Letter from Paris

by Thérèse

  “It’s okay for you. You’re clearly only too delighted to have that six-pack of yours on display. I, on the other hand, am an actress of a certain age. One rogue photograph could herald the end of my career.”

  “You’re safe,” Adam yawned. “Nobody’s taking any notice of you. Relax. I’m going to make a call.”

  Diane flipped onto her stomach. “Catch you later. Pass me that towel before you go.”

  Adam hurled the towel at her head. “Thanks a bunch,” she grunted.

  He threw on a shirt and slid his feet into deck shoes. Taking the stone steps two at a time, he reached the cantilevered Eden Pavilion terrace and pulled out his phone. The call went straight to voice mail. “Hey Indie. It’s me. Miss you,” he said. “Call when you get a minute. I have an idea to run past you…”

  “Damn. Why don’t you ever pick up?” he muttered, thumping his fist against the granite pillar. “That woman is the most irritating person I’ve ever come across.”

  “Adam. Adam Brooks, I don’t believe it.” A woman in a diaphanous sundress let out a shriek, leaping up from one of the long oceanfront tables and racing over to him.

  Adam raised his hand to shield his eyes from the sun. A crazed fan; that’s all I need right now, he thought.

  “ADAM! What are you doing here? I don’t believe it. It’s Natalie,” the girl gushed. “Natalie. You remember me?”

  It took a moment for him to register. “Natalie. Of course,” he said, recovering quickly. “This IS a surprise.”

  “Here, come and meet some of my new friends,” she said. “C’mon.”

  Adam hesitated and then followed her the few steps to the table.

  “Everyone. Meet Adam Brooks, the man who almost literally knocked me off my feet in Vegas a few months back,” she said, wobbling slightly on her six-inch espadrilles.

  A couple of middle-aged men slid their chairs back and leaned over to shake Adam’s hand.

  “This is Ross,” Natalie gushed, “CEO of Charles Davis Advertising Company and this gentleman here is Tom Waters from Saatchi and Saatchi. This is Sam Goldman, who needs no introduction of course, and Pete here is from Morgan Stanley. We’re all in town for the Advertising Festival.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” Adam said, nodding at the guys at the top end of the table and smiling at the two women at the far end whom Natalie had failed to introduce.

  “You must have a drink with us,” she said, pouting. “This place is awesome isn’t it? Come on. Here, sit next to me,” she schmoosed, waving to the hovering waiter who took her signal and lifted over another chair.

  “I’d like to but I’m with a friend. She’s waiting for me,” Adam protested, nodding his head in the direction of the line of bleached calico parasols by the pool.

  “How about just one glass of bubbles?” Natalie teased. “Tom here just ordered another bottle of champagne. We could use some help with it.”

  Adam hesitated. Diane had been appalling company all morning; working with her was becoming extremely wearing. He wasn’t needed on set now for the next two days. Why not?

  “Okay. If you’re sure I’m not crashing your business lunch.”

  They sat down together. Natalie leaned forward, pulled the tiny shoulder strap of her sundress down her arm and crossed one long tan leg over the other. She covered the side of her face, tilted her head in the direction of the man next to her and mouthed, “B-O-R-I-N-G.”

  Tom handed Adam a glass of pink champagne. “Santé, as they say here. So, what company are you with Adam? Don’t I know you from somewhere?”

  “Adam’s an actor,” Natalie said, but Tom wasn’t listening.

  “There’s John Hegarty. I must go talk to him,” he said, getting to his feet. “Sir John. Sir John,” he yelled. “Great to see you. I was hoping to catch you after your talk tomorrow.”

  The others around the table were engrossed in conversation. Natalie moved closer to Adam. “So how long are you here for? I can’t believe we’ve run into each other again like this. It must be fate,” she said, circling the rim of her glass with her forefinger and then licking the tip of it very slowly with her tongue.

