The Face of Eve

by The Face of Eve (retail) (epub)

  ‘No, darling, I am an English crumpet. Don’t you dare, Tietze, I said crumpet.’

  Tietze asked if Eve spoke any Spanish at all. Alex replied for her. ‘We aren’t good at languages. We wait for you to learn ours. If you don’t, hard luck, you’ll never know what we are talking about. From now on, I shall talk to Miss Anders in our own tongue.’ She captured a passing tray. ‘Have another glass of wine, darling. It’s the best. I’ll bet you thought the Spanish can’t make wine. They can, they do, but it doesn’t travel. Spanish wine should be drunk only in this country. As you can see, Eve, these lads have been confirming this for an hour.’ She raised her glass, ‘To Señorita Anders, who must be welcomed into our circle because she knows a good statue when she sees one.’

  Eve couldn’t tell whether Alex was really tipsy, or was playing up to it. Then from behind Eve’s back came a man’s voice that stopped them all in their tracks. In Spanish, with an accent she did not recognise, he said, ‘Stop it, Ladybird!’ A sinewy, suntanned hand in a ribbed white cuff within a sleeve of fine black cloth reached across and removed Alex’s glass from her hand. ‘Excuse me.’

  Eve was so unnerved, not only by the autocratic demand, but by the look on Alex’s face, that she did not turn round, but side-stepped back into the company of von Pfitzer, who smiled warmly.

  ‘Ah, that man, he is outrageous,’ he said.

  Somebody said something in Spanish about gypsies. A split second of icy silence was almost at once covered by the urbane Hernandez, chiding a little perhaps, who said in English, ‘Señorita Povey’s companion is a noted Argentinian horse-breeder. Spain welcomes him for that.’

  As Eve allowed von Pfitzer to offer her a cigarette, she could still overhear Alex’s whispered tirade: ‘You’ve got a bloody cheek. I drink what I bloody well like, and as much as I bloody well like.’

  ‘You know that you’re going to be sorry. But you’ll do as you please, like always.’

  Eve didn’t dare turn round for fear that Alex’s horse-breeder might actually turn out to be Duke Barney, so entirely did this sound like him. If not very likely, it wasn’t beyond the bounds of possibility. Life was always a series of coincidences.

  The cocktail hour was over, so Eve dismissed Nati, who was waiting discreetly to chaperone her across the road, and allowed von Pfitzer to escort her back to the Ritz, where she left him as politely and quickly as she could.

  Duke Barney again. The idea that he had leaped so clearly into her mind shook her because she believed that her complex feelings for him had, in Janet’s terminology, been ‘dealt with’.

  If she could just have a few minutes with Janet McKenzie…

  But that wasn’t possible. Janet had helped in teaching Eve how to be calm in a crisis, but if all their work at The House by the Sea had not suppressed Duke Barney, better accept that he had greatly influenced her and that her first lover was still laying in wait round every corner.

  Well, that was all right. She decided that the best treatment now was to enjoy a spectacular dinner with a great wine, and take her unquenched passion for Duke Barney to bed with her.

  The maitre d’hotel was at his best when a guest asked him to suggest every course.

  Quite late, as she was drifting off into sleep, the answer suddenly came to her. Duke! The Duke of Windsor. It was this one who must be playing with her subconscious.

  It was a pleasant feeling to know that she had resolved something ‘deep’ on her own. She would let Janet McKenzie know when she got home.

  * * *

  Over the next days, Eve began to exchange her photographic project for the social life of Madrid, which was often centred around the Royale. This suited her purposes perfectly, as the people she was keeping watch on were very much part of that glittering socialising – the same people meeting one another at various venues. The baron took it upon himself to escort her if she needed an arm. Formal dinners, rather bohemian parties, which the Germans loved, even opera – Señorita Anders was included in everything that went on in Madrid.

  Then, one day in July, her ‘aunt’ in Ireland telephoned her.

  ‘Eve, darling, I’ve heard that the Castles are thinking of holidaying in Spain. I’m sure that you remember them.’ ‘The Castles’ – Edward and Wallis Windsor.

