“Thank you. I’m glad you could join us on such short notice.” Her voice was deep and modulated. Her accent British.
The butler handed her a flute of Champagne and then took up his place behind her chair, ready to follow directions.
“Just at the sofas, please, Cookson.” She had on a fitted navy taffeta jacket with a portrait collar and a single string of perfect, very rare, slate gray eighteen-millimeter pearls. They gleamed like blue steel. Her earrings were matching pearls encircled by diamonds that sparkled with the fire-like energy that comes only from perfect stones. Her black hair was pulled straight back into a chignon topped by a flat velvet bow and her strong-boned face was nicely toned up for a woman her age, firm but not tightly pulled. When she turned her head to talk to the butler I saw the iconic profile that had made her one of the ballet world’s most powerful, recognizable images. It was undiminished by time or illness. She had the profile of Queen Nefertiti.
A smooth navy cotton blanket covered her legs and feet.
The room’s sparseness now made sense. Wherever there was a seating arrangement, there was room for a wheelchair to become a natural part of the setting without any fussing or rearranging. Cookson placed her at the end of a coffee table, where a normal chair would normally be. She put down her Champagne and opened a silver cigarette box. Cookson held the lighter.
George sat to her left in a low-backed armchair and I sat to her right on the sofa.
“Are you in Paris for long?” Alma asked. She had a way of speaking and a demeanor that wasn’t rude or cold or unfriendly, but distant, wary and weighing, possibly even sedated. I had the feeling that those eyes were looking right into the innermost part of my soul, but I couldn’t tell if they liked what they saw.
“I’m not sure.” I took a salmon canapé from a white-uniformed maid who had materialized from behind another of the panels with a tray of hors d’oeuvre. “I’m . . . between things at the moment.”
She raised her eyebrows slightly. “Ah.” She nodded and waved off the toast points and took a puff of her cigarette. “Between what sorts of things?”
I was gauging Alma as closely as she was me. Her husband had done everything in his power, short of ceasing all communication with the outside world, to protect them from schemers and users, kidnappers and extortionists. They were large targets, and she wasn’t going to let an unknown princess, a minor royal, even if there was a long-ago, completely uncultivated—and as yet unacknowledged—connection of our husbands, breeze through their door and rip them off. She intended to put me through my paces and I had to deliver. I required acceptance by both Mr. and Mrs. Naxos, not just one or the other.
There would be no funny business with Alma de la Vargas, no inane social chatter. No name dropping.
I returned her look and smiled. “Now, Alma. Don’t you think we should at least hold hands and kiss before we tell each other all our secrets?”
She laughed, caught off guard by my candor. “You’re right. Forgive me.” She ground out her cigarette and removed another from the silver box. “I find other people’s problems so much more interesting than my own.”
“Don’t we all? Actually, I’m on my way to a spa in Switzerland, but need to be in Paris for a few days. I’ve heard so many wonderful things about your hotel, and I was delighted when there was room.”
“This is your first visit to Trois?”
I nodded. “I usually stay with friends but they’re out of town and redecorating, so I decided this was the perfect opportunity to see what everyone’s been talking about.”
Alma’s laugh was breathy and smooth and, unfortunately, followed by a painful bout of coughing. “I hope you enjoy your stay.”
“Are you ready, madam?” The butler asked.
“Not quite, Cookson. Margaret, are you by any chance free for dinner? We’d love to have you join us.”
I’d passed the first test—I didn’t have two heads.
“That would be splendid.”
“Cookson, I think we’ll have another drink.” She turned to me. “My mother used to call the cocktail hour ‘the hour of charm.’ ”
“How delightful,” I said. Charm might as well be my middle name.
F O U R T E E N
The three of us had a wonderful time getting to know each other, although the maid with the salmon canapés never reappeared and there was not a nut or an olive in sight. I was starving to death. Finally, after an hour and ten minutes and another cocktail, we proceeded to the dinner table, where the candles reflected from the windows and softened our faces. Cookson pushed Alma to her spot and once she was in her place, George held my chair for me. Alma spread her snow white Madeira linen napkin in her lap, and George and I followed suit. It was very formal, ritualistic, proper. Cookson filled our water glasses, and Alma asked me if I’d grown up in Romania, which made me laugh.