  14

  India was perched on a cubist stool in the Soho Hotel library, marveling at the eclectic mix of designs, the bold use of color, the luxe fabrics, the vibrant artwork. That’s a whole new take on library steps, she thought, admiring a neon-lit ladder resting against shelves of leather-bound vintage books. What an incredible space. Who’d have thought to put those rugs against dark wooden floorboards?

  India had agonized for hours over what to wear for this first meeting – it was important to get it right. After all, Jean-Luc was one of the world’s foremost designers. She had settled on her Isabel Marant linen jacket, A-line Cottonier skirt and Repetto ballet flats. Surely you couldn’t go wrong with a totally French ensemble to meet a Createur de mode?

  She stood up as Jean-Luc appeared in the doorway wearing a crumpled white linen suit and panama hat. The ‘story’ he is telling today is more Last Days of the Raj than anarchic revolutionary, India thought.

  “Enchante,” he said, air-kissing her on either cheek. “Please let us sit down. I have ordered afternoon tea. We ’ave the room for the next hour; we will not be disturbed.”

  “Thank you,” India said. “This is such a lovely room.”

  “Yes. Kit ’as done an exceptional job. It ees a beautiful thing – the power of imagination in the hands of someone who knows what she is doing. Who needs to ’ave their own place in London when you ’ave a room waiting for you ’ere? And tomorrow I return to Provence to my abandoned house guests.”

  India had gleaned from a recent spread in Vanity Fair that Jean-Luc entertained his house guests in grand style in his renovated farmhouse, a sprawling property nestled in acres of lush French countryside. Artists, musicians, writers, actors and designers, ‘dropped in’ for weeks at a time during the summer months to horse ride, cycle and swim. Evenings they would come together to dine around a reclaimed wooden trestle in the kitchen, a vast converted barn complete with Adobe walls, exposed ceiling beams, squashy sofas and a roaring fire. She had read that the wine they drank was from his adjoining vineyard, the organic vegetables picked daily by his chef. The milk was from his pedigree cows, eggs from his bantam chickens and herbs from his lavender-hedged kitchen garden. There were photographs of mouthwatering pastries created from ripe fruit from the orchard.

  It sounded like heaven, although India was somewhat consoled by the fact that she might not enjoy the company of some of the houseguests. She had no desire to spend time with Sting and from what she knew of her, was in no rush to meet Tracey Emin either. Not that the opportunity was likely to present itself anytime soon, she’d mused.

  The article had nevertheless made India ache to live in a rural idyll, forever frozen in time, riding a stallion bareback, a white chiffon dress falling from her shoulders, her windswept hair flying behind her as she galloped in slow motion through fields of barley. She pushed the image away as they were served tea in fragile tea cups from English china pots and a tier of dainty sandwiches and scones were arranged on the low glass table in front of them.

  “So, India. I have seen the draft that has been written for me. Of course, I will put it in my own words. I am arrogant enough to believe nobody would have expressed how I feel so well as I feel zees things.”

  He leaned forward and picked out a cucumber sandwich. “I understand what you need now is some copy for the website, yes? So. We will look at the images and I can tell you the thoughts they provoke in me so that you can use my words.”

  “Perfect,” India said, opening her MacBook Air and sifting through to find the folder that profiled the students’ designs and the philosophies behind them. Then, pulling the pictures onto the screen one by one, she switched on her tape recorder.

  “This is unique,” Jean-Luc said after a few moments. “The aesthetic seems almost accidental…now this one is
ambitious…dramatic, unexpected….punk meets burlesque. How I ADORE burlesque. This, now THIS. It is reductionist. I like the form – it challenges – this is an unharmonic melody. Pure poetry…next please…influenced by Mondrian…ah yes, look it says ’ere.”

  India was mesmerized. Jean-Luc sipped his tea and spoke in a stream of consciousness, reading the copy the students had written with laser-focused attention. As the final image flashed on the screen, he sat back and looked at her intensely.

  “This is a very important project. It will have a long life. I am honored to be a part of it.”

  “Thank you. I know the students will be thrilled. I will have the tape transcribed and edited then we will let you see it before it goes online to be certain you’re happy with it.”

