Dreaming of Manderley

by Leah Marie Brown

  After listening to Reed talk (and talk), it is obvious she believes her big payoff is imminent.

  “Don’t tell anyone,” she says, raising her voice an octave. “But, last week I read for a part in the new Stephane Goldberg movie.”

  “The World War II picture?” Loren asks.

  Reed nods her head.

  “I heard Tom Cruise is the lead,” Josh says.

  “It’s definitely not Tom Cruise”—she smiles smugly—“but the lead star is major!”

  She pronounces it may-jah.

  “Did you read with him?”

  Reed nods her head. “Halfway through my third call-back, I suddenly realized I was living most of the world’s wish fulfillment. It was surreal—even by Hollywood standards. I know he has a reputation for being douchetastic, but—”

  “If it is who I think it is, he has unprecedented levels of douchebaggery,” Josh interrupts. “I’ve heard he has a fifteen-page rider that includes things like Cuban cigars, special bath oil made in the Yucatán Peninsula, and a separate trailer for his bullmastiff.”

  “I’ve heard he insists that everyone working in craft service must wear a uniform made of natural fibers,” Loren adds. “He hates manmade fibers.”

  “I’ve heard he has a thing for bald-headed, toothless male prostitutes,” Reilly adds.

  “Me too,” Gillian agrees.

  Sköda remains tight-lipped.

  The conversation turns to Cannes nightlife.

  “Bâoli is the spot,” Reed sniffs. “A-listers and Saudi princes hang out there—people with enough money to afford magnums of Krug Private Cuvée and Moët et Chandon Dom Pérignon.”

  “I went to Le For You last night,” Loren says. “Gigi was there and she looked fierce. She had on Gucci leather leggings and thigh-high suede boots. That girl can dance.”

  Josh sniffs. “I prefer Gotha, at the Cap de la Croisette. The DJs are next level. Naked dancers writhe around on pink velvet chaise lounges and muscular waiters carry flaming bottles of champagne. And, their VIP rooms are the best in Cannes.”

  When Reed launches into another high-octane, narcissism-fueled conversation—it’s all about Reed, Reed, Reed—I suddenly feel as if the walls are closing in around me, pressing against my back and chest, squeezing the air from my lungs. I can’t breathe. My neck feels prickly hot, the kind of prickly hot that comes from a rash.

  I look down at my iPhone and pretend I have received an important text.

  “I have to go,” I mumble, grabbing my purse. “Sorry.”

  I practically run out of the bar and I keep running out of the hotel, across the Boulevard de la Croisette, until I am standing on the beach, staring out at the sea. I kick off my shoes, wiggle my toes in the warm sand, close my eyes, and take several deep breaths. When the claustrophobic feeling subsides, I slip my feet back into my shoes and climb the stairs leading to the Promenade de la Croisette, a wide, paved walkway that hugs the coastline from one end of Cannes to the other.

  During the Festival, the Promenade was crowded with gawkers, paparazzi, and members of the press, separated from the celebrities by crush barriers. Tonight, it is deserted.

  I let my purse dangle from my wrist and stroll the promenade, away from the hotels and luxury shops, in the direction of the marina.

  I am leaning against a low stone wall, watching the yachts bobbing in the harbor, their silvery lights reflecting on the water like a thousand diamonds, when someone tries to yank my purse from my wrist. I clutch the strap and turn around. My attacker is a tall, skinny teenager with broken teeth and eyes as black as his long hair. He is bare chested and reeks of urine.

  “Let go,” he growls, violently tugging the purse strap from my hand. “Salope.”

  I scream.

  With his free hand, he shoves me hard right between my breasts, knocking the air from my lungs. I almost fall back over the stone wall and into the water, but another hand grabs my arm and holds me steady.

  I hear the teen curse again in French and realize he is now engaged in a tug of war over my purse with the person holding my arm. The strap breaks. The thief curses and runs away. Only then do I have the opportunity to look at my rescuer.

  “Xavier!”

  “Are you hurt?”

  His deep voice wraps around me like a cashmere blanket and I shiver.

