The Charmers (22 page)

I put on my old finery, and sometimes my old flirt face, and it was astonishing what secrets a man would let slip when he needed to boast to a woman like myself. Flattery, with those men, I discovered, got you everywhere.

At first it was not difficult. I was able to help in several cases, which I was told later resulted in lives saved, positions altered, a safer escape route taken. I played only a small part, but I helped in my own way, and I hoped some of those saved lives were because of me.

I also picked up my old self, the singer, the entertainer. I offered my services to the War Office and put together a pianist, or sometimes an accordion player for when there was no piano, as well as a guitarist, and the woman who had for many years been my dresser.

I unpacked some of my “glamour” from the trunks full of stage clothes, unearthed myself from my farm, and I went out and sang to those troops, most of whom were too young to remember who I was, but who showed their appreciation loudly with whistles and cheers. And I showed them my legs and got more whistles and cheers.

I'd had my uniform tailored in London. Not that it was a real uniform, since I belonged to no armed service. I designed it myself. A soft olive green, with with a Sam Browne belt like the Americans had, only mine had a polished gold Hermès buckle. Breast pockets with crested gold buttons; a silver flask of good brandy tucked into the hip pocket of my trousers—I only wore skirts when I was “on display,” so to speak. Trousers were much more comfortable and more discreet when walking and climbing or driving in bumpy jeeps was involved.

We jolted in an ancient jeep across the deserts of North Africa, constantly breaking down, tires too worn to cope with the blazing hot sand, sleeping in small tents at night, me always worrying about scorpions and bugs. They placed lighted candles around to keep them at bay. And if occasionally some delightful young man I had met at dinner in the officers' mess, came to ask if he might join me, who was I to say no? When this might be his last, forever, chance to hold a woman in his arms. Call it promiscuity, if you will. For me, what I offered was comfort. And the best sex he'd ever had. And in case you are interested, oh yes, I did enjoy it. But then, I always had. Remember?

Would I be wrong in saying I enjoyed that part of the war? That it took me back to who I once was? For a brief time, yet all the while I was aware that some of those boys cheering me would not return. It was a love-hate affair, at best, but I tried to do my part. Until it was over, and I returned to normal. The forgotten woman with a past.

Did I not say the war saved my life? It did more. It saved my self-respect. I did whatever I was asked. I drove ambulances to the front line to bring back the wounded, and too often, the dead, young men I had probably met the previous evening. I steeled myself to go on, told myself this was war, this is what men did to each other. And I prayed it would never happen again. Every night I prayed. And sometimes during the daytime too, when guns flared their lethal fire at us, at anyone, anywhere. It was the world gone mad.

Then, one day, when I know we all thought we could take no more, the American troops walked into Paris and we were free again. God bless you, the crowd yelled, women rushing to kiss these super men, so tall, so strong, so handsome in their uniforms and helmets, handing out candies to the eager, sweet-deprived children, and with kisses to the womenfolk.

Life returned to normal, but I would miss that world forever.

A few years later, anonymous on my farm in the Luberon valley, I received a letter from the French government, the Department of Affairs. The president, it was said, had decided to honor my war work and courage with a medal. Unfortunately the president himself could not pin this emblem on my shoulder since he was away, but I would receive it in the mail.

And I did. I took it out of its velvet box, stroked its blue, white, and red grosgrain ribbon, kissed the small golden emblem of honor and then I put it away with the pearls and the Ceylon sapphire ring, forever. Or at least, until the next generation.

 

43

It is an odd thing to say but somehow that terrible war had brought me back to life. And to its responsibilities. The defeat of my country, my lovely Paris with jackbooted German soldiers marching triumphantly through its streets, arms held in a stiff salute in front of them, and steel helmets jammed over their heads so we could not see their faces. They were so young, most of them, like our own boys, called to serve their country. At first we'd had some sympathy for their youth, their bewilderment, but then not for the insane desire to obey commands that could mean the death of civilization as we knew it. Nor for their sadistic treatment of our men, or for raping our country. Of course, there are good men to be found any place, anywhere in the world, but then it was power gone mad.

