Perfect

by Kellogg, Marne Davis

  “Thank you,” I said. I locked the door. It was a huge relief to take off the glamorous dark glasses and tight black turban, pull the pins out of my French twist and shake out my shoulder-length blond hair that I spend a fortune on to keep just the right shade. I hated to see it go. I put in contact lenses that tinted my blue-green eyes to enough of a deeper hue that they were completely different.

  By the time I left Carita, no blond remained. My coiffeur was now much darker. Francoise had dyed all my hair a sort of medium brown and then streaked it with three different shades of light brown, tan and gold. He cut it to chin length, parted it in the middle and pulled each side back with tortoise shell combs. It was a sophisticated, elegant style that suited my face and coloring and, besides, I’d always wanted to be able to use matching combs—some of the jeweled ones from the ’30s and ’40s are stunning. The makeup artist had created a whole new palette for my face.

  I was unrecognizable.

  My next stop was Galleries Lafayette, Paris’s landmark department store. Entering its multistory atrium is to be transported to a vast wonderland filled with the best the world has to offer. Thank goodness, they’ve moved all the domestic goods, such as gourmet delicacies, kitchenware, linens, and garden tools to their new Maison store across the street. It used to be agony for me to go through the gourmet department where you could find a canned, jellied canard next to a basket of rare black truffles, or a jar of tapenade and ten different brands of marrons glacée, or the latest in cookware. But now all those traps are gone, replaced by chapeaux and cosmetics, somewhat slightly easier for me to move past to the escalator, and get to the business at hand.

  I went to the second floor and began assembling the proper wardrobe for a wealthy Romanian princess, widow of a long-forgotten Romanian prince, to take to the Alps.

  Here’s what I learned: buying an entire all-white wardrobe isn’t as easy, or as interesting, as you may think. First of all, it’s not particularly flattering unless you’re terribly petite and have, like Bianca or Odessa, a little tone to your skin, which I don’t. Secondly, it doesn’t bring out the roses in your cheeks—just the opposite, actually. And finally, white doesn’t show diamonds off to their best. Unless you’re wearing quite dramatic colored stones or displaying a décolletage full of healthy, taut, tanned skin, white pulls the fire out of diamonds and the luster out of pearls. Why on earth I ever thought Princess Margaret should wear only white, I have no idea. I think I’d gotten carried away envisioning myself ice-skating on a frozen alpine pond in a hooded, full-length white mink cape and a white velvet dress. I don’t know. But the fact was, this entire alpine caper was about jewelry, about showing it, and me, off to our absolute best, and a major expanse of white on my body was just not going to do it. I made a number of strategic adjustments and ended up with a collection that included some white, but also lots of black, taupe, and coffee bean, and trimmed with wonderful passementerie stitching and mink, fox, and leopardskin collars and cuffs.

  All right, I’ll admit it. I did buy that full-length mink cape with a hood, a hat, and muff to match. But I got it in black. And it looked sensational. Who knew, I might get an invitation to go ice-skating, and black would look much more dramatic twirling on the ice than white.

  On I marched, up to Lingerie—a wonderland of frills and femininity. Choosing was so hard, it almost made me cry—I was afraid the time pressure I was under was going to make me sick. It did give me a headache. A fairyland of silk and satin and lace, ruffles and bows in every color of the rainbow, the negligées and peignoirs, cotton nighties, robes and pajamas, bras, panties, bed jackets, bustiers and teddies poofed out of the racks like the corps de ballet’s wardrobe room at an especially lavish production of Sleeping Beauty. I wanted all of them. It made me lightheaded.

  I couldn’t help it—lingerie has been one of my passions since Sir Cranmer rescued me on Carnaby Street. I’m an addict. He taught me to appreciate myself—all of me.

  “You are absolutely delicious,” he said one day when I was apologizing about my extra pounds. “Don’t lose an ounce.”

  I’d realized by then there was no possibility that I was going to lose that twenty-five pounds. And Sir Cranmer helped me see I didn’t need to penalize myself for that my whole life, and feel obliged to wear Carter’s cotton shorts and bras that covered my bosom like catcher’s mitts. I made the decision then that I would wear only beautiful underthings that would show me off to my best advantage.

