A War of Flowers (2014) by Jane Thynne Read Free Book Online Page A

brow whom Clara recognized as Chanel’s lover, Baron Hans
Günther von Dincklage, better known as Spatz.
    Though Chanel was famous for loving black and white, her love life was a distinctly grey area. Most of her relationships were with married men, including a long running affair with the Duke of
Westminster, but the scandal which had recently leaked into the Paris newspapers concerned her liaison with Spatz, the special attaché at the German Embassy in Paris. Sections of the French
press had waged war on Spatz, accusing him of building up a spy network throughout Paris reporting directly to the Gestapo, monitoring German exiles in Paris and passing on their addresses to
Reinhard Heydrich. Watching Spatz now, possessed of the loud, confident demeanour of a German abroad, Clara could understand, just, what Chanel must see in him. She was known for liking winners,
and Spatz, with his suave, playboy’s manners, blond hair and distinguished looks, fitted precisely that template, not to mention the fact that he was more than a decade younger than her.
    The man Spatz was talking to was his equal in good looks, with a broad, intelligent forehead and neatly parted tawny hair above eyes set widely apart. In his well-cut grey flannel suit he looked
vaguely familiar and Clara racked her brains to place him. Was he a studio executive? A politician perhaps? She hoped very much that she would not be obliged to talk to him.
    A waiter approached with a bottle of champagne and, unthinkingly, Clara held out her glass. The conversation that afternoon, and Guy Hamilton’s request, had set her nerves on edge. It was
not only the thought of what she was being asked to do, but the timescale involved – just weeks perhaps – that alarmed her. She took a sip of crisp bubbles and tuned into the
conversation of the women beside her, who were arguing about the secret of Chanel’s success.
    ‘It’s all down to tailoring,’ said an exquisite blonde, wearing the gold lamé evening dress and short jacket that Chanel had showed for that year’s collections.
‘Chanel can make a woman look like a princess just through tailoring.’
    ‘Except when she’s a real princess,’ said another.
    There was general laughter. Everyone knew this was a reference to Elizabeth, the frumpy new queen of England, elevated as a result of Edward VIII’s liaison with Wallis Simpson.
    ‘In London Wallis and Elizabeth both used the Elizabeth Arden salon in Bond Street,’ murmured another woman. ‘The staff had a terrific job trying to keep them apart. Sometimes
they had to pretend they were closed for redecoration when there was a clash. Anything rather than have that pair end up side by side.’
    ‘Wallis can be most awfully amusing,’ said a petite figure with a bob as sleek and black as a bird’s wing sweeping across her cheekbones. ‘When she was asked what Queen
Elizabeth could do to boost British fashion, she said, “She could stay at home!”’
    ‘The Duchess of Windsor is a loyal customer,’ came an imperious voice. ‘I won’t tolerate gossip about her.’
    Coco Chanel had materialized among the women as silently as a cat, accompanied by a gust of Camel cigarettes. She had a hard face and taut neck, from which several ropes of pearls were hanging.
Her skinny legs were bowed like a grasshopper and her intelligent, feline glance travelled across Clara’s moss-green dress as though calculating to the last pfennig its provenance and likely
cost.
    ‘Good evening, Mademoiselle Vine,’ she said softly, resting a silken claw briefly on Clara’s arm. Then more loudly she addressed the women around her.
    ‘I have always been a great admirer of the Duchess. When the Duke was courting Wallis, Winston Churchill came to dine here with me at the Ritz and begged me to exert my influence. He
wanted me to persuade the King of England not to marry an American divorcée.’ She gave a laugh, like the snort of an aggressive little bull. ‘Winston