“No. You know, I’d never even visited there until four years ago. I grew up in London and outside of Oslo. My father was a diplomat.”
“Lovely cool climates. Pale-skinned climates.”
“Yes. They suit me. I love cool weather.”
“I love London. We haven’t been there for years.”
Cookson placed plates of thinly sliced duck pâté sprinkled with chopped cornichons and capers in front of each of us, and then filled George’s wineglass with the unmistakable fresh ruby glow of fine burgundy.
George held out his hands to Alma and me. “Shall we have a grace?”
His blessing was brief and to the point, and he crossed himself when he was done.
“George always insists on saying grace at every meal,” Alma explained, as though she found the blessing tedious and it needed explanation or apology.
“I think that’s nice,” I answered. “I need all the help I can get.”
Alma just stared at me, expressionless. She was very, very tough.
“You know,” George said, after he’d tasted the wine and nodded to Cookson to fill our glasses, “your husband and I were roommates in school.”
I frowned. “Which school?”
“Le Rosey.”
“Are you certain?”
“Quite. Your husband was Frederick Romaniei, correct?”
I felt Alma’s eyes on me. Taking it all in.
“Yes. I’m sorry, I’m surprised. I know he went to Rosey, but I don’t remember his ever mentioning you being a roommate. Although he might have.” I gave a small shrug. “It was a long time ago and we were under the influence much of the time. He’s been dead for almost thirty-five years.”
“I’m embarrassed to say I never knew he had gotten married.”
“Well, we weren’t married for very long. Only three years when he was killed.”
“What an unnecessary accident,” George said. “He knew better than to ski there at that time of the year. He was the most beautiful skier I’ve ever seen. I’ve never been able to figure out why he did it.”
“Surely you remember what Freddy was like. He lived for adventure and attention. And vodka. And pot. And any number of other recreational drugs. In fact, if he had lived, I’m quite sure we would not have been married for very much longer. At some point one of us—and I can guarantee you it would have been me—was bound to sober up and seen how unsuited we were and how totally inane our life was. Did you ever meet him?” I asked Alma.
She shook her head.
“I’m making him sound terrible. In fact, he was one of the most delightful, gentle people I’ve ever known. But he was a Lotus Eater and I’m a Scandinavian. We Norwegians can flit around for a little while but then we must get to work. We take our ‘duty’ very seriously.” I put a small amount of butter on a crust of bread and added a slice of pâté. It was tangy and delicious. The burgundy was ambrosia.
“A Lotus Eater.” George grinned. He picked up his bread but at a cruel look from Alma, put it down again. “A perfect description of the Freddy I remember. I think that’s what I liked about him so much—he had an irreverence,
a devil-may-care attitude about everything, which I envied. I was very serious in my studies and he just skimmed through—of course he failed most of the subjects—but he enjoyed everything completely.”
I looked at George over my glasses. “And? What? He’s dead and you’re the richest man in the world.”
Alma cried out a laugh. “You have the most wonderful, direct way of putting things. Where did you and Frederick meet?”
“At the Sorbonne.”
Alma rolled her eyes. “The Sorbonne in the ’60s. Those were forgettable days.”
“Certainly not anyone’s finest hour.”
Cookson reappeared and while he cleared our plates, Alma had a cigarette. The next course was grilled sea bass on a bed of steamed julienne vegetables flavored with soy sauce. The plates were plain white china.
“And you’ve never remarried?” Alma said it more as a statement than a question. She carved off a small bite of the fish, but didn’t put it in her mouth. George and I both watched and waited for her to take the bite. I got the impression he was as hungry as I was. Cookson had not replenished the bread. My stomach growled. It was torture.
