Authors: Rhys Bowen

Naughty In Nice (14 page)

BOOK: Naughty In Nice

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One look at them and it was obvious that I’d stick out like a sore thumb. But I couldn’t back out now. Chanel put us through a final rehearsal. The other girls strutted out, hips thrust forward and shoulders swinging, managing to look sexy and glamorous in whatever Chanel made them wear. My turn came and I managed to walk up and down the catwalk. But my feet felt like lead and I was sure I looked like an unsteady, ungraceful schoolgirl. The behind-the-hand giggles from the other models seemed to indicate that my suspicion was right.

A light meal was served to us in a gloomy back room, but I was too nervous to eat. Then it was time to go back to the dressing room, where an elderly Frenchwoman waited to boss us around. Makeup was applied to my face—unfamiliar red lips and kohl-outlined eyes. My hair was styled with a curling iron. I was helped into my outfit. From beyond the door I could hear the buzz of conversation, the chink of glasses and in the background a piano playing. Vera came in carrying a leather jewelry case. We caught a glimpse of a large gendarme, whom Vera motioned to stay at the door.

“Here we are. The famous necklace,” she said. She opened the case. It was stunning. Several rows of perfect pearls, interspersed with clusters of diamonds and teardrop diamonds hanging down at intervals. She made me turn around so that she could put it on me. It felt cold and heavy on my neck. I glanced in the mirror and reacted with surprise. The choker made me look haughty and—well—regal. I noticed the other models staring at me, as if they’d noticed who I really was for the first time. Now I knew exactly how Cinderella felt when she put on that glass slipper and it fit!

Coco went past the curtains that had been rigged at the doorway and we heard thunderous applause. We couldn’t hear the words of her speech but then someone hissed in French, “Zou-Zou, ready, go.” And the first model strutted out of the room to be met with a burst of applause. She was followed by Frou-Frou and Nou-Nou and the others. They reappeared and changed with lightning speed before going out again. My turn was coming closer and closer. I found that I couldn’t breathe.

“Allez, allez,”
an elderly Frenchwoman hissed in my ear and pushed me toward the doorway. I stepped out and was blinded by spotlights shining on me and the crackling of flashbulbs from press cameras.

“And for my pièce de résistance I give you the royal look, as modeled by a member of England’s ruling family, Lady Georgiana Rannoch,” Chanel announced.

There was a gasp, and then applause. The catwalk stretched into darkness, looking about a mile long. I was conscious of upturned faces, sparkling jewels, champagne glasses. I forced one foot in front of the other, trying to walk as I had been taught. I was going to do this. I had done harder things in my life. I was not going to stumble. Step followed step. I was going to get through it.

Then, suddenly, my foot wouldn’t move, as if something was holding it fast to the floor. I felt myself pitching forward, stumbling, trying to right myself. I might have done so, but I had reached the end of the runway. Flashbulbs went off in my face, blinding me. I vaguely heard gasps of horror as I staggered, then pitched forward into blackness. There were screams and shouts of alarm. I braced myself for the moment when I hit the ground. Instead I landed on something soft. There was a grunt, then an exclamation in what sounded like Russian. I opened my eyes and looked up to find that I really had done what my mother had predicted. I had landed in the lap of a large dowager.

Hands grabbed at me.

“Easy on. You’ll be all right.” A young man took hold of me and yanked me off the poor woman’s lap. She was now protesting loudly in Russian and fanning herself.

Faces came into focus in the darkness.

“I say, Georgie, are you hurt?” I was mortified to see it was the Prince of Wales. He took my hand, helping me to right myself.

More flashbulbs popped and the smell of sulfur hung in the air.

“She is in shock, the little one,” said another male voice and again I was more than mortified to see it was the handsome Marquis de Ronchard, pushing past other people to be at my side. “A chair and some brandy. Quickly.”

“Lights. Lights!” someone else shouted and the big chandeliers thrust the room into brightness. I was led away from the catwalk, mumbling apologies to the fat dowager and the world in general.

“Whoever thought that kid could be a model needs their head examined,” I heard Mrs. Simpson’s voice say from close by. “She’s about as graceful as a drunken giraffe.” And she gave that brittle laugh.

“Pay no attention to that awful woman,” my mother said as she pushed past to reach me. “She’s just jealous because you’re young and nubile and she’s old and dried up.” She made sure that lovely voice projected so that Mrs. Simpson would hear. “Darling—are you all right?” Then she leaned closer to me. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“I don’t know what happened,” I said as Chanel hurried over to us. “It was as if my foot caught on something. One moment I was going forward, the next I couldn’t move.”

“But the runway is smooth, you see.” Chanel turned back to examine it.

“Maybe she caught her trouser leg in her shoes,” Mummy suggested. “She did say she wasn’t used to wearing high heels.”

“Not possible,” Chanel said. “The trousers are not wide enough.”

“You don’t know Georgie,” my mother said. “Many things are possible for her. Here, darling. The kind gentleman has brought you a chair. Sit down.”

I sat. Someone thrust a glass of brandy into my hands.

I sipped, coughed and sipped again.

“Are you unhurt?” Coco asked.

“I think so. I may have scratched my cheek on that lady’s jewelry.” I put my hand up to my face then ran it down to my neck. “The necklace!” I cried. “It’s gone.”

Chapter 13

The casino on the pier, Nice
January 25, 1933
Dying of embarrassment. Why did I agree to do this? I
knew it would go wrong.

