Anaïs blushed, squeezing Polly’s arm. Then she turned to Tommy with a pitying look. ‘If only you’d realised it long before now, Tom.’
He looked affronted.
Anaïs turned her pitying look upon Polly. ‘Some boys really are just clueless, aren’t they?’ But before Polly could comment on that she added: ‘Almost as clueless as some girls.’
Now Polly and Tommy couldn’t look at each other.
Anaïs rolled her eyes. ‘God, what a moron,’ she muttered.
Polly flinched. ‘You should stop niggling him,’ she warned Anaïs. ‘Tommy’s got a very short fuse for insults.’
‘I mean you.’
Polly’s jaw dropped. ‘What have I done?’
‘Absolutely nothing,’ said Anaïs, ‘which is why you’re the biggest fool here.’
Polly huffed. ‘Anaïs, I think you’ll find I’ve a short fuse for insults, too.’
‘Good. Then why don’t you blow your top? Might be nice to get some passion for a change.’
‘What on earth are you talking about?’
Anaïs folded her arms. ‘You don’t even realise how you look at him.’
Polly felt exposed and was all too aware that Tommy was daring to cast his eyes at her again. ‘What do you mean by that?’
‘With those bloody great cow eyes – you’ve got lovely eyes, by the way, Pol – but when you turn them on Tommy I just want to scream.’
‘Stop!’ Polly cringed. ‘This is ridiculous, Anaïs.’
‘It’s because your feelings are so pathetically obvious – you adore the dumb lunk. You just want to jump on him and have your wicked way.’
Polly blushed scarlet.
A burst of activity further down the square gave a welcome distraction. A young woman was crawling over a pile of barricade debris, her saffron-yellow skirt swelling around her like a summer flower. She clutched a champagne bottle in her hand.
‘That’s Giselle from Lanvin,’ said Polly, watching on in amazement.
‘What does she think she’s doing?’ said Tommy, uttering his first words in some time.
They realised together. ‘She’s making a run for the tank!’
The Lanvin cashier dashed barefoot across the flagstones of the Place Vendôme to where the menacing tank was completing an arc outside the Hôtel Ritz.
‘Oh my God,’ Polly cowered, ‘it’s going to blow her to pieces!’
She barely noticed when Tommy took hold of her hand. ‘I told you, Pol, it’s got no more ammunition left – and Giselle thinks so, too.’
‘This is no way to put it to the test!’
Across the square, Giselle made it to the tank unimpeded. The crowd on all four sides began to cheer. As nimble as a cat, she started to climb, champagne bottle in one hand, just as the lid on the turret began to rise.
‘The kraut’s coming out – he must still have a pistol with him,’ Anaïs said.
But the German was too slow. Reaching the top of the tank, Giselle’s arm swept up, with the green champagne bottle poised in her hand for a second in the air, before she smashed it into the turret. A geyser of flame spat out of the hole.
The Place Vendôme crowd went mad with approval.
Giselle leapt from the tank and ran back to where she’d come from. But a few feet away she dropped with a thud, her yellow skirt spreading over the pavement like a blossom struck from its stalk.
A terrible hush fell upon the Place Vendôme.
Anaïs had her hands to her mouth. ‘She’s been shot – there’s another sniper.’
But Giselle had merely tripped. She got up again, with the flames from the burning tank now framing her beautifully in her saffron Lanvin skirt, as she chicly posed to the ecstatic reception of the crowd.
Sometime afterwards, in the hullaballoo as everyone ran to hug the girl, Polly realised that Tommy was missing. ‘Where’s he got to?’ she asked Anaïs.
‘He said we needed a tricolour flag – a really big one that we can hang from the front of the Ritz. And he said he knew where to find one.’
‘Where?’ said Polly, surprised.
Anaïs told her.
As the joyous residents of the 1st arrondissement surged laughing and singing around her, Polly found herself standing still, struck by a terrible sense of foreboding.
‘What is it, Pol?’ Anaïs asked her, shocked.
But Polly had already started running towards the Ritz.
