant Parfums – and the House of Hermès.’

  ‘Where your lovely bag comes from,’ said Alexandrine.

  Polly subconsciously checked that the catch was still closed. Then she realised they were looking at her as if they expected a rather greater level of excitement. ‘Just like Aunt Marjorie’s magazines,’ Polly offered. She pointed out the window again. ‘There’s Fabergé.’

  She was unconvincing, and they deflated.

  ‘Those gaudy eggs are over-priced and over-rated,’ Zita said.

  ‘You only say that ’cos I’ve got three of ’em,’ said Lana Mae.

  ‘Did I say gaudy, puss? I meant hideous shit.’

  Lana Mae laughed, taking a swig from her glass.

  Polly feared she’d disappointed them. ‘Lanvin!’ she cried, in what she hoped was the desired level of enthusiasm, pointing at the other side of the narrow, busy street. ‘And is that Chanel down there?’

  ‘We’ll be popping along to see her, later,’ said Alexandrine, mysteriously.

  ‘The lousy, snobby cow,’ Zita sniffed. ‘Still, her dresses, puss.’ She pinched Polly’s chin. ‘Sublime. You’ll want to wear them all together at once.’ She sniffed again. ‘But she’s still a cow.’

  The street, full of shop after shop of milliners and fabric merchants and enticing designer ateliers, now spilled into a vast square. The graceful, seventeenth-century façades of the Place Vendôme were, at first glance, identical on all sides. Then, as the Silver Ghost glided out in a wide and beautiful arc, passing an enormous Roman column with a statue of Napoleon on top, it became apparent to Polly to which of the façades they were headed. One was marked with a single, identifying word, so discreetly placed that an unknowing eye might miss it.

  Ritz.

  On either side, generously spaced, were two more words:

  Hôtel.

  Restaurant.

  The great car drew to a graceful halt at the curb, and behind them a second vehicle, another Rolls, hired to ferry their staggering amount of luggage, halted too. A gloved male hand was on the rear door of the women’s car before the chauffeur had even finished with the brake. The door was opened, and Lana Mae was out first, still with her champagne, breathing in gusts of traffic-choked, Place Vendôme air.

  ‘Smell it, girls. It’s poisonous today! It’s the little things you always miss most.’

  ‘Bonjour, Madame Huckstepp,’ said the elderly footman who had opened the door.

  ‘Bonjour to you, too, honey,’ she handed him the not quite empty champagne glass. ‘Go ahead and finish it. I’ve got my eye on a hot bath and a bite of baguette and blue cheese. Travelling gives a girl a real appetite, don’t you find?’

  Polly had emerged from the car, along with Zita and Alexandrine, and she stared up at the full five stories of the beautiful façade with its little balconies and awnings and high Mansard roofs aglow in the afternoon sun. ‘Are we dining here?’ she asked Alexandrine.

  Alexandrine gave that special smile of hers that said volumes without needing to utter one word. Then she made her way up the short flight of steps towards the hotel’s glass front entrance. The door was opened by another similarly aged footman, and Alexandrine entered first, followed by Polly at her heels, then Lana Mae, and then, taking her own good time, Zita, who seemed to know the first footman intimately.

  ‘Pierre. Nothing ever changes with the Ritz – or with you.’ She laughed, squeezing his arm. ‘Let’s thank the stinking Virgin for it.’

  If Polly had expected to find herself standing within some impossibly grand, palace-like lobby, she would have had reason to be disappointed. The room beyond the hotel entrance said nothing – and yet everything – about the extraordinary character of this celebrated hotel. It was not a palace, and yet, for those who lived in palaces it most definitely was. Any visiting royalty, perhaps in Paris on a shopping whim, would feel instantly, reassuringly at home here. It was not about making a vulgar display. It was all about being the recipient of a quiet, sequestered entitlement.

