by Angela Arney
The cameras swept over the interior of the abbey. Members of the Royal Family were already seated in the Royal Gallery, and down below in the South Transept were the peers in their ermine-trimmed, crimson robes.
‘I can see Nicholas.’ Dorothy leaned forward excitedly. The camera changed shots and showed the peeresses sitting in a dazzling cluster in the North Transept opposite the peers. ‘And there is Liana,’ said Dorothy triumphantly picking her out.
Liana looked lovely in a sheath-like cream satin dress encrusted with gold embroidery, golden drop pearls and tiny golden and amethyst diamanté. She wore her amethyst and diamond jewellery and on her head, perched on top of her elegantly swept-up hair, was a delicate tiara made up of matching diamonds and amethysts. It was Nicholas’s present to her for the coronation. Over her dazzling dress, she wore the traditional peeresses robe of crimson pure silk velvet, banded with ermine.
‘Oh, Lord, I wish it were in colour.’ Mary Pragnell unconsciously echoed Dorothy Ramsay’s wish. ‘Oh, Dolly, you should be so proud. Don’t Lady Liana look lovely? I wish everyone could see what a beautiful colour that dress is.’
‘Well, they can, in the abbey,’ said Meg.
‘I mean the whole world.’
‘Since when have you worried about what the world thinks?’ Wally asked with some amusement.
‘Since my Dolly’s dress is up there being seen to be just as good as, no better than, all those fancy designers’ dresses. Give me a Dolly Pragnell dress any day; hers is much better than that Norman Hartnell’s gowns. Stuffy, his clothes is. I can’t think why the Royal Family always choose him.’ Everyone laughed at Mary’s passionate outburst but they agreed. Dolly’s dress, which she had designed and made for Liana herself, outshone them all.
The Pragnell family had come over to Broadacres for the day to join Meg, Bruno, their son Rolf, now a sturdy nine-year-old, and his sister, three-year-old Alice. Everything that could have been done the day before had been done. Now they could sit back and enjoy the pomp and ceremony taking place in London.
Upstairs in Broadacres, the furniture had been grouped around the television in the newly decorated Arcadian drawing room. From records Liana had unearthed in the library, the room had been renovated, faithfully reproducing the original Inigo Jones’ designs. Always a beautiful room, the walls now shone with a warm, creamy white, and the carving from the dado to the cornice was enriched with gold leaf. The Thomas Chippendale settees and chairs had been repaired and reupholstered in red velvet and the William Kent tables, resting on the ornately carved animal pedestals had been french polished until they reflected almost as much as the gilded mirrors on the walls.
‘Peter and I want to go downstairs to the kitchen,’ announced Eleanora after being told by her grandmother to keep her feet on the floor where they belonged.
‘You’ll stay up here today with the rest of the family,’ said Margaret. It was not often she was strict with Eleanora but today she felt they should all be together to watch the coronation and hopefully catch a glimpse of Nicholas and Liana.
‘It would hurt Meg’s feelings if you went downstairs,’ said Anne, trying to pour oil on troubled water. ‘Look at the lovely cold buffet she has left for us. She has gone to so much trouble to make sure we have everything we need.’ She smiled at Eleanora, sympathizing at her restlessness. The elegance and beauty of the newly decorated room made her feel slightly uncomfortable, too; but she understood Margaret’s point. It was a fitting place from which to view such a historic occasion. She added a little bribe. ‘When the queen has been crowned, you and Peter can have a glass of champagne.’
‘Really?’ Eleanora was delighted at the thought of forbidden fruit.
‘Really,’ said Anne firmly, ignoring her mother who was vigorously shaking her head behind Eleanora’s back.
Even Eleanora was quiet and watched intently as Dr Geoffrey Fisher, the Lord Archbishop of Canterbury, raised the sacred crown of St Edward. High, high the crown rose in the archbishop’s hands before he gently lowered it on to the young Queen’s head. Then there was a rustling, a sudden breathless sigh stirring through the ancient grey stone abbey as a thousand noblemen and their ladies lifted their coronets. In the North Transept a sea of waterlilies bloomed, rose in the air and gently subsided – the ermine-clad arms of the peeresses putting on their coronets.
