Faking It

by Leah Marie Brown

  “You’ll find a job soon,” Fanny says.

  “Did you always want to be a journalist?” Luc asks.

  I shake my head. “Actually, I’ve always wanted to write a book.”

  “So why don't you?”

  “Yeah, Vivia.” Fanny sits up. “Why don’t you?”

  “Maybe I will.”

  “What would you write about?”

  Luc seems genuinely interested. It gives me the courage to voice my secret dream.

  “I’ve always wanted to write a novel about Mary Shelley.”

  “Really?” Luc and Fanny respond in unison.

  I nod, smiling.

  “I never knew that,” Fanny says, sounding more hurt than surprised. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  I shrug.

  “Would it be a romance?” Luc asks.

  I shake my head. “I want to write a historical novel focusing on Mary Shelley’s most tumultuous years, from the time she met Percy until his death.”

  “That sounds like a romance to me.”

  “Not at all. She suffered enormously. She lost children, nearly died from a miscarriage, and overcame a crippling depression. She described those years as the ‘time she stepped out of childhood and into life.’” I cross my legs and lean back. I might not know how to train for the Tour de France, but I can ride circles around most Mary Shelley aficionados. “Through it all, she wrote arguably the most famous horror story.”

  “Didn’t the Shelleys believe in a non-exclusive marriage?” Luc asks.

  “Yes!” I am impressed with his knowledge of literature. “How did you know that?”

  Chantal chuckles. “Luc is an—”

  “Avid reader of gothic literature,” Luc interrupts. He stares at Chantal for several beats before looking at me again. “It’s my favorite genre.”

  “Mine too!”

  We sit, beaming at each other like two love-struck teenagers who’ve suddenly realized they like the same band.

  “Your novel sounds interesting, Vivia,” Luc says. “I’d read it.”

  “Really?”

  “Bien sûr! You should write it.”

  “I think I will.”

  “Bon.”

  Fanny looks at Luc, using my book to shield her eyes from the sun. “What about you, Jean-Luc?”

  “What about me?”

  “Have you always wanted to be a bike guide?”

  Luc chuckles. “No.”

  “No?”

  Poor Luc. He’s just stepped into the gulag and he doesn’t even know it.

  “I am only a guide part of the time.”

  Fanny narrows her eyes. She has this intense “I will break you” expression on her face. I swear I hear the thwack of a riding crop. Give up, Luc.

  “What do you do the rest of the time?”

  Luc shrugs. “Enjoy life.”

  “No, seriously.”

  “Seriously.”

  Fanny swivels on her lounger so she can face Luc. “But how do you survive?”

  “Quite well, thank you.”

  I consider intervening, but one look at Luc tells me there’s no need. He’s holding his own against Mademoiselle Gulag.

  “Luc”—Chantal hops to her feet—“we really need to go over the itinerary. The Agriturismo in San Gimignano is having some problems with their plumbing, so we had to make some last minute changes.”

  Chantal bids us farewell before stalking out of the pool, the gate slamming behind her.

  Luc stands. “If you’ll excuse me, duty calls.” He grabs his towel, tosses it over his tanned shoulder, faces me, and bows slightly. “As always, it’s been a pleasure, Vivia.”

  His gaze slides over my nearly naked body and his lips curve in a slow, sexy smile.

  “Au revoir, Jean-Luc,” Fanny says, waving.

  “Au revoir, Mademoiselle Moreau.”

  The gate has barely closed behind him when I turn to look at my best friend. “What was that about?”

  “I know, right? Did you see the looks Chantal was giving Jean-Luc?”

  “I’m not talking about that, Fanny.”

  “What then?”

  “Your interrogation.”

  Fanny shrugs. “Just looking out for my girl. I can’t have you falling in love with a shiftless bum.”

  “Luc is not a shiftless bum.”

  “I don’t know,” Fanny says, skepticism staining her voice. “He was so evasive in his answers. Why couldn’t he just say what he does when he’s not playing bike guide? It’s all a little sketchy, if you ask me.”

  “I didn’t ask you.” I know she means well, but Fanny’s probing and picking have irritated me. Why wouldn’t Luc answer her questions? “Besides, you’re the one who told me to live it up and love a thousand Lucs, remember?”

