Wild Lavender (34 page)

Sometimes I found some of the minor acts kissing backstage and once, when I was standing near the air vent in my dressing room, I heard the ecstatic sounds of a man and woman making love somewhere in the theatre. I pressed my ear to the hole, enthralled by the moans, pants and sighs. A throb burned in my belly but I could only
dream what those touches might be like. I closed my eyes and imagined running my hands through André’s hair and feeling his naked flesh melt into mine. But when such thoughts occurred I would splash my face with cold water or dab my temples with cologne. It was no use cherishing a desire that could never be fulfilled. I thought I was old for my age, and I was certainly older than the average music hall virgin, but André treated me with the familiar sweetness of a brother doting on his little sister.

I certainly felt like a ‘special project’ the first time I walked past Galeries Lafayette and saw my face looming on a billboard above Boulevard Haussmann. ‘
For skin as smooth as Simone Fleurier’s use Le Chat Soap
.’ Was that girl wrapped in a satin dress and clutching a wide-eyed, diamond-collared Kira to her bosom really me? André had arranged for me to represent several products as prepublicity for the show and I appeared in advertisements for Helena Rubenstein cosmetics and Rivoire & Carret pasta. I eyed the Le Chat advertisement with suspicion. The girl’s hair was glossy and smooth, her lips were rouged with dark lipstick and her eyes rimmed in kohl. She wasn’t the person I felt inside. I was still treading on tiptoe, waiting for the chorus girls to turn on me and declare that I was a gawky comedian who belonged at the end of the line. But the success of the advertisements belied those doubts. Sales for all three products doubled in the first month. I was on the verge of stardom. All that I had dreamed of and had worked for was coming to fruition. Why, then, did I feel so lonely?

‘We have an invitation,’ said André, holding up a white card. ‘Mother is keen to be in on my surprise for my father. She told me that in order to bring you the best audience we have to get you into the social pages. She has invited you to her enclosure at Longchamps. She says if a beautiful but unknown lady is seen at the races with Madame Blanchard, everyone is going to want to know who she is. But first I have to introduce you to her.’

André and I arrived at his family’s townhouse on Avenue Marceau the following morning for coffee and cake with Madame Blanchard. Staying at the Adlon and dining at fine restaurants had smoothed out my country manners, and the Vionnet dress I wore did not make me look out of place on the granite portico where André and I waited for the butler to open the door. But as soon as I laid eyes on the foyer with its marble staircase, fountain and portraits by Gainsborough, I was thrown. The Adlon was a poor cousin compared to the Blanchard residence. I did my best not to gape at the swagged valances and oriental carpets, at the candelabras with their bronze roses or the dark wood furniture with its accents of gold. The house was everything the residence of a powerful European family should be: it was imbued with age and permanence. And it was intimidating.

Madame Blanchard was waiting for us in her parlour with André’s younger sister, Veronique. His mother had pouch-like cheeks and was as blonde as a Swede. André had inherited his height and colouring from his father.

‘My dear, you are as lovely as André described you,’ Madame Blanchard said, taking my hand and guiding me to a chair upholstered in blue brocade. The curtains and sconces were turquoise, and everywhere I looked I saw tones of lapis lazuli and gold offset by vases of white orchids. The effect was like standing in an exotic seashell. The room was refreshingly different to the sombre tone of the rest of the house.

For some reason, Madame Blanchard had omitted introducing Veronique, but the girl was not going to be ignored. She rose from her seat, tossed her red hair over her shoulders and announced herself in a prepubescent voice, adding that I seemed ‘much nicer than Mademoiselle Canier’.

‘Veronique!’ exclaimed Madame Blanchard, trying to suppress a smile. ‘Compliment Mademoiselle Fleurier, by all means, but do not insult anybody else to do it.’

Next to me was a skirted table with a picture frame on it. The figure in the photograph was broad-shouldered and
handsome in his officer’s uniform. But the eyes had the soulful look of an artist, not a soldier. I glanced at the case of war medals on the shelf above. There was no need to ask who the man in the picture was.

I was conscious of Madame Blanchard watching me and turned to her. Although she did not refer to the picture, something in her eyes told me that she was pleased I had noticed it.

