French Coast (5 page)

“What a small world.” Yvette smiled like a cat. “I think we'll get along very well. Shall I pour us both a cup of vanilla tea and I'll tell you a story?”

“That would be great!” Serena's shoulders relaxed, feeling like she had passed a test. She scribbled some words on her notepad and looked up at Yvette. “Did you always want to work in fashion?”

Yvette poured two cups of tea and added rounded spoonfuls of honey. She furrowed her brow and the lines around her mouth became pronounced. “Goodness, I don't want to talk about fashion, I want to tell you about Bertrand.”

*   *   *

“I met Bertrand at this very hotel,” Yvette began. “I was younger than you, it was my first assignment. Bertrand was France's literary lion.”

“He had already won the Prix Goncourt,” Serena said, consulting her notes. “It must have been so intimidating to be in his presence. What was he like?”

“He was thirty and gorgeous,” Yvette sighed. “Sharp dark eyes, a firm chin, like a young Marlon Brando. He was promoting his first novel,
The Gigolo
. It was about a male gigolo who saved his wealthy client from an abusive husband. The critics hailed him as a rapturous new voice, but it was the women who really loved him. Every female reader in France imagined him saving her from a life of boredom.” Yvette paused, her eyes misting over as if she were drifting back in time.…

*   *   *

“You look very young to be a senior editor at
Vogue,
” Bertrand said. He wore a white singlet and khakis and a silver chain around his neck. He smoked one cigarette after another, grinding them into a glass ashtray.

“I'm Irene's secretary,” Yvette admitted. “She got food poisoning at lunch.”

“Have you ever interviewed an author before?” Bertrand asked, smiling mischievously. “We can be very demanding. For instance, we can't start until you join me in a glass of chardonnay.”

“I don't drink wine in the afternoon,” Yvette replied. She was so nervous, she kept twisting her pen.

“Of course you do, you're a journalist.” Bertrand poured two glasses of white wine. “Now tell me, what are your goals? Do you plan on running
Vogue,
or are you going to write the great French novel?”

“I'm engaged,” Yvette murmured. “My fiancé's family owns a bank in Paris.”

“So you are going to make babies and get fat.” Bertrand looked at her closely. “That will be a waste of a great beauty.”

“I want to be a mother,” Yvette replied indignantly. “I love children.”

Bertrand paced around the room, his hands in his pockets. “You are right, having children is the only way to gain immortality. We writers try, but it is only our words that will live on. We will become dust in a graveyard. How old are you, twenty-one? Twenty-two? You are too young to devote your life to children. And I bet this fiancé doesn't appreciate you; does he know how to make you come?”

Yvette blushed so deeply she almost fainted in her chair. Bertrand walked over and cupped her chin with his hand.

“I have embarrassed you,” he said. “We will talk about something else: art, music, literature.”

“I'm here to interview you,” Yvette replied, breaking away from his touch.

“Ah, the newspapers and magazines, they make up what they want to hear,” Bertrand said, and shrugged. “That I have a mistress in every town, that I was beaten as a child. They don't want to know the real Bertrand Roland; I'd much rather learn about you.”

Yvette heard a knock at the door. Bertrand's publicist poked her head in and tapped her finger on her watch.

“I have to interview you,” Yvette said, frowning. “Or I'll be fired.”

Bertrand waited till his publicist left, then walked over to the table. He picked up a Polaroid camera and handed it to Yvette. “We'll give them what they want.”

He stubbed out his cigarette and stripped off his singlet. He unzipped his slacks and folded them on a chair. He looked at Yvette, grinning like a schoolboy. Then he took off his underwear and his socks.

“Take a picture, you'll sell more copies than in the history of
Vogue
.”

“I can't do that,” Yvette stammered, closing her eyes.

“This morning you were a secretary, now you are a journalist,” he replied. “Take the photo.”

*   *   *

Serena stood on the balcony, gazing at the glittering coastline. It was late afternoon and beach attendants closed up umbrellas and stacked deck chairs. Women in metallic bikinis slipped on silk caftans and gold sandals and collected their paperback books and suntan lotion. Serena watched couples strolling along the Boulevard de la Croisette already dressed for the evening. They ran down the dock and climbed onto sleek yachts and wide catamarans.

