French Coast (9 page)

“What are you doing?” Yvette demanded, running to close the door.

“There is nothing more beautiful than the elements.” Bertrand stood at the entry. “It's like having a first-row seat at the symphony.”

Yvette cautiously stood behind him, feeling the rain touch her cheeks. The air smelled fresh and damp. She turned to go back inside when Bertrand grabbed her hand and ran into the front garden.

“What are you doing?” Yvette shrieked. Her heart was hammering so quickly she couldn't catch her breath.

“The lightning is miles away,” Bertrand said, grinning. He wrapped his arms lightly around her shoulders. “There's nothing to be afraid of.”

Yvette let herself rest against his chest, feeling strangely calm and quiet. Then the sky burst with color and there was a crack of thunder so loud it shook the ground. She put her hands over her head and dashed back to the house.

“Are you crazy?” she demanded when they stood in the grand salon. She had run upstairs and put on a dry sweater and black slacks. She dried her hair with a towel and poured herself a glass of red wine. “We could have been killed.”

“Do you know how many people are killed in thunderstorms?” Bertrand took a pack of cigarettes and a lighter from his pocket. “You are in more danger using an electric toaster.”

“You're insane.” Yvette shivered, gulping the red wine.

“Do you know what it's like to begin a novel? It's like diving into a dark cement tunnel.” Bertrand stood so close to Yvette she could almost taste his cigarette. “But when I type ‘the end' it is like making love on the top of a mountain with a waterfall roaring behind me.”

Yvette blushed, moving away and standing by the window. The rain had turned to a light drizzle and the coastline was enveloped in fog.

“Let's get back to work.” Bertrand ground his cigarette into an ashtray. “I promise to behave and not interrupt you.”

 

chapter seven

Serena sat at the round glass table in the Cary Grant Suite, transcribing her notes onto her laptop. She had been working all morning, ignoring the hum of yacht engines and the scent of suntan lotion that drifted through the French doors. She was too consumed by Yvette's story to pause for anything except another cup of coffee and a slice of whole wheat toast with jam.

She had woken up in the middle of the night and called Chase's office. But his secretary said he was at a company retreat at the Bohemian Grove and wouldn't return until Monday. Serena lay back on the Egyptian cotton sheets, thinking of ways to distract herself. She and Zoe could go shopping, get Zoe's hair done, explore
le palais
and the old town.

But when Serena padded into the living room she found a note from Zoe saying she had signed up for a morning tour of Saint-Honorat. Serena studied Zoe's scrawled cursive and frowned. For someone who was intent on learning about style, Zoe spent a lot of time exploring the countryside.

Serena thought about running along the beach but suddenly her legs felt heavy and her head ached. She slipped on a cotton dress, ran a brush through her hair, and sat down at the table to write.

*   *   *

“I keep checking my e-mail and expecting a piece from you,” Chelsea said when Serena answered her phone. “I hope you're not spending your days dangling your toes in the Mediterranean and getting your back rubbed by sexy beach attendants.”

“I'm typing right now.” Serena smiled. “I'll have something to you soon.”

“Chanel took out a one-page ad and Dolce and Gabbana wants a two-page spread,” Chelsea continued. “They're expecting Yvette to reveal serious dirt about the French fashion industry.”

“So far Yvette has mainly talked about Bertrand,” Serena replied.

Chelsea was silent and Serena could almost hear her tapping her long French-manicured nails on her polished maple desk.

“Sex and lust is great,” Chelsea said. “But they also want to read about Valentino's ego, Givenchy's penny-pinching, and the spectacular rise and fall of the model Anouk.”

“I'll get all that.” Serena nodded, nervously scanning the words on her computer screen.

“I hope so,” Chelsea replied. “Even without paying for your room, this trip is costing a fortune. I read your expense report—two hundred euros for a beach chair on the sand? You could buy a whole chaise lounge set.”

Serena hung up and paced around the room. She pictured Yvette in her black cigarette pants and red cashmere sweater talking about Bertrand. Her eyes sparkled and her cheeks filled with color like a young girl with a crush.