* * *
Unexpectedly, the Imperial Suite was unlocked. The handle turned easily when Tommy tried it and the door swung inwards, without him needing the master key he’d lifted from Claude. Tommy peered into the opulent salons, once choked with looted art in the Göring days, and now strangely empty with only the hotel furniture left.
It was dim. The muslin curtains were drawn across the windows, diffusing the summer sunlight from the square. The rooms looked grubby and untidy, as if no one had been let in to clean them for weeks.
Tommy tried a light switch at the door. Nothing. The city’s electricity was still off.
He stepped inside, mindful of his dusty tennis shoes on the carpet. ‘Hello? Mademoiselle Zita?’
He listened for a reply but there was nothing. Instinct told him that somewhere deep in the luxurious labyrinth of rooms he would find her. Tommy walked further into the reception salon, leaving the doors open to the corridor. ‘Zita – are you here?’
He heard a muffled, far-off sound of something metallic dropped on a hard-tiled floor – it had come from a bathroom. Tommy peered into the grand boudoir. The bed was in chaos; the linen looked stale. There were choked ashtrays on the side tables, jostling for space with empty bottles of wine. Tommy saw the open enamel tin on a pillow, with its dainty silver spoon. Both were empty. ‘Mademoiselle Zita?’
There came the sound of chair legs scraping on bathroom tiles. Zita was inside the boudoir’s bathroom – the one with Göring’s specially constructed bath. Tommy went softly to the door. ‘Zita?’ he whispered. ‘Are you in there?’
There was a pause. ‘Who is it?’
‘It’s me, Tommy. Are you all right in there?’
‘Tommy . . .’
It seemed his name didn’t register with her.
‘Tommy the waiter,’ he reminded her, ‘Tommy the barman. Tommy the guy who sometimes brings you breakfast.’ He almost wanted to add: Tommy the son of Eduarde.
‘Oh puss,’ Zita said from behind the closed door. ‘Tommy with the hair . . .’
He ran his fingers through it, scraping it back from his forehead. ‘That’s right,’ he confirmed. ‘They always say I look like a kraut.’
There was another pause. When it seemed like Zita had forgotten about him, he tapped on the door.
‘Don’t come in,’ she called out.
He stepped back a pace. ‘I won’t. Don’t worry.’
He looked at the rosewood armoire he had once helped Lana Mae shift to conceal the built-in. He marvelled that not one of the German occupants of the suite had ever twigged to it.
‘Tommy?’ Zita called to him. ‘What’s happening outside?’
A wide smile came to his face. ‘It is the happiest day in memory, Mademoiselle. A girl from Lanvin blew up a tank. The Free French Army are imminent. It will not be very long now. This is our Liberation Day.’
‘It has come then,’ she said quietly. ‘I had thought that it must have. It is good I have made myself ready . . .’
‘Mademoiselle?’ Tommy asked tentatively. ‘There is something I would like to request from you –’
‘Do you love Polly?’ she asked, interrupting him.
He was taken aback.
‘Well, do you?’
‘Mademoiselle . . .’
‘Answer me,’ she demanded. ‘It’s a simple question. And we shall not talk at all if you can’t.’
Tommy sensed she was standing on the other side of the door. ‘We are colleagues,’ he told her, ‘companions in resistance. You know that, Mademoiselle. You’ve known it s
ince the day of the round-up.’
Tommy thought he heard a sob break in her throat, but when she spoke again she gave no sign of it. ‘That’s not what I asked you. Do you love Polly? Yes or no? It’s very important to me to know this today.’
Tommy shifted, uncomfortable. ‘This is not a conversation I came here to have –’
‘So, you’re a coward then?’ shot Zita behind the door. ‘I expected much better from you, puss.’
He was hurt. ‘Mademoiselle – please.’
‘Do you love her? Tell me!’ she screamed through the jamb.
Tommy stepped back in shock. Then he closed his eyes. Gently, he pressed his palms to the door. ‘Clearly, you know already that I do . . .’
He waited.
‘Do I now?’ said Zita, softly. ‘How much do you love her, then?’
He tried to use the truth in his heart to form words. ‘With all that I am capable of loving, Mademoiselle, with all that I have to give –’
Zita cut him off again. ‘Yes, what pretty words, and yet nothing has ever come of it? Your love sounds like worthless shit to me.’
