French Coast (7 page)

Finally when her teeth stopped chattering and her heart calmed down she stripped off her running clothes and jumped in the shower. She stood under the double jets, looking out the porthole at the Mediterranean. When she was dressed, her cheeks powdered with Chanel blush, her mouth coated with Lancôme lipgloss, she grabbed her notepad and silver pen and marched down the hallway.

*   *   *

“Serena, it is lovely to see you,” Yvette said when she answered the door. She wore a red wool dress with gold buttons and black Ferragamos. “I wanted to change into something more comfortable, but I just returned from running an errand.”

“Take your time,” Serena said as she entered the suite. The sideboard was set with white china and Chopin played over recessed speakers.

“I'll be a minute,” Yvette said, disappearing into the bedroom. “I ordered
petit
sandwiches and a selection of teas; help yourself.”

Serena poured a cup of cinnamon tea and sat at the bamboo dining table. She gazed at her diamond-and-emerald ring, wondering if Chase expected her to take it off. She blinked, pushing it tighter on her finger.

“Are you all right?” Yvette asked. She wore black cigarette slacks and a red cashmere sweater. “You look like you've seen a ghost.”

“I'm still getting over jet lag,” Serena murmured. “I can't wait to hear more about Bertrand.”

“Bertrand?” Yvette repeated, as if she hadn't thought about him in years. “He has that effect on people. Once you learn about him you want to hear more; it's like an addiction.”

“You said last time that's what you wanted to talk about.” Serena blushed, suddenly flustered. “I'd love to learn about your career at
Vogue
.”

Yvette selected two watercress sandwiches and a mini-éclair and sat on a pink satin armchair. She nibbled the éclair, blotting her mouth with a napkin, and looked at Serena.

“Yes, let's talk about Bertrand. I didn't see Bertrand again for eight years,” Yvette began. “My husband decided we should rent a villa for the summer in Cap d'Antibes. It was a wonderful place; the historic town was full of galleries and bookstores and you could hike for hours and see from Monaco to Nice.” Yvette's eyes flickered as if she were watching an old movie. “All the movie stars and celebrities rented villas and there were parties every night. I ran into Bertrand at a soiree given by the American actor Ryan O'Neal.…”

*   *   *

Yvette gazed around the starkly modern living room. A conversation pit held plump white sofas, and brightly colored cushions were tossed in front of a granite fireplace. She had never seen so many beautiful people in one place; they all had blond hair and wore white clothing and heavy gold jewelry. She looked out the plate-glass windows at the swimming pool and saw a woman strip off her caftan and jump into the water.

“I didn't expect to see someone like you in this den of iniquity,” Bertrand said as he approached her. She hadn't seen him in eight years, but he looked the same. His skin was tan, his hair was slicked back, and he wore white slacks and a white cotton shirt.

“My family is renting a villa in Antibes,” Yvette replied, suddenly feeling that the room was overheated. She wore a simple black cocktail dress and black pumps and she clutched a red satin evening bag.

Bertrand looked her up and down as if he were studying an art exhibit. “You haven't gotten fat.”

“Why should I get fat?” Yvette bristled.

“You married the bourgeois banker.” Bertrand pointed to the large round diamond on her ring finger. “I'm guessing you popped out a couple of
petits enfants,
a little boy who wears sailor suits and a girl who dresses like a princess.”

“Camille is six and Pierre is four,” Yvette said, blushing. “They are the center of my world.”

“Then why are you here?” Bertrand asked. “Consorting with American riffraff.”

“My husband is very social.” Yvette bit her lip. “He enjoys parties and he is infatuated with Hollywood.”

“Most boring people are,” Bertrand said. He stood so close she could smell his aftershave. “I prefer one-on-one conversation.”

“Then why are you here?” Yvette inched away. She searched for Henri, but he was standing in a corner chatting with two women with beehive hairdos and gold hoop earrings.

Bertrand followed her eyes and then turned back and gazed at Yvette. He drained his scotch and asked the bartender for another.

“I'm looking for new material for my book.” He looked at Yvette as if he could see into her soul. “Repressed sexuality, hidden lust, jealousy, marital infidelity.”

