The Heart of the Ritz

by Luke Devenish

  ‘I will then, Madame,’ Polly said.

  Mimi now took Polly up a different set of stairs to her suite of rooms, which was on the Cambon side. On the way, she explained something of the Ritz philosophy regarding guest rooms, building Polly’s anticipation of what her own suite would be. ‘My late husband had such a horror of disease,’ said Mimi, ‘a horror I shared, naturally. And so, when it came to the design of this hotel, all heavy carpets and drapes – most especially drapes – that did nothing more than gather dust and germs were excluded from the décor. Here the curtains are made from only the finest muslin, the very lightest of fabrics, so that they can be easily washed, you understand?’

  ‘Yes, Madame,’ said Polly, as Mimi led her along a bright, high-ceilinged passage.

  ‘It was also decided that every room should have only built-in closets – much more discreet,’ Mimi went on. ‘No ugly cupboards jutting out.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘And most radical of all: a bathroom. Private and plumbed. For every room.’

  ‘Why was that radical?’ Polly wondered, as they continued along.

  ‘You are very young.’ Mimi smiled. ‘How could you be expected to have any memory of the Nineties? For all the gaiety of the Belle Epoch, things were not nearly so modern. But at the Hôtel Ritz, we were determined to be ahead of the times. Another innovation from my husband was that every room would have a clock – Swiss, of course, for that is our nationality – which would keep the time exactly. After all, if a woman chooses to be late, she should time the length of her lateness down to the very last second, don’t you agree?’

  Polly was amused, enjoying the commentary.

  ‘We have a zeal for precision, we Swiss,’ said Mimi. ‘Ah, see, we are here.’ They had reached a door, much like all the others in the light-filled passage. ‘You will find what awaits you inside reflects a feminine taste,’ Mimi told her. She opened the door. ‘I hope it will suit a young woman on the cusp of her first romance.’

  There were so many lovely details to take in upon entering that Polly didn’t quite process that statement, which if she had, would certainly have made her blush. Her eyes wide, she was overwhelmed at first, trying to make appropriate noises in appreciation of everything she could see. The room was big – the biggest room she had ever had cause to call her own – and blessed with windows that diffused the afternoon sun through opaque white curtains made from the muslin Mimi had extolled. At the far end there was a large, high bed with little tables on either side, and closer to the door, a sitting room set comprising two reproduction armchairs and a sofa. One armchair had a small brass hook on the outside of its armrest, so that a seated lady might hang her purse. ‘Convenience and efficiency,’ Mimi said.

  Polly learned now that the Ritz adhered to specific colour schemes. Blue, white and grey were applied to all rooms facing south, where the sun was brightest; champagne yellow was applied to rooms facing north, making amends for the absence of sun. Polly’s room, facing north-west and the rue Cambon, had its yellow set off by the upholstery, which was equally light in spirit, being patterned in feminine Watteau pink. The walls were covered simply with flat Dutch paint, in the eighteenth-century tradition.

  Mimi indicated the walk-in closet, and upon opening the door for Polly to peek inside a light came on within. There was no visible switch for it. ‘It’s automatic,’ said Mimi. ‘My late husband’s demand for efficiency and convenience again.’ The sole item hanging inside the closet was a towelling robe, divinely soft, and coloured peach. ‘It is complimentary,’ Mimi said. ‘There is no better shade than peach to enhance a woman’s complexion.’

  The room’s light fittings were covered with pleated lampshades and lined with pink silk. They gave off a wonderful, flattering glow. ‘The hours of thought he gave to these fittings,’ Mimi said, wistful. There was a fireplace with a mantle, upon which stood two fine Japanese vases. The famed Swiss clock, decorated in bronze and pearl, hung on a wall. The room’s light switches were in the shape of tiny violin handles. The taps in the bathroom resembled golden swans.

  ‘You said before that there were two types of Ritz people,’ Polly said, watching the water flow. ‘There is the one for whom the pursuit of beauty is everything. What is the other type of guest?’

  ‘The second guest has no need for beauty – no need for it whatsoever,’ said Mimi.

  Polly was surprised. ‘And why is that?’