  The Ritz had no real lobby. What it had instead was a welcome hall, as one might find in a stately mansion, and yet there was nothing fusty or ancestral about it. The un-grandiose reception area was but one of a whole series of decisions made to make the hotel feel intimate and cosy. It also discouraged loiterers who might otherwise behave as voyeurs. The ample chairs and little side tables were exclusive and expensive; reproductions in the styles of French kings. Thick carpeting; rich upholstery; tapestries hung here and there. Abundant masses of flowers in chinoiserie vases were on every table. To the left, through an arch, was the suggestion of the first of several exceedingly discreet bars, this one called The Vendôme. A second bar, a little further down the hall and through an alcove, was called the Petit. There were hardly any other people in evidence; guests or staff. Ascending heavenward was a sweep of magnificent, exquisitely carved marble stairs.

  There wasn’t even a reservations counter. Instead there was a simple, elegant desk, holding no more than a white telephone and an open, cloth-bound ledger. Behind this desk had been seated a small, moustachioed gentleman when they’d arrived. Bedecked in a blue pinstripe suit, spats, and patent leather shoes, he was now advancing upon their little group, screwing a monocle into his right eye and beaming at them.

  ‘Mesdames. Mesdames,’ he greeted them collectively in French, spreading his short, stout arms as wide as his tight suit jacket allowed him.

  Alexandrine presented her cheeks to be kissed by him and received two pert pecks placed like gunshots in the air, that didn’t actually touch her skin.

  ‘Madame Comtesse Ducru-Batailley,’ he intoned, each syllable of her name rolling from his tongue with pleasure.

  ‘Darling Monsieur Auzello.’

  ‘You have returned at last.’

  ‘How we’ve missed you.’

  He went next to Lana Mae, kissing the air at her cheeks with the same little explosions. ‘Your bath has just now been drawn, beloved Mrs Huckstepp.’

  ‘Claude, you little cutie!’ cried Lana Mae. ‘You knew just when we would arrive?’

  He tapped his nose. ‘I have my spies at Gare de Lyon.’ His eyes were twinkling. ‘And we have added a certain something to the bath water . . .’

  ‘Not my favourite bergamot bubble bath?’

  Monsieur Auzello chuckled; a mischievous boy.

  ‘I’m taking these clothes off already,’ said Lana Mae, yanking her gloves from her hands.

  He turned to Zita. ‘My lucky eyes. Can it be credible they be rewarded just by the sight of you, Mademoiselle Zita?’

  Zita barked out a guffaw and threw both her arms around him, kissing him squarely on the moustache. ‘You smarmy bastard,’ she told him, warmly, ‘if your Blanche gets to hear you say that it won’t be the bubbles I find in my bath, but the toaster.’

  Auzello laughed. ‘A telegram came for you this morning, Mademoiselle.’ He handed her a little envelope.

  For the tiniest moment, the three women faltered. Zita didn’t open it. Then she stood aside and presented Polly.

  ‘So, this is she?’ Auzello marvelled.

  To Polly’s dismay his eyes filled with emotion. He unscre
wed his monocle and took a handkerchief from his top pocket, dabbing at his cheeks.

  ‘Monsieur Claude?’ said Alexandrine, tenderly. She laid her hand at his shoulder and he rested his own upon hers for a moment.

  He composed himself, addressing Polly. ‘You must forgive me, Mademoiselle. The resemblance between yourself and la femme divine is uncanny . . .’

  ‘Who is the “divine woman”?’

  Before Polly could phrase any more of what would only have brought fresh exposure of her ignorance, Alexandrine stepped in: ‘That was Auntie Marjorie’s famous sobriquet,’ she said. Then she turned to Auzello. ‘Far too young to have ever seen la femme perform, if you can credit it, Monsieur.’

  This only pricked his eyes again. He blinked it back, studying Polly’s face like a painting. ‘Ah. Yet there she is in the brow – and in the turn of the mouth. Remarkable.’

  Polly had never heard it said before that she bore any resemblance to her aunt. Then the unguarded way in which the little man looked at her changed. She ceased to be a painting to him and became fully flesh and blood; a guest. He stood back and paused, expectantly. Polly was confused.

  ‘Your hand, darling,’ Alexandrine whispered.

  Polly held out her hand a fraction, and Auzello, who had been waiting according to the rules of French politeness, picked it up and kissed it.

  ‘I am Monsieur Claude Auzello at your service, Mademoiselle Hartford; I am General Manager of the Hôtel Ritz.’ There was a sharp report as he clicked his patent heels together. ‘I have anticipated this day, and all is ready for you, Mademoiselle.’

