Wallis’s attention shifted to a fashion show model who settled near us, one hand on her hip, the other held high, a diamond cuff on the wrist. The Duke raised his eyebrows at Wallis as if asking her opinion of the bracelet. Wallis sent him a noncommittal shrug.
“We help women of any nationality who’ve returned from the camps,” I said. “Conditions are especially difficult in Poland. Many of them are sick—some dying—and still have no reparations, since West Germany doesn’t recognize Communist Poland as a country.”
Wallis glanced about the room, perhaps looking for the exit. “I’m not in a position to donate to anything these days. We have to bow and scrape for everything we’re given. We’re not even on the Civil List, if you can imagine. Plus, the world has grown weary of all that death and destruction. Those stories even bore the people who went through it all. Who hasn’t written a memoir?”
Wallis turned to the Duke, smoothed the royal Peter Pan’s hair in place, and fussed with the gold medals and ribbons at his chest. She removed a canapé from his hand, placed it back on the silver tray he’d taken it from, and took the Duke by the hand.
“Let’s pop up and check on the dogs.” She motioned for the waiter with the silver tray to follow. “Pugs need to eat at least every two hours,” she said with a smile and swept off toward the exit.
“If you’ll excuse me, Rosemary,” I said. Apparently Wallis was not sympathetic to my cause after all.
“Good luck with your fundraising, dear,” Rosemary said as I turned to leave. “I’ll certainly be donating. And maybe pop in on Norman Cousins at the Saturday Review. He and his darling wife helped the Hiroshima Maidens after all.”
“I will, Rosemary. Thank you.”
I trekked the periphery of the ballroom in search of more champagne, smarting from Wallis’s rebuff. I was careful to play the “If I were Paul Rodierre, where would I be?” game in order to avoid him. He would plant himself as far from the whole fashion show spectacle as possible. Probably near the food.
Definitely near the bar.
I circumvented the bar and walked by the Dior models as they twirled and sashayed through the guests. A waiter passed through the crowd, offering microscopic potatoes topped with sour cream and caviar. Was all the food that night to be tiny? I stepped toward the tray but stopped short, my train pinned.
“Would you mind?” I said, turning.
Paul.
And by his side stood a ravishing creature—Leena, no doubt.
“Nietzsche said a diet predominantly of potatoes leads to the use of liquor,” Paul said, shoe still on my train.
His voice robbed me of my powers of speech. It didn’t help that his ladylove was almost too beautiful to look at, her eyes thick-lashed, with the kind of perfect face a cigarette lends just the right amount of cruelty to. She was tall, impossibly young, and leggy.
“I see you’re stalking me,” Paul said.
The girl wandered off to the fashion show sipping champagne, apparently not threatened if she’d registered me at all.
“You can remove your foot,” I said.
“You have a habit of disappearing,” Paul said.
“Only when provoked.”
He left his foot there.
I had expected Paul to have recovered since the time I saw him last, but was not prepared for how good he looked, fit and oddly well tanned for April.
“Do I need to take off my dress?”
Paul smiled. “This party is finally getting good.”
“Really, Paul. It’s Schiaparelli.”
He released my train. “I have the exits covered.”
“Don’t concern yourself.”
“Champagne?” asked a passing waiter, flutes bubbling on his silver tray.
“No thank you,” I said with massive restraint. “I need to be going.”
“I thought about calling you last night,” Paul said. “Figured your mother would talk to me at least.”
“After all these years? It doesn’t matter.”
“But I got into some cognac. You know how that is.”
“Not really.”
“I hoped you’d be here. Among your people.”
I shrugged. “It’s a good cause.”
Another waiter came by. “Champagne?”
Paul took two flutes. “I hoped we could talk about it all.”
“That isn’t necessary. It’s been almost a decade, Paul.”
“Have you ever read one of my letters?”
“I really need to be going—”
“Aren’t you the least bit curious about my side of it?”
I took a glass from him with a shaky hand. “Not really.”
“Don’t you owe it to me? Leaving me flat?”
“If that’s how you remember it…” I said.
I watched Paul’s new wife consider a model’s scarlet shift. Had she ever tasted foie gras? How did she stay so fit in a country that frowned upon vigorous exercise?
A photographer came by. “Can I get a picture, Mr. Rodierre?”
“Why not?” Paul said.
He pulled me to him with more force than necessary, one arm around my waist. He still wore Sumare. Did his new wife like it? Impossible not to.
“Smile, Caroline. Pretend you like me.”
The flashbulb blinded us both for a second.
“Thanks, Mr. Rodierre,” the photographer said and wandered off.
“Last time we were in this room, I was in command of that stage,” Paul said.
I just nodded and pretended to be recovering my eyesight from the flash, afraid speaking would unleash a few tears.
“You’ve been tanning,” I said after a moment.
“Cannes. It was horrible. I hate all that.”
“I’m sure. So where is Rena?”
“Who knows? Last seen on the Greek island of Hydra with a young man half her age.”
“How wonderful for her.” I meant it. Rena deserved her time in the sun.
“You may have kicked me to the curb, but life did go on, Caroline. I guess I don’t make the best decisions when it comes to women.”
“Maybe give them up for Lent.”
Paul smiled. “It’s good to see you again, C. You hungry? I’m taking Leena to meet some film people. I know a little place by the Hudson—”
“Look, Paul, I obviously never really knew you. Let’s just leave it at that. Maybe remember the good things.” I turned. “I have to go.”
Paul caught my wrist. “Nothing has ever been as good as our time in New York. You ruined me for love, you know.”
“Looks like it,” I said, watching his Leena pluck a lobster canapé from a tray.
“What’s wrong with you? I’ve been through hell. You’re not the only person affected here—”
“Mon cher,” Leena called to Paul, “I’m famished.”
I really was invisible to her as she waved Paul to follow.
“Come here, darling,” Paul called to her.
Leena worked her way toward us. It had been a long night. Did I have to meet his wife?
“Oh, please, Paul. I’d rather not—”
Paul pulled his Leena to him, one arm around her waist. “Leena, I’d like you to meet—”
“Caroline Ferriday,” Leena said. “How did I not recognize you?” The girl took my hand and pulled me to her. “Of course I know you from photographs. With Helen Hayes. What was it like to be on the same stage with her?”
“Thank you, but I really must be going.”
“She runs away, Leena,” Paul said. “You need to hold on to her.”
Leena held my arm with her other hand. “Oh, please. I’ll do anything to have lunch. In Paris. The next time you’re there.”
“I’d rather not—”
“But, Father, you must convince her.”
A chill ran down my arms.
Father?
“Miss Caroline Ferriday, Leena Rodierre,” Paul said, his smile still more dangerous than ever at close range.
“Pascaline is my stage name, but do call me Leena.”
How had I not seen?
“I too played Balthazar, Miss Ferriday. My first role, just like you. Father’s told me everything about you.”
“Do call me Caroline, dear,” I said as I stared at her. Leena was a perfect mix of her parents, tall, with her father’s stage presence, no doubt. “You must have been a perfect Balthazar, Leena.”
The girl circled me in her arms and held me tight to her. The lovely child I’d found at Orphelinat Saint-Philippe. Pascaline. Born on Easter…
Pascaline released me. “Do say you’ll come to Paris, Caroline. I’m to have my first lead role. It would mean the world to have you there.”
I nodded. It was all I could do to contain the tears. She was a darling girl with her father’s charm. “Of course, dear,” I said.
“Well, we must be going,” Paul said.