Читать книгу Perfume Of Provence - Kate Fitzroy - Страница 12
ОглавлениеRosie was back in the lobby at precisely eleven but Jean-Michel was already there waiting for her. He was talking to Henri, his hands waving wildly as Henri listened intently. As though sensing she was near, Jean-Michel broke off abruptly and turned towards her.
“Et voilà — elle arrive!” He kissed her on both cheeks and then once more on the first cheek again. Then he handed her a large leather holdall, saying, “I’ve brought you a helmet and some clothes to put on over your own. I’m afraid they’ll be rather big.”
Rosie peered into the bag and saw the studded cuff of a dark leather motorbike jacket. She wrinkled her nose.
“Do I have to?”
Both men answered as one.
“Oui!”
Rosie sighed. She had thought her white jeans and pink cotton sweater sufficient cover for the ride — it was such a hot day.
“OK — I’ll put this lot on top of what I’m wearing. Can you find room for my handbag on the bike?”
“No problem — it’ll fit in the box behind the seat. I’ll wait for you outside.”
“I won’t be a moment!”
Both men laughed as though sharing a joke and Henri said, “We are just saying how you are good at this rushing about… Now I understand this word so maybe I use it every day.”
“As long as you don’t start rushing around yourself, Henri. Remember this is the South of France.”
“You’re right, I don’t think it would be good for me…and by the way, before you rush off…” He drew nearer and said discreetly into her ear, “Congratulations, felicitations! Un vrai coup de foudre — this is surely the love at first sight, and somehow I know you are made for each other. For so long a time I have been hoping my good friend Jean-Mi would find true love.”
“Thank you, Henri.” Rosie became serious for a moment. “Thank you very much. That visit to Eze — well, it was all your idea and we have you to thank.”
“Maybe, but I think it is more the destiny…and all this rushin’ around ’ere and dashin’ about there, bien sûr.” He smiled. “But thanks to Jean-Michel, I shall be pleased to drink your health with my wife tonight.”
He winked and reached under the desk and showed her a bottle of champagne.
Back in the lift again Rosie regarded herself in the mirrored wall. “Felicitations!” she said to her reflection. “What a delicious word!”
As the sun soared towards its zenith they were high above the coast, winding slowly through the Sunday quiet of small villages and roaring between the silver-grey olive groves. Rosie soon became accustomed to the throb of the big bike and the warm air rushing past as she held Jean-Michel tightly encircled in her arms. She was just about to shout at him to try and find out how much further it was when Jean-Michel slowed down and turned to the left, between two rough-hewn pillars supporting an arch. Rosie could just make out the name ‘Château de Fleurenne’ chiselled into the worn corner stone. The tall gates of intricate, wrought ironwork had the air of being permanently open as they gently rusted into the red earth. Tall, leafy plane trees lined the sandy driveway. As the bike throbbed slowly forward through flickering shadow and sunlight she caught brief glimpses of the view between the pale-flecked tree trunks. Quick snapshots of a heavenly landscape under an azure sky.
Jean-Michel steered the bike carefully between the potholes and bumps and then drew to a complete standstill and turned off the engine. The heat and silence enfolded them and Rosie drew in a breath of delight at the sight of the château spread out before them, basking in the sunlight that had faded it for centuries. Pale pink-washed walls and chalky grey shutters, bleached terracotta roof tiles and…there was someone on the terrace at the top of the crumbling stone steps. Standing tall and imperious, metallic grey hair pulled into a chignon, a pale grey dress, one hand raised to her eyes and the other holding a walking cane — there could be little doubt that this was Grandmère.
Jean-Michel pulled off his helmet and helped Rosie to unbuckle hers. Her hair spilled loose and he ran his hand lightly over it.
“Come and meet Grandmère!”
Rosie got off the motorbike, her legs feeling distinctly wobbly. She unclipped the large leather jacket that Jean-Michel had insisted she wear over her sweater. The lower half of her body was clad in the equally enormous pair of matching trousers and, emerging out of the bottom, looking ridiculously small, were the famous loafers. “Well, my appearance should certainly impress Grandmère anyway!” said Rosie, mostly to herself, as she followed Jean-Michel up the steps.
“Bonjour, Grandmère!” said Jean-Michel, kissing the tall, elegant woman three times.
“J’ai le grand plaisir de te présenter, Rosie Fielding — ma fiancée! Rosie, je te présente, Madame de Fleurenne — ma grandmère.”
The two women shook hands politely. Rosie had the absurd feeling that she should bob a curtsey, an idea made even more ridiculous when she thought of how she must look in the huge motorbike leathers.