‘The fashion writer from
L’Illustration
will do something on Mademoiselle Fleurier,’ she said, nodding to André. ‘Talent is one thing; publicity quite another.’ Then, once the maid had poured the coffee and served us each a slice of chocolate torte, she added, ‘Mademoiselle Fleurier needs to be seen and photographed at the right places before opening night. And Longchamps tomorrow is an opportunity too good to miss.’

A Pomeranian puppy wandered into the room and took a seat under Veronique’s chair. The girl bent down and fed him a piece of cake on her finger. I thought of how my family used to feed Olly like that, but the rustic kitchen in Pays de Sault was worlds away from Madame Blanchard’s elegant parlour.

‘Tell me about yourself, Mademoiselle Fleurier,’ Madame Blanchard said. ‘So you started your career in Marseilles?’

I explained to her about my family’s lavender farm, my father’s death and Le Chat Espiègle. Madame Blanchard listened carefully to my account of my humble origins and did not seem put off by them in the slightest. If anything she was impressed by my determination to succeed.

While Madame Blanchard and I made small talk, André spoke with his sister. Their voices had the affectionate ease of a history of childhood games and shared secrets. When Veronique finished her slice of cake, André cut her another piece, despite his mother’s good-humoured scowl. I remembered what André had said about Veronique being the rebel in the family and I hoped that her father would not crush the girl’s lively spirit—or André’s either. Monsieur Blanchard was away on business in Switzerland, but I felt his dominating presence in the portrait above the
fireplace. I knew who it was because he looked just like André, only sterner. I thought the family patriarch was an unusual choice for Madame Blanchard’s parlour. Even when Monsieur Blanchard was not there, he seemed to be watching over the order of the house.

‘My children are each so different,’ said Madame Blanchard. ‘Everything shows on Veronique’s face, whether she is happy or displeased. André is another matter entirely. You can never tell what he is thinking. With him it is true that still waters run deep.’

We stayed with André’s mother and sister for an hour. When we stood up to leave, Madame Blanchard placed her hand on my shoulder. ‘I like you,’ she whispered. ‘You are not at all what I imagined.’

I liked Madame Blanchard too. I thought her kind and sincere. But there was a niggling doubt in her voice that made me afraid. I sensed that André’s father would not be so easy to please.

My contract with the Adriana included part of my performance fee upfront. As André was taking care of my material needs, I sent half of the fee to Bernard so that he could improve the farm. Then I went to see Joseph at the furniture store.

‘Mademoiselle Fleurier,’ he greeted me. ‘Odette didn’t tell me you were coming. Are you after something special?’

Ever since I had returned from Germany, I had noticed how forlorn Odette looked because her twenty-first birthday had come and gone and she and Joseph were still not married. Joseph was successful in his job with the furniture store but he hadn’t been able to put aside enough capital for his own business. Without it, Odette’s father would not give them permission to marry.

‘My parents like Joseph very much,’ Odette explained. ‘But they want to make sure that he can support me. And Uncle agrees with them.’

I had to hide my smile. Odette had expensive tastes, even her middle-class parents discerned that. If Joseph did not have a good income, she would send him broke in a year.

‘I want to help you set up your own store,’ I told Joseph. ‘I have a cheque for you in my bag.’

Joseph’s eyes opened wide and he shook his head. ‘No, Mademoiselle Fleurier, I can’t ask that of you.’

‘You are not asking,’ I told him. ‘I am giving it to you. Odette has been a good friend to me and I want you to marry her and make her happy.’

Joseph’s shoulders relaxed and he beckoned me into his office.

‘I do want to marry Odette,’ he said, pulling out a chair for me. ‘But I would be ashamed of myself if I were in debt. So I must refuse.’

‘Don’t be silly,’ I told him. ‘You won’t be in debt. One day, when you are successful, you can furnish my family’s farmhouse in Provence. They have simple tastes but I would like them to have some beautiful things too.’

Joseph’s eyes lit up. ‘It would give me great pleasure to do that. I could make a trip to Provence especially to buy what was needed.’

‘So it is settled then?’ I said, rising from my chair. ‘I don’t see any need for us to tell Odette what we have discussed.’

Tears filled Joseph’s eyes. He was a sweet man and I was sure that he would be a good husband. ‘You have no idea how happy you have made me,’ he said. ‘If Odette and I have a daughter, we will name her after you.’

