Zimmer: Shalimar & Grace Kelly

19

Amelia awoke the next morning to Ailuros gently pawing at her face. The cat’s food bowl was empty so she rose a little earlier than usual, but it was no matter. It was nigh on 7a.m. when her alarm would’ve buzzed anyway.

First feeding Ailuros, Amelia next cut herself a slice of the pear and ginger cake and put the espresso maker on the gas stove to heat and gurgle away when piping hot. Espresso ready, she took her seat at the patio with Bellamy’s book.

She slipped an old hoodie over her head, with a nip in the air. She was headed to Renate’s shop later and wanted to bake her something by way of thank you for the magnificent mosaic fountain. Ultimately after much consideration, Amelia decided on the Icelandic rye loaf Renate had so enjoyed before and made sure she still had all the ingredients at hand.

Ingredients mixed and popped into the oven, she sat again at the patio table with a second espresso for the morning, still nibbling on her slice of cake for breakfast, the warmth of the ginger so comforting on this chilly morning. She had switched on the radio when she’d got up, and they were mentioning the children’s book competition yet again. She would have a crack at her own modest attempt later that day, looking up some images of sloths and other animals for research purposes beforehand, trying to get a good likeness in the artwork she had planned. But that was a concern for later. While the oven worked its magic on the loaf of rye, cake and espresso finished, she headed off to shower.

Dressing in her vintage cardigan, Calvin Klein denims and plimsolls, the rye bread was ready and placed gently in a cake tin, still gloriously warm and filling the kitchen with the scent of home baking. She would take her grandfather’s old fiat into town today as she had ingredients to get for the picnic meal she had planned for the film’s screening later in the evening. But first, Buschle’s Boutique, when yet again the timid Amelia required the immaculate styling of her own personal fairy godmother.

When she arrived at the store, Renate was dressing the dummies in the window, and called to Amelia that she’d be with her shortly. As expected, Renate cut the figure of perfection in a silky off white pyjama suit with high pointy toed, camel suede Jimmy Choo’s.

“Hello, dahling!” Renate eventually done with the morning’s task, pecked Amelia on each cheek.

“For you, since you liked it so much.” Amelia handed over the cake tin.

Renate peeped inside.

“Oh, dahling, you spoil us all so!”

Amelia, now feeling more at home in the boutique, regarded all around, from the table displays to the dummies to the items brimming with such beautiful and timeless pieces and items. She had to admit, Renate made all look so very effortlessly chic.

“Renate, you are truly an artist. How long have been in the business of fashion?”

“Hah! Now there is a story... If you have the time...”

Amelia urged for her to continue, genuinely interested.

“Are you familiar with Diana Vreeland?” Amelia shook her head as if to say ‘no’.

“Well the legend has it that an editor from Harper’s Bazaar encountered a tall and lanky, reed-thin stranger in 1936 dancing at the St Regis in New York. Though the mesmerising woman wasn’t conventionally beautiful, dressed as she was in a white lace Chanel dress, and in the supple way she moved, she was so commanding of the room.

“The editor, ever on the hunt for anything that could give them the upper hand to her competitor, Vogue, tracked down this enigmatic woman the next day and offered her a job on the spot. Of course, the stranger in response told the editor that she never got dressed before lunchtime, making any job quite impossible. Nonetheless, an agreement was made and if anyone invented the role of fashion editor, it was this stranger, Diana Vreeland, in her 26 years at Harper’s Bazaar.

“Falling in love with fashion as I did at a young age, I was never without a copy of Harper’s Bazaar, no matter how vintage, so enamoured with the work of Vreeland as I became over the years. And now, I guess you could say it is in my blood. I do not need this store, financially speaking. My Fritz made sure of that. But for my soul, and spirit, it is a part of me.”

“Well I’m sure you could’ve even given Diana Vreeland a run for her money...”

“I’m flattered you might think so... But tell me, surely you didn’t come all this way to give me a loaf of bread with a side dose of, uh, ego-boosting, eh?” Renate was perceptive as ever.

“Mmmm. It appears I may have a date. Although I’m not sure. To a film screening of To Catch a Thief. With Jonathan, the professor’s son.”

“Hah! Fabulous! Well, date or no, I’d put my money on you, Amelia. A dark horse I suspect you are. Of course, that said, it is a tricky thing to compete with Grace Kelly. But you bear a striking resemblance to the utterly charming Brigitte Auber with your big eyes and pixie cut, I must say. And then, you are your own brand of delightful, and I think I have just the right outfit. As Vreeland proved, one does not need to be Grace Kelly to necessarily command a room... Subtle. But enduring. Fashionable without seeming to care too much. That is best for a first date, no?”

She glided over to a rack and removed a black cashmere twinset and a pair of black and white chequered cropped pant from their hangers, handing the items over to Amelia to take to the fitting room.

“Cropped pants are always stylish and perfect for one of your slight stature... You can never go wrong there,” she assured Amelia.

