Rachel Lindsay - Heart of a Rose

by Rachel Lindsay

  "I'll make up the last order," she said. "You go off and see Philippe."

  "Maybe I'll be able to catch a glimpse of Lance Hammond," Jacqueline said happily, and skipped down the arcade.

  But it was Rose who had that privilege, for she had already turned off half the lights in the shop when the door opened and he came in.

  "Hello," he said in his usual casual fashion. "I was passing so I thought I'd give you this personally."

  Mystified, she took the envelope he held out and extracted a gilt-edged card. It was an invitation from Diana Hammond to attend the engagement party she was giving for her son.

  "But I—I don't understand," Rose stammered. "I hardly know your mother. Why should she invite me?"

  "I asked her to."

  "But you don't know me either!"

  He grinned. "I take it you're not using the word 'know' in the Biblical sense."

  Rose flushed to the roots of her chestnut hair.

  "That's not a very funny remark! Although I shouldn't think you'd personally consider you knew a girl unless she was willing to let you know her in the Biblical sense."

  He burst out laughing. "I can see my escapades are known even in the suburbs of London."

  "There's nothing wrong with the suburbs," Rose said tartly and handed the invitation back to him.

  He stared at it and had the grace to look ashamed.

  "I'm sorry. I asked for that. But I really didn't intend to be rude. I was just trying to be funny."

  Powerless to retain her anger towards him, she smiled reluctantly.

  "That's better," he said. "You've no idea how pretty you look when you relax."

  She stiffened again at the compliment and as if aware of it he said briskly: "One of the reasons I'm inviting you is that you're a friend of Alan's. And he's much too conscious of his position ever to ask me to invite you. That's why I decided to deliver the invitation personally. Anyway, by coming to my mother's villa the other night I feel you helped my romance along."

  "I don't think my bouquet made Miss Walters accept your proposal," Rose said coolly.

  Maybe not. But it serves as an excuse for me to invite you to the party."

  The door closed behind him and Rose looked at the invitation on her desk. It was only the third time she had met Lance Hammond, but because of all Alan had told her about him she felt she knew him very well. That was why his behaviour in the last few moments had taken her by surprise, for to bring the invitation himself because he knew it would please Alan was a gesture of spontaneous thought- fulness which she would never have expected from someone of his arrogance.

  She glanced at the card again. June the tenth. It was only two days away. Mentally she went through her wardrobe and, discarding everything in it, decided to buy something new. Luckily the long lunch-time session would give her plenty of time and when she left the arcade at one o'clock, instead of making her usual way to the beach, she set off purposefully towards the town.

  ' She was fortunate in discovering what she wanted within the first half hour of her search. It was a dream of a dress and lay by itself in the window of one of the small boutiques in a side turning off the Promenade des Anglais. Yards of palest yellow organza formed a cloud-like skirt that was nipped in to a tiny waist and then allowed to float out again into a soft froth around the shoulders.

  As soon as Rose tried it on she knew she would have to buy it no matter what the cost. For it enhanced the golden tan she had acquired during her hours of sunbathing and brought out the auburn lights in her hair.

  "Mademoiselle looks ravissante," the vendeuse said softly over her shoulder, "and for what it is, it is not expensive."

  The price the woman named was far cheaper than Rose had anticipated and, in a sudden burst of extravagance, she decided to see what other things she could buy. After all, she was only young once, and there was no point in waiting to spend her money until she was too old to enjoy it

  Enjoy it now she certainly did and the end of her lunch break found her considerably poorer in pocket although richer in wardrobe.

  "I'll see you have all the dresses delivered to you by tomorrow," the vendeuse said as she led Rose to the door. "But if you will permit me to say so, it is a pity to buy such lovely clothes and not do something about the rest."

  "The rest?" Rose asked. "What do you mean?"

  "Merely that our dresses are so French and you are so English! You need a little more elan, mademoiselle."

  "Surely that's a matter of character," Rose said with a half smile. "I'm hoping the clothes I bought here will increase the £lan for me!"

