French Coast (23 page)

Her head throbbed and she realized she hadn't eaten anything except one apple and endless cups of coffee. She surveyed the selection of salmon rolls and ham sandwiches, but her stomach felt like it was coated with cement.

Nick didn't know many locals and he hadn't mentioned anyone visiting him in Cannes. Maybe he was talking about an old friend from prep school or a member of the Artemis team. She gazed at the crystal vase filled with birds of paradise and a chill ran down her spine.

Perhaps Nick thought they were having a summer fling and had a serious girlfriend in Paris. Serena imagined a brunette with a chic haircut and bright red lipstick. She pictured her covering Nick with kisses and speaking with an elegant French accent.

Serena stirred cream into a fresh cup of coffee and remembered Nick rescuing her from the paparazzi, finding her engagement ring on the dock. She flashed on their first dinner at Le Maurice, making love in his apartment, sailing on the bay.

Cannes was full of young women who came to meet sexy Frenchmen, suave Germans, gorgeous Swedes. Maybe Nick expected to kiss her good-bye and exchange postcards once a year. Serena sipped her coffee and scowled. It was cold and bitter and even the cream tasted funny.

“You look like you ate a rotten egg.” Zoe appeared at the entry. She wore a white linen dress and red Gucci flats. She carried a red Gucci clutch and wore a gold pendant around her neck.

“I haven't eaten anything.” Serena sighed, putting the coffee cup on the white saucer. “Why are you dressed up?”

“I was trying to get information out of the concierge.” Zoe slipped off her shoes and sat on a royal-blue silk sofa. “I gave him three hundred euros and promised to meet him for cocktails before he gave me my father's key.”

“What did Malcolm say?” Serena asked.

“He checked out.” Zoe's voice trembled. “His suitcases are gone.”

“Where did he go?”

“I tried to hack into his credit card accounts, but he changed the password. He left a note.” She fished it out of her purse. “‘Dear Zoe, Don't worry about me, do what your mother says.'”

“He can't leave without telling you where he's going!” Serena exclaimed.

“He's getting quite good at it.” Zoe walked over to the bar. “Maybe he went to Lithuania to see Verushka.”

“You don't believe that,” Serena said, frowning. “You know he loves your mother.”

“All I know is she told him it's over and he disappeared,” Zoe replied. “Honestly, if my parents were children I'd send them to their rooms.”

“What are you going to do?” Serena asked.

Zoe poured a shot of scotch and drank it in one gulp. She grabbed her purse and walked to the door.

“I'm going to Nice airport to ask every airline if Malcolm Gladding is on one of their flights.”

“I'll come with you.” Serena slipped her phone in her purse.

“I'm going alone.” Zoe shook her head. “Because if I find him, I'm going to make a scene.”

*   *   *

“Serena! It's lovely to see you,” Yvette said, standing at the door of the Sophia Loren Suite. She wore a red silk dress with a wide belt and red satin pumps. Her silvery hair fell neatly to her shoulders and she wore large diamond earrings. “I'm glad you could join me for dinner, I was sure you'd have plans.”

Serena walked into the pastel living room and saw the dining-room table set with fine white china. There was a basket of fresh bread rolls and pots of whipped butter. Silver domes covered large porcelain plates and Serena smelled steak and mushrooms and roasted potatoes.

“I've been working in the suite all day,” Serena replied. “It's nice to take a break.”

“I feel terrible that I've been away.” Yvette sat on a peach upholstered chair. “You must be anxious to finish and go back to San Francisco.”

Serena gazed at Yvette and thought of the things that had been spinning in her head. She needed to ask someone how to handle her parents, what to say to Nick. But she barely knew Yvette and wasn't comfortable asking for personal advice.

“Did you ever regret telling Bertrand you were leaving Henri?” Serena blurted out. “Do you think if you said nothing, your relationship would have continued?”

“Goodness!” Yvette exclaimed. “I haven't thought about it in years.”

“I'm sorry, you don't have to answer that,” Serena said, stumbling over her words.

In all their meetings Serena had barely asked questions. Yvette seemed to be channeling some inner voice and forgot Serena was there. When she finished recounting a story she would curl up like a turtle retreating to its shell.

