The Charmers: A Novel(49)

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But to begin at the beginning. Our meeting was a whirlwind event, a pickup if ever there was one, in a public place in front of dozens of people. We simply stood there, eyes linked, so deep into each other with that physical impact that happens so rarely but cannot be ignored when it does. We were unaware of other people staring, amused no doubt by our obvious sexual frisson. There was no hiding it, I was smitten so hard my legs turned to jelly and my body to liquid, while he carefully held the paper program booklet over his masculinity. “Would you join me for a glass of champagne?” he asked. Of course I would. I would have joined him in bed right there and then, had he asked.

Though I was realistic where sex was concerned, emotions were quite another matter, and something I had been careful to exclude from my life. I was twenty-five years old, never married, never likely to be, not with my reputation. In fact my only offer had come from the delicious Rex, and even then I had known in my heart it was not real. He had meant well, he loved me, it was the appropriate gesture for a gentleman to make to the woman he loved. I will remember him always, for that. And for what came later, because when I needed help, he was there for me.

Anyway, before then, and in fact right there and then, I was in love with Walt “Iron Man” Matthews.

I can remember exactly what I was wearing that night: a black Chanel dress with long, tight, silk-mesh sleeves and a prim white satin collar. Black satin heels, of course, with small diamante bows on the backs, not on the front as is more usual, but then I was never one for the usual. Of course I’d had them moved there. It caused quite a lot of comment and envious female glances, I can tell you.

I wore black silk stockings with a seam up the back as was the style, tricky to keep straight but very sexy. I’m sure every man there wondered where those seams ended up.

My Iron Man certainly did. And it was all the two of us had expected of each other. Was it really love? I ask myself even now. And yes, it was. He was, in fact, the only man I ever truly loved.

We were to stay at that inn many times, in that same spacious room overlooking the river, drawing closed those red damask curtains but leaving the diamond-paned window open so we might hear the river rippling its way toward the weir, where it would fall in a great tumble of white froth into infinity, and perhaps, oblivion. It was as though that river could foretell my future.





39

One year was exactly what we had together. One perfect year that I was to remember for the rest of my life.

We spent that perfect year at the Villa Romantica, shunning the everlasting parties, sharing glasses of the local wine over dinners often cooked by myself, a talent I had not known I had, never having taken much interest in food before. But now the markets were all around, with produce grown in these local hills, milk and cheeses from local cows, flowers bunched and tied with ribbons by our local girls. And I loved every minute of it, everything about it, and I loved my man.

How wonderful it was to say that. My man.

We spent every second together, often in the spacious kitchen while I fried the breakfast bacon (usually late in the afternoon). The smell always made my mouth water. He would slice hunks off a huge crusty loaf and rub them in the bacon fat in the pan, letting them soak up the juices until just crisp enough to add bite. Coffee brewed slowly in the new drip machine, leaving me to crave it, hurrying it on while it took forever it seemed. The buttercup-yellow plates and coffee bowls were already on the table. When the coffee was finally ready, I filled those bowls almost to the brim, adding just a splash of rich, creamy milk, picking up the bowl with both hands to drink. A custom my man considered barbaric, having been brought up to use cups with handles at the table, though I suppose it was alright to drink beer in mugs without a handle. Anyhow, barbaric it might seem to a foreigner like him, but to a French woman like me, it was breakfast heaven.

I would slowly come awake with that coffee, sitting in the sunshine, the breeze just sufficiently cool to be pleasant, the cuckoos thankfully gone to their daytime rest. The small gray cat that had adopted us sprawled, paws stretched out in front of him, certain that tidbits would be tossed his way. It was a scene of such peace I could never have foretold the violence that was to come.





40

The year 1939 was upon us. It seemed like any other, spring merging into a summer of such blue-skied perfection surely winter would never return. I basked on the narrow beach, cooling my feet in water that lapped over pebbles smoothed by centuries of waves, and where Scott Fitzgerald had played out his life and love with his wild-crazy wife, Zelda. It was they who had cleared the tiny beach of its masses of seaweed and detritus to make a sweet little spot, half-hidden from the crowds, for sunbathing, for drinking rosé wine at noon, for wearing daring bathing suits and where their friends, the rich Americans, Gerald and the beautiful Sara Murphy held picnics. Sara, with her long string of pearls thrown casually back over her shoulder instead of in front, created a new fashion fad that year.

They were gone, of course, as were many Americans, heeding the warning signs and hurrying to embassies and consulates to obtain the all-important visas to Spain or Portugal that could get them out to safety and eventually home.

I never wore my pearls to the beach, but I did wear a rather daring white bathing suit. It was a thin silken fabric, ruched here and there to emphasize my curves and my waist. And of course I always wore my long hair in a braid, sometimes entwined with white ribbons, sometimes with a flower, a daisy perhaps, tucked into it. It was my style, my own fashion. I never copied anyone. I was always me. If that sounds egotistical, pretentious even, I can only say I am sorry, but it’s true, I was unique.