What if nothing had happened between them? What if Yvette translated Bertrand's novel and their friendship stayed platonic? Chelsea's advertisers wouldn't be happy if Yvette's memoir didn't include any torrid sex scenes.

Serena sat on the ivory silk sofa and picked up a copy of
Paris Match
. She remembered reading it religiously at Amherst to practice her French. She loved the glossy photos of celebrities posing in Monaco and Saint-Tropez.

Serena flipped the pages and stopped at a photo of an older man in a straw hat and a woman with luxurious chestnut hair. They were stepping onto a yacht in the harbor, shielding their faces with their hands.

Serena looked more closely and recognized the man's burgundy blazer and the woman's Pucci dress and gold espadrilles. She read the caption out loud: “Australian fashion magnate Malcolm Gladding caught living it up in Cannes, with an unidentified brunette.”

Serena pictured Zoe hiding behind a menu at the Café Poet. Why didn't she want her father to know she was in Cannes, and why did she lie to Serena? Serena picked up her phone and dialed Chelsea's number.

“If you're calling to increase your expense account, first I need to see some writing,” Chelsea answered. “Give me two thousand juicy words and you can go shopping at Ermenegildo Zegna.”

“Have you heard of Malcolm Gladding?” Serena twisted her ponytail.

“I wrote a story about him a few years ago,” Chelsea replied. “His wife is Australia's top fashion maven. If she says wear magenta you'll see it at every society gala. I met them at one of Tina Brown's dinners in New York. Laura is lovely in person, quite self-effacing.”

“Are they still married?” Serena asked.

“Of course they're married!” Chelsea exclaimed. “He just received an OBE from the queen for his service to Australia. Collette Dinnigan designed Laura's dress, the fabric alone cost ten thousand dollars.”

“Okay, thanks.” Serena gazed at the photo of Malcolm with his arm around the brunette.

“Are you not telling me something?” Chelsea demanded. “Have you seen Malcolm in Cannes?”

“I don't think so,” Serena mumbled.

“Those old buggers think a ‘Sir' in front of their name allows them to fuck any woman under the age of thirty,” Chelsea replied. “If you run into him I want eight hundred words and a photo. I'll redecorate your office and throw in a Tiffany lamp.”

Serena hung up and walked to the balcony. She tried to put herself in Zoe's shoes, but none of it made sense. If Zoe's parents were together, Zoe would want to confront him, not slink around as if she were the criminal.

Serena walked back to the table and sat down at her laptop. Suddenly she couldn't think about Yvette and Bertrand, she kept seeing Zoe with her wide hat and dark glasses like Greta Garbo. She closed the computer and sat on the silk sofa, waiting for Zoe to walk in the door.

*   *   *

“You should have come to Saint-Honorat,” Zoe said later when she arrived, dropping her bag on a glass end table and sinking onto a gold velvet armchair. She wore a navy dress with a cream lace collar and a scalloped hem. Her hair was covered by a wide straw hat and she wore beige leather sandals. “I visited the monastery and saw cannonballs made in Napoleon's time. For a short man he had very big balls.”

Serena studied Zoe, wondering if she had really gone to Saint-Honorat, or if she had been loitering around the cafés. She twisted her ponytail, wondering how to get Zoe to tell the truth.

“The Cannes Film Festival is almost over,” Serena said finally. “It's time I got my own room.”

“You can't do that!” Zoe jumped up. “We haven't got my hair done or worked on my French.”

“You look lovely,” Serena said, and smiled. “You'll do fine on your own.”

“But I need a friend.” Zoe took off her hat and flung it on the coffee table. “The tour guide almost left me on the island because I didn't understand when we were due back on the boat. We should explore together, go to Nice or Monte Carlo.”

Serena handed Zoe the copy of
Paris Match
. “If we're friends, why didn't you tell me your father is in Cannes?”

Zoe gazed at the photo and her cheeks turned pale. She sat down heavily, burying her face in her hands.

“I saw you in Café Poet,” Serena continued. “I can help if you tell me the truth.”

“Do you promise to stay in the suite?” Zoe asked, her eyes filling with tears. “I don't want to be alone.”

“You have to tell me everything,” Serena said, and nodded. “Not some half version of the truth.”

