“Never mind,” I said, picking up the phone to ask Honorine to book our tickets. “I’ll explain it all to you on the way there.”
“While we’re in France, I’d like to go down to Antibes and meet with Claude,” Jeremy said. “He’s been wanting to talk to me about getting the yacht ready for the summer.”
“We may as well alert Celeste to open up the villa for us, then,” I suggested. I picked up the phone and relayed all this to Honorine, and when I hung up, I felt a surge of anticipation. The high season on the Riviera would be kicking off soon, and there was always a bustling excitement in the air.
“Off we go, then,” said Jeremy, looking pleased himself.
Part Four
Chapter Fifteen
Every time I set foot in Paris, I feel as if I’m receiving a fresh infusion of optimism. It’s not simply that it gives me hope for the future; or that it offers a real home to anyone who loves beauty; or that it welcomes lovers; or even that it lives in your heart long after you leave it. Paris is all these things, yet what is most remarkable to me is simply this: Paris is the triumph of making every day a heightened experience of being alive.
I felt this again when I awoke in a pretty blue-and-white hotel suite, and drifted sleepily into a cozy sitting room containing a low marble-topped table, an eggshell-colored sofa, and a wonderful big window with a splendid view. It had been Jeremy’s idea to pick this romantic, old-fashioned hotel on the Right Bank, because, as he said, “What the hell, we’re getting married. Let’s celebrate.”
When we parted the curtains to watch Paris awaken, I could almost hear an orchestra of musicians tuning up beneath the hum of shopkeepers briskly sweeping their sidewalks, and office workers rushing out of the Métro, and café owners brewing their coffee, and everyone greeting one another with the first, invigorating Bonjour! of the day. From this height, we admired the graceful order of wide boulevards that emanate like spokes of a great wheel, and we could appreciate the wisdom of the city’s creators, who’d made strict rules about each building’s height and position, so that nothing would disrupt the balance, harmony and light that now gave the morning a particular Parisian bluish-grey-white color.
And clearly, Paris is a city that loves its river, for the Seine was bedecked with a necklace of its best treasures: glorious museums, gardens, cathedrals, palaces and parks; and, most of all, a series of incomparable bridges—some made of stone, some of cast iron, another of wood—linking the left and right riverbanks again and again and again.
The room-service waiter obligingly arranged our breakfast plates on the table by the window so Jeremy and I could continue to observe the panorama below, as we ate French epice rolls, which came baked all attached together, like a tree’s branches growing out of one long, main “stem” of bread. We ate these with perfect cups of café au lait. Our plan this morning was to go our separate ways, then meet up again in the afternoon to call on Venetia together. Jeremy would have his pow-wow with Parker Drake’s man, and I was determined to make progress with our wedding plans. Paris, I felt, would make my agenda more of a pleasure, and less of a chore.
We rode down in a gold elevator that barely made a sound. The doorman sprang into action as we left the hotel and stepped out onto the street. “Want a taxi?” Jeremy asked.
“You take it,” I said. “I’m not going far from here.” He kissed me so tenderly that the doorman, and the taxi driver, and the lady who got out of the taxi, all smiled. I walked on, feeling purposeful and inspired.
The first item on my list was the invitations. Honorine had given me the name of a venerable stationery shop, not far from the Jardin des Tuileries. Here, she told me, was where I could get fine paper for the wedding invitations that would be hand-engraved in the same timeless method they used centuries ago; and she advised me to order matching thank-you notes and old-fashioned calling cards as well.
I loved the idea of future occasions when I’d arrive at someone’s door and give the butler my card by way of introduction; or, I’d leave a card behind after calling on a friend who was out. Just exactly when or with whom I would ever do this was beside the point. I knew that if I had the cards, I’d do it someday. It would be a lot more fun than just leaving a voice message or an e-mail.
After the noise and bustle of the street, the inside of the shop was cool and invitingly quiet. So quiet, in fact, that I could hear a snore coming from the sleeping cat who lay in a curl beside the counter. The proprietor was expecting me, and he and two family members stood ready. They made an attractive trio—a very tall man in a black cashmere sweater, a petite woman with spectacles, and a young girl wearing a black velvet headband. I guess they were all curious to see who turned up after Honorine’s crisp instructions ahead of my arrival.
