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

burst into tears and said,
“A king should never abdicate!” David should do his duty. Could I not persuade him to think again? I said, “Winston, are you asking me to stand in the path of true
love?”’
    ‘What would you have done, Mademoiselle Vine?’ She switched to English, with a glance of cool scrutiny. ‘Do you believe anyone should stand in the way of true love?’
    ‘I think love has its place, but Churchill’s right. There are times when duty is more important.’
    ‘Ah, a realist then! I think you, Mademoiselle Vine, are like me. Passion fades. Only work remains. You need to be a realist when your work is peddling dreams. Because that’s what we
both do, isn’t it? We peddle dreams. We put romance in people’s lives, even when there’s none in our own.’
    ‘I suppose that’s true.’
    Chanel’s feline smile was shot through with spite. ‘I’m sorry I don’t know your work. Perhaps you think me rude, but since my time in Hollywood I never go to the movies.
I find them insufferably dull.’
    Though Chanel had made the trek to America, her hopes of a new life designing for Hollywood had fallen flat and she had returned to France with a lasting grudge against a film industry too
philistine and shallow to appreciate her talents.
    ‘As it happens, my new film is based on a novel. And a French novel at that.
Bel Ami
.’
    ‘Ha! Well I approve of that, certainly. I like to think in my salon we are all of us, French, German and English, meilleurs amis. Like Herr Brandt here.’
    Clara looked round to see a man watching her. She had noticed him earlier, in the thicket of guests, because he stood out from the polished and manicured crowd. Though as smartly dressed as the
other men, in perfectly cut dark blue suit and tie, his powerful build and glowing tan made her think of the countryside and vigorous exercise, rather than the refined air of this couturier’s
perfumed parlour. He must have been in his late forties, with golden brown eyes, hair that was greying around the temples, a deeply cleft chin and little arrows of laughter crinkling his eyes.
    He advanced and held out a hand.
    ‘Max Brandt.’
    ‘Clara Vine.’
    ‘Herr Brandt is a cultural attaché at the German Embassy.’
    ‘How interesting,’ said Clara politely. ‘I imagine that means an awful lot of opera.’
    He chuckled and swept a lock of hair from his brow. ‘Indeed. But we must all perform our duty for the Fatherland, no matter how arduous. Besides, sometimes only opera can make our German
language sound as lovely as French.’
    Clara, who often thought that sounds had their own colours, imagined Brandt’s voice as a rich, chocolate brown. He had the languid, easy demeanour of a man secure in his own attractiveness
and well used to the company of women. His expression had a subtle sparkle to it, as though he knew already who she was. Perhaps he had seen one of her films, Clara thought. Detecting her
schoolgirl French, he switched to German and raised his voice against the dance music that had started up in the background.
    ‘Can I ask what brings you here?’
    ‘I’m making a film. With Willi Forst. It’s called
Bel Ami
.’
    ‘Maupassant, eh? Do you have official clearance for that? It’s hard to imagine our Propaganda Minister favouring a film whose hero is a lying cheating womanizer.’
    Laughter danced in his eyes but Clara dipped her head. Jokes about the notoriously womanizing minister were dangerous.
    ‘Perhaps Doktor Goebbels hasn’t read the script.’
    ‘Don’t all scripts have to gain his approval? Besides, I thought nothing escaped his eyes.’
    ‘Maybe he admires Maupassant.’
    ‘Possible,’ he nodded, pretending to consider this. ‘And of course, romance is a keen interest of his.’
    ‘I’m sorry?’
    ‘Romanticism. His doctoral thesis was on the German Romantics, I recall.’
    Brandt smiled, and Chanel chose the moment to intervene sinuously. ‘Mademoiselle Vine is here this evening