  ‘Of course I do, Aunt. Do you know where they are thinking of staying?’

  ‘No, darling, but it was dear Bazil who told me, and you know Bazil – he’s the first with all the gossip.’

  So, now that the German army was closing in on the Cote d’Azur, the troublesome ex-king had chosen Spain.

  Nati came up from the maids’ quarters full of the gossip. The King of England was taking over several rooms at the Ritz, and storage space was being made ready for his belongings.

  ‘He is coming here?’

  ‘Yes, Señorita Anders, it is true. I have seen the porters making some secure space with locks. You think he has jewels to bring?’

  ‘Probably.’

  ‘They say that he is king, but his wife is not queen – is that correct, señorita?’

  ‘He used to be king, but he is not now. He left England and went to live in France. His wife is not queen because she is American, and she has been married before. Kings can’t marry divorced women.’

  ‘But England is not a Roman Catholic country.’

  ‘It’s not, but the English bishops don’t like divorced women any more than the Pope.’

  ‘Thank you for explaining. You like more bath towels before the King takes all of those?’

  Eve laughed aloud. What a good idea, to have a stock of towels against the invasion of the Windsors. ‘I think I would like that, Nati.’

  ‘Madame? You speak ingles, but you are Irish. Is that correct?’ Eve nodded. ‘Then what is your king’s name?’

  ‘There is no king of Ireland… not now.’

  Nati continued almost obsessively with the neatness of the pile of towels. ‘Then, señorita, is it that your country is a state… or maybe republic?’

  Eve hesitated, momentarily curious as to Nati’s response. ‘Yes, it is a republic.’

  ‘Spain was a republic for too little time. Then there was war.’

  Eve’s natural instinct was to respond to the young woman, to say something to show friendship. But who knew who or what this woman might be? There may be points to be won for snippets of information about guests. ‘Oh yes, I know that, Nati, but that’s all over now. Now do get on with those towels, and go and see if you can get in a stock before the honoured guests arrive.’

  * * *

  The Duke and Duchess of Windsor arrived in a huge motor – a Buick, same year as Eve’s, but black bodywork and no retractable hood. The thin, peaked-face couple looked to Eve as small children do when playing at being big grown-ups in their daddy’s motorcar. However, the proportions of motor to luggage went the other way, the vehicle being weighed down with leather valises, hatboxes and other cartons. In addition, there was a van, which appeared laden too.

  It didn’t seem that they were willing for any of it to be taken through the trade entrance.

  The Duke’s voice could be heard at a distance, high and petulant, whilst the Duchess’s was unexpectedly soft for an American socialite. As it rose to where Eve was seated on her balcony, she stood to lean against the balustrade, indulging her curiosity about the new arrivals.

  Across the way, she saw others do the same. Some of the Germans, now drinking long drinks and smoking cigarettes on a ground-floor veranda, she had got to know. Baron von Pfitzer appeared and waved to her; she waved back and picked up her camera. Planning to take the initiative and not wait to be invited, she went over to the Hotel Royale, passing the Duke and Duchess, standing by their car, discussing or arguing about which boxes should go where. The Duchess kept saying, ‘We mustn’t lose sight of them, David.’ To which he replied in variations of, ‘Of course not.’ Neither of them took the slightest notice of Eve.

  All the Germans stood formally as she walke
d into their territory. ‘Baron, I know it’s a bit of a cheek, but you have a much better view from here, so would you mind if…’ She indicated her camera. The men shuffled chairs so as to give her the best position. At once she took several shots of the Windsors.

  ‘May I?’ Von Mentz held the camera tenderly. ‘The very best.’

  ‘Is it really? I hope so.’

  ‘German, of course. Precision made.’

  ‘Oh, then it must be the best. I asked a friend to choose. He said there was none better. Would you mind… ?’ She pointed the lens at the group of high-ranking Germans she had seen arrive in uniform. They affably closed ranks by moving their chairs closer and posed cheerfully.