The woman picked up a leather-trimmed desk blotter that looked as if it had been made for Madame du Barry (it probably was), and she placed it on a glass-topped counter. Upon this blotter, she laid out, one by one, several sheets of fine paper in pale Easter colors of bluish white, pinkish white, and one the color of melted vanilla ice cream.
“For your consideration, mademoiselle,” said the man. Since Honorine and I had already decided on a burgundy monogram, I now chose the cream-colored stationery, which I felt would be perfect. All went smoothly . . . until it came down to the number of guests, and the date, time and location of the wedding. Er, I’d have to get back to them on that. Nevertheless, one item on the checklist was done. The invitations were going to be just lovely.
Having accomplished my first mission, my spirits rose. Perhaps this wedding jazz wasn’t so insurmountable, after all. Now, on to the dress. Thanks to Aunt Sheila, I had an “in” at a terrific fashion house, and this process had already been put into motion, months ago. In fact, Monsieur Lombard previously helped me out of a very nerve-wracking social occasion last year, and I trusted his excellent judgment. But I’d been only to his London outpost, and had never seen his Parisian atelier.
It was located at that great big “X” where the Avenue Montaigne meets the Rue François I. The front windows displayed his latest summer creations on mannequins posed on a fake beach, with sand and scattered seashells at their feet, and whimsical pails and shovels. I tried not to be distracted by the pretty sundresses, the nostalgia-inspired ruched bathing suits, and the white trouser ensembles with big straw hats and headscarves that looked like something out of an F. Scott Fitzgerald novel.
I pushed through the revolving door, and walked across the elegant showroom, straight to the reception desk at the back of the shop. As soon as I gave my name to the lady at the big desk, she immediately picked up her telephone.
“Mademoiselle Penn-ee Neekolls,” she proclaimed into the phone, and my name echoed in the room as if she’d just announced the arrival of the president’s wife. From his office in the back, Monsieur Lombard came forth. He still had the look of a French intellectual, with those black-rimmed eyeglasses and the preoccupied air of a man with many complex thoughts on his mind. But as soon as he saw me, he let out a cry of joy, as if I were a long- lost friend, and he kissed me on both cheeks.
“Ça va? Eh bien? You are always adorable, but now you look radiant. Come, I think you will like what we’ve done,” he said in one of his usual modest understatements.
I felt suddenly shy, as I always do whenever people are kind to me. He gave my hand a light, reassuring squeeze, then released it and turned to his staff. He clapped his hands, and his lady attendants swung into action. A cavernous dressing room was immediately placed at my disposal, with enough mirrors to evoke Versailles and to please even the most demanding narcissist. There were several upholstered antique Louis XV fauteuil chairs in red, white and gold. In the corner was a table with a bottle of champagne in an ice bucket, already chilled; and an espresso machine was hissing at the ready, alongside a tray of little sandwiches and pastries waiting for a nervous bride to nibble on.
And there, across the room, hanging on a satin-padded hanger with a gauze dus
t covering, the sole item on a long antique brass rack . . . was my wedding dress, ghostly white, waiting like a phantom in the corner.
As I approached the dress, the very sight of it made my heart flutter, like a bird who cautiously hops nearer, branch by branch. But these attendants knew their way around jittery brides, and nobody rushed me. Monsieur Lombard had already discreetly left the room, and one attendant brought in accessories and placed them on a low tufted ottoman covered in pale pink satin, while other women appeared with more padded hangers that they added to the rack.
Gently, they helped me out of my street clothes and into the soft, silky stockings and lingerie, which they’d selected for this dress, all in white silk with gold trim. The shoes had a deliberately old-fashioned shape to them, with ever- so-slightly rounded toes, and pretty golden heels.
Now, at last, it was time for the dress. Three attendants lifted the covering reverently. The under-layer was actually one of Great-Aunt Penelope’s magnificent 1930s gowns, cut on the bias to sensually caress the hips. Monsieur Lombard had made a new over- layer for this, of fine silk chiffon, decorated with gold and silver thread, and pink and pale blue beading, that his incomparable sewing ladies had stitched on by hand. The effect was of a unified shimmering creation which, depending on how I turned and caught the light, looked now silvery bluish, now golden pinkish, making the dress appear as if it had trapped a whole bunch of sunbeams and moonbeams in its folds.