“Enchantée.” Madame de Fleurenne smiled courteously and then turned back to Jean-Michel, continuing in fluent English, “Really, Jean-Michel, you are quite extraordinary! First you telephone to say that you are bringing your future wife to meet me and then you bring her all the way from Nice -— in this heat — on the back of your monstrous bike.” She turned with a sweet smile to Rosie.
“My dear girl, you must be exhausted. Come inside and recover from such a ridiculous journey. Really, Jean-Michel is quite impossible.”
She placed a cool hand under Rosie’s chin and then kissed her lightly on both cheeks. Her smile changed from sweet to impish as she inhaled, her nostrils quivering.
“Hmm, Jean-Michel’s favourite soap — verveine — and is that an overtone of your own perfume?” She sniffed the air like a bloodhound, her long Roman nose held high. “Yes, definitely 24, Faubourg by Hermès! An interesting choice for one so young.”
Rosie stood still on the spot, dumbfounded, her eyes wide. Before she could say anything, Grandmère was continuing.
“You must forgive me, my dear, terrible manners, of course, and only a party trick. I meet so few new people these days, especially with a fine taste in perfume. Now, you will want to freshen up, yes? Then you must tell me all about this sudden news. Jean-Michel is a wicked boy to telephone on a quiet Sunday to tell me he is bringing his fiancée to meet me — just comme ça!” She waved a delicate, beringed hand in the air and moved slowly through the front door ahead of them.
Rosie glanced at Jean-Michel and whispered, “I don’t need to tell her that you are a bad boy — she knows it already.”
As she moved ahead of Jean-Michel he slipped his hand down the back of the loose waistband of the leather trousers and lightly pinched her bottom. Rosie suppressed a yelp and a dreadful desire to burst into helpless giggles. But Madame de Fleurenne was speaking again.
“Jean-Michel, do go and find Celine — she is probably in the kitchen. She will show Mademoiselle Rosie to the guest rooms.”
“No need to disturb Celine, Grandmère, I’ll take Rosie upstairs and—”
Madame de Fleurenne interrupted. “Jean-Michel, please do as I ask.”
“Oh, and, Jean-Michel, could you fetch my bag from the back of the bike?” added Rosie in as arrogant a voice as she could manage without bursting into laughter.
Jean-Michel sighed and raised his hands in the air. The two women looked at each other in satisfaction.
“You speak wonderful English, madame,” said Rosie. “I wish my French was as good.”
“I lived in London for two years when my husband was alive. We both adored London — and nowadays it is essential to speak English, or maybe I should say American! Who needs to speak French any more?”
“But it’s the most beautiful language,” said Rosie, adding, “And your château…it’s simply incredible!”
“I may agree with you about the French language but my poor old château… It was beautiful once upon a time like a fairy tale but now…now it is sadly neglected.”
“But I don’t think that deflects from its beauty.” Rosie spoke sincerely as she looked round the cool, lofty hall.
“Thank you, my dear, you are too kind. I adore it, of course, but it is like me — an ageing relic.”
“But like you, madame, it also has perfect bone structure.”
Madame raised a hand and laid her fingers on her high cheekbone. “Someone said that to me once before — an age ago. I was so young that I really didn’t understand. I’m not sure I do now — but thank you anyway. Tell me, do you have this perfect bone structure?” She laughed, her dark eyes sparkling with humour.
“Probably not!” Rosie said, smiling. “But now I can see where Jean-Michel gets his dark brown eyes from too.”
“Do you think so? My goodness, I’ve never thought about that either! I shall have to take a good look at him if he ever returns to us.”
They both laughed and at that moment Jean-Michel came back into the hall carrying Rosie’s bag. As he drew near Madame de Fleurenne rested a hand on his shoulder.
“Let me take a good look at you, Jean-Michel!”
She peered into his eyes and then turned to Rosie.
“I do believe you’re right!” They both laughed again and Jean-Michel turned from one to the other.
“Is this some sort of ‘female bonding togetherness’ joke or can I be included?”
“Yes and no!” The two women spoke as one and this made them laugh even more.
“Well, I’m pleased you two seem to be getting on so well!” Jean-Michel raised his hands in the air again — half laughing now. “Here comes Celine — and here is your bag, Rosie. Have I carried out both your commands successfully, mesdames?” he added with an exaggerated flourish and a low bow.
Madame de Fleurenne smiled sweetly and took Jean-Michel by the arm.
“Mais oui, you can be a good boy if only you try… Now perhaps you would accompany me to the terrace, if you don’t think it will be too frightfully hot. We can sit in the shade and await your beautiful fiancée to join us.”
Celine moved forward and almost snatched the bag from Jean-Michel, then, turning her back on Rosie, she muttered over her shoulder, “Suivez-moi!”