He felt this like a punch.
‘You either love or you don’t,’ said Zita. ‘And clearly you don’t because you’ve never once said those sweet words to Polly. Instead, you’ve saved them for me.’
Tommy started to say that once, some years ago, he had tried to say them, but Polly had stopped him, making it clear that resistance was everything and that love was worth nothing in light of it. And because this had hurt him, he’d channelled his courage into everything but love – or at least, love that was true – and he had never dared speak of it with Polly again.
‘Gutless,’ said Zita with disgust, as if reading his thoughts.
Then Tommy’s mind went to what Anaïs had exposed in Polly as they’d crouched in the doorway – and how, after he’d learned of it, he’d taken Polly by the hand without even thinking to ask first. ‘It – it’s been very complicated,’ he started.
‘What lies,’ said Zita. ‘People are complicated maybe, but not the feelings we have for them . . .’
He sensed her mind wandering, as if she was having a conversation with someone she’d lost.
‘Why, my Hans is the most complicated man that I know,’ said Zita, ‘a man of such inconsistence he drives me half mad. And yet I know that I love him, despite everything. I’ve always known it. Since that day when he picked up my lip rouge . . .’
Tommy was saddened. ‘But your Hans is long gone.’
There was a silence from Zita. Then she said, ‘It’s all over now anyway. Or it will be very soon. When the Liberators find us . . .’
The skin prickled at the back of Tommy’s neck. ‘Find us? Are you alone in there?’
She laughed without mirth. ‘There’s no one but me and the bath ring.’
Tommy knew he should try to keep her talking – thinking that this is what Polly would have done. ‘You’re right, Zita,’ he whispered, ‘love is not complicated – people are, definitely, but not the feelings we have for them. We either love or we don’t, just like you said.’
She was quiet.
A sense of impending doom came over him – something that seemed impossible on such a day, and yet it was there. Tommy shivered, the skin now prickling his back.
‘I want to marry Polly,’ he told her. He imagined – hoped – that Zita might like this.
There was emotion in her voice when she finally replied, ‘That’s good news, puss, real good . . .’
Now that he’d voiced it, Tommy knew that it was indeed good. ‘When all this is over, maybe even before, I’m going to ask her.’
She chuckled. ‘Do you think she’ll be surprised?’
He thought of himself and Polly crouching together in the doorway. ‘She might call me an idiot, but I don’t think she’ll really be surprised . . .’
‘That makes me so happy. Thank you.’
Tommy returned to his task. ‘Zita, there is something important hidden inside this suite.’
‘Hidden?’
‘Long ago. I helped Mrs Huckstepp hide it.’
There was a silence as she processed this. When she spoke again, she sounded relieved. ‘What is it then?’
‘A tricolour flag – an enormous one. Big enough to hang from the front of the Ritz.’
Zita seemed to lose interest. ‘Sure, puss . . .’
‘Will you give me permission to retrieve it? I know exactly where it is, and I will have no more need to disturb you once I have it again.’
He sensed she’d moved away from the door. ‘Whatever you wish,’ she told him. ‘I don’t care about any of it now. I just want them to hurry up and get here . . .’
He listened at the door for another moment, but she had nothing more to add. ‘Thank you,’ he said to her. Then he turned to the massive armoire. In the four years since Tommy had helped Lana Mae move it, he’d grown physically stronger. He didn’t need anyone’s help to shift it.
* * *
Polly pushed her way through the crowded lobby looking for Claude.
‘Monsieur Auzello,’ said Polly, ‘has Tommy been to see you?’
‘I saw him but there were too many people,’ said Claude. ‘If he wanted something from me then he’s gone off to find it on his own.’
‘He wanted to get inside the Imperial Suite.’
Claude’s composure rippled. ‘But no one’s been in there since Zita took it. She’s not been well lately . . .’
‘Tommy says there’s a hidden French flag in the suite.’
‘Well, he won’t be getting inside without the key.’ Claude reached into his pocket to show Polly the master, only to realise it was gone. ‘He must have lifted it from me . . .’ Claude said, dismayed.