“It's an interesting question.” Yvette cut a thin slice of chateaubriand and covered it with sautéed mushrooms. She took a small bite and dabbed her mouth with a napkin. “I didn't see Bertrand again for almost ten years. He moved to Hollywood and wrote screenplays; he was very successful: an Oscar, great success at the box office. He was staying at the George Cinq in Paris and I was editor in chief of French
Vogue
.…”

*   *   *

“You must be a big shot.” Yvette glanced at the heavy damask curtains, the gilt wallpaper, the Louis XVI chairs. “They only put the most important celebrities in the Royal Suite.”

“I have my own steam room and I wash my ass with a gold-plated bidet,” Bertrand replied.

His hair was longer and he had permanent dark stubble on his chin. He wore a navy silk shirt and beige slacks and soft leather loafers. “I'm glad you're here.”

“You said you wouldn't give the interview unless I came myself,” Yvette said, bristling. She wore a red Chanel suit and black leather pumps. Her dark hair was cut in a short bob and she wore a strand of black pearls around her neck.

“I wanted to see you.” Bertrand lit a cigarette and sat against ivory silk cushions. “I didn't think you'd agree to a cup of coffee and a croissant.”

“Why would you want to see me?” Yvette's eyes flickered and she remembered the last time she saw Bertrand, in the rooms at Juan-les-Pins. She saw Suzy Meadows's blond hair and the sheets crumpled on the bedroom floor.

Bertrand blew a thick smoke ring and looked closely at Yvette. “I want to know how the wife of the bourgeois banker became one of the most powerful women in fashion.”

“I'm here to interview
you
.” Yvette sat across from Bertrand on a spindly antique chair. She smelled the blend of cologne and cigarettes and her heart beat faster in her chest.

“You know how I feel about journalists.” Bertrand shrugged. “You'll print whatever you like: Prix Goncourt winner abandons serious literature to become a Hollywood hack. Tell me about your life; does Lilly still like ice cream?”

Yvette glanced at Bertrand and for a moment she saw them in the room above the ice cream shop in Juan-les-Pins. She pictured Bertrand kissing her breasts, inserting his fingers inside her, filling her with the most exquisite pleasure.

“Lilly is fourteen, she spends all her time on the telephone,” Yvette snapped.

“And Henri, how does he feel about his wife being one of the most revered women in France? Does it make his penis very small?”

“That summer in Antibes I took intimate photos of Henri and the actress.” Yvette twisted the diamond bird's egg on her finger. “It turns out I was not the only one to capture her without her clothes on. The next year a blue movie surfaced. Suzy claimed she thought it was an art film, but
Lush Meadows
became an instant sensation. I told Henri if he didn't let me go back to work, I'd make my photos public. It wouldn't have made his clients happy that he was romancing a porn star.”

“Why didn't you divorce him?” Bertrand asked.

“What would be the point?” Yvette looked past Bertrand to the Paris skyline. She saw the Eiffel Tower and the Tuileries Garden. “We have separate bedrooms; perhaps when Lilly graduates I'll get my own apartment.”

“You should have cut off his balls and made them into a necklace,” Bertrand said as he stubbed out his cigarette. “He never deserved you.”

Yvette poured tea into a Limoges porcelain cup. She sipped it slowly, trying to keep her voice steady. “Tell me about Hollywood; does everyone drive a convertible?”

“I live in a mansion with a swimming pool shaped like an interior organ,” Bertrand said as he poured a shot of vodka from a crystal decanter. “I have a fourteen-car garage and my own tennis court. I spend my days trying to stop pimply-faced directors from ruining my lines.” Bertrand swallowed the vodka. “But they pay me like an Arabian sheik.”

“I'm glad you're happy,” Yvette said quietly.

“Remember when I told you men get rich so they can fuck beautiful women?” Bertrand lit another cigarette. His eyes were dark and there were deep lines on his forehead. “I have everything I asked for.”

Suddenly Yvette couldn't hold it in any longer. She slammed her teacup on the saucer and jumped up. “Why did you screw that actress? I would have left Henri for you!”

Bertrand walked over to his leather briefcase and removed a magazine. He opened it and handed it to Yvette.

“Do you remember when we met?” Bertrand asked. “I was staying at the Carlton-InterContinental in Cannes and you were a secretary. Your boss got food poisoning and you were sent to interview France's most notorious writer.”