  ‘Because they already have it – in here.’ She pressed a palm to Polly’s chest. ‘A hidden beauty, deep inside, that depends for nothing upon appearances, which so often deceive. We cannot always see it, those of us who might lack it, but when such inner beauty makes itself known to us, ah, it is blinding. The very best kind.’ She brushed a little tear that had formed at her eye. ‘My husband had this special type of beauty, Mademoiselle.’

  ‘I can see that he did,’ said Polly, looking about her at the gorgeous suite. ‘He placed it into every part of the hotel.’

  ‘That he did,’ said Mimi. ‘Yet, do you know who else shared this beauty from within?’

  ‘Who, Madame?’

  Mimi took Polly’s hand. ‘Your aunt.’

  It brought a lump to Polly’s throat to hear that. It took her a moment before she could speak. ‘I – I loved her so very much,’ she told Mimi, softly. ‘Wherever Aunt Marjorie was, she always took time to write, sending her words all the way to me in Australia. And then, when my father died, she sent for me here, so that I’d not be alone . . .’ Polly forced back the sting of emotion. ‘She was everything to me, and now she’s gone, too. I fear I never told her how much I loved her, Madame . . .’

  Mimi kissed her cheek. ‘She knew it, little one,’ she whispered. ‘Marjorie carried you with her in her heart.’

  * * *

  When Mimi made to leave, she opened the door to find Monsieur Auzello waiting patiently in the corridor outside. ‘What is it, Claude?’

  ‘There has been news, Madame.’ He gave her a little envelope, serious.

  She opened it, withdrawing a folded telegram. ‘Ah,’ was all she said, once she had read it. She stood still for a moment, contemplating. The little dogs took a seat at her feet. ‘We shall of course reply,’ Mimi said, finally, ‘and offer commiserations from all at the Ritz.’

  ‘Already composed, Madame,’ Auzello told her.

  ‘Then send it at once in my name.’ She saw that Polly lingered behind her at the door, curious. ‘It is from our dear friend Charlotte, the Grand Duchess of Luxembourg,’ Mimi told her. ‘She says her reservations at the hotel will not be required. She and Prince Felix have decided to go instead to a château in the Dordogne.’

  The apparent banality of this arrangement seemed starkly at odds with the seriousness with which it had been received.

  ‘Has something happened to the Grand Duchess?’ Polly wondered.

  ‘Well, yes,’ said Mimi. ‘The German forces have commenced an invasion of her country. Charlotte and her family have fled.’

  Polly was shocked to the core.

  ‘You must not be concerned,’ Mimi told her. ‘Luxembourg is such a tiny place, and while it is very unpleasant for Charlotte and her family, life here in Paris will go on as before.’

  ‘Because of Monsieur Maginot’s concrete forts?’ Polly asked.

  ‘They are impregnable,’ Mimi pronounced.

  ‘That’s what people say.’ Polly looked long at the majestic old woman. ‘Madame, if I asked you a very important question, would you answer me honestly?’

  Mimi looked startled. ‘Of course, I would, child. Is there something that troubles you?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Polly. ‘Are we deluding ourselves that the Germans won’t come?’

  Mimi drew herself up. ‘What a thing to ask.’

  ‘I think my aunt feared that they would,’ Polly said. Ideas had been forming in her mind, building a picture of Marjorie that was at odds with the one that the Girls had provided – yet it fitted what Polly had witnessed. Po
lly clutched at the bag, finding comfort in what was hidden there. ‘I think she was taking precautions.’

  Auzello had gone very still.

  ‘You said you’d answer me honestly, Madame, so do,’ said Polly.

  Mimi regarded her appreciatively. ‘I like you very much,’ she said. ‘You are a forthright young woman, I can see that.’

  But Polly was waiting for her answer.

  ‘If the Germans should dare to show such aggression against France, which I do not believe they will,’ said Mimi, ‘we will never know anything of it here.’ She stamped her foot on the floor, startling the Belgian griffons.

  ‘And why is that?’

  ‘Because we are the Ritz,’ Mimi declared with a flourish. The dogs became animated again as she headed up the hallway towards the stairs.

  Polly wanted to feel more reassured, just as she had when Alexandrine had expressed not dissimilar sentiments, but she found the task harder this time. She noticed Monsieur Auzello, the hotel’s esteemed general manager, whose faith in the Ritz should have been the surest, looked unsure.

