French Coast (16 page)

*   *   *

Serena trailed her hand in the water as the sailboat eased into its berth. Nick jumped out and conversed with a blond man waiting on the dock. The man waved his arms and spoke in rapid French. Nick nodded and the two men shook hands.

“Who was that?” Serena asked.

“The owner of the catamaran,” Nick replied.

“That's not your boat?” Serena raised her eyebrow.

“I'm thinking of buying it with the money I got from my sale,” Nick said, grinning.

“The first-aid kit, the crackers and sodas?”

“All boats have first-aid kits and most are stocked with snacks.” Nick took her arm as they reached the boulevard. “You looked like you needed to be on the water.”

They crossed the boulevard and strolled to the Carlton-InterContinental. Serena stopped at the revolving glass doors and turned to Nick. “Thank you, I had a lovely time.”

“I'm not going to let some paparazzi accost you in the lobby,” Nick protested, gently propelling her through the doors. “I'm going to escort you to your suite.”

They rode silently on the elevator and walked down the hallway to the Cary Grant Suite. Serena fumbled with her key, smelling Nick's scent of suntan lotion and sweat.

“Here.” Nick reached into his pocket and brought out a piece of paper. “This is a bill for services rendered.”

“‘Found one iPhone, retrieved one purse including wallet and passport, saved priceless diamond, scared away dangerous paparazzi,'” Serena read aloud. “You said I brought you good luck.”

“That pays part of the bill,” he mused. “I know how you can pay the other half.”

Nick leaned down and kissed her slowly on the lips. He put his hand on the small of her back and pulled her close. He ran his hands through her hair, caressing her shoulders.

Serena kissed him back, her body suddenly hungry. She felt his chest against hers, the warmth of his breath, his strong hands on her back.

“I've paid my debt,” she said, and pulled away.

“Hardly.” Nick grinned. “That's the first of an installment plan.”

*   *   *

“I thought we were friends!” Zoe exclaimed.

She wore a red cotton dress with a wide white belt and white sandals. She stormed around the living room, waving a newspaper in the air.

“Of course we're friends,” Serena said as she entered the suite. Her heart was racing from Nick's kiss and she instinctively touched her mouth.

“You said friends tell each other everything,” Zoe retorted. “I bought all the newspapers in the gift shop to see if there are any pictures of my father, and I found this.” She tossed the newspaper on the glass coffee table.

Serena glanced at the
Chronicle
masthead. She scanned the photo of her father in a navy wool suit. She turned the page and saw her mother wearing a Carolina Herrera gown. There was a picture of Serena in her school uniform, and the one of Charles with the brunette and two young children.

“Is this why Chase broke up with you?” Zoe demanded.

“He was afraid the scandal would ruin his chance to be mayor.” Serena twisted her ponytail. “Chase's career is very important to him, he's always dreamed of being a politician.”

“Why didn't you tell me?” Zoe sank onto the gold silk sofa like a locomotive that had run out of steam.

“I kept expecting Chase to call and say the letter was a fraud.”

“And after he came and slept on your Egyptian cotton sheets and you gave your ring back?”

“I never thought he'd end the engagement.” Serena's eyes filled with tears. “He said we came first, the rest was gravy.”

“What are you going to do now?” Zoe asked quietly, slipping off her sandals.

Serena poured a glass of iced tea and told Zoe about the photographer and Nick and his kiss.

“I shouldn't have kissed him,” Serena moaned. Her throat was parched and the tea tasted cold and sweet. “I'm not ready for something new.”

“I want a string of sexy boyfriends,” Zoe said glumly. “Being in love is exhausting.”

“Do you have someone in Sydney?” Serena asked.

“Ian; he's a geologist,” Zoe said, and nodded. “We've known each other since the fifth grade. We're sort of engaged to be engaged but I told him we need to wait. I have to save my parents' marriage.”

Zoe sifted through the newspapers and suddenly her eyes grew dark. She picked up the paper and quickly scanned the headline.

“Oh God,
The Sydney Morning Herald
.” She handed it to Serena. “We're too late.”

Serena gazed at the photo of Malcolm helping a luscious brunette into a speedboat. The woman wore a metallic bathing suit and four-inch stilettos and Malcolm wore a short-sleeved silk shirt and a broad straw hat.