I was looking down as I stepped into the shoes, while casting a wary eye at the ladies with the pins in their mouths while they made the final fitting. But now, as I lifted my head, I caught sight of my own image in the mirror, which was replicated in all the other mirrors. The room and its surroundings, and the ladies attending me, also appeared in the reflection, and I experienced an eerie feeling, as if I were getting a glimpse of some secret parallel world that my soul inhabited, along with these otherworldly creatures fluttering about, as they do in those magical, dreamy ballets, when seemingly ordinary women turn out to be enchanted swans.
The attendants made me turn this way and that, so they could assess, and show me, the full effect. I obeyed them, speechless, still keeping an eye on that floating, fleeting creature in the mirror, who might just tiptoe on air and ascend all the way up to the clouds and vanish. Monsieur Lombard had quietly re- entered the room and surveyed the dress, without making a single sound, until now.
“And so,” he said softly, “the veil.”
The chattering ladies fell silent as he reverently carried the veil himself and placed it on my head. It had a lovely round cap of crocheted silk, adorned with little pearls and tiny pale pink delicate flowers. The cap fit nicely on the crown of my head. From this sprung the long veil of billowing tulle, floating out behind me, light as a whisper of smoke.
Monsieur Lombard motioned to one of the gals to give me a drawstring bag made of crocheted silk, with the same beading as the dress. Then I slipped on a pair of Great-Aunt Penelope’s white elbow-length gloves that I’d selected from her treasured collection. Monsieur Lombard fussed, gently, with a few seams here, a few beads to lay flat there, brushing away invisible stray threads; until finally he stepped back and appraised the dress carefully from afar. The other ladies held their breath.
“Ah, bon,” he said finally in approval. Then he looked directly into my eyes, and whatever he read there made him smile gently. “Très belle, mademoiselle,” he said.
I heard gasps of relief and pleasure from the attendants. I looked gratefully from them to Monsieur Lombard, then to the creature in the mirror again. I had begun to tremble, and now I let out a little tremulous sigh. “Ohhhh!”
That was the first time that I really, truly felt like a bride.
Monsieur Lombard said, “You will be a beautiful long-stemmed white rose. Enjoy it, mademoiselle. Bask in the sunlight of your dreams.”
After that, I existed, for a few hours, in a pleasant blur. I vaguely remember stepping carefully out of the dress, into my street clothes again, and being served those nice pretty sandwiches that I now devoured with a sudden robust appetite. I was given a pretty flute of champagne from a bottle that Monsieur Lombard popped open. He drank a glass with me; then he let his main lady take over, with her notes about the final delivery of the dress and accessories. Honorine would handle it from here.
“And you will let us know, as soon as possible, whether the wedding will be in England or France?” the woman inquired without any trace of impatience, but some concern, as the French always do when they want something to be done correctly, with dignity, and not in some dumb half-assed flurry, which they find utterly appalling. “Because we can easily get it to you through our shop in London, if need be,” she was saying. “Only let us know, and we will do whatever you require.”
“I will,” I promised.
“And the suits for your fiancé to choose from, they are ready for him at the shop in London, but he must try them on soon and decide,” she warned; then said lightly, “Well, you will let me know.”
“Okay,” I answered, still half in a dream.
And so, I went back out onto the streets of Paris, walking on clouds, oblivious to the noise and soot and traffic. Back at the hotel, I freshened up, then waited for Jeremy in the guests’ lounge, the kind of parlor that has newspapers from all over the world on long wooden poles hanging like flags. A tall, magnificent grandfather clocked ticked companionably in one corner.
Jeremy’s arrival caused a number of heads to turn, because he was carrying himself with even more than his usual confidence; and when he spotted me, his face lit up with such pleasure that people curiously glanced at me, to see who he was meeting. Whew, I thought, feeling tremulous again. Why didn’t someone ever tell me that love could feel this good? But at the same time, I felt as if I might faint, too. Imagine that. In this day and age, a woman swooning at the approach of her guy. It was so crazy, to have my emotions tumbling all around me, threatening to be explosive, like some chemistry experiment, which might prove to be too much, and blow me right out of the lab.