  So now, today, you can imagine how the selection that lay before me in the lingerie department at Galleries Lafayette was a terrible, heart-tearing wrench because I had so little time. Darling Cranmer would have loved it.

  After much back and forth, I settled on sixteen or seventeen silk, satin, and lace peignoirs ranging from champagne to silver pink to black, and three quilted pale pink silk robes (I have a number of these robes at home. They’re like security blankets to me.). Two cashmere robes with leopardskin trim, because I was going to Switzerland where it was freezing, several sets of lacy bras and panties, camisoles and slips, and stacks of lightweight cashmere socks and stockings.

  Finally, I was almost totally set. I had evening gowns, cocktail clothes, a dozen pairs of lightweight wool slacks and cashmere sweater sets, an entire wardrobe of ski clothes(!), slippers and shoes, several colors of kid gloves, scarves, shawls, fur mufflers with matching hats and muffs, a number of handbags and a set of large Vuitton suitcases.

  “Et en suite, Princesse?” my driver asked. “Back to the hotel?”

  “No. Please take me to Chanel on Avenue Montaigne.”

  “Bien.”

  I’ve never considered myself a power shopper, but after a total of three very fast hours, I got back to the hotel fully equipped for any contingency—you name it, I could dress for it. I was completely exhausted. My Galleries Lafayette purchases had already been delivered—shopping bags and boxes filled the living room. It was an extraordinary array and while I was searching through them for one of my new pink robes, the doorbell rang and in came the porter with my packages from Chanel. (I’d already stowed my purchases from Cartier and Van Cleef in the bottoms of my Hermès travel bags along with the rest of my jewelry.) As I’ve said before, I wasn’t sure exactly what budget Thomas and the queen had had in mind for this adventure when he’d said “St. Moritz” and “unlimited,” but it was very dear of him to think he could imagine it, and in fact, no matter what it was, I’d exceeded it in the first six hours. And I wasn’t any closer to Switzerland than I’d been when I got up this morning.

  I gave the porter twenty euros, double locked the door behind him, and turned on a Rachmaninoff concerto. A bottle of Dom Perignon sat chilling on the sideboard in the living room so I poured myself a glass, and then slowly pulled off all my clothes and tossed them on the bed and dragged my robe behind me into the bath, and turned on the tap. While I waited for the tub to fill, I studied myself in the mirror. Age has wonderful compensations. Not a single one of them, however, is physique related. My body was my body what can I say? Nothing is where it used to be, except the Pasha of St. Petersburg that Sir Cranmer had hung around my neck on a terrace at the Hôtel du Cap in Cap d’Antibes, all those years ago. Now almost a part of me, it lies there—a reminder, a comforter, a constant companion. I held the diamond between my fingertips and twisted it so it caught the light and sent a shimmering kaleidoscope of color across my body. I loved my body. We’d been together a long time. I patted myself on my heart and climbed into the steaming tub and stretched out luxuriously under the bubbles.

  Any minute now, Thomas would hear from his associate, David Perkins. “She wasn’t on the train,” he would say. And Thomas would know exactly what had happened, that I’d disappeared and he’d never be able to find me until I let him. He’d lost control of the situation.

  “Dammit to hell,” he would say, and slam his tumbler of Scotch down on the kitchen counter, scaring the dog. “She’s done it to me again.”

  Hundreds of
miles away, from my bubble bath on the Place de l’Etoile, I raised my glass.

  “Trust me,” I said.

  T W E L V E

  I dressed with intentional understatement, new black Chanel jacket with black and navy blue fringe, straight-legged trousers, a simple black T-shirt, sling-back pumps, several strings of pearls and plain pearl earrings. No diamonds, no sparkles at all. My entire operation to recover the queen’s stolen jewels depended on my success this evening. It was important for me to be relaxed, elegant, and low-key.

  At precisely eight o’clock, there was a sharp rap on my door. A man with a serious expression, an earpiece, and an expensive suit waited. It didn’t look like he had a gun, but I imagined he did.

  “Princesse,” he said. “If you’re ready I’ll escort you to Mr. and Mrs. Naxos’s residence.”