Then a great sound: ‘God save the Queen.’ It was echoed in the Arcadian Room at Broadacres.
‘The words come from the heart of the nation,’ said Margaret, becoming unexpectedly poetic, and with tears running down her face. The trumpets in the abbey shrilled, the guns outside boomed across the city of London, bells pealed from a thousand belfries. It was high noon. ‘No-one has eyes for anyone save the Queen,’ she said through her tears.
‘Except Daddy. He isn’t looking at the Queen; he is looking at Mummy,’ said Eleanora, peering closely at the television. ‘I think he loves her more than the queen.’
Richard Chapman set about opening the champagne. ‘I think he probably does, darling,’ said Margaret with a half-laugh, hastily wiping away her tears.
‘More than me, too, do you think?’ Eleanora asked jealously.
‘Of course not. He loves you both.’
In their thatched cottage Donald Ramsay was opening their champagne. ‘Look at Nicholas,’ he said. ‘Even during such a historic occasion as a coronation he can’t take his eyes off his wife.’
‘He loves her,’ said Dorothy comfortably.
‘Love or obsession? I wonder, I wonder.’ He poured out the champagne. ‘He’s too intense.’
‘Stop pontificating and give me my drink.’
They clinked glasses. ‘To Her Majesty. God save the Queen.’
But Donald worried about Nicholas. He had put Liana up on a high pedestal. How would he react if one day she disappointed him? If one day he found she had feet of clay like every other human being? Being the pragmatist that he was, Donald Ramsay had no doubt that Liana had feet of clay. Each man and woman on earth was created with inbuilt imperfections. In spite of Nicholas’s adoration, Liana could be no exception.
Chapter Nineteen
Gustavo Simionato had gone on ahead to Coco Chanel’s villa in the south of France, leaving Raul to finish editing their latest film, Bambina. Raul was pleased. Simionato had let him have an entirely free hand with this latest film, and his name would share equal billing on the credits. Not only that, the previous year, 1952, Raul had directed an opera, The Italian Girl in Algiers, at La Scala, Milan. It had been a great artistic success and Antonio Ghiringhelli, the manager of La Scala, had asked Raul to direct La Traviata the following autumn. Rehearsals started in September, a month’s time. Raul Levi was becoming a name to be reckoned with in Italy, and now he had his sights set on France. It was merely a question of finding the right play; which was the reason he had agreed to go to Chanel’s house party.
The editing finished, Raul set off in his newly acquired red MG sports car for the drive to Chanel’s villa, La Pausa. By right, Simionato’s name should not be on the credits at all for this latest film, thought Raul, feeling slightly resentful, but the villa in Rome was not his yet, and he wanted it. Simionato was an old man now and had recently suffered two strokes and had a heart murmur. Raul consoled himself with the thought that he should not have to wait too long.
Heads turned as the open-topped red car roared through the hot June countryside of Italy. From Rome he took the route to the coast, enjoying dawdling his way along the Tuscan coastline, then through Liguria up to the Riviera di Levante, past Genova and on to the Riviera di Ponente, past Ventimiglia into Monaco, finally arriving at his destination on Cap d’Antibes.
He found a large party assembled around the villa’s swimming pool – mostly French and Italian film and theatre people. Raul quickly noted those he thought might be useful to him – he would seek them out for private conversation later – the rest were of no importance. There was also an American family, an elderly, balding man
with gold-rimmed glasses, his much younger blonde wife, possessed of abundant breasts which flowed in all directions out of her two-piece swimsuit and a daughter who showed signs of eventually possessing breasts as large as her mother. They looked and sounded out of place. At least I’ll be able to practise my English, thought Raul; directing in London was out of the question until he had mastered the English language, a task he was pursuing with vigour.
Having been shown to his room and unpacked, Raul donned swimming trunks and joined the others around the pool. The television was on; they were waiting for the film of the coronation of the Queen of England to start.
While they waited Coco was flicking through a magazine showing photographs of the various events in London leading up to the coronation. ‘Of course, the English have never known how to dress,’ she screeched. ‘How can they? All their clothes are made by men! Men who have no idea how a woman feels, how a woman moves.’
