French Coast Page 5

  “I toppled out of the tree right onto Kate’s backpack,” Charles would say at a dinner party. “Luckily she carried all of her belongings in that thing—a sweater, textbooks, a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.”

  “He ruined my sandwich.” Kate would smile, smoothing her hair with her hands.

  “I had to invite her to lunch,” Charles would say, nodding. “It cost me a week’s salary.”

  “How could lunch cost a week’s salary?” one of the guests would ask.

  Charles would take Kate’s hands in his and look into her eyes. “She was so beautiful, I knew I only had one chance to make an impression. We took BART to San Francisco and ate at Ernie’s. Filet mignon and roasted potatoes and strawberry pavlova for dessert.”

  * * *

  Serena twisted her ponytail, blinking back sudden tears. She turned over her phone and dialed her parents’ home number.

  “Daddy,” she said when Charles answered. “Have you seen Chase?”

  “He came over yesterday morning,” Charles replied. “We put together a press release; he’s going to be the strongest candidate this city has seen in decades.”

  “Have you talked to him today?” Serena asked.

  “I’ve been on the boat all day. The weather is spectacular, not a hint of fog on the bay,” her father said. “Is everything all right? You sound alarmed.”

  “Chase said his friend at the Chronicle received a letter saying you had a secret second family in France,” Serena blurted out.

  “In France!” Charles exclaimed.

  “She threatened to contact every newspaper in America.” Serena tightened the grip on her phone.

  “Serena,” Charles said quietly. “You know that’s crazy.”

  “Of course it’s crazy.” Serena felt the trapped air leave her lungs. “But Chase said we shouldn’t announce our engagement until he figures out what’s going on.”

  Charles was silent and Serena thought they had lost the connection. She was about to call him back when his voice came over the phone. “Chase is being prudent; he’s a smart guy.”

  “How can you say that?” Serena’s voice rose. “You’re talking about our marriage.”

  “Politics can get messy,” Charles replied. “He’ll sort this out and it’ll disappear. Let’s not worry until there’s something to worry about.”

  * * *

  Serena kicked off her running shoes and stepped barefoot onto the dock. She didn’t know if she was angrier that Chase would suggest postponing the announcement of their engagement or that her father agreed with him. She pictured the two men she loved most—Chase with his wavy blond hair and long thick lashes, her father with his tan leathery cheeks—and tried to stop her heart from thudding in her chest.

  Serena walked briskly along the dock, replaying the conversation with her father. He had barely seemed concerned, as if she were reporting a sudden squall that might interrupt a day’s sailing.

  She remembered interviewing Heidi Klum, just before she split up with Seal. It was Serena’s first celebrity interview and she was so nervous she could barely hold her pen.

  “A tabloid reported you were holding hands with your bodyguard on a beach in Saint Croix,” Serena stuttered.

  Heidi plucked a green grape from the platter of fresh fruits and cheeses and shrugged. “That’s crazy, I’ve never been to Saint Croix!”

  Serena remembered writing the feature on how Heidi combined her thriving career with a happy family life and Chelsea calling her into her office and throwing a copy of People magazine on her desk.

  “You’re telling our readers Heidi wins the mother of the year award, and People says she’s fucking her bodyguard,” Chelsea said, gritting her teeth.

  Serena remembered slinking back to her office and replaying the interview, trying to figure out what she had missed, which words didn’t ring true.

  * * *

  Serena jumped onto the beach, digging her feet into the sand. Her mother and father were like matching bookends; they both loved the symphony and James Patterson novels and Belgian chocolate. They walked up to bed at the same time and read the paper aloud to each other on Sundays.

  Her father despised politicians who took advantage of their power. He turned off the television whenever he heard John Edwards apologizing for his affair, and disdained David Petraeus and Anthony Weiner. Serena had heard him remark he admired President Clinton’s foreign policy but still had trouble shaking his hand.

  * * *

  Serena turned around and ran quickly back to the dock. She wasn’t going to let an anonymous letter ruin her day. She’d go back to the suite and eat whole wheat toast and one perfectly poached egg. She’d shower and put on a sundress and explore the Rue Meynadier with Zoe. In the evening Chase would call and say everything was fine. They’d talk about the mayor’s race and their engagement and how much they missed each other.

  “Excusez-moi! Arrêtez, s’il vous plaît,” a male voice called out.

  Serena turned around and saw a man with dark curly hair. He wore a white T-shirt and navy shorts and scuffed leather boat shoes.

  “Can I help you?” Serena asked.

  “Are you all right?” the man asked in English. “You looked like you were being chased by pirates.”

  Serena smoothed her hair and tried to calm her breathing. “I’m fine, I just realized I was late.”

  “Nobody in Cannes worries about time,” the man said, leaning against the railing. His arms were tan and he had a thick chest and slender calves. “Even the fishermen aren’t in a hurry, they know there will be more fish tomorrow.”

  “Well, I am late,” Serena said, and walked away. Zoe had warned her about locals who tried to capitalize on tourists. He was probably trying to sell waterskiing lessons or hot air balloon rides.

  “Wait!” The man ran in front of her, blocking the dock.

  “I’ll call hotel security if I have to,” Serena warned.

  The man held out his hand. “You dropped your phone.”

  Serena took the phone and slipped it in her pocket. She ran down the promenade, past the waiters opening umbrellas at the outdoor cafés, past the salesgirls arranging displays in the boutique windows, not stopping until she entered the revolving glass doors of the Carlton-InterContinental.

  chapter five

  Serena touched her hair and knocked on the door of the Sophia Loren Suite. She wore a navy-and-white Chloé dress with white sandals. Her ponytail was tied with a silver ribbon and she wore a silver Tiffany heart around her neck. She was freshly showered and her wrists smelled of Givenchy.

  When Serena had arrived in the Cary Grant Suite she found a note from Zoe saying she had decided to go on a day trip to Mougins. She hoped they could go dancing tonight at Charly’s or Bâoli. Zoe signed the ivory notepaper with a line of smiley faces.

  Serena had been too tired and hungry to wonder why Zoe decided not to go shopping. She put blueberry muffins and sliced peaches on a plate and sat on the balcony. Suddenly she remembered her conversation with Chase and her father and started shaking. She left the plate on the chaise lounge and climbed into bed, pulling the feather comforter over her head.

  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 replie
d, 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.