  “Just be careful, Vivia. My intuition tells me Jean-Luc isn’t all he seems, and you’re vulnerable. I don’t want you to get hurt any more than you already have.”

  Later, Fanny shows me the picture she snapped when we were at the pool. I’m stretched out on the lounger, my hand resting on my book, my engagement ring sparkling in the sunlight. Luc is slightly out of focus behind me, shirtless and smiling. He looks gorgeous.

  “You can’t post this.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because it looks like…like…”

  “Like you’re having sexy time by the pool?”

  “Exactly. What will Nathan say if he sees it?”

  “Who cares what Nathan will say?”

  “Good point,” I concede. “Still, you can’t post a picture of me in my bathing suit.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. You look hot…and happy!”

  I look at the photo again. She’s right, I do look happy. Happier than I looked in the Big Sur photo with Nathan.

  “Don’t post it, Fanny.”

  She grins. “Too late.”

  “Are you serious?”

  Fanny nods.

  “Where?”

  “Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram.”

  “Fanny!”

  I turn on my iPhone, open the Facebook app, and stare in mute horror at the photo of Luc and me posted on my wall. I am about to delete it when I get a new text.

  Text from Camilla Grant:

  Vivia Perpetua, it’s Mum. I saw the photo of you and that naked man on the Facebook. Who is he? Why is he naked? What will Father Escobar say if he sees that photo?

  “Great! Now look what you’ve done!”

  I turn the screen to Fanny. She reads the text and laughs.

  “It’s not funny, Fanny! What am I going to say to my mum?”

  “Tell her the truth,” Fanny says. “That you’re trying to erase the memory of Nathan with a hot French man.”

  “Fanny!”

  “Tell her the naked man is a baker, and you’re eloping with him because he knows what to do with a scone.”

  “What? You’re gross.”

  Fanny is laughing so hard now tears are running down her face.

  My phone vibrates as another text comes in.

  Text from Grace Murphy:

  Just saw the photo on Instagram. Love the hashtags: #RidingIt #TradingUp Naughty girl! I want all the details.

  “Oh no you didn’t,” I groan. “Did you really use those hashtags?”

  Fanny glances at the screen, reads Grace’s text, and proudly nods her head. “Sure did.”

  “You’re killing me, Fanny. You’re killing me.”

  My phone vibrates again.

  Text from Alexis:

  Just saw ur latest photo. When Nathan said he wanted 2 book a riding vacay, I don’t think he envisioned u riding a hot French guy! U’ve taken riding vacays in a whole new direction. I’m in!

  I turn my phone off before I can get any more texts or tweets and toss it in my bag. I’ll just leave my phone off for the next twenty-four hours. Pretend it never happened. By the time I check back in, the p
hoto will be yesterday’s news. Everyone will have forgotten all about it.

  I’m standing outside the chateau the next morning, gazing at my reflection in the window of the minibus we’re about to take to Cannes, when Luc’s handsome face appears in the glass beside me.

  “You look lovely as always, Vivia.”

  I’d just licked my finger to rub in a smudge of dried tinted moisturizer, so I am standing there with my tongue hanging out of my mouth, a wet pinkie raised in the air. Lovely? If he says so.

  “Bonjour, Luc.” I wipe my wet finger on my maxi dress before turning around; silently hoping the blotch of moisturizer isn’t too noticeable…in the blinding sunlight. “Did you sleep well?”

  Luc looks right at my moisturizer blemish and smiles. Before I can stop him, and much to my horror, he reaches out and blends the moisturizer in with the tip of his finger.

  “Thank you,” I mumble.

  Will I ever get it together, present a smooth, sophisticated appearance, or am I destined to make a fool out of myself every single time I see Luc? He certainly looks sophisticated in his linen suit, white shirt opened at the neck, and expensive Italian loafers.

  “You’re welcome.” Luc slides his hands in his pockets, unwittingly striking a pose like one of those hot Calvin Klein models. “And no, I didn’t.’

  He’s smiling with his eyes. I think Tyra Banks calls it smizing. His eyes are sparkling, and in this light, they appear more green than brown.