  The handbag slipped from her arm before Polly quite realised it, dropping to the floor with a thud. The catch sprung loose, and the black steel muzzle of Marjorie’s gun poked from the bag, unmistakable.

  Polly and Claude stared in surprise at it for a moment. Then Claude stooped to the floor to pat the nuzzle back inside, before picking up the bag and returning it to her.

  Polly was flabbergasted.

  ‘Is it loaded, Mademoiselle?’ Claude asked her, quietly.

  ‘I – I don’t know.’

  He indicated the bag. ‘If you please, let us see then . . .’

  Polly found herself numbly taking the gun out by the handle and pointing it at him.

  Claude winced at the faux pas and showed her the correct way to pass a gun to someone. ‘Always grip it by the barrel, Mademoiselle.’

  ‘I’m so sorry.’

  He held it like an expert, inspecting it minutely. ‘This is a Modèle 1935 pistol,’ he said, ‘an excellent French weapon, semi-automatic and requiring a standard 7.65-millimeter Longue cartridge. It’s French Army issue.’ He handed it back to her. ‘And yes, it is certainly loaded. That is fortunate.’

  Awed, Polly felt the weight of the weapon anew.

  ‘You’ve never fired it?’

  Polly shook her head.

  ‘I see – well, that is the safety catch.’ He showed her. ‘It is presently on.’ He clicked it. ‘And now it is not.’

  Polly didn’t know what else to say. ‘Thank you for the lesson, Monsieur.’

  ‘It belonged to your aunt, I assume?’

  It seemed pointless to lie. Something about Claude made her feel she could trust him. ‘It did.’

  He nodded. ‘Then you were correct in your estimations,’ he told her. ‘La femme divine was indeed taking precautions – she wanted you to defend yourself, I think,’ Claude reassured her, ‘should the worst ever come.’

  Polly swallowed the fresh lump in her throat and nodded at him. ‘Or perhaps defend France, as she might have done?’

  Claude held her look, a meeting of equals. Then his face acquired its mask of pleasantness again as he moved down the hall in Mimi’s wake.

  * * *

  Stepping dripping out of her bath, Polly answered the internal telephone in her room to be told by Alexandrine to meet her, Zita and Lana Mae at the rue Cambon entrance to the hotel in fifteen minutes.

  ‘Wear suitable shopping clothes, darling. Something comfortable, yet chic.’

  Polly looked at her well-worn outfits brought all the way from Australia, already unpacked and hung in the built-in wardrobes by a maid. She was doubtful which of them, if any, might fit that bill.

  ‘We shall visit Mademoiselle Chanel before cocktails,’ Alexandrine told her. ‘Her premises are in the rue Cambon, and they are so worth appreciating from inside. I know we shall find you some very nice new things.’

  ‘For me?’ Polly said, with astonishment. ‘Me wearing Chanel?’

  ‘Why not? Don’t you remember what Marjorie wrote? You are to have lessons in fashion. Think of this as your first.’

  ‘But – but I don’t need anything so extravagant.’

  ‘Extravagant?’ said Alexandrine, astonished in turn. ‘This from the girl who reads her late aunt’s L’Officiel?’

  Polly looked at the cover of the fashion magazine she had read in the train, now unpacked for her by the maid. She hadn’t known why she had kept it, only that she couldn’t bring herself to throw it away. ‘That’s because there was nothing else to read,’ said Polly.

  Alexandrine rejected this. ‘Then I cannot believe you haven’t read somewhere that to embrace Chanel is to embrace simplicity itself.’

  Polly had never encountered such a sentiment.

  ‘As I thought,’ said Alexandrine, wrongly taking her silence as confirmation.

  ‘But the cost,’ said Polly.

  ‘Your wonderful aunt did not leave you her money for that sort of comment to be made,’ said Alexandrine. She hung up.

  Polly picked up the magazine half-heartedly, wondering if any of this could really be her.

  * * *

  Alexandrine and Lana Mae arrived in the Cambon lobby – smaller than the main one off the Place Vendôme, and thus even more intimate – just as Polly came down the stairs in what she hoped was the most suitable of her clothes. She clutched the green Hermès handbag – it now being unthinkable not to carry it with her everywhere. Polly wondered what people would say if they knew what the bag contained. It was comforting that Auzello now shared her secret. It struck Polly as wonderful that her being armed and dangerous at the will of her late aunt was the most acceptable thing in the world to the General Manager of the Ritz. She was beginning to think that she would like it here.

