“May need to scrap the whole thing.” Roger raked his long fingers through his hair, digging fresh trenches through the Brylcreem.
“Refund forty thousand dollars? What about the French Families Fund? I’m already operating on fumes. Plus, we’ve paid for ten pounds of Waldorf salad—”
“They call that salad?” Roger flipped through his contact cards, half of them illegible and littered with cross-outs. “It’s pathétique…just chopped apples and celery. And those soggy walnuts…”
I scoured my Wheeldex in search of celebrity candidates. Mother and I knew Julia Marlowe, the famous actress, but she was touring Europe. “How about Peter Patout? Mother’s people have used him.”
“The architect?”
“Of the whole World’s Fair. They have that seven-foot robot.”
“Boring,” he said, slapping his silver letter opener against his palm.
I flipped to the L’s. “How about Captain Lehude?”
“Of the Normandie? Are you serious? He’s paid to be dull.”
“You can’t just discount every suggestion out of hand, Roger. How about Paul Rodierre? Betty says everyone’s talking about him.”
Roger pursed his lips, always a good sign. “The actor? I saw his show. He’s good. Tall and attractive, if you go for that look. Fast metabolism, of course.”
“At least we know he can memorize a script.”
“He’s a bit of a loose cannon. And married too, so don’t get any ideas.”
“I’m through with men, Roger,” I said. At thirty-seven, I’d resigned myself to singledom.
“Not sure Rodierre’ll do it. See who you can get, but make sure they stick to the script. No Roosevelt—”
“No Rockefellers,” I finished.
Between cases, I called around to various last-minute possibilities, ending up with one option, Paul Rodierre. He was in New York appearing in an American musical revue at the Broadhurst Theatre, The Streets of Paris, Carmen Miranda’s cyclonic Broadway debut.
I phoned the William Morris Agency and was told they’d check and call me back. Ten minutes later, M. Rodierre’s agent told me the theater was dark that night and that, though his client did not own evening clothes, he was deeply honored by our request to host the gala that evening. He’d meet me at the Waldorf to discuss details. Our apartment on East Fiftieth Street was a stone’s throw from the Waldorf, so I rushed there to change into Mother’s black Chanel dress.
I found M. Rodierre seated at a café table in the Waldorf’s Peacock Alley bar adjacent to the lobby as the two-ton bronze clock sounded its lovely Westminster Cathedral chime on the half hour. Gala guests in their finest filtered in, headed for the Grand Ballroom upstairs.
“M. Rodierre?” I said.
Roger was right about the attractive part. The first thing a person noticed about Paul Rodierre, after the initial jolt of his physical beauty, was the remarkable smile.
“How can I thank you for doing this so last minute, Monsieur?”
He unfolded himself from his chair, presenting a build better suited to rowing crew on the Charles than playing Broadway. He attempted to kiss my cheek, but I extended my hand to him, and he shook it. It was nice to meet a man my height.
“My pleasure,” he said.
His attire was the issue: green trousers, an aubergine velvet sports jacket, brown suede shoes, and worst of all, a black shirt. Only priests and fascists wore black shirts. And gangsters, of course.
“Do you want to change?” I resisted the urge to tidy his hair, which was long enough to pull back with a rubber band. “Shave perhaps?” According to his agent, M. Rodierre was a guest at the hotel, so his razor sat just a few stories overhead.
“This is what I wear,” he said with a shrug. Typical actor. Why hadn’t I known better? The parade of guests en route to the ballroom was growing, the women stunning in their finery, every man in tails and patent leather oxfords or calf opera pumps.
“This is my first gala,” I said. “The consulate’s one night to raise money. It’s white tie.” Would he fit into Father’s old tux? The inseam would be right, but it would be much too tight in the shoulders.
“Are you always this, well, energized, Miss Ferriday?”
“Well, here in New York, individuality is not always appreciated.” I handed him the stapled sheets. “I’m sure you’re eager to see the script.”
He handed it back. “No, merci.”
I pushed it back into his hands. “But the consul general himself wrote it.”
“Tell me again why I’m doing this?”
“It’s to benefit displaced French citizens all year and my French Families Fund. We help orphans back in France whose parents have been lost for any number of reasons.