  Then von Pfitzer asked her to take his seat so that he could photograph her with his friends. This was tricky, making her feel nervous, but being a flirty girl she wouldn’t say no. She hoped that none of them noticed that when the flash bulb went off she moved her head so that the picture would be blurred. You never knew who might one day see it.

  * * *

  Eve’s first time in the company of the famous couple was not in the Ritz, but at a formal dinner given in their honour. It was almost a matter of course that she was invited and was partnered by the baron. It was the most glittering occasion Eve had ever known in the short time she had been a visiting socialite in Madrid.

  The jewellery she had brought with her was paste which, as Peter Follis had said, was acceptable for a woman travelling abroad; no wealthy woman would trust her real diamonds to a foreign bank, even less to a foreign hotel. The long-skirted gowns were adaptable, jackets and blousons could be swapped around, fashionable long scarves transformed. The colours were neutral: cream, ivory; the styles simple, which suited her spare figure and her near-white hair, which she usually controlled in a French pleat. She could never be accused of attempting to outshine the complicated fashion that cost the earth, but she could be charged with elegance.

  The occasion was very formal, and seemed to Eve as stodgy as usually only the British and French could do, the latter with a touch more style. But now that Spain was being reformed as a dictatorship, the Spanish too were in the running for obsessive protocol. And like that of the Germans, because there was no democracy to temper them, the unwritten rules of the new regime were sinister.

  A hush fell over the guests when Edward and Wallis entered the room, and all Eve’s old feelings about the monarchy began to surface. If she had been twelve again, she would have gone and banged on her headmistress’s door and told her it wasn’t fair. But, oh, how well she had learned in those years. Now she could direct her protestations into a productive conduit. But it still wasn’t fair that such a self-indulgent man should be able to hold more power than the people. Parliament could not declare war, but must tell the monarch that it needed permission to do so; only the monarch had the power to decide whether or not the country should be defended – and against whom.

  Had he been crowned king, who could guess what kind of pact he might have wanted made with Hitler? Even the present king was cousin-close to Germans.

  The baron, on whose arm Eve’s hand rested, patted it and said, ‘You are very silent, Miss Anders. You are nervous?’

  ‘I am. I haven’t ever been to such an important occasion.’

  ‘And to meet the man who was once your king.’

  ‘No, Baron, not my king.’

  ‘Of course… but I am afraid that I have never been able to know one of those provinces from the other – what is British, what is Irish.’

  ‘I should need paper and pen to explain. Anyhow, he’s not anybody’s king now.’

  ‘I should like to know what he is doing here.’

  I’ll bet you would! she thought. Did he think he might prompt some speculation from her? She feigned ennui. ‘Because this is a neutral country?’

  ‘Then why not Switzerland?’

  Now that Eve was in Spain for a real purpose, she was even more alert to every possibility, even that the playboy baron might be – what? An informer? A collaborator?

  ‘Don’t ask me, Baron. I’m not the type that takes much interest in that kind of thing. I leave that to you men.’

  ‘You are a very beautiful and charming lady, Miss Anders – it is enough.’

  ‘How sweet of you.’ She gave him a lovely smile.

  So, here at last was the purpose of the previous weeks of waiting with nothing to report but high-ranking Germans and Italians racketing and – she supposed – plotting.

  And here was the man whose love life had caused her country so much trouble and expense. Seeing him in the flesh, it was hard to believe that he had had the guts to stand up to so many powerful people, not least of whom were his imperious and cold mother and aloof father.

  To put it kindly, he was not a substantial man, nor a man who looked at ease. His features were boyish – no wonder he liked to dress in impressive military uniforms.

  The Duchess was very thin, perfect for the bias-cut, long-sleeved gown of sapphire blue. Artful gathers from neck to below the bosom gave Wallis a femininity that surprised Eve. As Wallis Simpson, the seducer, divorcee, snatcher of kings, she had been given hell by the newspapers. But Eve didn’t see this now; the Duchess had a warmth in her eyes that revealed a very different woman from the harlot. Maybe Eve warmed to her because they had both chosen to wear the most simple of dinner gowns, and wore their hair stretched back so as to reveal the bones of the face. Hers were strong. As she passed by, the Duchess turned and nodded formally. This woman was no fool – Eve guessed that she had taken in every detail of the cream gown and white hair – and the paste earrings.

