The Last Time I Saw Paris - Lynn Sheene [50]
“The Comte met you at the Ritz. It was on New Year’s Eve. He found your flowers quite captivating that night.”
With a stiff arm outstretched, Claire kept Madame away from the phone.
“Madame Badeau? Are you available to take an order? In person?”
Claire smiled at Madame. “Of course. Is the Comte planning a fête?” She nearly purred into the phone.
There was a pause. “Yes. For the winter. Are you available tonight?”
“I can reschedule my plans.”
“Good. Eight o’clock, then. At the Ritz. Use the rue Cambon entrance.”
Claire set the phone in the cradle and hugged Madame. “A party!” She smiled into the florist’s disapproving frown. “It will be beautiful. I’ll insist on roses, countless roses, all fresh flowers. We will hire Bison to deliver.”
“I do not like you talking with the Comte.”
Claire sighed. “How is he any worse than your hoteliers working for the Nazis?”
“The hoteliers have no choice. They only want to survive. The Comte chose his path for other reasons. One hears things. Why did he ask for you?”
Claire stretched her aching back. “He asked for me because I flirted with him. You hear things. I hear an orchestra and the pop of champagne bottles. I hear francs.”
Madame folded her arms in front of her. “You are impossible.” She gazed about the room, her forehead crumpled in thought. “Tell him no matter how small the event, he must show the French good taste and outshine the vulgar Boche. Also, tell him he must pay up front with francs, not those reichsmarks.”
“Yes, Madame.” Claire hurried into the back room. Inventory had dwindled and the room was nearly empty. Shears and pliers lined the wall, above rows of stacked vases and empty flower pails. Still they had options. She could see it now, the theme would be Venus, and her flowers would take the place of the unseen art. She had passed strings of glass pearls on display at Le Bon Marché on the Left Bank.
Of course, the flowers would be très cher, very expensive, for the Comte. The city was full of aristocrats like Laurent, pleased that their ancestors managed to keep their heads through the Revolution. The des Vogüés, however, also retained their money, and the Comte appeared to be doing well through this reordering, cozied up to the Germans in the Ritz. He would be quite able to make a significant contribution to La Vie en Fleurs.
Eight o’clock meant dinner and that meant dressing. Claire bolted up the stairs. She pulled the blue dress she had bought with her first paycheck out of the closet. It was a year old now but still quite presentable. For the price of a posy, a cobbler had reheeled her shoes with rubber from old bike tires. They squeaked a bit when she walked but looked acceptable.
She examined her reflection in the mirror. All it would take was a bath and a set. A small smile. Finally, a reason to dress. The last had been Laurent’s party so long ago. Warmth sparked in her stomach as she felt again Grey’s stare that night as she walked away. She pulled her special notepad from behind the dresser and jotted a note. She had time to deliver this to the dentist then get ready.
That evening, Claire threaded her way through fashionable couples along rue de Rivoli. Sharp winds smelled of rain. Black clouds waded through the darkening blue skies. A man in a long raincoat sat on a park bench, newspaper tucked under his arm. He appraised her as she walked toward him, adjusted his silk tie, raised an eyebrow. A polite question, asked with his eyes. Perhaps?
Claire hid a smile. He was handsome, very French. Moneyed, by the shine of his shoes, the cut of his suit. She tilted her head to the side, the hint of a shrug, as she walked by. An equally polite refusal.
What would Grey make of that? Another Parisian experience to be savored on a walk? Or would his proper English jaw clench? She knew if he got the message, he would find her amidst the plants in the jardins des Champs-Elysées.
The garden unfolded on her right. She turned in and walked toward the large two-tiered fountain and pool where children used to float toy wooden