  I shake my head.

  “Are you certain?”

  “Yes.”

  “Thank God. I am afraid the same cannot be said of your purse.”

  He hands me my purse and I wrap the strap around my wrist and tuck it under my arm.

  “What are you doing out here, alone, you silly fool? Don’t you know the marina is prime hunting grounds for pickpockets?”

  “I am a fool,” I say, my voice wavering. “The valet warned me to be careful around the marina, but . . .”

  “But, you have a death wish. Is that it?”

  “No.” Heat flushes my cheeks as I realize the picture I must make, an American woman, strolling alone, at night, in an unlit section of the marina. “I wanted to be alone.”

  To my humiliation, my legs begin to tremble.

  He sighs and runs his hand through his hair. “I understand your desire to be alone,” he says, softening his tone. “Truly, I do. But you have to know you could have been robbed or . . . worse. Much worse.”

  Tears spill down my cheeks. He is going to think I am an overwrought woman prone to weeping, but I can’t stop the emotions surging through my body.

  “Come along then,” he says, protectively placing his arm around my shoulders. “I will see you safely to the hotel.”

  We leave the marina and follow the promenade back to the hotel. We step through the revolving door and into the dimly lit lobby, pausing at the stairs leading to the elevators.

  “This is the third time you have come to my rescue, monsieur.”

  “Xavier.”

  “Xavier,” I say, smiling shyly. “How will I ever thank you?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  I remember Olivia’s admonition and pluck up the courage to invite him for a drink.

  “Can I at least buy you a drink?”

  He looks over at a beautiful brunette in towering red-soled heels who has just walked into the lobby and nods his head at her. She narrows her gaze, like a cat eyeing a mouse she plans to eviscerate.

  “Perhaps another time,” he says.

  “Of course.” I jab the elevator button so he can’t see the color rising in my cheeks. “You have more important things to do than go for drinks with a foolish American. How silly of me.”

  His expression alters to something shadowy and unreadable. Anger. Disgust. Boredom. Pity. I cannot tell. He stares into my eyes as if my expression is equally unreadable. The elevator dings and the doors slide open. I hurry inside.

  “Another time, then.”

  And for the second time in the space of a few hours, elevator doors close, separating me from the most handsome, intriguing, and frightening man I have ever met, leaving me alone with my humiliation and longing.

  Chapter Three

  Text from Emma Lee Maxwell:

  You’ll never guess what I woke to this morning. Flashing lights and an annoying back-up beeper. The dealership sent a tow truck to repossess my Lexus. Did you know Daddy leased my car? He BOUGHT Tara’s car. Why would he lease mine? What am I going to do? How will I get around? Oh the humanity!

  Text from Tara Maxwell:

  I need your help thinking of a birthday gift for Callie. Her birthday is next week. What is the perfect gift for the world’s best friend?

  “Would you be a love and ask housekeeping to send up more of that Fragonard body wash? It’s to die.” Olivia pops her toweled head through the door connecting her terrace suite to my room, squinting against the bright morning light streaming in through the open curtains. “Then, call room service and order a Bloody Mary with three shots of Tabasco and the greasiest breakfast on the menu. And would you pop down to the g
ift shop and buy a bottle of ibuprofen and box of Alka-Seltzer?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Have you had breakfast yet?”

  “I was waiting for you. You asked me to make brunch reservations at La Plage, remember?”

  “Did I? When?”

  “Last night, when you woke me up.”

  “Oh, well,” she says, pressing her fingers against her temple, “I have a crushing hangover. You can order something from room service, if you like, or go to La Plage by yourself.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Go,” she says, stumbling into my room and collapsing on my bed. “I am suffering with the Grande Dame flu. Acute chills, headache, and nausea from overexposure to champagne and gin.”

  I walk into my bathroom, grab a fresh washcloth from the counter, turn on the cold water, and hold the cloth under the stream. Wringing out the cloth, I walk back to the bed and press it to Olivia’s clammy forehead.

  “Ugh!” She groans. “Etienne should be shot.”

