Lady Blue Eyes_ My Life With Frank - Barbara Sinatra [46]
My thoughts were interrupted by a sudden, loud bang. The train gave a lurch before grinding to a halt, almost throwing me from my seat. Rolling up the shade, I could see men running around in the dark. Somewhere, a woman was screaming. After what seemed like an age, the door to my compartment flew open and several people backed in, carrying three injured men. In faltering English, a gendarme told me that the train had hit a car on the track. The survivors, bloodied and bruised, were laid on the three spare bunks. The gendarme took off his hat, gave me a shrug, and slid my door shut. The train lurched again and set off, leaving me alone with the groaning victims, none of whom spoke any English. No doctor came, so for the next hour or so I did what I could to comfort them. Mercifully, two stops later they were removed by paramedics and taken to a local hospital.
Needless to say, by the time I arrived in Nice I was exhausted and shaken. Nancy Ittleson, fresh and chipper, was waiting to greet me, but my suitcases were not. They’d been mislaid. “Don’t worry,” she said gaily, trying to cheer me up. “We’re the same size. You can have the run of my wardrobe.” She drove me the twenty miles toward Monte Carlo and then up to their French villa, named Rien ne va Plus, meaning “no more bets,” on a bluff at Roquebrune-Cap-Martin overlooking the Mediterranean. Leading me down some steps in the garden, she showed me my pretty guest cottage, with the most breathtaking views I’d ever seen. I finally began to relax.
“Frank called,” she said casually as I tested the bed. “The strike means he’s stuck in London. They won’t even let private planes take off.”
“Oh, that’s a shame,” I replied lightly, before allowing her to lead me back up to the villa to choose an outfit for the party she was throwing that night.
My first evening in the hills above Monaco was so unbelievably glamorous that I found myself wishing Bobby was there to enjoy it with me. Among the crowd of twenty sophisticated Europeans dining under the stars was Prince Rainier of Monaco, who insisted I stop calling him Your Highness. His wife, the former actress Grace Kelly, was on a shopping trip to Paris.
At a long table laden with glassware, silver, and flickering candles, everyone sat and chatted animatedly, switching from French to English to Italian as easily as breathing. At one point during the evening, I stood back to observe the scene, with its beautiful people who seemed to take little notice of the glittering coastline below. In a borrowed designer dress and with a glass of champagne in my hand, I couldn’t help but reflect that Barbara Ann Blakeley had traveled a very long way from Bosworth, Missouri. I felt bubbly with happiness.
When I eventually retired to my guest cottage, at around three in the morning, I found three dozen white roses waiting on my bedside table. The card attached to them read, “I’ll be there. Francis Albert.”
The morning brought more good news. Bobby telephoned to say he’d changed his mind and would arrive the next day, without Sylvia. Even more surprisingly, he assured me he’d cut his hair. As I replaced the receiver, the phone rang again, so I picked it up in case Bobby had forgotten something.
“Barbara? It’s Frank,” the voice said down a crackly line. “I’m still in London, but I’m on my way. Tell Nancy I’ll make it for dinner. You be there too.”
The conversation was short but sweet, and I was only able to say, “We’re looking forward to seeing you,” before the line went dead.
Later that morning in the pool, Nancy asked me if I liked my flowers. “Frank’s so gallant,” she said wistfully. “He sent me roses too.” Just as I was wondering if I’d read too much into my bouquet and Frank’s subsequent phone call, Nancy’s maid arrived to tell me