“Shut the doors,” Vera’s voice rang out. “Nobody is to leave the room. A valuable necklace Lady Georgiana was wearing is missing.”

A horrified whisper went through the crowd, which was the biggest display of alarm one would expect from an aristocratic gathering.

“You’re not suggesting one of us might have stolen it,” a woman’s voice demanded from the back of the room.

“It must have come off when she fell,” someone else said. “Come on, chaps. Let’s get down and search the floor.”

Tuxedo-clad men got down on their hands and knees and were soon searching diligently. The poor dowager on whom I had landed was assisted to her feet and led to a safer location, still fanning herself. Soon everyone around was involved in the search. Even women in their evening finery were crawling around on all fours between the rows of chairs. If it hadn’t been so horribly serious, it would have been funny. But the necklace was not found.

“Did it fall somewhere inside her clothing?” someone else suggested.

I felt my pockets and inside my blouse, then shook my head.

“I’m sorry to say this,” Vera announced, “but I have sent one of the gendarmes to summon his superior. Everyone will have to be searched.”

“This is an outrage!” Mrs. Simpson said. “There are some very important people in this room. Obviously they haven’t taken a stupid necklace. Try searching the hired help.”

“There were no waiters near the stage when she fell,” someone else pointed out.

“My wife is feeling faint. She needs fresh air,” a distinguished, military-looking man complained.

“I’m sorry, but nobody is to leave,” Vera said firmly.

She had now brought in one of the gendarmes to help her guard the door. “I ask for a little patience,” she said. “This necklace must be found. It is extremely valuable.”

Again a whisper went through the crowd. I was sitting on the chair, sipping my brandy, trying to recollect exactly what had happened. Had I felt anyone touching the necklace? I was fairly sure I hadn’t. Surely I would have noticed hands at the back of my neck. But then, I was rather shocked at the time. It was suggested that the necklace could have somehow rolled under the catwalk, in spite of the heavy velvet drapes around it. A couple of young men obligingly held up the drape while the waiters were instructed to crawl beneath it. But they came out empty-handed.

“The necklace must be somewhere in this room,” Chanel said, pacing up and down past me. “We would have noticed if anyone had opened a door after you fell. We would have seen the light coming from outside.”

“I don’t know how I fell,” I said. I got up and made my way back to the catwalk. The surface was smooth wood. I couldn’t see any bumps or nails sticking up or any kind of projection. I was forced to admit that my well-known clumsiness had caused this. I should never have agreed to model the clothes. I had only myself to blame. People in the salon were getting progressively more annoyed. Mutterings turned to mumblings to raised voices. Just when it looked as if there might be a mutiny and they might force their way out, the doors were flung open and a little man stood there. He had an impressive black mustache out of all proportion to his size and he stood surveying the crowd with an air of distaste.

“Nobody is to move,” he said in heavily accented English. “I am Inspector Lafite of the Nice Police. I understand that a robbery has happened here.” (Actually he said “a rubbery’as ’appened ’ere.”) “But ’ave no fear. I shall find the culprit and bring ’im to justice.”

“This is ridiculous,” one of the bejeweled ladies said, fanning herself with her program. “We’re English aristocracy, not Continentals. We don’t go around stealing things.”

The crowd parted as Inspector Lafite strode through the crowd until he reached the catwalk. “You Engleesh,” he said, looking around us with scorn, “you think you can come here to France and behave badly. You think we French have no laws, do you not? You mistake yourselves. But I tell you, the police in France are not easily outfoxed. Now, please describe the missing item to me.”

“It was a choker,” Vera said.

“A joker? The joker stole this item as a joke?”

“No, the item was a choker.”

“You think you can mock Inspector Lafite?” he demanded.

“I’m not mocking, you silly man,” Vera said in an exasperated voice. “I’m describing the stolen piece of jewelry.”

“Ah, so you admit it was jewelry.”

“A choker. A necklace that is worn up around the neck.”

“A necklace. Why didn’t you say so? From whom was the necklace stolen?”

“I was wearing it,” I said, “but it didn’t belong to me.”

He walked up to me until he was standing a few inches away. He was about four inches shorter than I so he had to stare up into my face. “And your name is?”

“Lady Georgiana Rannoch,” I said.

“Ah. An English lady. But you wear jewels that do not belong to you?”

“I was a model in Madame Chanel’s fashion show,” I said. “The necklace was part of my outfit.”

“A valuable necklace?”

“Very valuable,” Vera said.

“It belongs to you,
Madame
?”

“No, to a very important English royal person. I am not at liberty to divulge her name, but the piece is priceless. I was taking every possible precaution with it—it was locked in the bank until it was needed for tonight’s show. Two of your gendarmes escorted me to the hotel and stood guard outside the doors. Nobody could have come in or out without their noticing.”

“Then—” Inspector Lafite paused dramatically. “It must still be in this room. Have you searched the room?”

“Of course.”

The inspector turned back to me. “Did you feel a thief removing this necklace from your person?”

“No,” I said. “I tripped and fell and when I got up, the necklace was missing.”

“Ah. You fell to the floor?”

“No, I landed on that lady over there.” I pointed to the large Russian.

“Then it is possible that the necklace came off and is concealed somewhere about the person of
Madame
,” he said, regarding the lady’s large bosom.

BOOK: Naughty In Nice

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