  “Who?”

  “Etienne,” she repeats. “The hotel’s drink wizard. The one who created the Grande Dame. Wasn’t that what your Monsieur X called him? ”

  “Emanuele,” I correct. “And he is not my Monsieur X.”

  “So you say.” She cracks open an eye and looks at me from beneath the edge of the washcloth, her lips curling in a teasing smile. “Yet, when I came looking for you last night, you were nowhere to be found. Scandaleux.”

  “Scan-dah-lou?”

  “Scandalous en français.”

  “When did you look for me?”

  “After the photo shoot.” She closes her eye. “Lana invited me to a club and I came up to see if you wanted to join us.”

  “Oh.”

  “Oh, indeed! So, where were you?”

  “I must have been in the bar. After you left, I ran into Reed Harrington.”

  “Try again.”

  “What?”

  “I went to the bar first. I saw Reed. She said you got a mysterious text and hurried off.” She pulls the washcloth down over her eyes and moans. “You dirty, dirty girl. Did the French catnip do the trick? Has your inner sex-kitty been unleashed?”

  Heat flushes my cheeks. I jump up and hurry over to a basket of fruit sitting on my dresser. I take a banana out of the basket, remove half of the peel, and walk back to the bed.

  “Here,” I say, handing the banana to Olivia. “Lie on your right side and eat this.”

  Olivia throws the washcloth on the floor and rolls onto her right side, squinting up at me.

  “Your daddy’s hangover cure?”

  I nod my head.

  She grabs the banana and takes a bite. “You’re the best,” she says. “I don’t deserve you. You know I love you more than Michael Fassbender, right?”

  “What about Bradley Cooper?”

  “Definitely.”

  “But not more than Cary Grant?”

  “Never.”

  We laugh. This has been our routine since college. Back then, it was Josh Hartnett and Zac Efron.

  Olivia reaches out and grabs my hand. “Say it.”

  “Say what?”

  “Say you love me back.”

  “Lawd, you are so needy.”

  Olivia squeezes my hand. “Pleeease?”

  “Fine.” I sigh. “I love you.”

  “More than Jon Hamm?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “More than Jake Gyllenhaal?”

  “Usually.”

  She finishes the banana and hands me the peel, grinning, and I know what she is about to say.

  “More than Monsieur X?”

  I knew it! I knew she was going to mention Xavier. I grab the banana peel and toss it into the waste can on my way out the door. “I am going to get your ibuprofen and Alka-Seltzer.”

  “Wait!”

  I turn around. “What?”

  “Do you love me more than Monsieur X?”

  “Never.”

  She bursts out laughing and then grabs her head, moaning in pain. I close the door with a soft click.

  * * *

  When I return fifteen minutes later, Olivia has crawled back into her own bed and is snoring softly. I tiptoe into her room and deposit the pills, a large bottle of water, and a silk eye mask on her nightstand. I tiptoe out of the room and into the hallway to wait for room service. It arrives seconds later. I sign the bill and carry the tray into Olivia’s room, arranging the Bloody Mary and fluffy omelet with strips of greasy bacon on the table in the sitting room. I tiptoe over to my friend.

  “Olivia?” I whisper. “I have your medicine.”

  Olivia wakes with a start. “Has room service arrived?”

  “Yes. It is in the sitting room.”

  “Thank God.”

  She throws the covers back and carefully climbs out of bed. We are walking into the sitting room when someone knocks loudly on the suite door. Olivia grabs her head and moans.

  Knock. Knock. Knock.

  “Make it stop. For the love of George Clooney, make it stop!”

  I hurry across the room and open the door.

  A valet is holding a large, glossy, white Dior shopping bag with triangles of silvery white tissue paper protruding from the top.

  “Bonjour, madame,” he says, thrusting the bag at me. “The concierge instructed me to deliver this to you.”

  “Merci,” I say, taking the bag and closing the door.

  “What is it?” Olivia calls.

  I carry the bag by its silky white rope handles over to the table and hand it to her. “You received a package.”