Once Amelia was inside, a pair of black Chester tassel loafers were snuck under the curtain for her to add to the ensemble.

Amelia dressed and pulled back the curtain for Renate to appraise her handiwork.

“Mmm... A couple of things missing, let’s call them items on loan shall we?” And with that, Renate strung a pearl choker around her neck and handed her a bottle of perfume.

“Just in case this is indeed a date.” She smiled with that impish grin of hers, that crafty gap between her teeth, her dark eyes twinkling. “Mmm... not quite right yet. Let me see.”

She disappeared behind the counter for a short spell, and came back out from the backroom with a delicate bracelet by Van Cleef and Arpels of four black and white floral shapes rimmed and linked by thin gold chains. She fixed it to Amelia’s wrist.

“And one last accoutrement. Oh my, I fear that the bracelet is so very fetching on you it will have to be a gift.” And with this she slipped on Amelia’s middle finger a glowing opal ring adorned dramatically with green and black enamel in true Art Deco fashion. “A little bit of something old, something new, and all together altogether timeless.” As she did often, admiring her own work, she clasped her hands beneath her chin in satisfaction.

“Oh, gosh, thank you,” Amelia felt momentarily bashful, realising that she hoped this was a date, a fact she had not yet completely confessed even to herself.

“As for this perfume, Shalimar, it was created by Jacques Guerlain in 1925, as a tribute to the love story between the Mughal emperor and his wife who he had called ‘The Jewell of the Palace’. When she died at the age of 39 during the birth of their fourteenth child, the emperor was so devastated by her death that he built the Taj Mahal in her honour. This mesmerising perfume is named after the Gardens of Shalimar which were the favourite gardens of the Emperor’s wife, and if any fragrance can enchant, it is this one. So wear wisely or you’ll be fighting off suitors with your wooden spoon.” She winked at Amelia.

Renate certainly had a way of making even Amelia feel like a million bucks and capable of so much more than she had ever imagined before. Overwhelmed, Amelia hugged Renate tightly. Finally, they said their goodbyes and Amelia rushed off to see to her list of errands, her goodies from the boutique in a carry bag, except for the string of pearls still round her neck, all ready for the evening’s transformation ahead. But first things first, the ingredients she needed from the grocer’s and fishmonger’s.

Home again, she opened Bellamy’s book to the page for cod and pea fritters. She cut the 400g of cod into chunks, meanwhile melting butter in a pan and next gently cooking the cod until it started to flake. This she then left aside to cool, while she got on with making mash potatoes out of the 500g of potatoes. Having cooled, she added the mash potato with the fish and 150g of petit pois, a handful of chopped mint leaves and a tablespoon of Greek yoghurt.

Flouring her hands, she made the mixture into eight patties she dusted both sides in flour and set aside to cool for half an hour. Finally, she heated a pan with olive oil and fried each cake on their sides until golden brown and ready for the picnic later. Rustling up a tomato and rocket salad in a light vinaigrette, she thought that would all serve handsomely for later. She was keen not to appear over eager with her picnic basket, so just enough to make the gesture sincere would do for the evening ahead. A bottle of limoncello would be added at the last minute for good measure.

She poured herself a small limoncello in one of her crystal stemmed glasses and hoped it might steady her nerves, deciding to throw herself head first into the children’s book. That might help to take her mind off the professor’s son. In no time at all, Amelia was building a world for her dear sloth, surprising even herself. It felt so very vital to her, so much more than the dreary editing work she was used to. She was beginning to colour in the lines in her life. Slowly but surely, the illustration was taking shape, too. Hours passed, absorbed as she was, even the ticking of the clock on the kitchen wall all but silent to her.

When she finished her first illustration for the day she came to, and realising the time, had to rush to get dressed as Jonathan would be arriving to collect her at any minute. Cleaning her hands thoroughly first to get rid of any watercolour marks, she spritzed herself with the perfume and changed and waited for the bell, her hands becoming clammy from nerves. Ailuros meanwhile hung around the front door, only too aware that Amelia was expecting company. As if the feline had predicted it, the bell rang, Ailuros lifting an expectant paw to the woodwork.

“Amelia, you’re too kind!” Jonathan took the picnic basket from her hands, their fingers again touching oh so slightly, a flush rising to her cheeks from the warmth of it.

Amelia attempted to make for small talk in his old Beetle on the way. A beautifully restored piece of history that it was, straight out of the seventies, in a gleaming cream with red leather seating, a vehicle he told her he restored entirely with his own two hands.

“I can be a bit of a perfectionist.”

“So what can’t you do?” Amelia teased.

“Oh a great deal, I assure you,” he turned briefly from the road to smile at her.

“But what got you into photography? Not every day I meet an artist of your calibre, even though I lived with one for so many years,” Amelia countered.