“I swear,” Zoe said. She grabbed her hat and put it on her head. “But not here; let's rent a speedboat and go out on the bay.”

“I have work to do.” Serena glanced at her laptop on the glass dining table.

“The ocean is spectacular.” Zoe ran to the balcony. “We can at least pretend we're having fun.”

Serena joined her outside and watched silver and gold speedboats race each other across the water.

“All right.” Serena grinned, turning to Zoe. “But you need to wear a lot of sunscreen—you're getting new freckles.”

*   *   *

“My mother came from a wealthy family, her father owned one of the biggest sheep stations in Australia,” Zoe began.

They sat in the back of a bright red speedboat, leaning against soft leather cushions. Serena felt the sea spray on her cheeks and for a moment forgot her father and Chase and the anonymous letter. She gazed at Zoe in her one-piece bathing suit, her straw hat jammed against her head, and almost believed they were just two young women enjoying Cannes.

“She met my father when they were in their last year at Sydney University. My grandparents were very traditional and they wouldn't let my mother marry until my father could support her. He started designing clothes and began his fashion empire the day he graduated—selling merino wool sweaters from the boot of his car.

“Within ten years he added menswear and accessories and different fabrics. He imported more silk from Asia than any other company and had a line of hugely successful swimwear.

“My parents were crazy about each other. We lived in a mansion overlooking Sydney Harbor, and at night they'd sit on the lawn under my window. My mother would whisper that I was still awake and my father would reply that being in love wasn't a crime. Then I'd hear them kissing.

“When I was ten my mother received a letter threatening to kidnap me if they didn't deliver fifty thousand dollars. Kidnapping threats were quite common; Australia is a small place and the bigwigs are on the cover of every magazine and newspaper. My father was often seen with his arm around the prime minister and my parents entertained movie stars and politicians.

“My mother turned the letter over to the police and they arrested a homeless woman. They assured my parents it was a random threat, but my parents implemented a full security system: a bodyguard who drove me to school, two Doberman pinschers, electric gates around our estate. I was like Rapunzel without the beautiful blond hair.

“When I was twelve my mother had to go to Melbourne for the day. It was school holidays, and I spent all my time practicing gymnastics in the garden. The bodyguard had a bad case of poison ivy so my mother insisted my father didn't go to the office. Even though we had a housekeeper she didn't like to leave me at home.

“I remember it was just after lunch; Betty had made Vegemite sandwiches and strawberry lamingtons. My father came into the kitchen and said he had to run to the warehouse, something about a shipment of silk from Hong Kong that would be returned if he didn't sign off. Betty told me to go outside, and she'd watch me do cartwheels.” Zoe's face clouded over and her hands clenched up. She stopped talking and took a long sip of iced tea.

“I was doing the splits when the back gate opened and two men with black masks appeared. One grabbed my hands and the other grabbed my legs and they carried me to their car. Betty didn't say a word, just stood up and walked into the kitchen.

“They drove into the country and left me in a house with a middle-aged woman with blond hair. She fed me sausage rolls and Violet Crumbles and told me not to be afraid. All my parents had to do was deliver two million dollars and I'd be home in my princess bed.

“On the third day the two men appeared and put me back in the car. They took me to Taronga Zoo and we sat on a bench in front of the penguins.” Zoe looked at Serena, her lips trembling. “I always loved the penguins best, they were like live stuffed animals.

“No one came and the men started arguing. The taller man made me get up and we walked back to the car. Suddenly I saw my father running through the turnstiles. He wore a red polo shirt and carried a leather bag. He shoved the bag into the taller man's hands and grabbed my hand. We ran all the way through the zoo until we reached his car. Then he locked the doors and held me so tightly I couldn't breathe.

“Of course it was an inside job,” Zoe continued as the speedboat jumped the waves made by a luxury yacht. “The housekeeper and the bodyguard had been planning it for weeks. I found out later that the police insisted my parents not give in to the demands for ransom. They'd seen too many cases when the father shows up with a briefcase full of hundred-dollar bills and the child is already in a body bag at the bottom of the ocean. My mother wanted to do exactly what the police said, but my father secretly transferred the money and contacted the kidnappers.