It took that war to rouse me from my self-pity, my lethargy, my small home. I had never returned to the Villa Romantica, simply left it exactly as it was, with a housekeeper to clean and her handyman-husband to maintain things. No doubt it had been gathering dust since I left, because without the owner on the premises, nothing would get done.

The enemy officers who'd occupied it seemed not to care. I was told they held parties, smashed my fine wineglasses in the fireplace after mammoth drinking bouts, took paintings off the walls and threw them into the fire; they chalked over my youthful portrait, making a caricature of the fine work by Paul Cesar Helleu, painted just before he died. Many artworks were ruined this way. By the end, there was little left to remember the good life at the villa. Only memories. Which are, of course, forever.

I lived out my life with those memories to sustain me, on the small farm in the Luberon valley, where no one recognized me, a gray-haired woman, old but still erect with that dancer's posture that was to sustain me to the end. No one was left to care that the woman selling potatoes at the market, pulled by her hands from the earth that morning, was once the star who'd sung and danced on the stages of the world, whose lover was as famous if not more so than she herself. The woman who had killed him.

I, of course, remembered everything. Which is why I finally took up my pen and wrote it down here, for those that will come after me and who might have some curiosity, or think themselves related, or who might even be family, because, after all, I did have a daughter. Once upon a time. Isn't that the way every fairy tale begins?

In the end, I was simply Madame Matthews, though of course I was never truly that. I could sit unrecognized in the local café after the market closed for the day, sipping my glass of red, and nodding cheerfully to those who took the time to bid me
bonjour
.

I made my preparations. I went to the local
notaire
and made a will. I left the Villa Romantica to Jolie Matthews, known as “Jolly,” though I was careful not to name her as my daughter.

The girl had been told the villa belonged to a distant relative. I knew she had visited several times and through the grapevine of local gossip, I also heard how she'd enjoyed it, how much she loved the villa, and how because of her, it had been restored gradually to if not glory, at least its former beauty. Simple. Pristine. Perfect.

It was all I could wish for. My daughter living in the villa I had created and built. They both had my love.

Of course I left her the pearls. And the sapphire ring. I liked to think of her wearing them, and of the pleasure they might give her, as they had given me.

I have also stipulated in my will that my beloved pets are to live in the villa. I am ready to go. The fact is, I have lived long enough anyway. I gave what I could, laughed, and have known the joy of being loved. It is, at last, enough.

My little brown dog lies on my lap, gazing soulfully into my faded blue eyes. My small gray cat sprawls his length against me. And the tiny canary sings its brave song.

 

Part IV

The Present

 

44

Verity

I don't like the way I feel. As though I am heavy when I want to be weightless. As though my brain has deserted me when I need to think. As though my chest is still heaving with water, my ribs aflame with pain.

I'm guessing this is the way you feel when you are drugged into a sort of submissive state, with no will of your own, no way to make your limbs obey the brain's commands. Or perhaps it's that the brain is issuing the wrong commands. How am I to know? I'm simply lying here, trying desperately to begin to think. To remember. If I don't, I think I might die and I don't want that. I have things left to do before I go, and besides I'm too young. I want to make sure that my cheating husband gets to know what I really think of him. I want Mirabella to know that I am so glad she found me on the train and made me her friend. And I want to thank the Boss for saving my life. At least I hope it's saved.

I do remember him lifting me from the waves, stroking my wet hair from my face, being held in his arms as he walked up the beach, calling out, “I found her.” I remember he said, “She drowned.”

So that's why my chest felt full of water. I recall now the immense weight of it, but more, I remember the waves surging over me, going down beneath them. They were black not green, as they were when I'd swam so happily in them earlier. Yet I'd felt the sand under me, knew I wasn't in deep water, I was merely resting there. Until the Boss came and hauled me up, lifted me in his strong arms the way the hero always does in movies. I almost expected him to be in the Superman suit, not dressed in a black turtleneck and running pants. God, I think I fell in love with him there and then. Never underestimate the attraction of power, whether it's strength, as it was at that moment, or importance and wealth, as he'd always had. A double whammy, in fact.