  "Clothes can only help you part of the way. You must help yourself for the rest. A little more make-up, a different hairstyle—et viola—you would be ravissante! At the moment you are English old maid!"

  "Well!" Rose exclaimed. "I must say you're amazingly frank."

  "But why not? You are young and you could be beautiful. I have a daughter of your age, mademoiselle, and I would talk to her in the same way if it were necessary. But helas, she is a cripple and it doesn't matter what she looks like. If le bon Dieu had given her health then she would have been as lovely as you."

  Rose's anger disappeared and she accepted a card from the vendeuse on which was written in spidery handwriting the name of a beauty salon along the Croissette.

  "Tell them you come from 'Henriette'," the vendeuse said, "and that you are my special customer because you are so like my daughter."

  Rose thanked her and left the shop, unaware that the vendeuse watched her retreating figure with a smile on her face and a little prayer in her heart that her so beautiful daughter Janine, who at this very moment was an up and coming film starlet, would forgive her old mother for pretending she was ill and crippled!

  "But it is all for the good," she said out loud. "All for the good."

  Rose would not have been human had she not pondered on all that the woman in the boutique had told her, and she veered between annoyance at the presumptuousness and curiosity to find out whether the vendeuse was right. Rose being a female, curiosity won and the morning of the party she took a few hours off and went to the salon to which she had been recommended.

  Because she had worn her hair long, she had never had need of hairdressers and her occasional visits had merely been to suburban ones. Because of this, the atmosphere in the French salon was doubly strange, for there was the gilt and mirrors which she had associated with Mayfair plus the extra effusiveness and volubility of the French.

  Rose gave the vendeuse's card to the pert young receptionist who resembled Brigette Bardot, and was immediately escorted to the back of the salon and placed in the hands of an effeminate young man called Sylvestre, who confided to her during the next couple of hours that his name was really Georges but that he felt the name he had chosen more sympathetic to his character. Full of misgivings, Rose watched him take out the scissors, but when he saw the apprehension on her face he shook his head.

  "Do not have any fears that I will chop it off! For you the so short style is not suitable. You are dreamy, n'est-ce pas? And you must look like a dream. If Mademoiselle permits, I suggest she allow me to cut a little. I wish to let it reach only to your shoulders."

  Tentatively Rose touched the coil of hair that lay along her back.

  "I've rather prided myself on the fact that I can sit on it," she said.

  "Sit on it? Ma foi! Hair is for looking at—not sitting on! Please, I beg of you—it is a crime to leave it like this."

  Rose made one more effort. "If you cut it I'll have to have a perm."

  "No, no. When it is not so long and heavy you will get a surprise. Wait, mademoiselle, wait."

  He looked at her questioningly with the scissors raised and with an abandon she did not feel she nodded him to go ahead. Deftly he set to work. The scissors snipped and lock after lock slithered on to the ground. Rose closed her eyes and for the next hour resolutely refused to look in the mirror as she was shampooed, set and placed under a dryer in a
n open courtyard at the back of the shop itself. Encased in a warm cocoon of air, she read a magazine while the Riviera sun blazed down from an intensely blue sky.

  To think that she, Rose Tiverton, was working on the Cote d'Azur in a luxury hotel! 'And not much working, either,' she thought wryly. 'I don't know how I'll be able to knuckle down to Mr. Marks after this.' She pondered over her future. Without being conceited she knew that Monsieur Ferrier was well pleased with her and that her job at the hotel was sure for as long as she wanted it. Yet did she want to stay here indefinitely? Exciting though it was to see so much glamour and gaiety around her, there was also an air of illusion in the atmosphere that was disquieting. Certainly this was the only reason that could account for the vague depression and dissatisfaction with life that she had felt in the last couple of weeks. 'I wonder if I'm jealous of all the girls I see around me having such a wonderful time? Like Jeannie Vanderveld with her millionaire father, and Mimi Delage with her third husband and his silver-blue Mercedes.' Many more names came into Rose's mind, all of them belonging to young girls not very much older than herself. Yet how different they were in their social standing and financial position!