  Seeing the couple here being feted with such energy, the thought suddenly occurred to Eve that instead of castigating Wallis Simpson for her part in destroying her husband as king, the British people should acknowledge her as the woman who saved them from a fascist monarch.

  Seeing the wooing of this couple in real life, she understood why the Germans would move heaven and earth to persuade him to be their trophy. Now she understood how important her role was.

  That evening was the first of many when she was in close contact with the celebrated couple. They adored parties. And so did Señorita Anders, who was never short of an invitation or an escort.

  It was soon accepted that the reason she hardly touched alcohol – except a little champagne – was that it ruined a woman’s complexion. Certainly nobody minded; she was no less fun without it. She allowed people to teach her a little Spanish, which she picked up amazingly well. All in all, Eve had become part of the social set.

  Being entertained was all that she now knew.

  Her refuge was the suite at the Ritz, and her growing like of Nati.

  Nati was a wonderful source of information. Gossip it may have been, but Eve, who as a girl had worked with dozens of other girls, knew that a snowball of gossip was always centred around a stone of fact.

  ‘Madame, you know what it is said about these people you know… this royal people?’ Nati said one afternoon while Eve took her siesta and Nati manicured her nails.

  ‘Oh, Nati, do tell. Is it scandalous?’

  ‘Not in such a way as naughty bad, but not so easy to believe. These guests are making a fuss about – you will not guess.’

  ‘Not in a million years.’

  ‘Is about sheets, bed things.’

  ‘Bed things? The linen here is excellent – always fresh and clean. What can they have to complain about?’

  ‘No, Señorita Anders, not the hotel linen. You know that the auto they arrive in is really so big, but even so, it could not take any more things… they have their clothes and all that stuff… so they must leave behind them damask sheets and covers. The Duchess is very, very cross; she is shouting and telephoning and calling people names. The King too, he has made some English important people come to their suite and tells them that they must rescue the linen.’

  Eve was fascinated; servants seldom got it wrong. She had known old ladies who
had been in service. ‘If you’re there in the room adding coals to the fire, or handing round tea, they don’t even notice you.’

  ‘Juicy gossip, Nati, keep me up to date. The story of the missing sheets is fascinating.’

  ‘Señorita Anders, I hope you will not be offended if I say this. As with the King and his wife, I too was forced to run – when the war was here. I ran with my children to my mother and father who live here. I could bring nothing; but, you know, it is good enough that we are not killed by bombs. We are alive. Sheets! Hey, what for do they want sheets? They can buy more.’ Eve Anders could have agreed. Not so Señorita Anders. This rich lady would have more in common with Edward and Wallis than with Nati. Nati had aroused her curiosity and she wanted to know what had happened here after she and Dimitri had escaped, but she had to show only casual interest. ‘Where is your husband, Nati?’ She concentrated on Nati’s buffing of her nails.

  ‘I don’t know. It is possible that he is in a prison camp.’

  ‘What did he do?’

  ‘Julio was a soldier.’

  ‘But the war finished ages ago, didn’t it?’

  ‘Not so long, señorita.’

  ‘But surely, if he is in prison, he will eventually be freed, when he has served his sentence? What has he done that is so bad?’

  ‘There is no sentence, Señorita Anders. He was a soldier, a leader. He is a danger to our new government.’

  ‘Nati, nobody is imprisoned for ever. Come on, look on the bright side, he might walk in at any time.’ It was hateful to Eve to talk in such a shallow way, when she knew that a leader who was a danger to the Franco government had a slim chance of walking anywhere.

  ‘I am sorry, madame, I should not talk about any of this.’

  ‘Nonsense, Nati. I really do want to hear about you. Please tell me. Who knows, maybe I can ask somebody about him?’

  Nati suddenly went pale and wide-eyed. ‘No, Señorita Anders, no. Please do not. Please, I have already said more than is sensible.’