CHAPTER 8
PALAIS GARNIER, PARIS
Frustrated with the thwarted ransom drop for Maisy Bell, Charlie had decided to spend the weekend retracing the young Texan’s steps in Paris.
So far, Charlie had been to Galeries Lafayette, Chanel and Schiaparelli and wandered the Louvre and Tuileries Garden, trying to see Paris afresh.
Through Maisy’s eyes. She wanted to honour the missing woman and get in her head.
Try to walk in the shoes of a pretty American heiress.
Tonight, Charlie was going to the opera performance Maisy had booked to attend.
She hoped Maisy would surprise everyone and appear in a designer dress at the opera, but after the failed ransom drop her hope was thin.
‘Bonsoir. Bienvenue à L’Opéra.’ A waiter in white tails met Charlie at the top of the stairs, checked the invitation in her hand and presented her with a flute of champagne as he waved her into the reception hall for the opening night of Ariane et Barbe-bleue.
Charlie sighed with pleasure as she followed the burgundy carpet and stepped into a foyer with soaring ceilings, golden pillars and archways and hundreds of crystal chandeliers that sprinkled warm, glittery light around the room.
Huge stands of cream roses in crystal vases were stationed by every pillar and garlands of jasmine were hung over the archways, casting their sweet scent into the evening air.
Stands of candelabras flickered against the gilt walls.
It felt like she was walking into a cross between a jewellery box and A Midsummer Night’s Dream. A four-piece orchestra played in the far corner, their notes almost drowned out by the excited chatter of hundreds of guests in black tie.
Charlie spotted the Duke and Duchess of Windsor holding court near the orchestra, him in a tuxedo, her in a black silk dress that hugged her body and pooled at her feet, topped with an elegant gold cape Charlie was sure she’d seen in a sketch on Violet’s desk.
Beside the Duchess stood Lady Ashworth in a long, beaded, lilac gown that looked demure but gave a hint of something fun.
Violet had told her that Lady Ashworth had instructed Aleksandr that all her bespoke dresses needed to give her the freedom to cartwheel in them should she choose, and he always included some tucks and drapery to cater to her needs.
Charlie observed the disgraced royals and le tout-Paris in animated conversation, as the guests around them, dressed in crepes and silk and dripping with diamonds and pearls, tried to step closer and enter their tight circle, all the while feigning nonchalance and engaging in their own conversations almost at fever pitch.
Forget the libretto in the first act, this foyer was full of heady trills.
Charlie spotted Violet’s partner, Aleksandr, standing tall beside a pillar, surveying the crowd in his own quiet way.
Beside him stood Violet herself, who looked like she’d been poured into a slip of silk that was somewhere between pale pink and white, her decolletage on display and an eclectic band of Venetian and jade bead necklaces tumbling around her neck.
‘Well, I know where you got the heavenly dress,’ said Charlie as she greeted Violet then Aleksandr with kisses on both cheeks, ‘but I’d never have thought to pair it with those beads …
I can’t work out if you are a movie star, Cleopatra or a gypsy fortune teller.
You certainly know how to dress with drama for the opera. ’
‘ Oh, I’d go for fortune teller every time.’ Violet threw her head back and laughed.
‘It’s Cleopatra for me,’ Aleksander said in his thick Russian accent and winked. ‘A powerful woman and her empire … We are all just your willing servants.’ He gave a deep bow and kissed Violet’s outstretched hands.
‘Cleopatra had slaves,’ corrected Charlie.
‘You and your penchant for facts,’ said Violet, who withdrew her hand and reached for two champagnes, passing one to her lover. ‘Salut.’ Violet raised her glass and proposed a toast. ‘To the opera, to Ariane and Bluebeard.’
As they clinked crystal, Charlie chuckled. ‘Are you really proposing a toast to one of France’s most notorious serial killers?’
Aleksandr’s blue eyes twinkled like the chandeliers above them as he offered an alternative toast: ‘To powerful women!’
‘Catchy. I’ll drink to that.’ Charlie laughed again as she took a sip of her bubbles.
‘That dress, the blue—it looks beautiful on you, Charlie,’ said Aleksandr. ‘My new atelier has done an incredible job finishing this.’ He indicated for her to turn.
Charlie did as instructed. The sapphire silk was draped and tucked around her bust and waist like a Grecian toga, then fell to the ground like water.
She felt magnificent, hugged in all the right places, and she ran her hands over her hips in approval.
‘Merci. You are a genius, Aleksandr … I can’t thank you enough for lending me this gown for the opening night.’