“I thought no one had photos except
Paris Match
.” Zoe walked over to the sideboard and ate a handful of raisins. “My mother is going to see this with her porridge and stewed apricots. She'll be at her solicitor's office by lunchtime.”

“Your parents haven't slept together in thirteen years and they're still married,” Serena said as she studied the paper. “She's not going to file for divorce over one grainy AP picture.”

“My mother is like the dowager on
Downton Abbey
,” Zoe fretted. “Appearances are everything.”

“I'm meeting your father in an hour,” Serena replied, consulting her watch. “I'm going to write a piece that will make her feel like Olivia Newton-John in
Grease
.”

“My parents once dressed up as Olivia Newton-John and John Travolta for a costume party,” Zoe mused.

Serena walked over to the sideboard and squeezed Zoe's hand. “Trust me, it'll work.”

Zoe's eyes were bright and her lips trembled. “My father looked ridiculous in disco pants.”

*   *   *

Serena entered the Carlton Bar and saw Malcolm sitting at a table next to the marble fireplace. He wore a red silk shirt and tan slacks and a gold Rolex on his wrist. His forehead was creased and he sipped a scotch without ice.

“Did you see it?” He stood up. He looked older than when Serena last saw him; his skin was gray and his eyes were dim. “
The Sydney Morning Herald
. They may as well have printed my obituary.”

“It was a photo of two people stepping onto a boat,” Serena said as she sat on a blue crushed-velvet chair. “You could have been part of a tour.”

“I never wanted to humiliate Laura.” Malcolm sighed. “I was so stupid, I thought I could just fade into the sunset.”

“That's hard to do when you're head of a fashion empire and one of the richest men in Australia,” Serena said, grinning.

“Did Zoe tell you that?”

“I'm a journalist.” Serena shrugged. “We're going to use that to our advantage. We're going to put your apology on the cover of
Vogue
and
Harper's
Bazaar
and
W
.”

“You're going to have to be a magician.” Malcolm drained his glass and signaled to the waiter.

“Tell me how you and Laura met,” Serena said as she opened her notepad. “Tell me the moment you fell in love with her, when you knew you'd do anything to win her.”

*   *   *

“We were in a fashion design class at University of Sydney,” Malcolm began. “I noticed her the first day but it took me two months to talk to her. I was a scholarship kid from Newcastle and she was the most elegant woman I'd ever seen: glossy brown hair, big hazel eyes. She wore a strand of pearls and white gloves to class.

“The professor assigned students to work in pairs and create an outfit from scratch. I rehearsed for days how I would ask her to be my partner: with a bouquet of roses, with a slice of pavlova from the university cafeteria. One day I saw her in the hall and I blurted it out.

“She said she didn't even know my name, and she wouldn't trust half her grade to a guy who wore rugby shirts and sneakers and needed a haircut.

“God, I remember the way she waltzed off like a princess,” Malcolm said, slowly sipping his scotch. “I begged her friend to give me her measurements. I sold my stereo to buy the finest imported Thai silk; I stayed up nights sketching designs. When I was satisfied I scoured the garment district for the best seamstress. I pawned my watch to buy a pair of gold earrings and I delivered newspapers so I could afford a haircut.

“On the day of the presentation, I borrowed my buddy's navy suit and black leather shoes. I stood in front of the lecture hall, trying to see her face. She sat in the back; her skin was like alabaster under the lights. She wore a peach-colored dress and sheer stockings and white silk gloves.

“I unwrapped yards of tissue paper and revealed a dress the color of seashells. It had a heart-shaped bodice and a cinched waist and a full skirt. I paired it with a lace slip and ivory gloves with pearl clasps.

“I remember reciting the words I'd been practicing in front of the mirror: ‘Some designers name their collections after movie stars; I call this the ‘Laura' after the most beautiful woman I've ever met.'

“I was sweating so badly I wanted to bolt out of there.” Malcolm frowned, running his fingers over his scotch glass. “But I knew I only had one chance. I put the dress in the box and gave it to her.