Serena walked back inside, breathing in the scent of dahlias and camellias. The omelets and fresh fruit on the sideboard had been replaced by platters of salmon, bowls of gazpacho, wedges of Brie, and plates of fruit tarts and custards.

Zoe hadn't returned from her afternoon excursion and Serena had the suite to herself. She filled a plate with crusty garlic rolls and plump green olives and settled on a gold velvet armchair. She flipped through her notepad, scribbling notes in the margins.

“I spent the whole afternoon yesterday figuring out who I should fire for messing up your hotel reservation,” Chelsea said when Serena answered her cell phone. “I called every hotel from Cannes to Nice, but no one has a room. I even pretended to be Valentino's personal assistant, and the H
ô
tel du Cap-Eden-Roc informed me that Mr. Valentino knows everything is booked up, and surely one of his admirers has space on their yacht.”

“I met a woman in the lobby yesterday,” Serena replied. “She let me stay in the guest bedroom in her suite.”

“That's wonderful news!” Chelsea exclaimed. “Did you meet Yvette?”

“She's the most elegant woman I've ever seen.” Serena nodded. “Like Katharine Hepburn and Lauren Bacall with a touch of Audrey Hepburn. She wore a leotard and tights but she looked dressed for the opera.”

“She could as easily have graced the cover of
Vogue
as been the editor in chief.” Chelsea sighed like a starstruck schoolgirl. “Tell me about the interview, I want to hear every word.”

Serena clutched the notepad to her chest, feeling suddenly protective. She remembered Yvette's description of Bertrand and the way her eyes clouded over when she talked about him. “We really just got to know each other,” Serena said evasively. “We're meeting again tomorrow.”

“The whole industry is abuzz;
Harper's Bazaar
and
W
are green with envy. I hope it's juicy,” Chelsea replied. “There's nothing like a scandal to sell magazines.”

“I can't stay in this suite,” Serena said, frowning. “I hardly know Zoe, and it must cost a fortune.”

“You have to stay there,” Chelsea insisted. “It's the only available lodging in the Côte d'Azur. Take your roommate out for a gourmet dinner and put it on the expense account. You're saving the magazine a fortune and you're going to get the story of the year.”

*   *   *

Serena put her notepad on the glass coffee table and walked over to the sideboard. She poured a cup of almond tea, thinking about Yvette. She couldn't wait to sit down with her again and learn more about Bertrand. She pictured Yvette as a young journalist, her silver hair dark and glossy, her papery skin smooth and shiny. She wondered if they did have an affair, if Yvette stripped off her clothes and they made love in his hotel suite.

“You look a million miles away,” said Zoe as she entered the room. She wore a yellow tube top and pink miniskirt. She had a red gash on her knee and a purple bruise forming on her thigh.

“Why are you staring?” Zoe asked. “I knew I shouldn't have bought this outfit. I don't have the legs for miniskirts, and yellow makes my skin look washed-out.”

“The clothes are fine,” Serena replied. “How did you get the cut and bruises?”

“I've had the worst afternoon.” Zoe threw her bag on the Aubusson rug and sank into the love seat. “I forgot to put suntan lotion on my neck and got a terrible burn. I almost ran into a group of Japanese tourists on my bicycle and crashed into a wall. Then I let the salesgirl talk me into an outfit that belongs on a prostitute when I really wanted the Lilly Pulitzer belted shirtdress.”

“It's a lovely outfit for daytime,” Serena said, twisting her ponytail. “Perfect for the beach.”

“I don't want to buy clothes for the beach!” Zoe's voice rose and her eyes filled with tears. “I want to dress to eat in elegant restaurants and go to the theater. I want to walk down the street and hear people whisper, ‘She has style.'”

“Why don't you shower,” Serena replied, afraid that Zoe would dissolve into tears. “I'll lend you a dress and we'll go to the Carlton Restaurant and order chilled prawns and French champagne. My boss insisted I buy you a five-course dinner. Tomorrow we'll go shopping and buy you a wardrobe to rival Victoria Beckham.”

