Wild Lavender

by Belinda Alexandra

  André and I were greeted by two gentlemen in almost identical navy blue suits with brilliantined hair and cravats knotted at their throats. The taller of the two was Regis Lebaron; I recognised him from his photographs and those bulging golden eyes and thin lips. He was often described as bearing a resemblance to a frog, but the comparison told nothing of his exuberant personality. Martin Meyer was introduced by his nickname, Minot, a pet name given to him by school friends which had stayed with him through the years. He was slim with a cleft in his chin and seemed to have difficulty keeping his hands still. They opened and closed and reached towards all corners of the room when he told me how excited he was to meet me. They were temporarily stilled by a reproachful glance from Lebaron, after which Minot stuffed his hands into his pockets, only to have them escape again a few seconds later to form a theatrical gesture towards the auditorium doors. ‘This way, please,’ he said, ushering us inside.

  The auditorium was dark except for the stage which was lit by floodlights and a spotlight beaming down onto its centre. André took my coat and laid it over one of the seats. I noticed Lebaron look me up and down and was pleased when a smile curved his lips. After various beauty treatments, make-up by Helena Rubenstein and having my hair trained into a sleek bob, I had hoped he would like what he saw.

  There was a rehearsal piano near the stage but no pianist. I clutched my portfolio of music, hoping that one would arrive soon so we could get the ordeal over with. To my surprise, Minot took my music from me and flicked through the sheets. ‘Oh, I do like this one,’ he said, pointing to one of Vincent Scotto’s pieces. ‘When you sang it at the Casino, it brought tears to my eyes.’

  ‘She has come a long way since then,’ said André. ‘She can really make her voice reach now, and dance without losing her breath.’

  A door opened and a waiter sauntered in with a bottle of champagne in an ice bucket and some glasses on a tray. Lebaron instructed him to leave them on the stage. ‘We’ll get to them in a minute,’ he said, then turning to me, he added, ‘I already know that you have one of the best voices in Paris. I saw you at the Casino and cursed myself that I hadn’t found you first. They were wasting you there. What I want to know is what we can do with your act.’

  ‘Well, she’s had dance lessons with two of the best teachers in Berlin,’ André said. ‘I have brought some records. Perhaps we can show you?’

  Lebaron clutched his chin in his hand and glanced at André. ‘I know she can dance too. Another year and they would have had to replace Rivarola with a better partner. You are forgetting that spotting talent has been my forté for years. What I want to know is how we can showcase her.’

  André and I exchanged glances. I was about to say something but André put up his hand to stop me. If I had spoken, I would have asked Lebaron if that meant he had made up his mind to hire me. But it was apparent that he already had. Somewhere between talking to André and meeting me, he must have decided to take the risk. My heart lit up. It was as if the backdrop had changed and suddenly I was in a new scene. For the first time I didn’t have to prove that I had talent or even that I was attractive enough. Those were being taken as a given.

  ‘Perhaps Mademoiselle Fleurier would not mind to stand in the spotlight a moment,’ said Minot, sweeping his hand towards the stage.

  I did as he asked. I felt as if I were standing in a ray of sunshine, although my legs were trembling with all the adrenaline I had worked up. Lebaron and Minot moved around me shouting ideas to each other.

  ‘I see a storm scene and the sky opening,’ cried Minot. ‘Then celestial beings…No, Greek gods and goddesses moving up and down the staircase.’

  ‘When they reach the bottom they will turn their reversible costumes and become flappers and young men arriving at a chic club,’ said Lebaron, glancing from me to the rest of the stage as if the scene were unfolding before his eyes.

  ‘Then the most beautiful girl of all will arrive,’ said Minot, pulling me forward. ‘And she will sing the opening song.’

  Lebaron held his hands in the air. ‘The posters will read: Simone Fleurier, the most sensational woman in the world.’

  I looked to André who was beaming at me from a front row seat. Lebaron and Minot had already decided they needed a legend and I had enough talent to satisfy them. They were going to fuse legend and talent to create a star. And that star was going to be me.