  Her thoughts were interrupted by Sylvestre coming to take her from under the dryer. He unpinned her hair and brushed it with such hard strokes that tears came into her eyes.

  "It's as I thought," he smirked. "Now that the weight of hair is gone, it curls naturally. Not too much, though—just sufficient to give it body. Look, mademoiselle, I have finished."

  Rose raised her eyes to the mirror and caught her breath. Gone was the pretty, prim English girl whose reflection she had grown accustomed to seeing, and in her place was a glamorous beauty who looked as if she did not know the meaning of work. Freed from its confining pins, her hair swung to her shoulders, the ends curling softly under.

  Sylvestre had back-combed it so that it appeared much thicker than it was and every time she turned her head it caught the light and glinted with the richness of a burnished chestnut. In some strange way the new style had altered the shape of her face, softening the high line of her forehead and accentuating the curve of her cheeks and pointed chin.

  "You look a little like Elizabeth Taylor," Sylvestre whispered delightedly. "But more elegant, of course."

  "Of course," Rose said dryly. "But what's it going to look like tomorrow?"

  "Just the same. You will be able to set it yourself. You merely have to come here once a month to have it shaped. Now if you will permit me, mademoiselle, the patronne would like to talk to you."

  A buxom woman with shrewd black eyes appeared at Rose's side with a large tray holding a varied assortment of tubes and jars.

  "No," she said in a throaty voice as she stared into Rose's face. "I think for you the make-up should be the minimum."

  "I think so too," said Rose. "I never wear any except lipstick."

  "Too much is too much," came the reply. "But not enough is even worse. In my opinion you should use a warm apricot shade on your mouth, no powder and rouge because your skin is wonderful, but a lot of mascara and eyeshadow."

  Pudgy hands busied themselves on the tray. "Close your eyes and lean back, mademoiselle, and I'll show you what I mean."

  "In for a penny, in for a pound." Rose thought, and did as she was told.

  A little later as she looked at herself she had to admit that the experiment had been well worth while. Her skin tingled with excitement as she realized that she possessed a power of which she had never before been aware — the power of a beautiful woman! Had her mouth always curved gently upwards at the corners, the lower lip full and yet invitingly soft? While as for her eyes — Rose blinked them. The incredibly long lashes were quite real and so was the line of the naturally fine eyebrows. Beneath mascara, the eyes themselves seemed larger and more limpidly grey, while eyeshadow with the merest gold fleck in it added to their depth and lustre.

  "Miss Tiverton, your own father wouldn't know you," she said to her reflection.

  "Is good, eh?" said the woman.

  Rose nodded. "Is wonderful!"

  When she returned to her room later that evening to dress for the party, there was a note from Alan to say he would call for her at nine and a spray of golden roses. "Jacqueline told me the color you are wearing," he had penned, "and with a name like yours, what other flower could I have chosen?"

  It was an unexpectedly romantic offering from a man whom she had never before considered romantic, and as, dressed and made up, she went down to the foyer to meet him, she could not help a pleasurable thrill of anticipation.

  Alan was waiting beside the lift, and as the gilt door opened and she stepped out, she was amused at the amazement on his face.

  "Good lord! If it weren't for the fact that you're wearing my roses I'd never have known it was you!"

  "Thanks for the compliment," she laughed. "I suppose it is a compliment?"

  "What do you think! You look stunning. Your hair shines like a copper kettle."

  She could not help giggling. "You're getting positively lyrical."

  "It's the best I could do at such short notice. Don't forget I'm a dull Englishman."

  He drew her arm through his own and led her out to the car. She glanced at him as he took his place behind the wheel, his hands firm, his eyes concentrating on the road ahead. Dear Alan! No amount of oil could keep his hair smooth and a cowlick fell over his temple, giving him a boyishness belied by his generally serious behavior. Not for the first time she wondered whether he had ever been deeply in love. Did she mean anything to him? She could not begin to guess the answers. All she knew was that her own feelings for him were those of friendship and nothing more. She sighed and looked through the window. What exactly was it that she wanted in a man? Kindness? Passion? Intelligence? And if she found someone possessing all these qualities, was there any guarantee that she would fall in love with him? Love was so illogical that there was no telling to whom one would give one's heart.

