by Anita Hughes
“I want to make sure you miss me,” he whispered, wrapping one arm tightly around her waist. She felt her body arching, reaching, pulsing, and then the long sweet release. She rested her head on his shoulder, her heart beating rapidly in her chest.
“There’s nothing more important than you and me,” he said quietly. “The rest is gravy.”
* * *
Serena walked along the boulevard, gazing at the long line of palm trees. She had changed into an orange linen jumpsuit and ivory Gucci wedges. She brushed her hair into a high ponytail and tied it with an orange silk ribbon. She sprayed her wrists and neck with Dior, feeling like Grace Kelly in To Catch a Thief.
The Carlton-InterContinental had a creamy stone facade and black turreted roof. Serena saw flags flying above the entrance and the yellow-and-white awnings of the Carlton Restaurant, where guests sipped milky cappuccinos and read copies of Le Monde.
Serena walked through the gold revolving glass doors into the lobby. She glanced at the thick marble pillars, the gold inlaid floors, and felt like she was inside a jewelry box. Royal-blue sofas were scattered over Oriental rugs and crystal chandeliers twinkled from the lacquered ceiling.
“I have a reservation,” Serena said as she approached the reception desk, inhaling the scent of camellias and wood polish. “Serena Woods.”
The concierge tapped letters into a sleek keyboard. “I’m sorry, we don’t have anyone with that name.”
Serena wrinkled her brow, trying again in French. “Je m’appelle Serena Woods. J’ai un réservation.”
The man smiled stiffly, as if Serena were a stubborn child. “I understand English, mademoiselle, but I do not see your name.”
“Try Chelsea Brown.” Serena leaned against the cool marble, jet lag and fatigue making her dizzy.
“I have nothing under that name,” the concierge said, and shook his head. “Perhaps you are at the wrong hotel; have you tried the Hilton?”
“I’m here to interview Yvette Renault,” Serena replied, suddenly desperate. “She is also staying here.”
“Madame Renault has been our guest for a week,” the man said, nodding. “She is in a suite on the septième floor.”
“Please.” Serena fished some euros from her purse. “I’ve been on planes for fifteen hours. I have the most important interview of my career tomorrow; I need somewhere to sleep.”
“Let me check something,” the man said reluctantly, punching numbers into his keyboard. “Serena Woods of San Francisco, California.”
“Yes!” Serena exhaled, picturing a queen-size bed with a soft down comforter, a bottle of sparkling water cooling in an ice bucket, an oval bathtub filled with bath salts.
“Your reservation is for May thirty-first. Today is May twenty-fifth,” he explained.
“It can’t be,” Serena exclaimed, her voice echoing throughout the lobby. “It has to be for today.”
“It is the Cannes Film Festival, the hotel is completely booked, every room in Cannes is occupied. I cannot help you.”
Serena pulled herself up to her full height and squared her shoulders. “I’m a features editor at Vogue, and my boss has a bad temper, she’s going to be furious if you turn me into the street. You have to give me a room.”
The man sighed as if he were tired of dealing with a difficult schoolgirl. He glanced at his notes. “Tell Ms. Brown that she has my sincere apologies, but there is nothing I can do.”
* * *
Serena walked through the lobby and thought her legs would collapse. Her throat was dry and her head pounded. She stumbled to the bar and sank onto a leather stool, holding the marble counter to stop the room from spinning.
“Can I help you?” the bartender asked.
“Just a glass of water,” Serena replied, touching her hand to her forehead.
“You look like you could use something stronger,” said a young woman with thick bangs and bouncy brown hair perched on the stool next to her. She ordered two gin and tonics and scooped up a handful of pistachios.
“I’m sorry,” Serena said, and shook her head. “Have we met?”
“I saw you arguing with reception,” the girl replied. “It’s true what people say about the French, they’re cold as icicles and just as sharp. I expect they have blue blood running through their veins.”
“My reservation is for next week,” Serena sighed. “I tried everything, but the man wouldn’t budge; I’m going to have to sleep in a fishing boat.”
“Hardly.” The girl raised her eyebrow. She had hazel eyes and creamy white skin. She wore a cotton sundress and had a silver necklace around her neck. “The fishermen would charge a hundred euros to step foot in a boat. It’s the Cannes Film Festival; even the pigeons know how to gouge the tourists.”