“Well, my grandfather, though a locksmith by trade, loved his photography. When I was little he would take me into the darkroom, and it felt like this magical space where anything was possible, watching him bathe his handiwork in chemicals, while images would appear out of thin air on once bare paper. And so intimate they were. He was truly masterful at capturing that little something that is always just below the surface in a subject, that elixir, you know?

“That was it. It was signed and sealed for me. I begged my father for a camera of my own, and perhaps recognising the intense yearning in me, my parents indulged me without a second thought. Those stranger kids like me are lucky when they are blessed with folks who understand that theirs might be an unconventional path in life.

“I’ve always had an overactive mind, even as a child, and there was something about being behind the lens that calmed me, quietened the mind. A meditation perhaps. But perhaps more than that. I recently read a great book by a musician I admire profoundly, A Dream About Lightning Bugs by Ben Folds. In his memoir, he speaks of a dream he once had, where he was gathering lightning bugs that his friends could only see once he’d captured them in a glass jar... For all to see... He likens this to the creative art. To distil the exquisite in the everyday all around us, for all to find splendour in. Does that make any sense?”

“Completely. My mother would’ve loved that analogy. It’s so very true to the endeavour of the artist. I even feel Renate in what she does, and your father, to be noble artists in their own right, and my life has been a grand sequence of lightning bugs since meeting them all. Even my friend, Tal, in his way of seeing the world and treading as lightly as he does with all around him. I stop to smell the roses around him, as the saying goes.

“But really, I must thank you for this invitation. I’m so very thrilled. You know, my Nana and Papa used to have their own screening room. The walls were lined on either side with the most fantastic stills from old classic movies from Chaplin to Hepburn and Sharif and Marilyn Monroe, painted in black and white by my mother. We’d make popcorn with my Nana’s popcorn machine, munching it in bright red buckets, and sit and endlessly watch old movies on a rainy weekend.”

“Yeah, it’s a little side passion project of mine, this film club. To Catch a Thief would be Hitchcock’s last film with Grace Kelly and penultimate film with Cary Grant. And look out for Hitchcock’s signature cameo ten minutes into the film, as a passenger on a bus sitting next to Cary Grant. Sorry, I hope I’m not boring you. I collect random film facts, enthusiast that I am. But it’s not for everyone.”

“No, no, it’s wonderful that you love it so,” Amelia urged him on, not bored for one second, but rather all the more intrigued by him.

Having arrived at the spot, Jonathan rolled out a picnic blanket for them with a scattering of cushions, and Amelia offered him a glass of her homemade limoncello.

“This stuff is bloody marvellous!” Jonathan sounded so much like his father in that moment. A right pair she imagined the two of them could be. “Honestly, Amelia, I declare this the stuff of the gods. It tastes of sunshine itself!”

Amelia felt herself blushing and was grateful that the sun had set on the evening and she would not be caught out. She loved treating all her friends to something special that she had whipped up in the kitchen on a lazy afternoon or languid morning, but this was different.

She recognized in herself, by way of his compliment, how very desperate she was to impress Jonathan, to make of herself an equal and worthwhile peer, and perhaps more than that. But shy as always, she withdrew a little, feeling suddenly embarrassed by her own heart’s secret longing.

Could he sense the electricity in the air or was it just her that felt the charge of attraction so very palpably?

All the same, that night, it was just the two of them, on the picnic blanket though surrounded by strangers, sipping on limoncello and snacking on the basket treats she’d packed, under those glittering skies, the blossoming of a young romance, oblivious though they may have been, in their reticent reluctance to completely admit it.

“I hope you don’t mind me saying so,” Jonathan interrupted the film quietly to lean into Amelia. “But you smell utterly lovely. Don’t find me impertinent.”

“Oh, no, not at all... And thank you.” She smiled, a warmth spreading over her entire body, feeling only too thrilled to have had such a formidable force as Renate on her side. Perhaps it was not too impertinent either for her to hope that Jonathan share in her sentiment, of having found someone who at once made you feel so at home and yet so simultaneously spellbound. Probably not, she doubted herself one minute, then hoped the next, her emotions in turmoil.

“Come, come,” Portia beckoned Georgina from that starry, starry deep blue above. “It would appear that our dear, young Amelia would have a suitor a’courting.” They shared a mischievous grin between them, before leaving Amelia to savour the uncertain flutter of falling in love for the first time. Another entirely new sensation to her as happiness had been, but one she was ready for all the same. Both Portia and Georgina agreed it was about time for the once wretched Amelia who had never known love like this before. Even if Georgina had disavowed men, she had to admit, this Jonathan character wasn’t half shabby.

Home again, after the film, Amelia and Jonathan talked the night away into the early hours of dawn, both too hesitant to make the first move, but hanging on each other’s every word with bated breath as young lovers are wont to do. And when Amelia finally laid her head to rest, she dozed off contentedly, for date or no, she’d been swept off her feet all the same like an old Hollywood romance.

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