  The preparations for the ‘Bonjour Paris! C’est Moi!’ show were a trial by fire for me. As a key performer at the Casino de Paris all that had been expected of me was to turn up for rehearsals and costume fittings and to do my best in the performance. But now, as the star of a major production, I was involved in everything from the selection of the supporting acts, to the choice of the tableaux, to the poster design. I had to be, because everything revolved around me. I realised this fully at the auditions for the chorus girls.

  ‘They will all be blonde,’ exclaimed Minot, fanning his hands towards me. ‘So that you stand out like a gorgeous black pearl.’

  André was to be the co-producer for the show and had the task of overseeing everything from the sets and costumes to the stage machinery. Lebaron intended the tableaux of ‘Bonjour Paris! C’est Moi!’ to be the most sumptuous Paris had ever seen: they would include a ball at Versailles and a jungle scene with live monkeys and a tiger. One afternoon I visited André in his office at the theatre and found him studying the scaled models of each set complete with moveable flats and curtains for the changes of scene. He looked as happy as a boy playing with a train set.

  ‘The engineer says he can design a waterfall,’ André told me, pointing to the jungle set where I was represented by a cardboard doll.

  André was a good choice for a co-producer because he worked thirty-six hours out of twenty-four and his energy and enthusiasm spread to the designers and carpenters, who were all trying to outdo each other to make the most spectacular sets possible.

  ‘If you can do that, I think it will be a first for the Paris stage,’ I told him.

  ‘I have to prove to my father that my “special project” has been worth all the time and money I have lavished on it,’ he laughed.

  I assumed that he was teasing, but the joke hurt. It hadn’t been easy for me to adjust to thinking of André as nothing more than my patron and friend. I managed to accept that he had never found me attractive, and that I had been misled. At least I had saved myself the humiliation of declaring my feelings. But acceptance of André’s lack of interest did not prevent my own feelings from ambushing me from time to time. Even with both our noses to the grindstone, the sound of André’s voice could make my heart flutter.

  Sometimes I found some of the minor acts kissing backstage and once, when I was standing near the air vent in my dressing room, I heard the ecstatic sounds of a man and woman making love somewhere in the theatre. I pressed my ear to the hole, enthralled by the moans, pants and sighs. A throb burned in my belly but I could only dream what those touches might be like. I closed my eyes and imagined running my hands through André’s hair and feeling his naked flesh melt into mine. But when such thoughts occurred I would splash my face with cold water or dab my temples with cologne. It was no use cherishing a desire that could never be fulfilled. I thought I was old for my age, and I was certainly older than the average music hall virgin, but André treated me with the familiar sweetness of a brother doting on his little sister.

  I certainly felt like a ‘special project’ the first time I walked past Galeries Lafayette and saw my face looming on a billboard above Boulevard Haussmann. ‘For skin as smooth as Simone Fleurier’s use Le Chat Soap.’ Was that girl wrapped in a satin dress and clutching a wide-eyed, diamond-collared Kira to her bosom really me? André had arranged for me to represent several products as prepublicity for the show and I appeared in advertisements for Helena Rubenstein cosmetics and Rivoire & Carret pasta. I eyed the Le Chat advertisement with suspicion. The girl’s hair was glossy and smooth, her lips were rouged with dark
lipstick and her eyes rimmed in kohl. She wasn’t the person I felt inside. I was still treading on tiptoe, waiting for the chorus girls to turn on me and declare that I was a gawky comedian who belonged at the end of the line. But the success of the advertisements belied those doubts. Sales for all three products doubled in the first month. I was on the verge of stardom. All that I had dreamed of and had worked for was coming to fruition. Why, then, did I feel so lonely?

  ‘We have an invitation,’ said André, holding up a white card. ‘Mother is keen to be in on my surprise for my father. She told me that in order to bring you the best audience we have to get you into the social pages. She has invited you to her enclosure at Longchamps. She says if a beautiful but unknown lady is seen at the races with Madame Blanchard, everyone is going to want to know who she is. But first I have to introduce you to her.’