“No,” I said. “I’m far too set in my ways. And, may I add, too happy in my ways. You know better than anyone that when you have resources, you’re vulnerable, and I’ve been around that mountain enough times to spot a phony from a hundred miles off.”
“One can’t be too cautious.” Finally, she nibbled.
George breathed a sigh of relief and put his fork in his mouth quickly, as though he were afraid she might change her mind and make him put it back.
“It’s true,” I agreed. “So I own a small place in Barbados and a flat in London, and like you, have a small circle of close friends whom I trust. I live very quietly.”
The sea bass was followed with a salad of fresh greens lightly dressed with oil and vinegar and a dessert of tart pomegranate soufflé. Alma ate very little and smoked between each course.
“Which spa are you going to?” George asked.
“Clinique La Prairie.”
“Wonderful,” Alma said. “It’s the best. Have you been there before?” I noticed a quick glance pass between her and George.
“Yes. I’m looking forward to getting back. I’m a spa devotee—every now and then I feel the need for a major overhaul.”
“Are you going for beauty or revitalization?” She stifled a yawn.
“Both.” I looked at my watch. “Oh, heavens. I can’t believe it’s after ten-thirty,” I said. “I’m sorry to stay so late. Thank you for inviting me.”
“It was our pleasure.” Alma said. “Please forgive me if I don’t accompany you to the door.”
Cookson pulled her chair from the table. I took her offered hand and kissed her on each cheek. She looked exhausted.
“Call me in the morning and let me know your plans. Do you by any chance play gin rummy?”
“Yes. I do. Quite brilliantly, in fact.”
“If you’re free in the afternoon, say about three, please come for tea and we’ll have a game. Good night, Margaret.”
“Good night, Alma.”
F I F T E E N
When I got back to my room, I was practically weak with hunger. No wonder she was so thin—she didn’t eat anything and obviously had put George on a strict diet as well. Poor George. What good did it do to be the richest man in the world and not be able to eat whatever you wanted? Thank goodness, a new plate of petit fours waited for me, along with a beautiful platter of sliced baguettes, apples and four kinds of especially pungent, runny cheeses. A feast. I could save the world given nothing but apples and cheese. And a little wine.
The rain had stopped and stars were visible through patches of dark gray-blue clouds. Traffic on the Champs Elysées and around l’Etoile had resumed its regular frantic late night pace.
I slipped into my bathrobe and snuggled into a downy bergère chair, poured myself a healthy glass of port, and reviewed the evening as I spread thin slices of baguette with thick slices of Brie de Meaux.
The brief look that passed between George and Alma when we were talking about the spa, Clinique La Prairie, was a critical step in the right direction. Among other amenities, Mont-St.-Anges was rumored to have the most complete, most luxurious spa in Europe. And, after a lot of weighing of the options, I’d realized I didn’t have many strategic or tactical alternatives for getting myself onto the property. So I deduced that if I said I was interested in going to a spa, that would at least open the subject and hopefully provide the entree I sought—it was certainly a benign approach. At any rate, this was an all-or-nothing deal. If it worked, it worked. If it didn’t, I’d return most of the clothes, none of the jewelry (I’d picked up some truly amazing pieces this afternoon) and go home and Thomas and David could move on to plan B.
Regardless of that downside view, I had a strong hunch my tactic would work and I was excited about the possibility of going to Mont-St.-Anges. To me, it had taken on the aura of a fantasy almost like Shangri-La or Brigadoon, as though a magic window would open in the scenery and let you step through.
According to various ladies I’d eavesdropped upon in various powder rooms in various exclusive establishments who thought they were in there alone, (and actually why wouldn’t they, when I was hiding in a locked stall with an out-of-order sign on the door? I know it’s shameful, but I picked up most of the information I needed about who was going where and whose house would be empty and thus available to rob. It’s how thieves make their living. What can I say?) Mont-St.-Anges is a fairyland, a perfect little village. No cars or motorbikes, just horse-drawn sleds and sleighs in the winter, and wagons and carts in the summer. The only way in or out is by helicopter or train from Geneva or Zurich.