She held up the magazine. The page showed a photograph of the Royal Garden Party on 29 May. The women all wore the latest fashion – nipped-in waists, voluminous long skirts and incredibly high heels; on their heads, most wore cartwheel hats.
‘Gee, he’s a real dishy man,’ said the American woman pointing at the opposite page. She leaned forward to get a closer look. Raul thought her breasts would surely fall out.
Her husband obviously thought so, too. ‘Emmy Lou!’ he growled.
Emmy Lou giggled, saw Raul watching her and hitched her bosom back into the swimsuit top with a distinctly provocative movement. She’s ready for bedding, thought Raul feeling stirrings of interest. He had been busy. It had been at least two weeks since he had had a woman, and celibacy was not the norm for him. He observed Emmy Lou with lustful eyes.
‘The Earl of Wessex,’ said Emmy Lou reading the caption at the bottom of the page. ‘Now, I’d sure like to meet him.’
‘Ridiculous clothes,’ sneered Chanel, ignoring the American woman’s interruption, her voice rising higher on a note of vindictiveness. ‘But as Napoleon said, what can you expect from a nation of shopkeepers!’
‘I didn’t know Napoleon was interested in fashion.’ The assembled company laughed at Simionato’s joke.
Coco Chanel sniffed and flicked the pages over, then stopped and looked. ‘Well, at least here is one woman who looks chic. The Countess of Wessex. Hah!’ she exclaimed triumphantly after a moment’s silence while she read. ‘But why does she look chic? I’ll tell you, because she designed her own outfit; it says so here. She wasn’t dressed by some man, living out his fantasies of being a woman by dressing women!’
Torn between looking down Emmy Lou’s cleavage or the curling black hairs of her bush protruding from the legs of her swimsuit, Raul glanced at the magazine Chanel was waving. He could see what she meant. The Countess of Wessex did look different. Tall, slender, and dressed with cool simplicity, the kind of clothes Chanel herself would have designed. He looked away and then looked back again, drawn by a feeling of familiarity. He looked closer but all he saw was a very aristocratic woman, a haughty woman, one born into the good things of life; and at her side her equally aristocratic husband. They were a handsome couple, the Earl and Countess of Wessex. Suddenly he felt irritated, assailed by a vague sense of unease.
He looked back at Emmy Lou. ‘Well, I think she looks real plain,’ she drawled. ‘I like the other clothes better.’
‘That woman looks real smart. And that’s how you’re gonna look Emmy Lou, or my name ain’t Abe Appleton. Coco here is gonna design you some outfits that are gonna make you look like a lady. Every one of them will be unique. No woman in the United States of America will look like Emmy Lou Appleton.’
‘I can believe that,’ said Raul, an edge of irony to his voice. He wondered how on earth Chanel would cope with such a voluptuous figure. Her clothes were usually designed for, and modelled by, gamine girls who looked as if they had been starved for a year. Emmy Lou simpered, mistaking his remark for a compliment. Silly bitch, thought Raul, but it did not diminish his lust.
‘Anyway, Coco, you shouldn’t be so vitriolic. It doesn’t suit you,’ said Simionato.
‘Why not? I hate the English. They insulted me when I gave my first show after the war. I could have been ruined.’
‘But you are not ruined. The Americans love you. If this is being ruined,’ he waved his hands at the wonderful surroundings, ‘then I wouldn’t mind being ruined, too.’
‘Poof! You have got plenty of money, everybody knows that. But yes, the Americans do love me,’ Chanel conceded, then, ‘quiet everybody, the film is starting’.
Raul lazed back on his sun lounger. He thought the coronation film long and tedious and soon his attention wandered. Yes, the Americans must like Chanel, he thought. The villa was marvellous. Built of grey stone on a promontory looking out to sea, on a site that had once been an olive grove, the architect had achieved miracles. Not a single tree appeared to have been felled; instead the villa had been designed around the ancient, gnarled trunks so that it twisted and turned, having rooms in unexpected places. The ground, richly carpeted with wild lavender, filled the air with aromatic perfume. This was the life, no doubt about it. The place reeked of money. Artistic success had not yet brought Raul the kind of money needed for such a villa, but he knew he must not be impatient. Already he was earning far more than most of his contemporaries. He was not poor, and he would be rich soon enough. Simionato had told him he had named him as his heir; it was just a matter of time.