  André and I arrived at his family’s townhouse on Avenue Marceau the following morning for coffee and cake with Madame Blanchard. Staying at the Adlon and dining at fine restaurants had smoothed out my country manners, and the Vionnet dress I wore did not make me look out of place on the granite portico where André and I waited for the butler to open the door. But as soon as I laid eyes on the foyer with its marble staircase, fountain and portraits by Gainsborough, I was thrown. The Adlon was a poor cousin compared to the Blanchard residence. I did my best not to gape at the swagged valances and oriental carpets, at the candelabras with their bronze roses or the dark wood furniture with its accents of gold. The house was everything the residence of a powerful European family should be: it was imbued with age and permanence. And it was intimidating.

  Madame Blanchard was waiting for us in her parlour with André’s younger sister, Veronique. His mother had pouch-like cheeks and was as blonde as a Swede. André had inherited his height and colouring from his father.

  ‘My dear, you are as lovely as André described you,’ Madame Blanchard said, taking my hand and guiding me to a chair upholstered in blue brocade. The curtains and sconces were turquoise, and everywhere I looked I saw tones of lapis lazuli and gold offset by vases of white orchids. The effect was like standing in an exotic seashell. The room was refreshingly different to the sombre tone of the rest of the house.

  For some reason, Madame Blanchard had omitted introducing Veronique, but the girl was not going to be ignored. She rose from her seat, tossed her red hair over her shoulders and announced herself in a prepubescent voice, adding that I seemed ‘much nicer than Mademoiselle Canier’.

  ‘Veronique!’ exclaimed Madame Blanchard, trying to suppress a smile. ‘Compliment Mademoiselle Fleurier, by all means, but do not insult anybody else to do it.’

  Next to me was a skirted table with a picture frame on it. The figure in the photograph was broad-shouldered and handsome in his officer’s uniform. But the eyes had the soulful look of an artist, not a soldier. I glanced at the case of war medals on the shelf above. There was no need to ask who the man in the picture was.

  I was conscious of Madame Blanchard watching me and turned to her. Although she did not refer to the picture, something in her eyes told me that she was pleased I had noticed it.

  ‘The fashion writer from L’Illustration will do something on Mademoiselle Fleurier,’ she said, nodding to André. ‘Talent is one thing; publicity quite another.’ Then, once the maid had poured the coffee and served us each a slice of chocolate torte, she added, ‘Mademoiselle Fleurier needs to be seen and photographed at the right places before opening night. And Longchamps tomorrow is an opportunity too good to miss.’

  A Pomeranian puppy wandered into the room and took a seat under Veronique’s chair. The girl bent down and fed him a piece of cake on her finger. I thought of how my family used to feed Olly like that, but the rustic kitchen in Pays de Sault was worlds away from Madame Blanchard’s elegant parlour.

  ‘Tell me about yourself, Mademoiselle Fleurier,’ Madame Blanchard said. ‘So you started your career in Marseilles?’

  I explained to her about my family’s lavender farm, my father’s death and Le Chat Espiègle. Madame Blanchard listened carefully to my account of my humble origins and did not seem put off by them in the slightest. If anything she was impressed by my determination to succeed.

  While Madame Blanchard and I made small talk, André spoke with his sister. Their voices had the affectionate ease of a history of childhood games and shared secrets. When Veronique finished her slice of cake, André cut her another piece, despite his mother’s good-humoured scowl. I remembered what André had said about Veronique being the rebel in the family and I hoped that her father would not crush the girl’s lively spirit—or André’s either. Monsieur Blanchard was away on business in Switzerland, but I felt his dominating presence in the portrait above the fireplace. I knew who it was because he looked just like André, only sterner. I thought the family patriarch was an unusual choice for Madame Blanchard’s parlour. Even when Monsieur Blanchard was not there, he seemed to be watching over the order of the house.

  ‘My children are each so different,’ said Madame Blanchard. ‘Everything shows on Veronique’s face, whether she is happy or displeased. André is another matter entirely. You can never tell what he is thinking. With him it is true that still waters run deep.’