  Polly had a few moments to glance further inside the Cambon bar while they waited for Zita. In stark yet not displeasing contrast to the rest of the Ritz, the bar was sensationally of the now in its ambience, being shiny with glass and steel and chromium plating that epitomised the Art Deco style. Outside a Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers picture, Polly had never seen such an exuberant display of slick modernity. She rather liked it.

  ‘We’ll have a pick-me-up in there later,’ said Lana Mae, ‘and introduce you to Guy.’ She glanced at Alexandrine. ‘It occurs to me, honey, that we’ll need to decide what Polly’s signature drink will be.’

  ‘That’s true,’ said Alexandrine. ‘Guy will insist on committing it to memory.’

  ‘It won’t matter about my age?’ Polly wondered.

  Alexandrine’s facial expression was all too clear, mirrored by Lana Mae.

  ‘What did we say about that?’ said Lana Mae.

  ‘I think I quite like champagne,’ Polly ventured hastily, not wanting them to know that the glass she had been given in the Rolls-Royce was only her second.

  ‘That’s not a drink, honey,’ said Lana Mae, ‘it’s no different than water.’

  ‘Perhaps in the way that you consume it,’ Alexandrine quipped.

  ‘You can have a glass of bubbles anytime,’ Lana Mae added, dismissively. ‘No, you want to find a real drink, something distinct – a cocktail. They’re Guy’s specialty. He wrote a whole book about ’em.’

  ‘What’s your signature drink, Mrs Huckstepp?’

  ‘Call me Lana Mae, remember, baby, you make me feel old. And I’m mighty fond of martinis. A good clean poison. If you spill some on your blouse it doesn’t stain.’

  Alexandrine made a little signal at the arrival through the street entrance of another woman, expensively dressed and attractive, just as they were, but without quite the same attention to her maquillage and hair. She was accompanied by a teenage girl, who was pretty if somewhat pouty, and wearing dark glasses. The girl was younger than Polly by a year or so and was likely the woman’s daughter. Her arm was hooked protectively through the older woman’s, who looked unsteady on her feet, dishevelled, as if sh
e’d just come inside from a gale.

  As the two entered, Polly and her guardian aunts heard the tail end of the popular song the two had been singing as they’d walked up the street:

  ‘Attends-moi dans ce pays de France

  Je serai bientôt de retour garde confiance . . .’

  The girl, in particular, had a wonderful voice. Polly translated the words in her head:

  ‘Wait for me in this country of France

  I’ll be back soon, keep confident . . .’

  ‘Speaking of drinks,’ Lana Mae muttered, affectionately. ‘Speaking of fond.’

  Alexandrine called out to the new arrivals. ‘Good afternoon, Blanche darling, how’s the weather out there?’

  The woman and her daughter seemed to take a second to work out where the question had come from. ‘Oh hi,’ Blanche said. ‘We’ve been at lunch.’ Her accent, like Lana Mae’s, was American.

  ‘We can see that, honey,’ Lana Mae laughed as she kissed her, ‘was it nice? Or was it just long?’

  ‘Both,’ said Blanche. ‘And who is this?’ She met Polly’s eye with a friendly smile.

  ‘Darling, let us introduce you,’ said Alexandrine, pleased. ‘This is Polly Hartford – dear Marjorie’s niece.’

  ‘Ah. Well then,’ said Blanche, adding nothing more. The sympathy on her face showed that she fully understood and respected Polly’s loss.

  Polly held out her hand and Blanche took it.

  ‘This is Madame Blanche Auzello – Monsieur Claude’s lovely wife,’ Alexandrine completed the introduction. ‘She and her daughter lately live here in the Ritz.’

  ‘Freeloaders!’ cracked Lana Mae.

  ‘Pleased to meet you, Madame Auzello,’ said Polly, keeping Marjorie’s bag securely under her arm. Blanche’s hand felt damp in its glove.

  ‘I’m Odile,’ said her teenage daughter. She held out her hand at an angle that was slightly awkward for Polly to shake. Polly realised then why the girl was wearing dark glasses: she couldn’t quite tell where Polly was. She was blind.

  ‘Hello, Odile,’ said Polly. ‘How old are you?’