And then Chad Prescott had me on the ground and was blasting my ribs until I felt sure I heard them crack, only I couldn't speak to tell him it hurt. I could only hope he knew what he was doing.

He faded from my vision. Everything went black. I knew nothing until I woke up in the hospital, with Mirabella leaning over me, her face a picture of concern. I had no idea how much time had passed, what had happened, where I was, even. Mirabella understood at once.

“It's okay, my little Verity,” she said, smoothing my hair from my hot head with a cool hand.

I've hated hospitals ever since I was a child and they took my tonsils out and never gave me the promised ice cream afterward. “Get me out of here,” I said in what I thought was a quiet voice but somehow came out as a hoarse shout.

“Shh.” She took my limp hand from where it lay immobilized like the rest of me, on the white sheet, and kissed it tenderly. “You had an accident,” she said, still in that soothing voice people use on other people who are really sick, so as not to frighten them.

“I did not,” I said, as forcefully as I could manage since my own voice had now retreated to a squeak. “Somebody hit me, somebody threw me in the sea, I could have drowned.…”

Realizing the horror of what I was saying, I suddenly burst into tears. Mirabella handed me the tissues and I mopped busily but still they came.

“It's the relief, sweetheart,” she said. “That's all. Chad is looking after you, and he's the best you can get. And so am I, looking after you.”

“You are the best I can get,” I said, noticing the flowers displayed on every available surface. “I'll bet I know who those are from. There's only one man who could afford them and it's not my husband.”

“Soon to be ex, remember? And you are right, of course. The Boss is distraught that this happened to you at his party, at his villa. He will do anything to help. In fact he wants you to stay at his home, in one of the guesthouses, where you will be looked after, as he said to me, ‘Like royalty, only better.'”

I laughed. The Boss was a charmer, and cute with it. Sort of funny—there was always a little disclaimer where he was concerned. I don't know why because he had certainly never been anything other than charming and generous to me. Especially now with his offer.

“I want you to come to me, of course,” Mirabella was saying. “But the fact is I have to be away for a couple of days, some business thing in London to do with Aunt Jolly's will and the property, that you know Chad Prescott says she deeded to him in a letter. Which in fact she did, but of course it's not valid. I have to straighten it out.”

“Is Chad giving you trouble over that?” I was surprised.

“He did at the beginning, but he's backed off. It's his lawyers who won't let go. Still, you'll be okay there, at the Boss's place. He has an army of servants to look after you, which is more than I can do.”

“I'd rather eat my breakfast in the kitchen with you,” I said. “I'm pretty good at carving up melons, buttering toast…”

“We'll do just that, in a few days' time. Then you'll come home. Meanwhile, enjoy your flowers and get well. That's what I want most from you.”

“You don't want my love then?” The squeak was back in my voice. She was already at the door and turned, one hand on the knob, to look back at me.

“You betcha, baby,” she said with a wink.

 

45

The Boss

A couple of hours later, the Boss returned home to the Villa Mara from the hospital, where he'd left Verity in the care of several doctors, including know-it-all Chad Prescott, as well as the fuckin' Colonel, who was determined to get his hand in and would probably want to claim responsibility for saving her life and then later for arresting the culprit for what he was determined to call an “attempted murder.” And he'd be right. It was only “attempted.” The second Russian had also fucked up.

He stood, alone for a while, making sure his orders had been carried out. His party was still going on, the drama missed by almost everybody. A live group had replaced the DJ and the partygoers crowded around the low stage, clapping their hands to the new rhythm, or waving their arms over their heads, swaying. Champagne glasses were being refilled, and the scent of good steak mingled with the night jasmine, the lavender, the briny sea air.