  We stayed with André’s mother and sister for an hour. When we stood up to leave, Madame Blanchard placed her hand on my shoulder. ‘I like you,’ she whispered. ‘You are not at all what I imagined.’

  I liked Madame Blanchard too. I thought her kind and sincere. But there was a niggling doubt in her voice that made me afraid. I sensed that André’s father would not be so easy to please.

  My contract with the Adriana included part of my performance fee upfront. As André was taking care of my material needs, I sent half of the fee to Bernard so that he could improve the farm. Then I went to see Joseph at the furniture store.

  ‘Mademoiselle Fleurier,’ he greeted me. ‘Odette didn’t tell me you were coming. Are you after something special?’

  Ever since I had returned from Germany, I had noticed how forlorn Odette looked because her twenty-first birthday had come and gone and she and Joseph were still not married. Joseph was successful in his job with the furniture store but he hadn’t been able to put aside enough capital for his own business. Without it, Odette’s father would not give them permission to marry.

  ‘My parents like Joseph very much,’ Odette explained. ‘But they want to make sure that he can support me. And Uncle agrees with them.’

  I had to hide my smile. Odette had expensive tastes, even her middle-class parents discerned that. If Joseph did not have a good income, she would send him broke in a year.

  ‘I want to help you set up your own store,’ I told Joseph. ‘I have a cheque for you in my bag.’

  Joseph’s eyes opened wide and he shook his head. ‘No, Mademoiselle Fleurier, I can’t ask that of you.’

  ‘You are not asking,’ I told him. ‘I am giving it to you. Odette has been a good friend to me and I want you to marry her and make her happy.’

  Joseph’s shoulders relaxed and he beckoned me into his office.

  ‘I do want to marry Odette,’ he said, pulling out a chair for me. ‘But I would be ashamed of myself if I were in debt. So I must refuse.’

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ I told him. ‘You won’t be in debt. One day, when you are successful, you can furnish my family’s farmhouse in Provence. They have simple tastes but I would like them to have some beautiful things too.’

  Joseph’s eyes lit up. ‘It would give me great pleasure to do that. I could make a trip to Provence especially to buy what was needed.’

  ‘So it is settled then?’ I said, rising from my chair. ‘I don’t see any need for us to tell Odette what we have discussed.’

  Tears filled Joseph’s eyes. He was a sweet man and I was sure that he would be a good husband. ‘You have no idea how happy you have made me,’ he said. ‘If Odette and I have a daughter, we will name her after you.’

&nbs
p; ‘I would be honoured,’ I said. ‘But I don’t hold you to that.’

  I caught a taxi back to my apartment with joy in my heart. At first I had thought money could only be used to buy things, but now I realised that it could bring happiness too.

  By the end of March everyone was working full throttle, the accelerator of the show stuck fast to the floor. It usually took Lebaron and Minot six to ten months to prepare for a new spectacle, but, with André’s help, they had almost done it in three. ‘Almost’ because by the time the final orchestrations of the songs had been completed, some of the dance tempos needed to be changed. There were also still costume alterations to be done and some of the sets needed amendments to work with schedule changes. Tempers flared. One of the electricians stormed out and a seamstress collapsed from exhaustion. Odette came along to help with the costumes and I developed even more respect for my friend after seeing her day after day with a needle in her hand and thread between her teeth, telling everyone, ‘Calm down. It will all come together in the end.’

  My dress for the finale was still tacked on a dressmaker’s dummy in the workroom. I offered to help finish it but Minot opened his eyes in horror. ‘No, no, no, Mademoiselle Fleurier! You must save your energy. You are the star. This show rides on your wings.’

  I had been hoping to turn my mind to something else to settle my nerves. The show ‘riding on my wings’ was what caused me to have night sweats and dizzy spells. I didn’t tell a soul about the panic attacks. The first one came after the book had been written and the scores composed. I was in my apartment going over some lyrics when my heart began to palpitate. I tried to focus on the score but my mind spun and everything turned white. The only way I could get rid of the nauseous feeling was to hide the score under a pillow. After that, I could only rehearse in the company of someone else, usually André or Minot.