“She said if I was going to give her a gown, I better invite her somewhere to wear it. She had tickets to
Swan Lake
at the Sydney Opera House, and I was going to take her.” Malcolm paused, his face spreading into a smile. “Then she told me I better wear socks.

“They say cricket is boring, but ballet takes the cake,” Malcolm mused. “But when Laura sat next to me in the dark auditorium, when I smelled her perfume and touched her hair, I knew I could do anything. I promised myself I'd give her everything she wanted—houses, cars, jewelry, her own damned box at the opera.”

Serena waited for Malcolm to continue, but his eyes went dark, as if the film he was watching ended.

“Why did she tell you to wear socks?” Serena asked.

“I borrowed my buddy's suit but I forgot the socks.” Malcolm laughed out loud. “The most important moment of my life and I forgot the bloody socks.”

 

chapter fifteen

Serena slipped on her yellow Lilly Pulitzer dress and strapped on white leather sandals. She tied her ponytail with a yellow ribbon and coated her lips with lipgloss. She ate one quick bite of toast with strawberry jam and stepped into the hallway.

“Serena! I'm so happy to see you,” Yvette said as she opened the door of the Sophia Loren Suite.

She wore red yoga pants and a black leotard and clutched a paperback book. “I hate insomnia, but reading can be such a gift. I make a pot of tea and curl up with a book and before I know it, it's morning.”

“My father gets insomnia.” Serena walked into the living room.

The turquoise curtains were pulled back and the bay shimmered like a sheet of glass. The sideboard was filled with platters of warm scones and berries and there was a pitcher of orange juice on the dining-room table.

“Have you read Anaïs Nin? She was born in Paris and was rumored to be Henry Miller's mistress.” Yvette curled up on the cream silk love seat, tucking her feet under her. “Her diaries are quite … vivid. It's strange how a staid married woman can meet a man and her whole life can change.…”

*   *   *

Yvette smelled Bertrand before she saw him. She entered the ice cream shop in Juan-les-Pins and inhaled his scent of cigarettes and sweat. She turned around and saw him sitting at a table, eating a banana split.

“How do you do it?” he asked. “You have to share your secret with other women.”

“What are you talking about?” Yvette blushed, seeing other shoppers glance at her curiously.

Bertrand walked to the counter and gazed at her floral cotton dress with its wide leather belt.

“You keep having babies, but you don't get fat.”

Yvette clutched the pint of vanilla ice cream, trying to stop her heart from racing. She hadn't seen Bertrand in two years, since the day she took the train to Paris. When she'd returned to Antibes she discovered Bertrand had left for Hollywood.

*   *   *

She finished translating the manuscript, feeling bold and reckless. She knew Bertrand wouldn't read it and Edouard would say nothing, so she gave Bertrand's dour heroine her own unrequited passion. She turned it in to Edouard like an addict giving up her opium. Then she waited to have her baby, hoping the early-morning feedings, the delirium of sleepless nights, would cure her.

Bertrand sent two dozen lilies when she gave birth with a note written on ivory notepaper. She read the words aloud: “‘You have done what I never could, created something perfect.'” Then she folded it carefully and slipped it into her lingerie drawer.

*   *   *

Yvette entered the vast kitchen and put the ice cream in the freezer. She poured a glass of lemonade and sat at the long oak table. Only when Françoise walked in asking about the steaks did she realize she had left their dinner at the ice cream shop.

Yvette saw Bertrand again a week later at the Marché Provençal. It was late morning and she had come with Lilly to buy cut flowers and fresh fruit. Bertrand was standing at a stall, talking to the woman who sold peaches. He walked over to Yvette and inhaled the lilacs and dahlias.

“So this is the infant who made your stomach into a watermelon?”

Yvette glanced at Lilly, whose mouth was full of raspberries. She had dark curly hair and blue eyes like Henri. She wore a pink cotton sundress and sandals with white bows.

“Lilly is almost two,” Yvette replied. “You weren't here last summer.”

“I was in Hollywood.” Bertrand took out his gold cigarette case. “The movie business moves like a glacier. But they give you a mansion and fill it with fine wines and thick steaks and beautiful women. By the time they've ruined your book so you recognize nothing but your name in the credits, you're in a stupor.”