It’s also not really a club in the traditional sense of the word—there’s no board of directors or nominating committee. Naxos alone controls the membership.
It is a grace-and-favor reward, where handpicked hardworking rich people can go and just be rich without putting up with a lot of judgmental, jealous nonsense from those less fortunate.
Also, according to my “sources,” spectacular chalets dot the hillsides while the magnificent Hôtel Grand Anges anchors the “town” center. There are all sorts of rules: members and their guests must dress appropriately at all times when they’re out in public, no wild parties in the hotel, no public drunkenness, no profanity, no noise of any sort coming from the hotel rooms after nine o’clock at night. Any infraction results in immediate expulsion. There is a strong incentive to follow the rules because there is no court of higher appeal. Naxos is judge and jury.
There’s also a private hospital where some of the finest doctors in the world are given the green light and financial wherewithal to practice leading-edge medicine, from heart surgery to cancer treatments to rejuvenation injections to face-lifts.
I’ve also heard that the health spa takes its health and fitness seriously, operates hand in glove with the hospital, and offers services not found in the menu of most beauty regimens in luxury spas. Unfortunately, I didn’t have any clue what those services were because the ladies who mentioned them only would smile knowingly and roll their eyes, but my imagination roamed from brain-boosting vitamin shots to all sorts of transplants and lifts. I was ready to find out for myself.
If all went according to plan, by tomorrow, or the day after at the latest, I would be on my way.
S I X T E E N
Alma was too sick to play gin rummy the next day, and the day after that, and I was starting to run out of time.
Of course, no one should ever complain about being in Paris. After all, I’d spent two full days in the Louvre and had dinner one night at Alain Dutournier’s Carré des Feuillants, where I treated myself to Gillardeau green-tinged Marennes oysters with bite-sized foie gras sandwiches, pheasant-and-chestnut soup that was more like a light chowder, Pyrenees noisettes of lamb with a crispy little potato galette, a half bottle of 1995 Madeleine-Collignon Mazis-Cham
bertin, and finally, a gingerbread crumble that made me homesick for London.
The next evening, I went to Chez George and after a martini, I ordered celery rémoulade, a steak, and pomme frites. But I didn’t give my dinner the attention it deserved, I was too distracted. At the far end of the long, narrow bistro a man was having dinner with his two snow white Westies. They were perfectly groomed and sat with their paws on the table and evaluated everyone with their beady little black eyes. They made me want to go home and snuggle up with Bijou in front of the fire and forget the whole deal. I was getting anxious. I should have been well on my way to Switzerland by now. But I’d concocted my plan without the knowledge that Alma de la Vargas was an invalid, giving me even less control over what was already a mostly uncontrollable situation. I ordered another glass of wine and forced myself to remain calm and optimistic.
Finally, on the third day, her secretary called and asked if I’d come to tea at three.
The day was brisk and clear, the sky pale blue, and I walked over to Hédiard on the Place de la Madeleine and bought her a package of their famous fruit jellies. I knew she wouldn’t eat them—Alma was clearly as uninterested in food as I was passionate about it—but it would be rude to show up empty-handed and I loved their fruit jellies, so maybe I’d eat them.
As a precautionary measure, I stopped at a café for lunch and ate a baguette with country ham, butter, and hot mustard, a glass of chardonnay, and a cup of espresso and a small raspberry tart.
Cookson, their butler, called for me at three o’clock and once upstairs and through the security system, he showed me into the library, a much smaller aerie than the living room, but light filled and with a view down the Champs Elysées to the Place de la Concorde. Alma was waiting for me, sitting at a card table in front of the windows. She had a stunning large spray of diamonds pinned on the left shoulder of her black cashmere turtleneck, and matching earrings. Two decks of cards and a score pad were in the center of the table. A silver cigarette box and ashtray sat on the edge. A stark white Rosenthal china tea set—two cups and a pot—and a decanter of sherry were on a sideboard. A fire burned in the fireplace, making the room uncomfortably warm.
Perfect Page 7