“I’m here to write a story for Vogue,” Serena replied. “If I don’t have a room I’m going to lose the most important assignment of my career.”
“I came to get that je ne sais quoi, but so far I’ve gotten a haircut that makes me look like a third-grader and spent a hundred and fifty euros on a dress you could buy at Woolworth’s.”
“What do you mean?” Serena asked.
“You know, that air that French women have, like some impossibly expensive perfume. I grew up watching old movies with Catherine Deneuve and Brigitte Bardot. I’ve always wanted to be one of those women with dark hooded eyes who look sexy blowing smoke rings.”
“No one thinks smoking is sexy anymore,” Serena argued.
“Have you been to the nightclubs?” the girl asked, laughing. “You could get cancer standing at the door. I just want to learn how to hold a cigarette and wear my hair and talk with a French accent.”
“Why?” Serena asked, suddenly intrigued. The girl looked vaguely familiar, as if she’d seen her face in a magazine. But she didn’t have a model’s figure and Serena couldn’t remember seeing her on a movie screen.
“It’s a long story, perhaps another time,” the girl said slowly. “On you that jumpsuit belongs on the catwalk; on me it would look like I just finished finger painting. Some people have ‘it,’ others don’t. I may as well give up and go home.”
“If you’re giving up your room, I’ll take it.” Serena finished her drink, feeling a little light-headed. “My editor in chief will kill me if I miss this story.”
“How exciting that you work at Vogue; you must know everything about fashion,” the girl mused. “I bet you know exactly what to wear without going through your closet and deciding your whole wardrobe is hopeless and should be donated to the HOPE Foundation.”
“I mainly write celebrity interviews and features,” Serena sighed, flashing on Yvette. “I’m here to interview Yvette Renault; she’s staying in a suite on the seventh floor.”
“I’m staying in the Cary Grant Suite on the seventh floor!” the girl exclaimed. “Six rooms of pink marble floors and ivory silk sofas and a view of the whole coast.” She gazed at Serena and suddenly her eyes sparkled. “You can stay with me, I’ve got an extra bedroom.”
“I couldn’t do that.” Serena shook her head.
“You can share all your wisdom,” the girl continued enthusiastically. “You can teach me to be one of those women salesgirls fight over instead of someone they snicker about when I’m in the dressing room.”
“Why would you want to share your suite with a complete stranger?” Serena asked curiously. She searched the girl’s face to see if she was hiding something. Maybe she ran a drug ring or was the madam for a house of high-class call girls.
“I grew up in British boarding schools and I never learned to wear anything except a field hockey skirt,” the girl replied. “I can pick your brain and learn how to coordinate an outfit. You can teach me how to accessorize and which styles flatter my shape.”
“Your shape is lovely,” Serena said, and smiled, glancing at her rounded arms and small waist.
“I have a fondness for fish and chips and Cadbury chocolate.” The girl ate another handful of pistachios. “You can teach me to like spin
ach salads with tofu.”
“I hate tofu,” Serena said, grinning.
Suddenly the jet lag washed over her like a wave and she longed to rest her head on a feathery pillow. “Okay, I accept. I’m Serena Woods.”
“Zoe,” the girl replied, glancing at the marble bar. “Zoe Pistachio.”
“Pistachio?” Serena raised her eyebrow.
“It’s an old family name,” the girl said, and she strode toward the concierge. “Let’s get you a key.”
* * *
Serena opened her eyes and gazed at the scalloped light fixture above the bed. She turned her head and saw beige silk drapes pulled back to reveal white sailboats on a pale blue ocean.
Serena sat against the ivory satin headboard, trying to remember where she was. She recalled taking the private elevator to the seventh floor and entering double white doors. She remembered Zoe ushering her into the second bedroom, showing her towels, robes, and an array of lotions. She vaguely remembered hanging up her jumpsuit, turning back the covers, and climbing under Egyptian cotton sheets.
Now Serena glanced at the canopied bed, at the gold velvet love seat, at the crystal vase of birds of paradise, and thought she was crazy. How could she have accepted the invitation to stay in a suite with a complete stranger?