Raul felt restless: the coronation was boring. How typical of the English to do everything so slowly. And he still felt strangely uneasy instead of relaxed. God, I must need a woman more badly then I thought. A swim was the answer. He would go for a swim. Levering himself up from the sun lounger, he paused just long enough for Emmy Lou to be able to appreciate his tall, muscular figure. Abe Appleton might be a millionaire but he also had a bald pate and a paunch. Raul knew Emmy Lou needed more than money! Satisfied that she had noted the virile bulge in his swimming trunks, he set off down the steep slope that led to the private beach. He was not surprised, half an hour later, to see Emmy Lou sliding precipitously down the steep shingle beach towards the water.
He flipped over and slid through the water to join her on the shingle. ‘You don’t want this on.’ With a quick movement he undid her swimsuit top and threw it aside. Her breasts flowed upwards and outwards. They were lovely. So firm, thought Raul as he fondled them, they might almost have been pumped up.
‘Say,’ Emmy Lou smacked his hand playfully, ‘you Italians don’t hang about, do you?’
‘No,’ said Raul, pushing her on to her back and putting his hand inside her bathingsuit bottom. He found her clitoris easily; that was huge, too. He rubbed it, and she shuddered.
‘I haven’t said I want to.’ She made a token protest.
‘You don’t have to say anything,’ answered Raul. ‘Just open up.’ He could not wait and, before Emmy Lou could draw another breath, he released his rigid shaft through the leg of his swimming trunks and, pulling aside the soft material of her swimsuit bottom, thrust it inside her. ‘There, I told you not to say anything,’ he said as she reared up in pleasure.
They were both desperate; foreplay was not necessary; they climaxed together, violent and gasping.
‘Gee, that was great.’
‘Only the beginning,’ said Raul, sucking at a nipple. It was big and hard, like a pebble in his mouth.
‘We can’t stay here on the beach. Someone might see us. Abe would kill me.’
‘He thinks you are faithful to him?’
‘Let’s just say, honey, he doesn’t know for certain that I’m not. And that sure is the way I wanna keep it.’
Raul laughed. ‘In the sea then.’
He dragged her, squeakily protesting, into the sea, and together they swam out around a projecting rock until they were entirely hidden from the land by an overhang of the cliff. The water was waist-deep but there was no beach.
‘
Gee, what did you say your name was?’
‘Raul.’
‘Gee, Raul, this is impossible. There’s nowhere to lay down.’
‘Nothing is impossible if you want it badly enough. And I want you.’ As he spoke Raul took off his trunks and wedged them on a small ledge, then, reaching down, he slid off Emmy Lou’s as well and put them with his. ‘Put your arms around my neck.’
Emmy Lou obeyed and Raul began to kiss her, pushing his fingers up inside her, massaging her clitoris with his thumb at the same time. ‘Ooh,’ she groaned and wrapped her legs around him. Raul entered her but took his time, leaving it until she was jerking spasmodically, thrashing the water into a foam. They stayed in the water an hour and in that hour Emmy Lou learned everything there was to know about different ways of making love in the sea. They staggered back to the villa, limp and glutted.
Chanel spied them coming. ‘My God, where have you been?’ she screamed.
‘Jesus, has Abe missed me?’ Emmy Lou was terrified.
‘Abe? Abe?’ Chanel looked as if she had never heard the name before.
‘Yes, Abe Appleton my husband. Has he?’
‘Gustavo’s had a heart attack.’ Chanel rushed down the slope and grabbed at Raul’s arm. ‘He has been asking for you. Come quick. He is dying, I think. It may be too late already.’
It was. Gustavo Simionato died exactly three minutes before Raul reached his bedside. Kneeling, he took the brittle, paper-thin hand in his, a mass of conflicting emotions teeming in his head and heart. For in spite of his shallowness with women, Raul had become genuinely fond of Simionato over the years. It was not just for his money he loved the old man, but for his humour, compassion and, above all, his prodigious talent. Raul bowed his head in homage, silently acknowledging that the man who now lay lifeless before him was undoubtedly the greatest single figure in his entire life. There would never be another Simionato.