  “What?”

  “You asked if I slept well. No, I didn’t.”

  “Oh.” I make a lopsided smile. “Sorry.”

  “Hey, did you know some people believe Percy Shelley had an affair with Mary’s stepsister, Claire?”

  “Where did you read that?”

  “I googled it.” He grins. “I googled you, too.”

  “You googled me?”

  Luc nods. “All night long.”

  Under normal circumstances, I might find Luc’s confession alarming and pseudo-stalkerish, but here, in the south of France, I find it flattering, thrilling even.

  I’m about to utter something cheesy like, “Was it as good for you as it was for me?” when Fanny joins us.

  “What’s up, Jean-Luc?”

  “I was just telling Vivia something I learned about Mary Shelley.”

  “Is that right?”

  “Feel free to use that information in your novel, just make sure you list my name in your dedication.” Luc turns his thousand watt smile on me, speaking as if Fanny doesn’t exist.

  I’m so discombobulated by his smizing and googling, I can only manage a mumbled, “I will.”

  “So what do you two have planned in Cannes?” Luc asks, looking at Fanny. “Will you be joining Chantal for her historical and cultural tour? She’s a wonderful guide, brimming with little known facts about the city. Most people say it’s the highlight of their trip.”

  I would be a big fat moisturizer-smudged liar if I said Luc’s little Chantal pep rally didn’t make me jealous.

  “It sounds like it would be an interesting day, but I’m spending the day with some of my childhood friends.”

  “Are you from Cannes?”

  “No,” Fanny says, proudly lifting her chin. Fanny prides herself on her Parisian heritage and accent, so I’m sure Luc’s question piqued her. “I was born in Paris, but I spent my summers at my father’s home in Cannes.”

  “That’s nice.” Luc turns to me. “What about you, Vivia? Will you join Stéphanie or Chantal’s tour?”

  “Neither.”

  “Luc.” Chantal has stepped off the minibus, clipboard in hand, and is motioning for Luc to join her. “Un moment, s'il vous plaît.”

  “Excuse me.”

  Fanny turns her back to Luc and Chantal.

  “I think he wanted to invite you to spend the day with him,” she whispers.

  “What? No.” I shake my head. “No. No. No… Really? You think?”

  “Yeah, totally.”

  I lean in, whispering, “He googled me.”

  “When?” Fanny whispers back.

  “Last night.”

  “I hope he used protection.”

  “Ha ha.”

  “He told you he googled you?”

  “Yes!”

  “Luc likes you. He really likes you. He lovvvvvvves you,” Fanny says in a singsong voice. “He wants to marry you.”

  Someone clears their throat and we both jump. Fanny doesn’t turn around. She just stares at me with wide, horrified eyes. I don’t even have to look behind her. I know Luc is standing there by the nauseating roiling of my stomach and the prickly hot perspiration spreading over my body.

  “The luggage has been loaded.” Luc’s voice is monotone and his expression flat. “We’ll depart for Cannes as soon as everyone gets on the bus.”

  Luc doesn’t wait for our response. He turns and walks back to the front of the bus, standing near the door.

  “Oh my God!” I whisper, slapping Fanny’s arm. “What are you, eight?”

  “Sorry,” she whispers. “Do you think he heard?”

  I shrug.

  Fanny avoids Luc’s gaze as she steps onto the bus. If I weren’t so embarrassed myself, I would feel sorry for her.

  I’m about to climb up the steps when Luc leans forward and whispers in my ear, his warm breath fanning my perspiration slick neck. “It’s too soon to know if the end of Stéphanie’s song was accurate, but the beginning was dead-on. I do like you, Vivia. I really like you.”

  Chapter 19

  Let Me Live That Fantasy

  Someone needs to pinch me hard. On second thought, don’t pinch me. If I am dreaming, I don’t want to wake up. Ever. I’m standing on the balcony of a suite at the Hotel Martinez, watching the beautiful people stroll along the Croisette, a palm tree-lined promenade hugging the shore of the Mediterranean Sea. We’ve stayed at some pretty swank hotels on this trip, but none of them have been as glamorous as the Hotel Martinez. When the posh set wants to chill in Cannes, the Hotel Martinez is their preferred crash pad.

