The Life She Wanted: A Novel(69)
“I adore having company. When the villa is empty, it reveals all its flaws: the floors are slanted and the windows don’t close and the plumbing is ancient,” Suzanne responded. “When it’s full, I only notice that the dining room is big enough to seat twelve people, and there are orange trees, so we can eat oranges. I do get preoccupied, though,” Suzanne warned her. “Wimbledon is in July, so the whole month of June you won’t see me except at dinner.”
Pandora couldn’t imagine staying until June. She would miss Summerhill and everyone at home too much.
“We’ll be gone before June,” Pandora assured her.
“You might think that now; wait until you’ve watched the sun set over the Mediterranean. Or until you’ve driven down the coast and gathered shells,” Suzanne said with a knowing smile. “You’ll want to stay on the French Riviera forever.”
Before dinner, Pandora had taken a bath. Suzanne was right, the plumbing was ancient. The water took ages to heat up, and then it dripped out of the tap.
She didn’t care what Maurice said, she was going to dress formally for dinner. Her daytime tea dresses weren’t appropriate, and she believed in dressing up at night. It was only good manners.
She chose the white gown with butterfly sleeves that she wore for the Winthrops’ Fourth of July party almost three years ago. How young and naive she had been! Everything about that weekend had thrilled her: the butler that welcomed them into the Winthrops’ house; the grand salon with its frescoed walls and furniture upholstered in velvet that was almost pink and almost white, just like Virginia’s lipstick; Virginia insisting that Pandora wear her diamond-and-sapphire necklace; and Pandora gazing in the mirror and feeling like a princess.
She took a brush to her hair and pulled it through. She was only twenty-three, what would she do with her future? Would she ever fall in love and get married again, and would there be more children? It wasn’t the time to think about it. Everyone was downstairs; she didn’t want to keep them waiting.
She had expected the evening to start with cocktails. But when she appeared, the guests were already seated at the dining room table. Suzanne sat at the head of the table, and Maurice sat in the middle. There were two other couples at the table and an older man dressed in navy pants and a shirt with a round collar and French cuffs. He had a lizard-skin watch strapped to his wrist, and he wore gold cuff links.
“Pandora, you must think it’s terribly rude that we’re already seated, but everyone is hungry,” Suzanne said in apology. “Sit next to Maurice.”
Maurice looked even more handsome than he had earlier that afternoon. He wore a lounge jacket over a white shirt that made his skin seem even darker. There was a sheen to his cheeks, and he had slicked back his light brown hair.
“I must introduce you to everyone,” Suzanne said. “Armand and Marie are from Paris.” She nodded at the older man and woman sitting opposite Maurice.
The other couple, Lionel and Jane, were British and in their thirties. Luckily for Pandora, they spoke little French, so the whole table spoke in English.
“And this is Jean Patou,” Suzanne finished, pointing to the older man wearing the lizard-skin watch.
Pandora’s mouth dropped open. Jean Patou was one of her idols. He was one of the most famous French fashion designers. After the war, he opened an atelier in Paris frequented by European royalty. His clothes were known for their modern aesthetic. He’d just invented a line of men’s neckties using the same fabrics as his women’s collection, instead of the traditional black or white.
“Jean designs my tennis dresses,” Suzanne explained. “I’m so lucky; I wouldn’t win a match without him.”
“I’m the lucky one. Suzanne is la Divine; every woman in Europe wants to dress like her,” Jean proclaimed in English. “The tennis attire women are forced to wear is absurd. How are they supposed to hit a ball wearing a dress that’s so long they’ll trip? Tennis is similar to ballet. Ballerinas don’t take the stage in corsets; they wear costumes that let them move.”
That explained Suzanne’s outfit this afternoon. The sleeveless blouse and knee-length skirt.
“Are you traveling with your husband?” the British man, Lionel, asked. He had thinning blond hair and a sharp chin.
“My husband died recently. I’m traveling with my one-year-old daughter, Esme,” Pandora replied, picking up her wine glass.
Maurice turned to Pandora with a somber expression.
“I’m very sorry; one never knows what the day will bring. The important thing is to enjoy oneself,” Maurice remarked. “I’d rather my tombstone say that I got the most out of life than that I worked in an office copying letters or adding figures in long columns.”
“Don’t listen to Maurice,” Suzanne said to Pandora. “Even in France, most of us enjoy our work. Only Maurice prefers to spend his days reading novels by the pool and playing in the kitchen.”
Pandora didn’t say anything. She had never met a man who didn’t have some kind of profession.
The conversation turned in a different direction, and Maurice brought out a thick soup made with peas and carrots from Suzanne’s garden. It was followed by the veal, and for dessert they had beignets from a patisserie in the village, dusted with sugar and accompanied by blueberries.