  Unaccountably she experienced a feeling of panic and as the car turned into the floodlit driveway of Diana Hammond's villa she had an overwhelming desire to return to the safety of her hotel room. 'What am I doing with people like these? Their world is different from mine, how can I ever hope to be at home with them?'

  "Come on, Rose," Alan said. "I can't wait to go inside and show you off!"

  With a start she realized he was holding open the door for her, and seeing his friendly, sympathetic face, her panic disappeared and, lifting her skirts, she stepped out.

  Music trembled on the still air and from the back of the house came the sound of laughter and voices and the popping of champagne corks. Alan led her across the terrace and round the side of the house a way she had followed on her first — and only — visit here. Tonight the garden was ablaze with lanterns and an artificial floor had been set up on the lawn in front of the rose arbor. By the side of the blue-tiled swimming pool an orchestra played softly while on the opposite side a buffet had been arranged for food and drinks. People were sitting at small tables or dancing leisurely to the music, the men uniform in white dinner jackets, the women lovely in exotic gowns with bejewelled throats and ears.

  "I suppose you want to go over and congratulate the happy couple," Alan said in her ear and placing his hand under her elbow, guided her over to the far side of the lawn where Lance was standing with his mother and fiancee.

  Enid was dressed entirely in black, the only contrast being the creamy white of her shoulders and arms. "What a strange color to wear for an engagement party," Rose thought, and suddenly realized how clever the girl had been.

  Not only did the black chiffon suit her to perfection, accentuating her silver blonde hair, and moulding her figure to ethereal slenderness, but it also made her stand out among the other women whose pretty dresses somehow appeared tawdry by comparison. She and Mrs. Hammond were talking to another couple, but Lance turned as his secretary approached.

  "Hello," he said and then looked fully at Rose. The
re was no recognition in his face and she felt the color rise in her cheeks.

  "I don't think I know your friend," he said to Alan. "Perhaps you'll…" All at once he stopped speaking, his expression so amazed that Rose felt an unaccountable thrill of triumph. "Why, it's the flower girl! I'd never have known you."

  His voice had risen with surprise and hearing it, Enid turned to see to whom he was talking. Her eyes widened and then narrowed and her expression became wary.

  "Aren't you going to introduce me?" she asked softly.

  Rose stared at her, instinctively aware that the non- recognition was deliberate.

  "Of course, darling," Lance said. "This is Miss Tiverton. She is by way of acting Cupid to us. She's responsible for all the bouquets I lavish on you."

  "How fascinating," Enid drawled. "I've never met anyone who worked in a shop."

  It was impossible to overlook the studied insult in the high, clear voice and Rose trembled with anger.

  "It's the same as working anywhere else, Miss Walters," she said icily. "But I shouldn't think you and work have ever been acquainted."

  It was Enid's turn to look angry and from the corner of her eye Rose was aware of Alan hiding a grin behind his hand.

  She was aware too of an expression of annoyance on Lance's face and was afraid she had gone too far. But to her surprise he moved away from Enid and came towards her.

  "How about a dance?" he said and before she could reply, swept her into his arms.

  Circling among the other couples they were silent, their feet moving in rhythm together. It was the first time she had been so close to him and she was conscious of his hand against her back and of the hardness of his chest crushing her breasts. A faint odor of shaving lotion emanated from him and the richer, more pungent, smell of a cigar.

  'Not just any old cigarette smoke,' she thought humorously, 'but the very best Havana.'

  She stole a glance at his face but he was staring over her shoulder and it was impossible to tell what he was thinking. He really was the most preposterously good-looking man she had ever seen. Even in such close proximity it was impossible to fault his appearance. Any feminity that might have occurred through such regularity of feature was dispelled by the positive line of his jaw and the set of his mouth which, when he was oblivious of being watched, was controlled and firm.