Serena pulled on a white velour Carlton robe and padded into the living room. She was going to tell Zoe she appreciated her kindness but she couldn’t accept her offer any longer. She’d go down to reception and demand the manager call Chelsea’s assistant and sort out her room.
The living room had pink marble floors and ivory sofas and a round glass table resting on a stone pedestal. French doors opened onto a marble balcony with chaise lounges and wicker chairs. Serena smelled freshly cut pineapple and dark roasted coffee and saw a sideboard heaped with platters of watermelon, grapes, minicroissants, and pots of raspberry jam.
Serena suddenly realized she was starving. She piled a plate with English muffins, strips of bacon, and fluffy scrambled eggs. Then she poured a demitasse of rich black coffee and sat in a Louis XVI chair.
“Jet lag is a killer,” Zoe said as she entered the living room. She wore a navy one-piece bathing suit and a large straw hat. Her cheeks were smeared with suntan lotion and a pair of sunglasses were propped on her forehead. “The first few days I was here I wanted porridge and toast and marmalade for dinner.”
“I didn’t mean to eat your food,” Serena said, wiping her mouth with a napkin. “It smelled so good and I was starving.”
“They refill the sideboard every four hours.” Zoe shrugged. “Herb omelets, soufflés, mini-éclairs, and cheesecakes. I keep telling them I’m on a diet and they keep bringing crustless sandwiches and creamy desserts.”
“You don’t need to be on a diet.” Serena shook her head.
“According to fashion magazines ninety percent of women are on a diet their whole lives.” Zoe spread a piece of toast with strawberry jam. “I’d stay and eat but I’m late for a waterskiing lesson.”
“What time is it?” Serena gazed outside, suddenly noticing that the beach was full of sunbathers lying on white lounges.
“Two P.M.,” Zoe replied. “I have a waterskiing lesson followed by a bicycle tour of Cannes and a trip to the outdoor markets. Maybe we can go to a nightclub tonight, and you can teach me to say sexy things in French?”
“Two o’clock!” Serena jumped up. “My appointment with Yvette is at three and my hair looks like it’s been attacked by hornets.”
“If you need to borrow any clothes or makeup it’s all in my closet,” Zoe said, grabbing her room key and walking to the door.
“I really can’t stay here,” Serena replied. “We don’t know each other and this suite must cost a fortune.”
“You have to stay, you’re going to turn me into Katie Holmes. Think of all the delicious fruit and pastries going to waste if you don’t.” Zoe surveyed the sideboard. “We’ll trade our personal information tonight, by morning we’ll be BFFs.”
* * *
Serena unzipped her suitcase and sifted through silk dresses, cotton sweaters, and linen capris for the perfect outfit. She was meeting one of the most important women in fashion and needed to make a good impression.
She selected a yellow-and-white linen dress and white cork slingbacks. She brushed her hair into a knot and secured it with a gold clip. Then she searched the suite for an iron to get the wrinkles out of her cropped Stella McCartney jacket.
Serena walked into the master bedroom, gaping at the king-size four-poster bed and royal-blue love seats. There was a round window like on a ship and a framed Seurat above a ceramic fireplace. She giggled, wondering what Chase would say if he saw her in the Cary Grant Suite of the Carlton-InterContinental. Even with his designer suits and custom shirts, Chase’s budget didn’t include premier suites at five-star hotels.
Serena entered the vast walk-in closet, searching the shelves for an iron. She glanced up at a row of neatly hung shirts with Peter Pan collars and plaid knee-length skirts. She found an iron and turned to leave and noticed that every shirt had embroidered stitching on the collar. She looked closer, feeling almost guilty for spying, and saw flowery cursive that said “CG.”
Serena hurried back to her bedroom, plugging in the iron and waiting for it to get hot. She thought about Zoe’s odd last name, her mysterious reasons for being in Cannes, and wondered why all her blouses were embroidered with someone else’s initials.
* * *
Serena smoothed her hair and rang the doorbell of the Sophia Loren Suite. She clutched a yellow notepad in one hand and a package wrapped in silver paper in the other.