  ‘Ready for me?’ said Polly, further surprised.

  He waved his hand to the stairs. ‘All is prepared. An exquisite suite. You will only know comfort here.’

  Polly turned to the other three. ‘So, we’re staying here, then?’

  Her three guardians looked amused.

  ‘Staying, living – these are the same words, surely?’ pondered Claude.

  The elderly footmen were now engaged with taking the considerable collected luggage towards an elevator.

  Lana Mae hooked her arm through Monsieur Auzello’s. ‘Claude, baby, just how many nights’ bed and brioche does Marjorie’s little legacy get for our Pol?’

  ‘One thousand and one nights’ deluxe accommodation, Mrs Huckstepp,’ he replied.

  Polly’s jaw dropped. ‘Excuse me, Monsieur?’

  ‘One thousand and one nights’ accommodation most precisely, Mademoiselle. Fully paid for. Including gratuities. Although you may be so moved as to express your own generosity once you have come to love our exceptional staff . . .’

  Polly turned to Alexandrine, who of the three, seemed less likely to try fooling her. ‘This is really true?’ she asked. ‘Aunt Marjorie paid in advance for a thousand and one nights’ stay for me?’

  ‘In the most famous hotel in all Paris,’ said Lana Mae, finishing the sentence for her.

  ‘Only all Paris?’ Monsieur Auzello wondered under his breath.

  ‘It’s true, darling,’ said Alexandrine, although she didn’t quite look at Polly as she said it; an avoidance Polly had by now encountered not infrequently from her. ‘Monsieur Auzello is well across everything, as you just heard.’

  Polly regretted the champagne, feeling she needed a little lie down. ‘But why?’

  ‘Because we live here,’ Zita shot at her, getting bored with all the standing about. She held the unread telegram in her hand.

  ‘And we’re your guardian aunts now, baby, so you’d better believe we ain’t kidding around,’ said Lana Mae.

  ‘And how else to keep our eyes on you,’ said Zita, ‘if you’re not under the same stinking roof?’

  ‘But why a thousand and one nights?’ Polly asked. ‘It seems such a strange number to choose.’

  Alexandrine gave her enigmatic smile again. ‘There was always something of Scheherazade about your lovely aunt, darling.’ She looked at Polly in the eye as she said this, but held her gaze just a little too intently.

  Polly frowned. Once again, she was left with the impression that she wasn’t being given the entire story regarding Aunt Marjorie’s legacy. But a distraction arrived before she could pursue it.

  ‘Ah, look, see who it is!’ Monsieur Auzello’s little cry took Polly’s attention to the sight of an elderly woman making her way down the magnificent stairs, accompanied by the clatter of claws from two little dogs.

  ‘It’s Mimi!’

  ‘Oh bonjour, Mimi!’

  It occurred to Polly then that for all the contrivance to cosiness and intimacy here, those who lived in this establishment still needed to make an entrance. This was how things were in high society, where so much depended on delivering a pitch-perfect performance. This was the reason for the staircase. A lady, dressed in finery, could descend in the knowledge she was being appreciated by every eye.

  Zita, Alexandrine and Lana Mae moved forward to embrace the splendidly dignified old woman as she reached the bottom stair. Her two little dogs spilled at their feet.

  ‘The Sirens have returned to wreck us upon the rocks,’ the lady announced in Swiss-accented French as she received their air kisses.

  Taking her hands, they led her to where Polly had remained with Monsieur Auzello.

  ‘Look, Mimi, here she is,’ Zita said, as Polly stood awkwardly before them.

  Just as Auzello had before her, the woman was suddenly brought near to tears.

  ‘Oh, Madame, now, now,’ said Auzello, producing a fresh handkerchief from a different pocket.

  ‘Forgive me, Mademoiselle,’ said the lady, pressing at her eyes. ‘You must hear it spoken too often of your great resemblance to your aunt.’

  Given this was only the second time such a thing had ever been said to her, Polly cast a glance at Alexandrine, who gave a little nod.

  ‘Yes, Madame,’ Polly replied, not wanting to seem rude.

