Page 76 of The Gathering Storm (Morland Dynasty #36)
‘You are so helpful to me, talking to my guests and helping to keep them happy. And I have recently lost my secretary. I know what you did for Charlie, organising everything – would you like to do the same for me? I am offering you a position with a salary.’ She laid a tender hand on his arm.
‘I hate to think of you struggling for money. Starving in a garret is very well when one is young and full of dreams, but a mature man should have a decent place to live, good food and proper clothes.’
‘You don’t like my clothes?’ he said, amused.
‘You are un peu mal soigné , it must be said. But of course,’ she waved a hand to indicate his face, ‘always beautiful.’ Suddenly she became brisk, told him the salary she would pay, and what she would expect him to do: sending out invitations, meeting people at stations, finding them accommodation, ordering food and drink for her parties, booking tickets for shows, doing research, writing letters, accompanying her to galleries and first nights …
It was, as she had indicated, the sort of thing he had done for Charlie and knew very well how to do, and the salary was generous.
As long as she did not want him in her bed, it would afford him a very pleasant life.
‘And that’s all?’ he said, when she stopped talking. ‘That’s all you want me to do?’
She laughed. ‘If it’s not enough, I can always find you more.’
‘It’s enough,’ he said. ‘I accept.’
So he was able to move out of lodgings and into a small, modern apartment on the second floor of a six-storey building in the rue Lepic, on the corner of the rue Véron.
She wanted him to be somewhere nearer, and he could have afforded a more fashionable district, but he was happy in his old stamping-ground of Montmartre.
The rent was reasonable, and as he ate so often at Hélène’s expense, he found himself comfortably in funds.
He was able to buy new clothes that satisfied Hélène, who was particular in the matter of shirts and ties.
He could afford also to give up his ‘tourist nonsenses’ and, in what little leisure time he had, go back to more serious painting.
One day when he was walking from his flat to Hélène’s he passed an antiques shop on the boulevard de Clichy and, glancing in, saw someone he recognised inside.
The man looked up and met his eyes blankly.
Then a smile of recognition spread over his face.
He put down the piece of Sèvres he was holding – to the obvious disappointment of the shop’s owner – and came dashing out to seize James’s hand.
‘James Morland, is it really you?’
‘Emil Bauer, as I live and breathe! I haven’t seen you in—’
‘—too many years to remember,’ said Bauer. ‘We are both older and wiser, I hope.’
‘How come I haven’t bumped into you before?’
‘I’ve been in America for a couple of years. Washington – politics. Frightfully boring. Don’t ask! I only got back last week. What are you doing here?’
‘I’m working for Hélène – a sort of factotum-cum-secretary. You remember Hélène Gilbert?’
‘Of course. I was intending to renew my acquaintance as soon as I got settled. I remember her parties fondly.’
‘My God, it’s good to see you,’ James said.
They had met back in 1932 on the expedition to Bear Island, which Emil’s father’s money – he was a Swiss millionaire – had helped to finance.
‘Same goes for me,’ Emil replied. ‘Paris has changed so much while I was away, I don’t seem to know anybody. And everything’s got so shabby somehow. I am very much in need of a congenial friend to restore the gaiety in my life.’
‘I’d be happy to be of service,’ James said, with a grin. ‘I’m in need of a friend, too.’
‘How is the lovely Meredith?’ Emil asked.
James’s grin faded. ‘She went back to America for a visit. Then her father died and she stayed. I haven’t seen her since.’
‘Oh. I thought you two were …’
‘So did I. But apparently not,’ James said. ‘What about you? Is there a Mrs Bauer?’
‘Not even in prospect. My affaires are strictly frivolous. Can something be strictly frivolous? I mean I am strict about remaining frivolous. At the moment I am in pursuit of a delicious young lady called Florence who dances at the “Windmill”. I saw her perform last week, and fell hopelessly in love, but taking things any further is fraught with difficulty. I can’t even get past the stage door.
They seem to guard the girls like nuns.’
‘I think I might be able to help you there,’ James said.
The Moulin Rouge, a burlesque theatre, was on the corner of James’s street, the rue Lepic and the boulevard de Clichy.
James explained that he knew the manager and the front-of-house staff well, through having booked so many tickets for Charlie’s guests, and now Hélène’s.