  “Thank you.” I gathered up my pashmina and short black kid gloves, tucked my handbag under my arm, and followed him to the waiting elevator. I was prepared for whatever happened. I wondered where they lived—in a grand hôtel particulier in the eighth or a villa on the grounds of the Bois or in a restored multistory seventeenth-century town house in Place Dauphine on the Ile St. Louis with an upriver view of the entire city. Wherever it was, I knew it would be extraordinary. I wondered if there would be other guests.

  He slid a plastic card into a slot, placed a key into a lock and up we went. It hadn’t occurred to me that they would live in this building. But why not? It was a lovely location—not the best, but after all, Naxos did own it. I was a little disappointed.

  The elevator door opened into a small, bare, pure white chamber—almost like an air lock except there was no sealed door at the end. There was, however, an unattended airport-style security setup. It was bizarre and creepy and it did cross my mind that maybe I’d gone a little too far in my pursuit of George Naxos. Maybe he was a crazy recluse, like Howard Hughes or John Paul Getty, Sr.

  I turned around and the man was gone, the elevator doors were closed, and there was no visible call button to summon it back.

  One thing was certain: the only way out of here was forward.

  A little shiver of excitement sped up my spine as I laid my purse and shawl on the conveyor, which started up immediately and silently, controlled by some invisible being. It was like being in a James Bond movie. I crossed through the gateway and found myself before two white front doors, one of which clicked open automatically. I retrieved my belongings and stepped into an entry hall that was unadorned with the exception of an astonishing composition of branches laden with orange blossoms in a large square vase on a glass table. The arrangement was so massive, it was as though someone had cut off the entire top of the tree and brought it inside. Behind their fresh fragrance, I discerned an almost undetectable back note of chlorine, as though there were a swimming pool nearby.

  A butler greeted me, a tidy little man with lively eyes and a friendly smile.

  “Welcome, Your Highness. I am Cookson. Mr. Naxos asked if I would escort you to the sitting room.” He indicated the direction down the hallway. “Please.”

  “Thank you, Cookson.”

  He made no allusion to the high-security welcome process, but then, what could he say? It was what it was.

  The look of the place surprised me completely. For Paris, which so often basks in the opulence of its Bourbon and Napoleonic excesses, it was contemporary and uncluttered. The floors were pale, almost caramel-colored wood and the fabric-covered walls were white, with the smallest tint of sage or eucalyptus. A handrail ran along the wall beneath lighted paintings by contemporary artists. At the end of the gallery, we entered the living room, which was surrounded on three sides by floor-to-ceiling glass walls and ran the entire width of the building. Outside was a wraparound terrace with now leafless trees in gigantic pots spaced every eight or nine feet apart. The trees were dimly lit. The view of Paris was beyond spectacular. Dame Joan Sutherland and Robert Constantin were singing “Un dì felice,” from La Traviata.

  Did I wish my Thomas were there to share this amazingly romantic, once-in-a-lifetime moment with a view of the most beautiful city in the world—the trees, landmarks, and boulevards ablaze with lights—accompanied by one of the most romantic duets ever written? Well, I’d be lying if I said I didn’t feel a small twinge. Did I let it get in my way? Heavens, no.

  “Mr. Naxos will be here shortly. What may I bring you to drink?”

  “Scotch, please. On the rocks.”

  “Twist?”

  “Please.”

  He went to a mirrored bar set into the wall. And while he fixed my cocktail I scanned the room’s reflection in the windows with my thief’s eye, as I always did, looking for ways in and ways out, hiding places, secret doors, and invisible panels—although I had virtually no intention of robbing the Naxoses. This part of the apartment was ideally protected in terms of access from outdoors. In front of each set of doors was an imperceptible pressure panel built into the floor. Tiny camera holes were positioned in each corner of the room. The huge sheets of glass were bulletproof. The terrace was three-foot squares of white marble and I assumed a number of them were pressure sensitive, as well. I was terribly impressed. Unless the system were completely disabled, there was no way for a burglar to sneak in from the outside.