  Jean-Luc glanced at the wall clock. Precisely one hour had passed.

  “I must not keep you,” he said, getting to his feet. “I am thinking that I would like to reward the most talented of these creative young people by having them work with me in my studio in Paris for a month.”

  “What a wonderful idea,” India said enthusiastically. “The students would be beyond thrilled at the opportunity.”

  “A month would be the perfect time. A month in Paris will change your life. As Henry Miller once said, ‘To know Paris, is to know a great deal.’ I will be honored to make this offer. One month in my studio.”

  India powered down her computer and put the recorder away in her tote. “Thank you. That is very generous.”

  “Bien sûr, youth is energy. Creativity thrives on energy and talent.”

  “Thank you for the tea. It was delicious,” India said. “I look forward to seeing you again at the show. If you need anything else in the meantime, you have my e-mail. Merci beaucoup.”

  “One more thing,” Jean-Luc said as she reached the door.

  India turned around and waited.

  “I will share with you something.”

  “Yes?” India smiled.

  He ran his hand over his head. “I am needing something now. I don’t know what it ees, but I am tired. I have used up the energy that has been around me. This project, these students – they are the life-blood – they feed my creativity. I am doing this project for myself also, not just for them. I need inspiration. I need them maybe even more than they need me.”

  “Thank you for telling me., India said, somewhat surprised by his intensity, his apparent vulnerability.

  She waited a few minutes before leaving the room. That was quite an interview, she thought, wandering up Wardour Street to Henry’s offices. I am so loving this job.

  The air was muggy and the streets crowded with people racing for the subway. It was getting close to four o’clock. Samantha was packing things away at the reception desk when she got there.

  How does she manage to stay that groomed all day long?’ India wondered, admiring the girl’s sleek ponytail and her flawless complexion. She looks airbrushed.

  “Hi India.” Samantha smiled. “I’ll be with you in a moment. I have to take these papers through to be signed by Mr. Lichtenstein.”

  India masked her surprise. She had assumed ‘Lichtenstein’ to be a sleeping partner as she had yet to meet him.

  “If I can have the transcript by Wednesday that’d be great,” she said, handing the tape to Samantha a few minutes later.

  “Not a problem. Did the meeting go well?”

  “Very.”

  Just then a door swung open and a wiry guy wearing the London city ‘uniform’ of a white shirt, pinstripe suit and tortoise-shell glasses appeared in the foyer.

  “You must be India,” he said, extending his hand. “At last we meet. Joel. Joel Lichtenstein. Henry’s told me all about you.”

  “Mr. Lichtenstein, your car for the airport is waiting for you,” Samantha said, hovering with his coat and scarf.

  “Thanks,” he said, checking his watch. “I have to dash, India. I’m running late as it is. It has been lovely meeting you.” With that, the elevator pinged and he was gone.

  India turned to Samantha. “Where’s he off to?”

  “Cannes. The Advertising Festival,” she said.

  “That’s such a coincidence. I have a friend in Cannes right now.”

  “Is he in advertising?”

  “No. He’s an actor. He’s on location there.”

  “Would I know him?” Samantha asked.

  “Probably. Adam Brooks?”

  “Adam Brooks. Adam Brooks!” Samantha exclaimed. “That is SO weird.”

  “What is?” India said. “I met him through my sister when I was staying in LA a few years ago.”

  “No. It’s not weird you know him, but I was looking at his photograph only an hour ago.”

  “You were? How come?”

  “I was checking hotel availability for Mr. Lichtenstein. He’s booked at The Carlton, where he always stays. He goes to the festival every year for the week. Last year he came back saying it was so crazy busy – like a bun fight was how he put it – so he’s only going for the final three days this time and at the last minute he asked me to see if I could get him into Hotel du Cap-Eden-Roc instead.”

  That’s where Adam’s staying, India thought mournfully, where I should be too.

