Chapter 29
Well, yesterday, Valentine’s Day, was a real mixture of lovely, naughty and disturbing things.
I was lucky enough to get a reservation in the morning at the hairdresser’s.
The last time I’d tried, there were no appointments, and I’d had to struggle with a jug of hot water and a bowl in my room.
Strangely, I was asked if it was possible for me to take my own shampoo.
It seems they were having difficulty in getting supplies and as I was an American, they hoped I would have some.
They were right. I had bought two bottles of my favourite Drene with me.
Honestly, the interest in the clear glass bottle and its pale honey-coloured contents was amazing.
Receptionist, stylists and even other customers all wanted a look, and it was passed from hand to hand.
When I eventually had my hair washed, styled and dried, my head was spinning with the effort of trying to communicate with my limited French.
But it was a fun morning, and I left the rest of the Drene shampoo with them as a thank you.
When I informed Madame Dupont that I was going out for dinner that evening, she shook her head and gave a disapproving sniff before walking away muttering in French something about Stéphane.
‘Stéphane il ne vaut… criminel. Bastard.’ The last word was perfectly understandable.
There were other words I didn’t catch, but the message was loud and clear – she didn’t like Stéphane and definitely did not approve of me seeing him.
Stéphane had said he’d pick me up at a quarter to eight, so once I was ready, I went downstairs to wait.
If this had been a normal hotel, there would have been a foyer for me to sit in, but here there wasn’t even a proper lounge for me to wait in.
In the end, desperate to avoid the evil eye of Madame Dupont, I picked up my evening bag and wandered outside, crossing the road to wait on the opposite side.
Standing there, looking up at the pensione from a different angle, I noticed again high up the small niche with a grey saint-like figure carved into it.
I am convinced it is meant to represent Saint Christopher.
I had no time to study it more as a taxi drew up and Stéphane leapt out and ushered me in.
As we drove away sat together on the back seat, I noticed Madame Dupont stand in the doorway watching. I turned to Stéphane.
‘Madame Dupont doesn’t like you for some reason.’
Stéphane shrugged. ‘She is a sad person. Her husband he die in the war. And now her daughter is pregnant and she no like the father.’
‘Oh, I didn’t realise Odette was married,’ I said.
‘She’s not. She would like to be, but the father, he cannot marry her.’
‘Why not?’
Stéphane shrugged. ‘The usual reason. He is already married. His wife, she would not like it.’
I stared at him. ‘What is it with men who feel they have the right to treat women like… like toys, and then simply discard them when they become inconvenient or pregnant?’
‘Perhaps she shouldn’t have been so willing?’ Stéphane retorted.
‘And perhaps the man should have remembered his wedding vows.’
Stéphane gave a short laugh. ‘My naive little American firecracker.’ He put his hand in his pocket and took out a sparkling brooch.
‘Can you turn to me a little. I want to pin this on your dress – which is a lovely dress. Chanel, isn’t it?
Tonight it will look sensational with this, my maman’s dress clip, pinned to it. ’
Looking down to where Stéphane was pinning the brooch, I saw the clip properly for the first time and gasped in astonishment.
‘That’s beautiful.’ Even in the dull light inside the taxi, the brooch, shaped like a butterfly’s wing at least three inches across and two inches deep, was glittering, with what, to my inexperienced eyes, looked like diamonds and coloured stones.
So many of them – they couldn’t possibly be diamonds and other precious stones, could they?
‘Are the stones what I think they might be?’
‘They are rhinestones and glass,’ Stéphane said, shaking his head, as he carefully made sure the pin was secure. ‘Voilà. You must remember to return it to me when tonight is over,’ and he picked up my hand and held it for the rest of the journey.
I spent the remainder of the short drive along the coast to Le Provencal silently looking out of the window, happy to be with Stéphane, but inwardly cross on behalf of Odette, a woman whom I barely knew, whose whole life had doubtless been changed by the action of an irresponsible man who had had his fun and then simply walked away.
The taxi drove into the grounds of Le Provencal and stopped in front of the imposing entrance with its grand covered portico. Stéphane took me by the hand as I stepped out of the car and we walked hand in hand into the foyer and were greeted at the entrance to the restaurant by the ma?tre d’h?tel.
A few of the tables in the restaurant were already occupied and we were shown to a table with easy access to the small dance floor. A trio were playing soft romantic music and one or two couples were swaying gently together.
After we’d chosen our meal and Stéphane was deciding on the wine with the sommelier, I looked around the restaurant that I knew had been the place to be seen on the Riviera before the war.
From my literature classes in college, I knew that Ernest Hemingway, Scott Fitzgerald and his crazy wife Zelda, to name but three, had fallen in love with Juan-les-Pins in the late 1920s and would in all probability have had a drink or two in the newly opened Le Provencal with its theatre and casino.
Maybe they even listened to the singer Mistenguet, or saw Charlie Chaplin in the days before the Great Depression sent everyone scurrying back home.
Looking around at the other diners, I wondered if any of them were famous.
I’d just decided it was unlikely when I noticed I wasn’t the only one looking around.
The casually dressed bald-headed man with a jaunty scarf around his neck on the next table was scrutinising me.
When he realised I’d seen him, he smiled and raised his hand in apology.
As Stéphane decided on the wine and the sommelier left, I whispered, ‘That man over there – is it who I think it is? Pablo Picasso? I love his art – I’ve seen some of his work in New York.’
Stéphane glanced across. ‘Yes, it is,’ and both men acknowledged each other with a tilt of their heads.
‘Do you think he wants to paint me? That would be fun.’
Stéphane ignored my question and taking hold of my hand he pulled me to my feet. ‘We dance.’
The music was slow, romantic and intimate.
‘At last I get to hold you in my arms properly,’ Stéphane murmured in my ear, as his arms tightened around me.
That first dance together, our feet barely moved, it could hardly be called even slow dancing. It was more of a close embrace in full public view.
We ate, and we danced between courses, and it was a perfect evening.
Until, after we’d ordered dessert and were making our way back to the dance floor for another smoochy slow dance, the tempo, not just of the music, but everything, changed.
I saw the time on Stéphane’s watch. Five minutes to ten. I moved out of his arms.
‘Stéphane, I need to go back to the pensione. I’m going to be locked out.’
He pulled me back into his arms. ‘Relax. I have booked us a room here for tonight.’
I pulled back and stared at him shocked.
Part of me was furious. I felt – no, I knew – I’d been skilfully manoeuvred into doing something that had seemed inevitable from the very first day Stéphane had appeared in my life.
But I’d wanted to make the decision, not have it made for me.
Another part of me, though, was happy to accept this now unavoidable step forward in our relationship.
Surely it meant that Stéphane was serious about me?
Stéphane’s arms tightened around me as he spoke softly into my ear. ‘You and I both know it is what we want. And today is Saint Valentine’s Day – the day for lovers – so it is the perfect day. And I promise you, it will be the perfect night.’
* * *
Evie closed the journal. This entry had made her feel uncomfortable as she was reading. It was almost too personal, making her feel like a voyeur, seeing something a third person was never meant to see.
It was hard to imagine her grandmother as a young woman having such thoughts and acting so imprudently.
One of the phrases Evie had consistently heard when she was growing up was GeeGee telling her to ‘think before you act’.
Evie couldn’t help but think, having read that entry, that GeeGee had ignored her own advice.