  “Ooo!” Olivia says, clapping her hands. “You know how I love prezzies! I wonder who sent it.”

  She tears the tissue out of the bag and throws it in the air, a cyclone of silvery paper swirling around us. A thick white gift card falls at my feet with the tissue paper. I pick the card up and hand it to Olivia. She turns the card over. Her eyes widen and she looks at me with her mouth open.

  “What?”

  “Here,” she says, handing me the card. “It’s for you.”

  I take the card and stare at my name scrawled across the front of the envelope in bold, loopy handwriting. My heart thuds wildly and I press a hand to my chest.

  Manderley Maxwell. It definitely says Manderley Maxwell. Sliding my finger inside the back of the envelope, I tear through the thick paper and remove the card.

  You came to the South of France with so many wonderful dreams, didn’t you, Cécile? I hope what happened last night hasn’t spoiled them. If it did, I hope this gift will restore your faith in the beauty of my country and the generosity of my people.

  X.

  P.S. I selected this color because it reminded me of your eyes. If you don’t like it, please visit the Dior boutique beside the hotel and they will make sure you get something you like.

  “Well, don’t keep me in suspense!” Olivia cries. “What does the card say? Who sent it? Was it Monsieur X?”

  I hand Olivia the card. Her eyes dart back and forth as she reads Xavier’s words. She finishes reading, looks at me, and reads the card again.

  “Who is Cécile? What happened last night?”

  “I was mugged.”

  “What? Where?”

  “Near the marina.”

  “Oh my God, Mandy!” Olivia says. “You could have been raped or murdered and it would have been all my fault.”

  “Your fault? Why?”

  She rests her elbows on the table and cradles her forehead in her hands, pushing her palms against her closed eyes.

  “I am a crap best friend.”

  “No, you’re not.”

  “Yes, I am.” She sniffles. “I have been so caught up in writing and preparing for the Festival, I have turned into a CC Bloom.”

  CC Bloom is the lead character in Beaches, the movie we watch when we need a good ugly cry. In the movie, CC Bloom and Hillary Whitney meet when they are young girls. Despite their different backgrounds, they become b
est friends . . . until CC’s ego pushes them apart. Olivia mimics one of CC’s most hilarious, egotistical scenes.

  I laugh softly, because I do not want to hurt Olivia’s feelings, but the truth is, she has been demanding and just a little self-absorbed.

  “You haven’t been that bad.”

  “Yes, I have! You almost died last night. You could have been shanked and tossed in the bay. Your body would have washed up on the shore and the gendarmes would have called me down to identify you.” She is crying now. “Yes, Officer, that is my best friend, Manderley Maxwell. She was in Cannes because I am a selfish, narcissistic twatwaffle, and if I hadn’t been letting some photographer stroke my ego, I would have been there to save her from the shanking.”

  “Ew! That is a disgusting word.”

  She looks up, sniffling. “Which word? Shanking?”

  I tilt my head and narrow my gaze, giving her my best seriously look.

  “Twatwaffle?”

  “Olivia!”

  “Too graphic?”

  “Too revolting.”

  “It is rather revolting, isn’t it?” She laughs, brushing the tears from her cheeks. “I heard Alec Elkins use it on set when he was talking about his ex-wife. If he wasn’t such a brilliant actor, I think he would have been thrown out of Hollywood years ago for being a volatile, egotistical, misanthropic ass. Still, I rather like that word—”

  “Please don’t say it again!”

  She laughs. “I am glad you weren’t hurt last night,” she says, sobering. “I don’t know what I would do without you. Who else could put up with CC but Hillary?”

  I reach for her hand across the table, squeezing it. “You’re being too hard on yourself, Olivia.”

  “No, I am not,” she says. “You have been so busy helping me launch my writing career, you’ve barely had time to launch your own, let alone deal with the grief of losing your father and aunt. I am sorry, truly. I want you to be happy.”

  “What makes you think I am not happy?”

  “Puh-leez,” she says, absentmindedly stirring her Bloody Mary with the stalk of celery protruding from the glass. “I am your best friend.”