  And inside, any of the fabric-covered wall panels easily could have opened into another world, and probably did. The ceiling was high, maybe eighteen feet, and the furniture modern, chrome and glass, upholstered in tan leather, almost the same color as the floor. There were a few white area rugs under the seating arrangements, but the general feeling was one of sparseness. I was surprised to see a dining table at the far end of the room. The table was set for two. It seemed they weren’t expecting me to stay to dinner. Well, I would do what I could to change that.

  Although I was posing as the widow of Mr. Naxos’s prep-school roommate, poor, long-dead Prince Freddy of Romania, there was no way George and Alma Naxos were going to invite me to dinner sight unseen. I needed to be vetted. Seriously vetted.

  I heard sharp footsteps coming down the hall and turned to see George Naxos striding toward me. What a wonderful-looking man. Not handsome in any traditional sense, but so confident, it made no difference. Of average-to-short height, short waisted and quite, quite round, his face glowed with good health and his light brown eyes sparkled with vitality behind rimless glasses. He was impeccably dressed in a dark gray suit, white shirt, green-and-blue silk tie and glossy black banker’s shoes—everything clearly made to order. It was like watching a king arrive at a press conference. He had a warm smile on his face and extended his hand as he approached.

  “Princesse,” he said. “George Naxos. What a wonderful treat that you’re able to join us tonight on such short notice.”

  “Please, call me Margaret, Mr. Naxos—I’m a princess only by a long-ago marriage. And the treat is all mine. I’m delighted, and I must say a little surprised to meet you.”

  His smile was warm. “Please call me George. The front desk keeps me informed of all our guests and since my wife doesn’t go out in public, I try to bring the world to her, on a very limited basis, of course. I’m glad you were available for a drink—I imagine you have a busy schedule. Everyone does in Paris.”

  Cookson, the butler, handed me a crystal tumbler of scotch and handed Mr. Naxos the same, and then disappeared behind one of the padded panels.

  “Alma will be here shortly. Would you like a tour of our paintings while we wait?”

  “Between the view and the paintings, I’m not sure which to look at first.”

  He smiled. “It is beautiful. We are extremely blessed.”

  Blessed? Did he say “blessed”? Because of my long career at the auction house, and my brushing up against Flaminia and Bill Balfour’s powerful friends occasionally in Les Baux, I have been in close contact with any number of movie stars, industrialists, royals, dictators, and wealthy individuals. This was the first time in my life I’d ever heard a single one of
them say that he was blessed, or give credit to anyone but himself for his success. I imagine I’ve become jaded, but I have little respect for people of influence or privilege who are simply spoiled and feel they not only deserve what they have but need and deserve more. These were people with the power to damage and crush with a single instruction, and many didn’t hesitate to exercise it if they didn’t get their way. To hear the richest man in the world say he was blessed amazed me.

  “Oh,” he turned to the hallway. “Here she is.”

  I hadn’t heard her coming but turned with him and saw Alma. She was as beautiful as I remembered. And she was in a wheelchair.

  T H I R T E E N

  I knew my expression didn’t betray any of the bewilderment I felt, but was this something everyone on the planet knew but me? That Alma de la Vargas was in a wheelchair? No. This was tangible evidence of the far-reaching power of Naxos—if you were fortunate enough to see into his world, you knew enough to keep your mouth shut. I was sure that although various media outlets were aware of Mrs. Naxos’s condition, none would dare publicize it—they counted on his favor too much for hard news items and advertising revenue.

  I stepped toward her and offered my hand. “Mrs. Naxos, what a pleasure to meet you in person. I’ve always been such an admirer.”

  Her nails were dark red and her hand was snow white. As delicate and fine boned as one would expect a prima ballerina’s hand would be. Except it was tight with arthritis and fragile and soft as a bird. I took it very gently and looked into her eyes. Large, dark blue eyes that had flashed from the greatest stages in the world, electrifying sold-out audiences with the pathos of Juliet, the innocence of Aurora, and the terrifying anger of a wronged, brokenhearted swan. They were clear, unforthcoming, and assessing. Even from her physically vulnerable position, she was still Alma de la Vargas, the epitome of grace and elegance, commander of center stage. She was magnificent.