Rosie raised her eyebrows at Jean-Michel and then flashed a wide smile to show she was happy to ignore the rudeness. She followed Celine up the staircase, smiling to herself. It was easy to imagine that Celine’s attitude was down to jealousy. Jean-Michel obviously held a special place in her heart and now this foreigner had come along and stolen it. Rosie regarded the firmly set shoulders and rigid neck muscles of the small woman in front of her — there was an almost visible violent green aura. Yes, well, she didn’t have the language skills to win her over — not yet. Rosie had already been planning a crash course in French the minute she hit London.
She drew in her breath sharply as her mind raced ahead — could it really be possible that she would be back at her desk tomorrow afternoon? It seemed a world away from the peace of this elegant old mansion, languishing in the hot Provençal sunshine. Her thoughts were abruptly interrupted as Celine flung open a door at the end of the long corridor and held it open for Rosie. Celine dropped the bag down on a chair and spoke so rapidly in French that Rosie didn’t understand a word. She decided to smile anyway, guessing that Celine had asked if she could find her own way back. “Merci bien, Celine — thank you. I’ll find my own way back!”
“Very well, mademoiselle.” The reply came back in heavily accented English.
“You speak English!” said Rosie in surprise.
“And why not, mademoiselle?” Celine answered coldly and left the room, closing the door a little too firmly.
Yes, well, she had asked for that. Not a good start but she had no time to worry about it now. She needed to apply herself to a quick Cinderella act without the aid of a godmother’s fairy wand. Rosie peeled off the enormous leather trousers, leaving them in a pile on the floor. She picked up her bag, a Prada bowling bag that she relied on for hand luggage, and tipped the entire contents into the middle of the small, high double bed. Her make-up bag, a large hairbrush, a small jewellery case, a camera, a battery pack, a wallet, a pale turquoise pleated silk Issey Miyake dress and a pair of Jimmy Choo sandals of exactly the same colour — a successful impulse buy in the January sales. Yes, this was definitely the moment to abandon the loafers.
Rosie quickly shook out the dress and draped it over the end of the wroughtiron bed. She looked round the shadowy room and saw a door on the far side. She opened it and, voilà — the bathroom. An immense bathroom, in fact, of flaking gilt and pink marble. There was a small fizz of electricity in the switch as she turned on the crystal chandelier high above her head. It gave out an uncertain dark glow for a brief moment, flickered and then went out. The room was so dim that Rosie could hardly see her reflection in the dark glass of the antique mirror that hung above the mantelpiece. She turned on the taps and waited whilst some rusty water spluttered and then ran clear and cold. She splashed her face and neck and washed her hands with the luxurious soap. The scent was as elusive as it was heavenly. This family certainly knew about perfume even if the plumbing and wiring was last century.
She went back into the bedroom and across to the heavily shuttered windows where thin shafts of sunlight splintered the gloom. She wrestled with the metal handle, trying to open them, but they were sealed firm with the paint and rust of ages. Not worth breaking a fingernail over. She tipped out the contents of her make-up bag. Thank goodness she had packed her old magnifying mirror. She looked at it fondly, seeing for a moment her childhood reflected in its glass. It had been her father’s shaving mirror — the one he had always packed in his case whenever he went away. And he had certainly done that often enough throughout her childhood… Maybe that was why the marriage had fallen apart. When he had finally gone, never to return, he had left the mirror behind.
She sighed, feeling a pang of sadness as she remembered her father’s wide smile, so like her own. But Cinderella had no time to behave like Alice through the looking glass. Rosie smiled determinedly at herself in the mirror and, kneeling under the window in a beam of sunshine, she began to carefully apply the lightest of make-up. She angled the mirror from side to side until she was satisfied that the look was totally natural. Jewellery — she needed just something. She unzipped her jewellery case and selected a favourite pair of pale jade earrings that she had bought in India. Finally she scooped everything except her camera back into the bowling bag and carefully closed it. She stepped into the silk dress and sandals and stood for a moment quite still. Yes, she decided, now Cinderella shall go to the ball.
She left the room and made her way back down the long corridor towards the stairs. This time she took more notice of the paintings and furniture. The de Fleurenne family was hardly impoverished. The heavy planked floor was covered in long runners of beautiful oriental design, worn but still glowing with silky colour. The wide staircase, divided in two by a curved landing, swept down to the hall under the gaze of several family portraits. Rosie could feel the ancestral eyes following her. She hoped they approved of her transformation. In her heart she knew she looked good. Her freshly washed hair was shiny with health and a quick spray of shine. Her skin glowed with yesterday’s sun and Estée Lauder. The dress was always a perfect travelling companion, a sheath of silk that caressed her body and swished around her bare knees as she descended the marble stairs, her sandals clicking expensively. Most of all, she walked clad in the magic radiance of love. How could such a young woman suspect that she walked towards anything other than happiness?