Polly was already running up the grand staircase. ‘Wait!’ Claude called after her. Then he was swamped in the crush once more.
* * *
Polly took the stairs two at a time and landed, breathless, upon the first floor. She started sprinting down the carpeted corridor, her Lelong divided skirt flapping at her shins, her Hermès handbag swinging from her arm.
Then she saw that the Imperial Suite doors were ajar, and she slowed. Polly fought to quieten her breath for a moment, as she strained her ears, listening. She approached the rooms, knowing that something wasn’t right.
‘Tommy?’ she whispered. ‘Tommy, are you in there?’
She heard a rumble of voices from deep in the salons and Polly’s instincts sharpened. In the two years since she’d help push Jürgen’s corpse into the Seine, Polly had experienced many crises, some of them terrifying, and yet with each one she had only grown calmer. Now, Polly felt hardly anything at all as she peeked carefully inside each room.
She was seized by an unstoppable rush of warmth. Her long-held desire for Tommy surged in her heart before merging with an irresistible feeling of affection as she looked for him. This collision of feeling created a perfect blend of sentiment that Polly recognised finally was love. She knew now without question as she searched for him: she loved Tommy utterly; she could never and would never love anyone more. Polly told herself that as soon as she saw him again, safe and unharmed, she would confess that she loved him, and that she had always loved him, since the day they’d first met in the Cambon bar. Then she would ask him to marry her, and if this affronted his masculine propriety too much, then she would suggest he ask her first.
The electricity returned with a pop. Lamps snapped on in all corners of the rooms and from somewhere came the noise of a radio.
‘Parisians rejoice!’ cried an announcer’s voice. ‘We have come on the air, thanks to our brothers in the power stations, in order to give you the news of our deliverance. The Free French Army has just entered Paris! We are mad with happiness!’
It was the sight of Tommy’s hair that took Polly’s attention, just as it always did.
He stood with his back to her inside the grand boudoir. Polly’s eyes were then seized by the ext
raordinary sight of the furs, hanging in splendour in a cave that had opened in the wall. Polly’s mind went to the oddness of this, before she realised it was not a cave but the built-in, which had somehow been shielded by an armoire. Then Polly found herself focusing upon a ringleted girl before she realised that the lost Renoir portrait had been stashed in there, too. And then Polly’s attention went to the other person in the room, and she found herself blinking as she finally recognised who it was.
Metzingen’s hair had turned ashen and sparse on his skull; his once powerful frame had shrunk. He looked skeletal, cadaverous, his skin like parchment stretched on his bones. The stench of him was disgusting. Metzingen must have been hiding for weeks in this cave and hadn’t run away at all.
Tommy had set him free.
Hans was near naked, wild-eyed, and holding Jürgen’s gun. Somehow, he’d wrestled it from Tommy.
Tommy had his hands in the air, but the words he was saying to the last of the once-proud Occupiers were not in any way placatory.
‘What did you expect would happen to you, kraut?’ Tommy challenged him, simmering with rage. ‘You’ve been living in a dream world.’
‘Stop it,’ Metzingen hissed. ‘Just stop it . . .’
On the radio came the opening chords of ‘La Marseillaise’.
‘But why should I stop it?’ Tommy taunted him. ‘What do you even know about this war? You’ve experienced nothing but degeneracy while you’ve lived at the Ritz – and what has happened to your Fatherland while you’ve indulged yourself?’
The bathroom door creaked open, and Polly saw who now emerged.
‘Stop it!’ screamed Metzingen. The gun was shaking in his hand. He took a step closer to Tommy. ‘Just stop it, I say.’
From the square came the sound of dozens of radios, all switched on, their volumes being turned up high. ‘La Marseillaise’ pulsed out from each one of them, filling the Place Vendôme and beyond.
‘You’ve lost this disgusting war,’ Tommy spat at him. ‘And better still, kraut, this war has lost you. You’re a casualty now. You’re no better than those whose lives you stole.’ His breath caught in his throat. ‘You’re no better than Comte Eduarde . . .’
The Heart of the Ritz Page 42