“Excuse me, I must join my husband.” Yvette jumped up and walked toward the fireplace. Her legs suddenly felt wobbly, and she could feel Bertrand's eyes on her back.

*   *   *

Two days later Yvette was sitting in the grand salon, listening to Brahms and reading Anaïs Nin. The villa was set high on the hillside and Yvette could see cypress trees, bright bougainvillea, and the craggy headlands of Cap d'Antibes. She heard a knock at the front door and got up to answer it.

“What are you doing here?” Yvette asked. “I was expecting a delivery boy.”

“You said your husband liked entertaining,” Bertrand said, grinning like a schoolboy caught skipping class. He wore baggy white pants, a white T-shirt, and a white linen blazer. He held a boater hat in one hand and a lit cigarette in the other. “I thought it would be polite to call on my neighbor.”

“Henri went back to Paris yesterday,” Yvette said, and instinctively touched her hair. She wore a silk blouse with a wide pleated skirt and a string of pearls around her neck. “He is only here on the weekends.”

Bertrand leaned against the stucco and ground his cigarette into the stone pavement.

“I've walked from Juan-les-Pins in this heat, you could invite me in for a drink.”

“I don't drink during the day.” Yvette shook her head.

“I do,” Bertrand said. He strode into the entry, putting his hat on the antique end table and letting out a low whistle.

The villa had high ceilings and rich cherry floors. A series of archways led to the grand salon and everywhere windows looked out on the bay. The walls were covered with framed paintings by Matisse and Monet and a grand piano stood by the window.

“There are perks to being married to a banker.” Bertrand ran his fingers over a Tiffany lamp. “We writers have to shit out every penny.”

“You must leave,” Yvette insisted, crossing her arms. “I cannot be alone with a man.”

“Where are Camille and Pierre?” Bertrand asked mischievously, sitting on an upholstered armchair.

“They are at the beach with Françoise,” Yvette replied.

“A nanny?” Bertrand raised his eyebrow. He lit another cigarette and flicked the ashes into a glass ashtray. “I thought you wanted to be with your children all the time.”

“I do.” Yvette knotted her forehead. “But I am afraid of the ocean.”

“Why are you worried? Do you think I am going to fuck you in front of the stone fireplace?” Bertrand looked at her with hooded eyes. “I am very traditional, I believe in the marriage vows.”

“You've never been married,” Yvette retorted. She had followed Bertrand's success over the years. With each new novel he obtained a more beautiful girlfriend; each woman was certain she was the one who would lead him to the altar. He would parade them proudly at movie premieres and society galas only to replace them with a younger, sleeker model.

Bertrand leaned forward and ground the cigarette slowly into the ashtray. He gazed at Yvette, starting at her black satin pumps and traveling up to the diamond solitaires in her ears.

“I didn't come just to see your husband,” he said finally. “I have another motive; I noticed at the party you speak very good English.”

“My mother's mother was American,” Yvette said, and nodded.

“I finished my new novel; it took me two years to wrestle the beast to the ground.” Bertrand drummed his fingers on the coffee table. “The English translation of my last novel was terrible, it read like a bodice-ripping romance.”

“I doubt that.” Yvette smiled. She had read
The Silent Hour
in one sitting. It was the story of a famous opera singer who loses her ability to speak in a car accident and must find a new passion. “I loved it; Allette's real-life tragedy was greater than anything she experienced onstage.”

“You see!” Bertrand jumped up and squeezed her hands. “You understand my prose. My publisher said I can choose my own translator; I want you to do it.”

“Me?” Yvette pulled her hands away.

“I still have the article you wrote about me,” Bertrand continued. “You bared my soul for the world to see and made me a better person.”

“It was a silly article written by an ingenue,” Yvette replied, shrugging. “I haven't written in years.”

“The Americans and British laughed at me,” Bertrand persisted. “Consider it your patriotic duty; we don't want them to think the great French author Bertrand Roland is a sham.”

Yvette remembered reading a review in
The New York Times
and thinking it was harsh. She recalled the American cover: a curvaceous brunette in a ball gown with a gash across her neck. “I couldn't possibly do it.”