‘I would be honoured,’ I said. ‘But I don’t hold you to that.’

I caught a taxi back to my apartment with joy in my heart. At first I had thought money could only be used to buy things, but now I realised that it could bring happiness too.

By the end of March everyone was working full throttle, the accelerator of the show stuck fast to the floor. It usually
took Lebaron and Minot six to ten months to prepare for a new spectacle, but, with André’s help, they had almost done it in three. ‘Almost’ because by the time the final orchestrations of the songs had been completed, some of the dance tempos needed to be changed. There were also still costume alterations to be done and some of the sets needed amendments to work with schedule changes. Tempers flared. One of the electricians stormed out and a seamstress collapsed from exhaustion. Odette came along to help with the costumes and I developed even more respect for my friend after seeing her day after day with a needle in her hand and thread between her teeth, telling everyone, ‘Calm down. It will all come together in the end.’

My dress for the finale was still tacked on a dressmaker’s dummy in the workroom. I offered to help finish it but Minot opened his eyes in horror. ‘No, no, no, Mademoiselle Fleurier! You must save your energy. You are the star. This show rides on your wings.’

I had been hoping to turn my mind to something else to settle my nerves. The show ‘riding on my wings’ was what caused me to have night sweats and dizzy spells. I didn’t tell a soul about the panic attacks. The first one came after the book had been written and the scores composed. I was in my apartment going over some lyrics when my heart began to palpitate. I tried to focus on the score but my mind spun and everything turned white. The only way I could get rid of the nauseous feeling was to hide the score under a pillow. After that, I could only rehearse in the company of someone else, usually André or Minot.

‘I can’t memorise anything unless I am performing for someone,’ I laughed, hiding my terror behind my smile.

With the strain everyone was under to put together the best show yet in half the time, I couldn’t afford to dampen anyone’s spirit or make them doubt me. I realised that the pressure I had felt at the Casino de Paris and Le Chat Espiègle had only been ‘butterflies’. The stakes were much higher now. If the audience didn’t respond, I would be taking a lot of people down with me.

It didn’t help my state of mind when, in the last week of rehearsals before opening night, Lebaron lurked about the sets when I practised my numbers, wearing the expression of a condemned man. Even worse, by the last day he was shaking his head as if he had made a terrible mistake in taking a gamble on me.

‘Ignore it,’ whispered Minot, patting my shoulder. ‘He is always like that at this time. It is his superstition. He thinks that if he tells you how fabulous you are, he will jinx the whole show.’

On opening night, I arrived at the theatre at half-past seven with Kira, my good luck mascot. André had sent his car but hadn’t been able to come himself due to a last-minute change with a support act. My dressing room was filled with roses and there was a bottle of champagne in an ice bucket. Attached to the neck was a card from Minot which read: ‘We shall be drinking this at midnight, my lovely!’ Dear, sweet Minot. He thought of everything. He had even sent out a memo that I was not to be disturbed by anyone and all messages were to be conveyed to me either by the stage manager or himself. Although I was concerned this might put me in the same petty tyrant league as Jacques Noir, I appreciated it. I needed to gather my thoughts. Kira sensed my jumpiness. During the rehearsals she had slept on a blanket near the heater or amused herself by swiping my cosmetic pencils from the bench. But now she was hiding under my dressing table and refusing to come out. I couldn’t blame her. If I could have, I would have done the same thing.

My hand trembled when I opened my greasepaint tin. My eyes were watering, something they always did when I was anxious. I stretched my head back and closed them, willing myself to relax. The previous night I had dreamt that I had gone on stage and forgotten the words to the opening song, which would have been ridiculous because there were so few of them.

After all the chaos and bustle of the previous weeks, the theatre was eerily quiet. I imagined everybody at their posts: dressers laying out costumes and counting wigs; the stagehands checking props and light switches; the musicians warming up their fingers or drinking their last-minute coffees.

My dresser was scheduled to come at eight o’clock. As soon as the hands of the clock on my bench struck the hour, there was a knock at the door. I opened it to find Odette holding up my dress for the first number. ‘I thought you might need some moral support,’ she said. ‘From someone who hasn’t yet turned purple in the face.’