  “So I was checking it out and then it all looked so amazing I started noodling around on the gossip from the week. They like to call it The Creativity Festival and hype it up. Mr. Lichtenstein gets great coverage for his clients there. He won two awards last year. Anyway, there was Adam Brooks. How funny is that? What a coincidence. Here look, I’ll show you.”

  Samantha had the page from the New York Post up within seconds and swiveled her computer toward India.

  Cannes: The Hottest Photos and

  Gossip from the Ad World’s Top Festival.

  Stars on Eden-Roc Terrace

  India skimmed the article, the predictable journalese: drinks at sunset, hottest party of Cannes Lion Festival, Michael Bublé performing, followed by a list of names, most of which meant nothing. She scrolled down to a photograph of Adam framed against an expanse of ocean with a girl and not just any girl. There was no mistaking this one, with her cleavage and stack heels and her trout pout. Her image was burned into India’s memory. This was the girl who had been in Vegas with him – the girl who had the so-called ‘accident,’ the girl he took out for dinner – and now here she was in Cannes. Cannes of all places.

  “Are you okay?” Samantha asked as India clamped her hand over her mouth.

  “Er. Yes. Yes I’m fine, absolutely fine,” India answered unsteadily.

  Samantha strained to get another look at the picture. “She’s pretty. They make a cute couple.”

  “They certainly look like a couple,” India managed to say.

  Gathering every ounce of her strength, she smiled. “Thank you. Have a great weekend, Samantha.”

  “You too. Oh! I nearly forgot. Henry said he and a couple of people he’d like you to meet are at the corner wine bar if you’d care to join them for a drink.”

  “Thanks,” India replied over her shoulder, before racing down the stairs and out of the building onto the dusty street, narrowly avoiding a line of stationary bikes. She leapt back onto the crowded pavement to escape a speeding cyclist. Jostling her way past the teenagers clustered outside the neighboring pub, she turned down a cobbled side street to get away from the crowds and away from the stench of grease coming from a fast food truck.

  She stopped for a moment trying to steady the pounding in her chest, craving a wide-open space where she could run, punch the air and scream. Everything around her was suddenly alien: the sex shops, tattoo parlors, the garbage and graffiti, the endless stream of commuters, the hotel workers smoking cigarettes around kitchen dumpsters. Turning in the opposite direction, unsure where to go next, she walked aimlessly for a while and then hesitated at the street corner by the Gielgud Theater. It was showing Les Misérables. How appropriate, she thought.
Adam Brooks, you are dead to me.

  Opening her purse, she checked her mascara in a tiny mirror, touched up her lipstick and took a deep breath. Turning back in the direction of Henry’s office, she paced up and down the block several times before pushing open the double doors to the wine bar.

  Henry was jostling to get served. She shoved her way through to him unapologetically and managed to catch his eye.

  “What can I get you?” he yelled.

  “Vodka tonic please,” she yelled back.

  It felt like everyone who worked in Soho had picked this place tonight. India stood thereirritated by everything and everyone around her. Henry relayed the drinks to the couple hovering behind him and handed India hers.

  “Before you drink that,” he said, nodding toward her glass and raising his eyebrows, “you’re certain you haven’t taken any medication?”

  “Funny. Ha!” India snapped. “No I haven’t. Could we agree to drop the subject?”

  “Pity. I was rather looking forward to continuing our conversation.”

  India felt a shock of contact as he held her gaze for the longest time. Right now I hate you, you smug bastard, she thought.

  “Whatever conversation you’d like to continue, you’d better be prepared to work very hard for it,” she said.

  “Believe me, I am prepared to get as hard as you would like me to,” he said under his breath, and then turning to the couple next to him he said, “Here, let me introduce you. Mike, Paula, meet India Butler. Hey. Grab that table; those people are leaving.”

  They squeezed their way across the room to the window table and sat down. India went through the motions, smiling politely, doing her best to feign interest as she became increasingly aware of Henry’s Bulgari cologne.

  “Another round?” Mike said. “My shout.”

  “Yes please,” India said. “Vodka and tonic. Same again.”

  India sat still with great difficulty. She wanted to push back the table and scream. She knocked back her drink.