“You must be Serena,” a woman said as she answered the door. “Please come in, I just finished my afternoon yoga. I’ll open the curtains and let in some light.”
Serena nervously followed Yvette into the suite, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the dark. While everything in Zoe’s suite was gold and ivory, Yvette’s suite was done in pastels, with a window seat piled with green and pink and turquoise cushions. There was a floral sofa and a bamboo table with upholstered silk chairs.
“It’s gorgeous, isn’t it.” Yvette pulled back turquoise curtains to reveal the view. The bay was full of boats and the sand was teeming with sunbathers. Serena saw uniformed waiters passing out frothy drinks and platters of fruit. “I stay in the same suite every time; I’m so close to the beach, I can smell the ocean.”
Yvette was almost six feet and had the slender neck of a dancer. She had silvery hair and wore a black leotard with a red sweater tied around her waist. Even without makeup she was beautiful, with large brown eyes and a wide, sexy mouth. A strand of black pearls encircled her neck and she wore red ballet slippers on her feet.
“I hope I’m not interrupting,” Serena replied, suddenly feeling overdressed in her linen dress and crepe jacket. She handed Yvette the package. “I brought you something.”
Yvette opened the wrapping and turned over the paperback book. “Princess Daisy by Judith Krantz!” Yvette’s eyes sparkled. “How did you know I was a fan?”
“I thought you might not have an American copy,” Serena said, blushing. “I read an article that said you loved her books.”
“I used to devour them like chocolate.” Yvette put it on the coffee table and sat in a turquoise armchair, tucking her feet under her. “Tell me about yourself. If we’re going to spend so much time together, we must get acquainted.”
“I studied English and languages at Amherst.” Serena sat opposite her, nervously twisting her silver pen. “I’m fluent in French and Italian.”
“Chelsea mentioned that you lived in Paris,” Yvette replied.
“My father was the consul general,” Serena said, and nodded. “Charles Woods.”
“Of course!” Yvette exclaimed. “Your parents held the most intimate salons full of Paris’s most interesting people. Your mother looked like a movie star; I convinced her to be in Vogue once, talking about being an American in Paris.”
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“She still has the clipping,” Serena replied, wishing they could turn the conversation onto Yvette.
“What a small world.” Yvette smiled like a cat. “I think we’ll get along very well. Shall I pour us both a cup of vanilla tea and I’ll tell you a story?”
“That would be great!” Serena’s shoulders relaxed, feeling like she had passed a test. She scribbled some words on her notepad and looked up at Yvette. “Did you always want to work in fashion?”
Yvette poured two cups of tea and added rounded spoonfuls of honey. She furrowed her brow and the lines around her mouth became pronounced. “Goodness, I don’t want to talk about fashion, I want to tell you about Bertrand.”
* * *
“I met Bertrand at this very hotel,” Yvette began. “I was younger than you, it was my first assignment. Bertrand was France’s literary lion.”
“He had already won the Prix Goncourt,” Serena said, consulting her notes. “It must have been so intimidating to be in his presence. What was he like?”
“He was thirty and gorgeous,” Yvette sighed. “Sharp dark eyes, a firm chin, like a young Marlon Brando. He was promoting his first novel, The Gigolo. It was about a male gigolo who saved his wealthy client from an abusive husband. The critics hailed him as a rapturous new voice, but it was the women who really loved him. Every female reader in France imagined him saving her from a life of boredom.” Yvette paused, her eyes misting over as if she were drifting back in time.…
* * *
“You look very young to be a senior editor at Vogue,” Bertrand said. He wore a white singlet and khakis and a silver chain around his neck. He smoked one cigarette after another, grinding them into a glass ashtray.
“I’m Irene’s secretary,” Yvette admitted. “She got food poisoning at lunch.”
“Have you ever interviewed an author before?” Bertrand asked, smiling mischievously. “We can be very demanding. For instance, we can’t start until you join me in a glass of chardonnay.”
“I don’t drink wine in the afternoon,” Yvette replied. She was so nervous, she kept twisting her pen.
“Of course you do, you’re a journalist.” Bertrand poured two glasses of white wine. “Now tell me, what are your goals? Do you plan on running Vogue, or are you going to write the great French novel?”