“Hi,” Jeremy said as he sat beside me. “Drake’s man insisted I eat some lunch with him. Have you eaten?”
“Monsieur Lombard gave me lots of nice lady-food,” I said, adding softly, “the dress is beautiful.” Jeremy saw the emotion on my face, and he kissed me.
I asked how his meeting went with Parker Drake’s man. “Extremely well,” he said. “The guy asked the usual questions, you know, like what other projects we’re working on, and about our partnership, and all that other stuff they ask when they’re trying to see if I’m a family man, reliable, et cetera.” Jeremy smiled, adding, “So, I explained that we’ve got an upcoming wedding, and we’re visiting some of your relatives in France. In the end, he told me we’re on the right track, and he will recommend the firm of Nichols & Laidley to Parker Drake.”
“Great!” I said, feeling that this, too, was simply a part of the enchantment of being in Paris. “What happens next?”
“If all goes well, we’ll be invited to meet Drake himself,” Jeremy said. “They’ll let us know when.” He checked his watch, then said, “Time to head on out to your ballerina’s place. We should get there spot-on, if we leave right now.”
This woke me up a little. “Holy smokes,” I said. “I almost forgot about Venetia. Do we have time to get her some nice flowers? Good. I think she’ll like it.”
Chapter Sixteen
Venetia was ensconced in a grand turn-of-the-twentieth-century apartment house on the Left Bank, not far from the Boulevard Saint-Germain, the Sorbonne and the Luxembourg Gardens. Her building, decorated with globe lamps and flanked by two catalpa trees, was set back from the street with a pretty gated courtyard in front, made of white and grey flat paving stones. Inside, the building had an old wood-and-glass elevator with a little wooden bench inside, so that an elderly ballerina like her could ride up and down in style and comfort.
When we rang her bell, a plump maid let us inside an apartme
nt with a long, dark corridor. We passed a flock of thin, long-legged, long-necked girls in their late teens who were just leaving, and thus going in the opposite direction; they were strange big-eyed beauties who scampered past us, walking in that telltale way, with their hips and feet turned out.
“Ballet students,” I explained to Jeremy. “Honorine told me they still pay homage to Venetia, in the hopes of learning her secrets about how to dance a particular role. Honorine says they’re all very gossipy, and Venetia loves having their company to dish about the new dancers.”
Venetia was awaiting us in a large, high-ceilinged room that overlooked a quiet side street. There was one big window, through which, presently, we could see the dancers walking and chattering to one another in the street below, as they headed toward a nearby ballet school. Shafts of light from this window fell upon the butterscotch-colored parquet floors. The room at first appeared to be nearly empty, with just a mirrored wall to the right, and a freestanding ballet practice barre.
Then I noticed that the rest of the room’s furnishings were all assembled in a sitting area against the left wall: a few chairs with crimson padded seats and backs; a low round table, piled high with dance magazines and large dance books; a tall, fringed lamp and a telephone on a chest of drawers; and an open trunk of costumes. Two floor-to-ceiling bookshelves contained several framed publicity stills of Venetia as a young ballerina, and rows of satin toe shoes on display, in every shade imaginable. Between the shelves was a fancy daybed, whose back and arms had a dramatic swooping shape.
And there sat Venetia, enthroned upon this sofa like an Egyptian queen, with a small bulldog at her feet on a pillow of his own. He opened one eye to size us up.
“Madame?” I said to Venetia. “So pleased to meet you. I’m Penny, and this is Jeremy.”
“Bonjour!” she purred, in the low, husky voice of a woman who has smoked cigarettes all her life. She had dark, full eyebrows above slanted violet eyes, and a foxy, pointed chin that bore a resemblance to Honorine’s. Her expressive mouth moved into a wry smile, and her eyes were shrewd and observant. When Jeremy handed her the flowers, which were beautiful and fragrant, Venetia accepted them with a coquettish smile, as if he were an admirer who’d come backstage after a performance. She buried her nose in the bouquet, saying, “Mmmm,” before letting her maid put it into a blue vase.
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