Chapter 5
Juan les Pins. August 1936
B etween Cannes and Nice, in the southeastern corner of France, lay the popular holiday resort of Juan-les-Pins. Chaplin and Coco Chanel often vacationed there, though I had yet to spot anyone famous. Monet and Picasso had painted the resort, capturing its beauty on canvas. By day, the town embraced a leisurely pace, but by night, it transformed into a vibrant, dazzling haven.
Even Churchill and Hemingway had been spotted drinking gin at the bar of my hotel, Le Provencal—a stunning piece of Art Deco architecture overlooking the Mediterranean. The white sandy beaches stretched for miles, dipping into the crystal turquoise waters. It was a tranquil scene, yet across the border in Spain, civil war raged. Nationalists versus Republicans.
The latest news reports spoke of unrest, with fighting in the streets. A Spanish police officer, José Castillo, was shot in Madrid in July. The next day, Spanish politician José Calvo Sotelo was murdered. Days later, war broke out. Volunteers from across the world, including America and Britain, joined the fight. The rebels had taken control in Morocco, the Canary Islands, and the Balearics. Initially, France supported the Republicans, but now they were considering a non-intervention agreement with Britain, Russia, Germany, and Italy. Hitler, having recently reoccupied the Rhineland in March—violating the Treaty of Versailles—had pledged his support to General Franco. The world seemed reluctant to stand in Hitler’s way, wary of stirring the beast of war that slumbered uneasily at Europe’s heels.
Even on holiday, it was impossible to shut out the world. Locals whispered of young men kissing their mothers’ goodbye before leaving France to join the Spanish Republicans. Newspapers delivered daily updates, and radios blared news bulletins at set times. Conversations hushed as people tuned in, drinks momentarily forgotten, all eyes and ears fixed on the speaker’s voice crackling over the airwaves. The Spanish conflict had gripped us all.
Picon raised his head, his nose twitching as he sniffed the air. I crouched down, running my hand along his wiry back, then unclipped his leash. The salty, fresh breeze from the ocean lifted my hair as Picon trotted by my side across the beach. I watched him gallop to the water’s edge, where the tide rolled in and out, slipping over his white paws. He yapped and dashed back to me, trying to outrun the waves. I giggled, the grainy sand clinging to my toes as I wandered to the water’s edge. A warm wave washed over my feet, and as the mushy sand shifted beneath my weight, I wavered slightly, a ripple of dizziness passing through me.
After our walk, I found a table on the hotel terrace. In the distance, I spotted Marie in her ivory bathing suit, wading into the ocean while Richard waved from waist-high depths, white-capped waves crashing around them. As I waited for my coffee and croissants, I noticed Henri Fiocca seated at a nearby table with a female companion. What a coincidence—or perhaps a sign. He never had called, though I’d been away on assignments many times. Henri was a womaniser, a playboy. Some men simply weren’t the settling-down types.
Tall, with a medium build and sultry hazel eyes, he exuded charm, sophistication, and rarely ventured out without a glamorous woman on his arm. I didn’t know his exact age, but I guessed he was older than me—closer to my elder brother Stanley’s age. As he glanced over and smiled, I returned the gesture, then turned away. Goodness knows how he maintained a steady stream of girlfriends. Of course, I’d had my share of dates, but nothing serious. Yet, as much as I hated to admit it, Henri Fiocca was an enigma—the first man to truly rouse my curiosity.
***
We dined outside on the terrace at eight, the sun slowly sinking from its celestial perch. Marie sat behind a hand-held fan in shades of blue and pink, her face flushed and glistening with a sheen of perspiration. The day had been long and hot, but the evening breeze swept in from the ocean, a refreshing balm. By the time we finished dinner, dusk had settled, and waiters moved from table to table, lighting tealight candles. The sapphire sky glittered with stars, a purple-pink band stretching across the horizon. Two violinists serenaded the diners, their sweet, melodic notes weaving through the night, lulling me into a relaxed, almost sleepy state.
Marie wore an elegant salmon pink silk dress with lemon flowers embroidered on the chest. Her mahogany cigarette holder was poised precisely in her fingers, her bright eyes sharp, always on the lookout. She was focused and determined, ruthlessly uncovering stories without letting emotions get in the way. Sometimes, I wished I could be more like her—able to detach from suffering and injustice. Perhaps I should have considered a career in politics, where at least one could make a difference.
‘You look tired, Nancy,’ Richard said, a broad grin crinkling the corners of his eyes.
‘Tired? She has enough stamina for the three of us,’ Marie laughed. ‘Let’s go to the casino tonight.’
We’d spent the last two nights at the casino, which likely explained my fatigue. Poor Picon was exhausted, and I’d left him to sleep in my room tonight.
‘Let’s dance.’ Richard took my hand and pulled me to my feet.
As he led me in a gentle waltz to the rhythm of the violins, a burst of energy rushed through my veins, and I smiled. We took centre stage, dancing before the ocean under the twilight sky. Couples dined around us, their chatter a soft murmur in the background. When the tune ended, a new one began—the Tango, the dance of love. And I loved it. Richard, slightly taller than me, was the perfect partner. As we moved across the terrace, the hairs on the back of my neck prickled. And then I spotted him—Henri Fiocca, sitting with his blonde companion from earlier, his gaze fixed on us.