“That sounds lovely.” Zoe wiped her eyes. She stood up, adjusting her tube top and tugging at her miniskirt. “But I can't eat five courses or I'll never fit into anything in the boutiques. In France clothes only come in one size: zero.”

*   *   *

Serena followed the maître d' to a round table next to the floor-to-ceiling windows. The floors were polished marble and the walls were covered in ivory satin. Serena watched waiters in white tuxedos cross the room carrying platters of oysters and baskets of olive bread.

Serena wore a green silk dress and gold sandals. Her hair was piled into a knot and secured with a gold chopstick. She gazed outside at the yellow-and-white awnings and the twinkling lights and felt almost giddy. She was in Cannes, writing a story about one of the most iconic figures in fashion.

“You haven't mentioned that rock on your finger,” Zoe said when the waiter had left them with two embossed leather menus.

“I got engaged last week,” Serena said, and blushed, gazing at the square diamond glittering under the crystal chandelier. She slid her phone out of her purse and flipped to a photo of Chase wearing a crisp yellow shirt and smiling into the camera.

“I wouldn't dash off to Cannes if I was engaged to him,” Zoe said, and whistled.

“Chase is very supportive of my career.” Serena slipped the phone back in her purse. She flashed on Chase picking her up to go to the airport, the delicious afternoon sex in her apartment, and a warmth spread through her chest.

“I'd like a stream of sexy boyfriends,” Zoe said, her eyes suddenly clouding over. “Marriage seems so complicated.”

Serena ordered a Rothschild Cabernet and a half dozen oysters. They talked about Serena's job at
Vogue
and the incredible beauty of the Riviera.

“I could stay here forever.” Zoe sighed, tearing apart a baguette. She wore a navy Stella McCartney dress that accentuated her full breasts and small waist. Her bangs covered her eyebrows and her lashes were coated with thick mascara. “The ocean is as warm as a bath and every night the maids leave Belgian chocolates on my pillow.”

“Can I ask a personal question?” Serena asked, then hesitated. “How does a twenty-five-year-old girl afford a suite at the Carlton-InterContinental? It must cost more than some precious jewels.”

“Should we start with the tomato gazpacho with buffalo mozzarella or the semicooked duck foie gras? They make it with the most delicious cherry juice and a dash of cream.” Zoe studied the menu as if it were a math exam.

“I didn't mean to snoop, but the shirts in your closet have someone else's initials,” Serena persisted.

Zoe bit her lip as if she couldn't decide what to order. Finally she placed the menu on the linen tablecloth and sighed. “My name is Claudia Zoe Gladding, I'm Malcolm Gladding's daughter.”

Serena frowned, trying to remember why that name sounded familiar. She pictured the latest issue of
Time
magazine and the silver-haired man on the cover. He wore a midnight-blue silk blazer with a yellow handkerchief in his pocket. He stood on the steps of the Sydney Opera House, surrounded by long-legged models.

“The head of Gladding House and the eighth-richest man in Australia?” Serena gaped. “I thought you were British.”

“I was sent to boarding school in England when I was twelve,” Zoe corrected. “My father owns the largest fashion empire in Australia.”

Serena frowned. “Why the fake name?”

“My father is retiring and he wants me take over Gladding House.” Zoe pierced an oyster with her fork. “My mother is on every best-dressed list in Australia and my father dresses like he's going to dinner with the prime minister. I'm good at business but I can't put an outfit together. How am I going to be the face of Gladding House if I look like a waitress in a fast-food restaurant?”

“I still don't understand,” Serena replied. “What's wrong with being Claudia Gladding?”

“The first night at the bar I watched women wearing Courrèges slacks and heart-shaped Chopard watches. I wanted to be that woman—the one who glides effortlessly through a room turning heads and leaving a trail of expensive perfume. I thought the best way was to start from scratch, so I became Zoe Pistachio.”

“That's no reason to lie,” Serena said, shaking her head.

“My mother and father are always in
The Sydney Morning Herald,
smiling into the camera like movie stars. I wanted the chance to make myself over without it being on page three of the
Daily Mirror
. Haven't you ever wanted to make your parents proud of you?”

“You're a grown woman,” Serena said, and shrugged. “I'm sure your parents don't care if you wear the wrong color blouse.”