  “During the film festival, this is the celebrity hotel,” Fanny whispers as we are shown to our room. “Elizabeth Taylor. Robert Redford. Jett Depp. Orlando Bloom. Marion Cotillard. They have all stayed here. Think about it, Vivian. The bed you sleep in tonight might have been used by Bradley Cooper.”

  “I don’t like Bradley Cooper.”

  “Colin Farrell, Brad Pitt. Take your pick.”

  “I’ll have both, please. Just not at the same time because that would totally ruin the fantasy.” I shuddered. “Great! Now I have an image of Colin Farrell and Brad Pitt in bed together.”

  “Would you be serious, Vivian?”

  “Sorry,” I say, bowing my head. “I will try to show the proper amount of reverence for the Holy Hotel Martinez, hallowed sanctuary of the rich and famous.”

  “Thank you.”

  Honestly, I’m not as impressed by celebrities as Fanny. I know they make millions of dollars a year and carry handbags that cost more than my annual salary, but it’s not like they’ve contributed to society in some profound way. Do the media really need to publicize trivial details about a celebrity’s life? I am not saying it wouldn’t be cool if I ran into Colin or Brad in the elevator. I just wouldn’t go all fangirl on them.

  Fanny has left to meet her friends and won’t be back until late tonight, possibly tomorrow morning if everything goes well with Stefan, her teenage crush. That means I have twenty-four hours to kill in Cannes. The phone rings as I’m pondering my entertainment options.

  “Bonjour,” I say in my sing-songiest voice.

  “Bonjour, Madame Edwards. This is your concierge, Jean-Paul Cadet. On behalf of the entire staff, I would like to welcome you to the Hotel Martinez and to offer my services throughout the duration of your stay, should you require them.”

  “Merci.”

  “De rien,” Jean-Paul quickly responds. “I ho
pe you find your rooms perfectly comfortable?”

  “Oh, they’re amazing!”

  “Bon,” the concierge says. “If there is anything you would like to make your stay more gratifying, please know I stand at the ready to serve you. You can reach me by merely pushing the blue button on your phone.”

  “There is one thing,” I say, feeling awkward. “If you don’t mind?”

  “Bien sûr! How might I be of assistance?”

  “I haven’t had lunch yet. Could you recommend a good restaurant near the beach?”

  “Bien sûr. Might I recommend ZPlage, one of three restaurants here at Hotel Martinez? It is located on our private beach, just steps from the Croisette.”

  “Great,” I say, relieved that I won’t be spending half of my day lost in a wren of narrow alleys trying to find some restaurant. “Are reservations required?”

  “Leave it to me, Madame Edwards.” Jean-Paul stops speaking and rustles papers. “Will you be joined by Monsieur Edwards?”

  “No.”

  “Just one, then?”

  It might be my imagination, but the efficient concierge’s tone sounded a tad patronizing. Poor Américaine. On her honeymoon and already neglected. Zut alors! She should have married a Frenchman, what do the Americans know of love, anyway?

  “Yes.”

  “I see.”

  Jean-Paul pauses and I imagine him drawing a sad face in the guestbook beside my name.

  “Perhaps you would like to take a swim in the ocean? Shall I reserve you a sun lounge, as well?”

  “That’d be great. Thanks, Jean-Paul.”

  * * * *

  I pack my Kate Spade with my bikini, cover-up, paperback, and Hawaiian Tropic SPF 50, a thick white paste that makes my skin look as plasticky as an H&M store mannequin. The curse of being a ginger.

  The maître d’ at ZPlage leads me through the hip open air restaurant to a table separated from the Mediterranean by a narrow swath of powdery sand. The maître d’ silently disappears and a handsome bronzed waiter materializes, bearing a menu printed in gold on heavy cardstock. I order spicy Asian noodles because it is the cheapest item on the menu. Twenty-five Euros? Are the French insane? They’re just noodles. Mister Foo apologized to me when he increased the price of his spicy noodles from $4.50 to $4.65. The waiter also talks me into ordering a Red Beach, a champagne cocktail made with Malibu, sirop de fraise, jus de citron, and pricey bubbly.