‘I can get you complimentary tickets whenever you like. More importantly, I can get you a backstage pass.’
‘Really? What an invaluable friend you are!’
‘But I would have to guarantee your good behaviour, so I have to ask if you have honourable intentions.’
‘Well, I can certainly start with them,’ Emil said, ‘and see how it goes. I say, are you free tonight? Won’t you dine with me? My treat, but you can choose the place – you probably know better than me where’s good to eat.’
‘I’d love to. As it happens, there’s a restaurant I’ve been wanting to try. La Vache Souterraine. Apparently they have a particular way with duck.’
‘Say no more! Eight o’clock? I’ll pick you up – where are you burrowing these days?’
James fingered a card out of his pocket, handed it over, and they parted with another hearty handshake.
So for the moment, James was happy, usefully occupied, in funds, painting what he wanted to, and he had a friend to do things with.
What more could a reasonable man want? It was only at night, in the moments before sleep claimed him, that he knew he was lonely.
He thought about poor Tata, but was at last beginning to be able to live with the guilt over her death.
He thought about Meredith, and wondered what she was doing, imagining her astride a horse, helping her brothers to round up cattle, living a bright and breezy outdoor life.
His imaginings were informed by the cowboy movies he had seen, though he edited out the guns and outlaws.
And the horses made him think about Polly, back in Morland Place. He would write her a long letter to cheer her up. But when it came to it, his daylight hours were so crowded, he only managed to send her a postcard.
One day in May, Hélène said to him, ‘The English painter Eric Chapel is back in Paris. I heard yesterday he is to design sets for Billancourt Studios for their Jeanne d’Arc film.
’ She shrugged. ‘It is a fad, this having famous artists to design sets. It is foolish, when there are French set designers like Trauner and Lourié wanting the work – but there! All the studios are doing it. Look at Dalí! There is a very silly man – though he can paint.’
‘But Eric Chapel designed sets in Hollywood,’ James said, amused by her patriotism. ‘It’s quite respectable.’
She smiled and patted his cheek. ‘Respectable. What a word! So classe moyenne . I want you to find Monsieur Chapel for me, speak to him.’
‘Where are the Billancourt studios?’
‘At Boulogne-Billancourt, of course, but you do not need to go all the way out there. He is staying at the Crillon. You can catch him there. I want to know what happens to his original artworks for the sets, and whether I can buy them. I can sell them for a great deal of money to my Americans. And invite him to one of my parties.’
‘Which one?’
‘We will make one around him, of course. Do not ask foolish questions.’
The H?tel de Crillon was an eighteenth-century stone palace on the corner of the place de la Concorde, where once Louis XVI and Marie-Antoinette had lived – and in front of which they had died under the guillotine.
It had been turned into an hotel in 1909, and was the smartest and most expensive place to stay in Paris, along with its older and more traditional rival in the rue de Rivoli, the Meurice, which James knew well from his time with the Windsors.
He waited outside the hotel for a while, then went in and lurked in the sumptuous foyer.
He was just considering a more direct approach – telephoning to Chapel’s room – when the lift doors opened and the man himself appeared.
James saw at once that he had not changed much since he had seen him last. His years sat lightly on him: his face was still taut and unlined, his pale hair still thick.
Under an admirable suit – he was obviously prosperous – his body was lean and agile.
He was quite tanned, as was to be expected if he had recently arrived from California, and his eyes were startlingly blue in his brown face.
They were also sharp – they picked out James almost as soon as James spotted him.
He came across with a pleasant smile, and a slightly quizzical air.
‘It’s James Morland, isn’t it?’ he said, holding out his hand.
‘I’m surprised you remember me,’ James said.
‘I have a good memory for faces,’ he said. He saw that James was looking with polite enquiry at the woman on Chapel’s arm, and said, ‘My wife, Emilie.’
‘I didn’t know you were married,’ James said, shaking the delicate hand held out to him. She was very slender, petite, and strikingly beautiful, with dark hair and eyes.
‘It’s very recent. Emilie was Emilie Delancourt before she did me the honour of accepting my hand – one of Warner’s rising stars. You may have seen her in The Glass Forest and We Three .’
A movie actress. That made sense. James made a polite murmur, not having seen either of those films. ‘And what brings you to Paris?’