Naughty In Nice (A Royal Spyness Mystery) by Rhys Bowen Page A

My little bolt-hole, I call it. Whenever the world is unkind, I rush straight here.” She took my hands. “Let me take a look at you. Rather pale and pasty faced. You need sun and fresh air and feeding up. Come on out to the terrace.” She took my hand. “How funny that you didn’t know this was my villa. So you came to see Coco—I can’t think why. You certainly can’t afford her clothes.”
    “She wants me to model for her new collection.”
    Mummy burst out laughing again. “You, a model? Don’t be silly, darling, you’d be hopeless. Remember how you tripped over your train when you were presented?”
    “She says I have the look she wants,” I replied haughtily. It was all right for me to claim I was hopeless, but not other people, least of all my mother.
    “If you stood still like a statue, maybe. Not if you moved.”
    We emerged to a sun-splashed terrace, built out over the water. Vera and Coco Chanel were sitting at a wicker table, heads together over a sheet of paper. “More like this, I think,” Coco was saying, waving a cigarette in her left hand.
    “Look who I have found,” Mummy announced. They looked up.
    “Ah, my little model,” Coco said, holding out the hand without the cigarette to me. “So you have met our charming hostess, have you, ma petite ?”
    “Many times,” I replied. “She’s my mother.”
    “But of course. How silly of me. I should have remembered. It’s just that . . .”
    “I know, we look nothing alike,” Mummy said. “Poor child inherited her looks from Bertie.”
    “And Mummy doesn’t like to admit to me,” I added. “I remind people that she’s old enough to have a grown-up daughter.”
    “Silly child. You know I adore you,” my mother said.
    “Come and sit beside us, ma petite ,” Coco said. “I will show you the outfit we have planned for you.”
    “You’re not really serious about using Georgie as a model, are you?” Mummy said. “Coco, darling, the girl was born clumsy. She can’t walk two steps without tripping over her own feet—which are exceptionally large, by the way.”
    “Nonsense, she will be splendid when I have worked with her,” Coco said. “See, ma petite —is this not a fabulous outfit that I have created for you?”
    I looked at the drawing. It was as she had described it—a man’s tweed sports jacket, open to reveal a frilly blouse of ecru lace, black silk pajamas and what looked like an extravagant necklace of pearls and precious stones at the throat.
    “Astonishing,” my mother exclaimed, peering over Coco Chanel’s shoulder. “I don’t think I shall ever want to look as masculine as that, darling.”
    “Ah, but it is so sexy. You will see the eyes of the men at my collection.” Coco looked up at Vera and smiled. “They will want to rip that jacket off her—and those pajamas too.”
    “This is my daughter we’re talking about,” my mother said. “She’s led a very sheltered life.”
    “Then it’s about time she learned what the world is all about.” She stood up. “Come. We go to my room and we will try on the clothes.”
    She was about to lead me from the terrace when a scream came up from down below, followed by a large splash. I ran over to the railing and looked down.
    “It’s only that silly woman,” Coco said scornfully. “No class at all. I grew up poor but I learned to acquire class. She has not.”
    I realized that I was looking down onto another property below. There were lovely terraces, full of great terra-cotta urns of spring flowers, and a huge swimming pool above a little cove with private beach. A sleek teak motorboat was moored at a dock and out in the ocean beyond was a vast white and blue yacht. A young woman with brassy blond hair was splashing and wallowing in the pool while a portly older man in a bright red bathing costume stood on the side, laughing at her.
    “You beast. You cruel beast,” she was shouting. “Now you have ruined my hair.”
    “Is that Sir Toby Groper?” I