‘You are the queen,’ said Violet. ‘You are our Cleopatra. Aleksandr and I think you should keep the dress. It belongs on you.’
‘I cannot,’ Charlie stammered, ‘that’s too generous …’ They all knew her monthly reporter’s salary would not even begin to cover the cost of the dress.
‘Nonsense! We won’t hear a word of it. But we will make you pay, my dear friend. When we have the launch for the next collection, you shall come wearing this dress,’ insisted Violet.
Aleksandr added, ‘There can be no better advertisement than a beautiful woman who wears the dress, not the other way round.’
Charlie almost choked on her bubbles. ‘On a catwalk?’
‘No, silly!’ Violet looped her arm through Charlie’s and led her towards the stream of people walking up the stairs to enter the concert hall. ‘We don’t know what it will look like yet—’
‘Just checking you won’t be requiring me to brush up on my, er, dancing?’ Charlie giggled and placed her empty flute on the silver tray of a passing waiter. The last show Violet had arranged was held at a burlesque club and she’d hired professional acrobats, dancers and strippers.
‘We were thinking something more languid, something not so obviously sexy,’ said Aleksandr.
Violet laughed. ‘But sexy all the same.’
‘I see,’ said Charlie, who really didn’t. ‘Now tell me where all these beads around your neck came from? Are they new? I haven’t seen them before, which is hardly surprising, given I’ve never seen you in the same outfit twice.’
‘Oh, Les Puces last Sunday. I got a whole bag full for less than a franc,’ said Violet.
‘Her eye is impeccable,’ cooed Aleksandr. ‘Honestly, she is staging our next show on such a tight budget it’s like she’s a magician.
It allows me to spend a little more on the fabric and stitching.
Not many new houses have this luxury. And she still will not let me pay her a salary …
’ Aleksandr said this softer now, his voice raw and a little hurt.
‘Violet!’ Charlie squeezed her friend’s arm. ‘It’s time—’
But Charlie didn’t get to finish her reprimand as they stepped through the doorway and into the balcony stalls Violet had reserved.
She grabbed the hem of her dress with one hand and chased Violet and Aleksandr up the stairs to take a seat at the edge of the balcony that overlooked the house and stage.
If the opera didn’t start, it would be enough for Charlie just to sit here and admire the theatre of Palais Garnier.
Above her, a huge domed ceiling swirled with painted angels, cupids and lovers, a giant chandelier dripping from the peak.
The curve of the balcony was trimmed with ornate gold paint, and ribbons of red velvet chairs marched in neat arcs all the way down to the stage, where burgundy curtains remained shut, concealing the settings behind.
Violet handed Charlie the gilded program that was sitting on the seat and said, ‘Don’t make me read this. Please tell me this isn’t a three-act musical about a killer.’
‘Opera!’ hissed Charlie as she elbowed her friend in the ribs and studied the program to paraphrase it in English. ‘This is Dukas’s first opera, based on the French fairytale where Bluebeard’s sixth wife finds and liberates her predecessors, who were hidden in the castle’s dungeon.’
‘By Bluebeard, presumably?’
‘Yes.’
‘I thought Bluebeard was a monster. Didn’t he kill all his wives?’
‘Well, for dramatic effect, they are alive in the opera, as obviously they play some part when Ariane releases them.’
‘Don’t spoil it for me!’ Violet put her hands over her ears in protest.
‘Hardly. It’s one of the most famous fairytales of all time.’
‘I know,’ replied Violet. ‘French kids have that jumpy song they do on the footpaths on the way to school. It’s creepy.’
‘It is creepy,’ agreed Aleksandr. ‘People have a morbid fascination with death.’ He shivered. ‘After death, monsters seem to have a life they don’t deserve. Their myth romanticises the horror.’
Charlie nodded and studied her friend, his handsome aquiline nose, his excellent posture and kind, sparkling eyes.
Charlie knew Aleksandr had lost his parents when he was just a little child in Russia.
She tried to imagine how he’d lived his days with poverty and trauma threaded just under his skin.
How a small, orphaned, Russian boy had become the quiet darling of Paris society.
The young boy who’d grown up with his aunts and grandmother in a concrete shell now spent his days surrounded by colour, texture and some of the most powerful women in the world.
Charlie had the feeling those women loved Aleksandr for his kindness and discretion—the way he made them feel—rather than just his spectacular gowns.
She ran her hands under her bust and over her hips and felt all the darts and seams in the dress. Secret folds that tick-tacked together to make her feel powerful. Womanly. Beautiful.