  ‘So, you know who I am?’ the woman asked her, kindly.

  Polly had to shake her head. She had no idea.

  ‘Ah,’ said the woman, not offended. ‘Then, this is a wonderful day for each of us.’ She paused again, just as Monsieur Auzello had done, and this time Polly had the wit to present her hand. The older women didn’t kiss it, but gripped it lightly in her own. ‘I am Madame Marie-Louise Ritz,’ she revealed, ‘the owner of this hotel, and known as Mimi to my friends.’ She brought her other hand to Polly’s cheek. ‘Just as your brilliant aunt has achieved an immortality within your lovely face, when the time comes I shall receive an immortality of my own.’ With an expansive gesture she indicated the hotel all around her. ‘This will be my immortality,’ she told her, warmly. ‘Welcome to the Ritz family, my dear.’

  * * *

  Lana Mae, with her bubble bath calling her, disappeared towards her accommodation, the Imperial Suite, which was, Polly learned, the largest and most expensive suite in the entire hotel. Zita and Alexandrine each peeled away towards their own suites leaving Polly, having waved goodbye to Monsieur Auzello at the reception desk, in the dignified company of Madame Ritz.

  Polly kept Marjorie’s Hermès handbag held tightly under her arm.

  ‘At the Hôtel Ritz, we are the very last word in elegance, hygiene, efficiency and beauty,’ Mimi began her tour. ‘Please allow me to show you, Mademoiselle.’

  Polly quickly discovered that the hotel existed in two, somewhat imbalanced halves, like unidentical twins, that the harmonious Place Vendôme façade gave no hint to. There was the Vendôme half, which faced the square, and behind it stood the Cambon half, with no view of the square at all, and named for the rue Cambon it gave onto beyond. The two halves of the hotel were connected by a long corridor.

  ‘This was my husband César’s last, great creative contribution before his untimely death,’ said Mimi of the corridor, as they traversed its plush carpet. The two walls were lined with polished brass vitrines offering for purchase an enticing assortment of luxury items from the same shops Polly had seen on the rue
du Faubourg Saint-Honoré.

  ‘The need for such a corridor was unavoidable when we made the expansion to the rue Cambon,’ Mimi informed her, ‘but it was my husband’s suggestion that beautiful things should be displayed here, so that a walk along this otherwise functional passage might be made an exercise in pleasure.’

  Polly supposed it was pleasure she was feeling as she passed the scarves and jewellery and handbags on display.

  Mimi observed her. ‘You like beautiful things?’

  ‘I don’t really know,’ said Polly, ‘I mean I can appreciate how lovely they are, of course, but it’s not like I have such things of my own.’

  ‘No?’ Mimi looked at the Hermès bag.

  Polly felt caught out in her lie and wanted only to qualify herself. ‘This belonged to my aunt.’ She knew the old woman would never require her to open it.

  ‘Ah,’ said Mimi, appreciatively.

  ‘But I’ve never really thought of myself as a “luxury” sort of person,’ Polly told her.

  ‘How interesting,’ said Mimi. ‘And yet what is Paris if not a city filled with beautiful things?’

  ‘That is something I’m beginning to realise, Madame.’

  ‘I find there are two types of guests among our Ritz family,’ Mimi went on. ‘The first are those for whom this Parisian beauty is everything, and the pursuit of it the single most abiding passion in their lives.’

  Polly wasn’t sure if she was meant to feel an affinity with this type of guest. ‘And who are the second, Madame?’

  ‘Ah, they are somewhat rarer, Mademoiselle,’ said Mimi, enigmatically.

  They reached the corridor’s end and entered the Cambon side of the hotel. There, among the highlights, was the Ritz’s grand dining room, l’Espadon – The Swordfish – which featured large windows overlooking further gardens, the attractiveness of which was enhanced by the reflection of enormous mirrors throughout the room. There was another bar, called simply the Cambon. ‘Do go in and see Guy later, when you’re feeling refreshed,’ Mimi told her.

  ‘Guy?’

  ‘Monsieur Martin. In the Cambon bar. We won’t go in now, he’ll be busy. But please go in later. It will give him much pleasure.’