“We will work here during the day,” Bertrand said, plunging ahead. “While your children play in the garden. It will be completely chaste and aboveboard.”

“I have to ask my husband,” Yvette wavered, gazing out the window at the gardener clipping hydrangea bushes.

“I should have asked him last night.” Bertrand lit another cigarette. “I saw him at Roger Vadim's villa.”

Yvette turned to Bertrand and frowned. “Henri took the train to Paris yesterday morning.”

“He must have missed it,” Bertrand replied. “It was definitely Henri. The model Lauren Hutton was there, they were deep in conversation.”

Yvette studied the Oriental rug. When she looked up her eyes were softer and new lines ran across her forehead. “We can start on Wednesday at noon, while Françoise gives the children lunch.”

Bertrand's mouth broke into a wide, lazy smile. “You haven't offered me a drink. I'll take a scotch, no ice.”

*   *   *

Serena strolled along the Rue Félix Faure toward the Marché Forville. It was late afternoon and shoppers carried shopping bags filled with loaves of fresh bread, ripe red tomatoes, jars of olives, and wrapped fillets of trout.

She had tried to sit on the balcony transcribing her notes. But she kept glancing at her phone, waiting for Chase to call. Finally she changed into a yellow cotton dress and flat sandals, grabbed her purse, and ran down the street. She wanted to explore the old town of Suquet, stroll through the Jardin Alexandre III, and forget that her fiancé insisted they shouldn't tell anyone they were engaged.

*   *   *

Serena entered the covered market, marveling at the selection of fruits and vegetables. There were baskets of raspberries, firm white peaches, sweet plums, and fresh figs. She saw racks of olive oil from Provence, salts from Camargue, and rows of cheeses with handwritten labels.

She pictured the sideboard in the Cary Grant Suite, brimming with fruits and cheeses. But the produce looked so tempting, she couldn't resist filling her basket with juicy pears, tangerines, and bags of white cherries.

“Excuse me, stop, please!” a male voice called as she left the market.

She turned around and saw the man with dark curly hair who had found her phone. “What are you doing here, are you following me?”

“I don't even know who you are.” The man caught up with her. He wore a light blue shirt over tan shorts and brown leather sandals. He held up her purse. “You left this at the
fromage
counter.”

Serena blushed, taking the purse and placing it in her shopping bag. “Thank you, that's very kind of you.”

“Let me guess, you're American,” he said, walking beside her.

“From San Francisco.” Serena nodded.

“I spent a summer there,” the man said as they stood at the corner. “I hated it.”

Serena burst out laughing. “Mark Twain said the coldest winter he ever spent was summer in San Francisco.”

“Let me guess, you are a famous American actress here for the film festival.”

She heard her phone buzz and checked it eagerly, certain it was Chase. She read a text from Zoe saying she had made dinner reservations, and suddenly her eyes filled with tears.

“It's none of your business why I'm here,” Serena snapped, running across the road so quickly she narrowly missed a bicyclist. She wanted to find a quiet café or a bench by the harbor. She would call Chase and insist they send out invitations to the engagement party; whatever Chase discovered about her father they would face together.

“Americans say the French are rude,” the man said, running ahead of her. He had blue eyes and an angular nose and a small cleft on his chin.

She blushed, suddenly desperate to get away. She grabbed the basket of cherries from her shopping bag and thrust them at him. “I'm grateful to you for returning my belongings. I really have to go.”

*   *   *

Serena crossed the Rue Félix Faure and ducked into the Café Poet. Square tables were covered with starched white tablecloths and a bar held a glistening array of crystal decanters and glass bottles.

She drank a glass of ice-cold lemonade as if she'd spent the last month in the desert. She was about to call Chase when she noticed a young woman sitting on the other side of the restaurant wearing a wide-brimmed white hat with a navy ribbon. Her face was hidden by dark sunglasses and she wore a navy dress and white pumps.

Serena recognized the hat from the Carlton-InterContinental gift shop. She remembered trying hats on with Zoe, giggling that they felt like Julia Roberts in
Pretty Woman
. She looked more closely and realized the navy dress was the Stella McCartney dress she had loaned to Zoe and the white pumps were Serena's own pair of Guccis.