I couldn’t explain why, but his presence unsettled me. From that moment on, I became more aware of my appearance, my behaviour—everything seemed to matter more. Over the following week, I spent extra time in front of the mirror, perfecting my hair, touching up my lipstick, and deliberating over what to wear. A fluttering sensation, like a swarm of butterflies, grew in my stomach.
In the days that followed, I swam, enjoyed meals with friends, and spent evenings at the casino, occasionally bumping into Henri. He appeared with a different girl each time, but one evening, as I entered the hotel lounge looking for my friends, I found him alone at the bar, nursing a brandy. He looked vulnerable, brooding. When he saw me, he spun around and flashed that playful grin of his, drawing me in like a magnet. My heart drummed the Marseillaise, beating against my ribs beneath my black silk evening dress.
I smiled as we greeted each other in the French way, the air filled with the scent of exotic spices and cedarwood. ‘Bonjour, Noncee,’ he said, his voice like velvet. He set his glass down and took my hand. ‘It is a pleasure to meet you again.’
‘Bonjour,’ I replied, momentarily dumbstruck as my heart thudded in my chest. ‘It’s lovely to see you too, Henri.’
He held onto my hand as if waiting for something. I swallowed hard. Come on, Nance, get a hold of yourself. ‘So, is it business or pleasure that brings you here?’ he asked.
‘Pleasure. I’m on holiday with a few friends.’
‘Ah, I see. But your friends have left you all alone. No matter. Perhaps I can interest you in a bottle of red wine?’
Before I could respond, he snapped his fingers, catching the barman’s eye, and ordered a bottle that sounded rather expensive. I glanced around, hoping for a glimpse of Marie, but she was nowhere to be found. Henri, with his soft eyes framed by long, thick lashes and wavy ebony hair, was rather good-looking and I found myself drawn to him. We sat together on barstools, his knee brushing my thigh, sending a warm flush through my cheeks.
He leaned in close, the scent of tobacco and cologne playing with my senses. ‘So, Nancy, what is it you do?’ he asked, his breath warm against my neck.
‘I’m a journalist for the Hearst Group, based in Paris.’
‘Ah, the city of love,’ he mused, dragging a silver cigarette case from his jacket pocket and holding it open for me.
I plucked a cigarette and leaned in for a light, meeting his gaze. After a slow drag, I exhaled deliberately. ‘And you, Henri? What is it you do?’
‘I run the family business in Marseille. Shipping.’
Impressive, but curiosity niggled me. ‘How do you do it?’ I asked, watching him closely.
He paused, a puzzled look crossing his face. ‘Do what?’
‘Every time I see you, you’re with a different girl.’ I smirked. ‘How do you go out with so many beautiful women?’
His eyes caught the light, twinkling like copper pennies, boring into me with an intensity that made me sit up straighter. The waiter brought the wine and glasses, and Henri poured us each a glass. ‘Santé,’ he said, raising his glass with a wide smile. ‘In answer to your question, I do nothing. They all call me.’
‘Santé,’ I replied, sipping the wine as I considered his response. Henri Fiocca was quite the eligible bachelor, it seemed. ‘They call you?’
‘Oui. Everyone calls me, except for the one woman I wish would call.’
His gaze held mine, eyebrows raised in a way that made my face glow with heat. The air felt stifling, despite the occasional sea breeze that swept over me. I took a drag of my cigarette, exhaling smoke rings as I stared into his eyes. ‘As I said before, I never call men. They call me.’
Henri grinned. ‘Shall we dance?’ He stood and offered his hand. How could I refuse? The pianist played a slow, melancholic tune as I took his hand. I felt at ease with this Frenchman beside me—comfortable, as if I’d known him forever. And then he drew me close, his arm around my waist, the scent of cedar and pine filling my senses. His skin, bronzed and smooth, hinted at Greek ancestry, I mused, letting my imagination drift with every step we took.
And then the music changed. ‘Ah, a Tango. Now it is my turn to share the dance of love with you, Nancy.’
I nearly laughed, but his eyes flared with such intensity as he held me even firmer that I bit my lip, not wishing to ruin the mood. The Tango was my favourite dance, and as we glided together, the weight of my cares and demons stirred, only to be soothed by the rhythm of the music and the honey-sweet Mediterranean air. In Henri’s strong embrace, I felt safe, cocooned from the world, as if nothing could reach me at that moment.
Our combined passion simmered to boiling point as we commanded the dance floor, delighting in every step, our hands damp, his body a furnace, burning against mine. I extended my leg out in front of me, to Henri’s delight. The Tango was dramatic, emotive, and a chance to show off, and as the other couples gave us a wide berth, I realised we had become the centre of attention.
In Henri’s arms, I found a haven—a sense of belonging I had never known. But as much as my heart whispered otherwise, I reminded myself of the tumultuous past. His world was a playground, and I wasn’t an object to be owned or discarded. Reluctantly, I pulled back my feelings.
During the last few days of my holiday, Henri called me each morning to wish me a good day, and we met for dinner every night. I couldn’t help but wonder what he saw in me. After all, this bon viveur dined with a different woman each night. Why did he desire my company? But I didn’t complain. He was charming, interesting, and funny. Yet, despite enjoying his company, I had no wish to fall.
On my last night, we said our goodbyes, and he promised to call soon, mentioning something about visiting Paris for business. I took it with a pinch of salt. For now, it was back to the real world—news assignments and Parisian life—bliss.