“Of course I remember.” Yvette blushed, picturing Bertrand stripping off his clothes and insisting she take his photo.

She glanced at the magazine and saw her byline at the top of the page. She quickly skimmed the story about the great success of
The Gigolo
and Bertrand's plans for a follow-up novel. She remembered Bertrand looking like a young Marlon Brando and being so nervous she leaked ink on her skirt.

“I asked you what you wanted to do and you said you wanted to be a mother,” Bertrand continued. “If you left Henri he would have found a way to keep the children. I couldn't make you lose the one thing you always wanted.”

“I loved you; you broke my heart.”

“Everyone recovers from love affairs.” Bertrand shrugged. “I took your advice, I decided to have children.”

“You have a family?” Yvette started.

“I'm married. Jenny is a television actress, quite pretty if you like skinny blondes. We got married on a cliff in Big Sur, all the guests were barefoot. Sadly, it seems I'm sterile, a bout of chicken pox as a child. I told Jenny I'd give her a divorce, but she enjoys being married to a French screenwriter.”

“I'm sorry.” Yvette realized her hands were trembling. She opened her notepad and unscrewed her fountain pen.

“God, what I would give to fuck you right now. Did you know that the president of the United States slept on this bed? Two-thousand-count Egyptian cotton sheets and down pillows so soft it's like sleeping on a cloud.” Bertrand stood so close she could smell the vodka on his breath.

Yvette sat perfectly still. She wanted Bertrand to pull her up and wrap his arms around her. She wanted him to pick her up and carry her into the bedroom. She wanted to make love until her lips were bruised and her breasts ached and she thought she was drowning.

Bertrand walked to the end table and poured himself another scotch. He swallowed it quickly and sank onto the brocade sofa.

“But I'm married,” he said. He glanced at Yvette and his black eyes sparkled. “And you know I take the marriage vows seriously.”

*   *   *

“You look beautiful,” Nick said as he kissed Serena on the mouth and handed her a bouquet of yellow roses. He wore a blue blazer over a white shirt and beige slacks. His cheeks were smooth and his dark hair was freshly washed.

Serena twisted her ponytail and fingered her Tiffany necklace. She had tried on three outfits before deciding on a Zac Posen silk dress and silver Manolos. She might be overdressed for dinner on the sand, but she didn't want to be outclassed by a supermodel wearing straight-off-the-runway Alexander McQueen and Bottega Veneta stilettos.

Serena followed Nick through the revolving glass doors and inhaled the sultry evening air. The Boulevard de la Croisette was filled with couples sitting at outdoor cafés. Serena saw maître d's passing out menus and waiters carrying trays of brightly colored drinks.

“V said she might be late,” Nick had said as they crossed the avenue. “Rehearsals are dragging on longer than she thought.”

“She's an actress?” Serena clutched the roses against her chest. Nick still hadn't told her who was joining them for dinner, and Serena was too nervous to ask.

“V is a dancer, she's been on tour all summer,” Nick explained. “When they're home they're supposed to be on holiday, but the choreographer is a slave driver.”

“Nick!” a female voice called.

Serena looked up and saw a woman with her hair wrapped in a silk scarf. She wore oversize sunglasses and striped leggings. She had a cotton sweater draped over her shoulders and white loafers on her feet.

“There you are,” she exclaimed as she rushed up to Nick and hugged him. “You don't look a day older, and I have to cover my face with foundation. Ballet is such a cruel world; I'm twenty-seven and I'm over the hill.”

“You look gorgeous.” Nick draped one arm around V's narrow shoulders. “V, I'd like you to meet Serena.”

V extended her hand and looked curiously at Serena. She had high cheekbones and a slender neck. Her lips were coated with red lipstick and she wore diamond studs in her ears. “You haven't said a word about her.”

“Nick hasn't mentioned you either,” Serena stammered.

“Let me guess.” V glanced at Nick, a smile hovering on her lips. “You didn't tell Serena that your sister is a principal dancer with Les Ballets de Monte Carlo.”

“Nick didn't say he had a sister,” Serena replied. Suddenly the Mediterranean sparkled and the boats gleamed on the harbor. She watched the sun glide behind the horizon and felt the air escape her lungs.