French Coast

by Anita Hughes

  “I’m engaged,” Yvette murmured. “My fiancé’s family owns a bank in Paris.”

  “So you are going to make babies and get fat.” Bertrand looked at her closely. “That will be a waste of a great beauty.”

  “I want to be a mother,” Yvette replied indignantly. “I love children.”

  Bertrand paced around the room, his hands in his pockets. “You are right, having children is the only way to gain immortality. We writers try, but it is only our words that will live on. We will become dust in a graveyard. How old are you, twenty-one? Twenty-two? You are too young to devote your life to children. And I bet this fiancé doesn’t appreciate you; does he know how to make you come?”

  Yvette blushed so deeply she almost fainted in her chair. Bertrand walked over and cupped her chin with his hand.

  “I have embarrassed you,” he said. “We will talk about something else: art, music, literature.”

  “I’m here to interview you,” Yvette replied, breaking away from his touch.

  “Ah, the newspapers and magazines, they make up what they want to hear,” Bertrand said, and shrugged. “That I have a mistress in every town, that I was beaten as a child. They don’t want to know the real Bertrand Roland; I’d much rather learn about you.”

  Yvette heard a knock at the door. Bertrand’s publicist poked her head in and tapped her finger on her watch.

  “I have to interview you,” Yvette said, frowning. “Or I’ll be fired.”

  Bertrand waited till his publicist left, then walked over to the table. He picked up a Polaroid camera and handed it to Yvette. “We’ll give them what they want.”

  He stubbed out his cigarette and stripped off his singlet. He unzipped his slacks and folded them on a chair. He looked at Yvette, grinning like a schoolboy. Then he took off his underwear and his socks.

  “Take a picture, you’ll sell more copies than in the history of Vogue.”

  “I can’t do that,” Yvette stammered, closing her eyes.

  “This morning you were a secretary, now you are a journalist,” he replied. “Take the photo.”

  * * *

  Serena stood on the balcony, gazing at the glittering coastline. It was late afternoon and beach attendants closed up umbrellas and stacked deck chairs. Women in metallic bikinis slipped on silk caftans and gold sandals and collected their paperback books and suntan lotion. Serena watched couples strolling along the Boulevard de la Croisette already dressed for the evening. They ran down the dock and climbed onto sleek yachts and wide catamarans.

  Serena walked back inside, breathing in the scent of dahlias and camellias. The omelets and fresh fruit on the sideboard had been replaced by platters of salmon, bowls of gazpacho, wedges of Brie, and plates of fruit tarts and custards.

  Zoe hadn’t returned from her afternoon excursion and Serena had the suite to herself. She filled a plate with crusty garlic rolls and plump green olives and settled on a gold velvet armchair. She flipped through her notepad, scribbling notes in the margins.

  “I spent the whole afternoon yesterday figuring out who I should fire for messing up your hotel reservation,” Chelsea said when Serena answered her cell phone. “I called every hotel from Cannes to Nice, but no one has a room. I even pretended to be Valentino’s personal assistant, and the Hôtel du Cap-Eden-Roc informed me that Mr. Valentino knows everything is booked up, and surely one of his admirers has space on their yacht.”

  “I met a woman in the lobby yesterday,” Serena replied. “She let me stay in the guest bedroom in her suite.”

  “That’s wonderful news!” Chelsea exclaimed. “Did you meet Yvette?”

  “She’s the most elegant woman I’ve ever seen.” Serena nodded. “Like Katharine Hepburn and Lauren Bacall with a touch of Audrey Hepburn. She wore a leotard and tights but she looked dressed for the opera.”

  “She could as easily have graced the cover of Vogue as been the editor in chief.” Chelsea sighed like a starstruck schoolgirl. “Tell me about the interview, I want to hear every word.”

  Serena clutched the notepad to her chest, feeling suddenly protective. She remembered Yvette’s description of Bertrand and the way her eyes clouded over when she talked about him. “We really just got to know each other,” Serena said evasively. “We’re meeting again tomorrow.”

  “The whole industry is abuzz; Harper’s Bazaar and W are green with envy. I hope it’s juicy,” Chelsea replied. “There’s nothing like a scandal to sell magazines.”

  “I can’t stay in this suite,” Serena said, frowning. “I hardly know Zoe, and it must cost a fortune.”

  “You have to stay there,” Chelsea insisted. “It’s the only available lodging in the Côte d’Azur. Take your roommate out for a gourmet dinner and put it on the expense account. You’re saving the magazine a fortune and you’re going to get the story of the year.”

  * * *

  Serena put her notepad on the glass coffee table and walked over to the sideboard. She poured a cup of almond tea, thinking about Yvette. She couldn’t wait to sit down with her again and learn more about Bertrand. She pictured Yvette as a young journalist, her silver hair dark and glossy, her papery skin smooth and shiny. She wondered if they did have an affair, if Yvette stripped off her clothes and they made love in his hotel suite.

  “You look a million miles away,” said Zoe as she entered the room. She wore a yellow tube top and pink miniskirt. She had a red gash on her knee and a purple bruise forming on her thigh.

  “Why are you staring?” Zoe asked. “I knew I shouldn’t have bought this outfit. I don’t have the legs for miniskirts, and yellow makes my skin look washed-out.”

  “The clothes are fine,” Serena replied. “How did you get the cut and bruises?”

  “I’ve had the worst afternoon.” Zoe threw her bag on the Aubusson rug and sank into the love seat. “I forgot to put suntan lotion on my neck and got a terrible burn. I almost ran into a group of Japanese tourists on my bicycle and crashed into a wall. Then I let the salesgirl talk me into an outfit that belongs on a prostitute when I really wanted the Lilly Pulitzer belted shirtdress.”

  “It’s a lovely outfit for daytime,” Serena said, twisting her ponytail. “Perfect for the beach.”

  “I don’t want to buy clothes for the beach!” Zoe’s voice rose and her eyes filled with tears. “I want to dress to eat in elegant restaurants and go to the theater. I want to walk down the street and hear people whisper, ‘She has style.’”

  “Why don’t you shower,” Serena replied, afraid that Zoe would dissolve into tears. “I’ll lend you a dress and we’ll go to the Carlton Restaurant and order chilled prawns and French champagne. My boss insisted I buy you a five-course dinner. Tomorrow we’ll go shopping and buy you a wardrobe to rival Victoria Beckham.”

  “That sounds lovely.” Zoe wiped her eyes. She stood up, adjusting her tube top and tugging at her miniskirt. “But I can’t eat five courses or I’ll never fit into anything in the boutiques. In France clothes only come in one size: zero.”

  * * *

  Serena followed the maître d’ to a round table next to the floor-to-ceiling windows. The floors were polished marble and the walls were covered in ivory satin. Serena watched waiters in white tuxedos cross the room carrying platters of oysters and baskets of olive bread.

  Serena wore a green silk dress and gold sandals. Her hair was piled into a knot and secured with a gold chopstick. She gazed outside at the yellow-and-white awnings and the twinkling lights and felt almost giddy. She was in Cannes, writing a story about one of the most iconic figures in fashion.

  “You haven’t mentioned that rock on your finger,” Zoe said when the waiter had left them with two embossed leather menus.

  “I got engaged last week,” Serena said, and blushed, gazing at the square diamond glittering under the crystal chandelier. She slid her phone out of her purse and flipped to a photo of Chase wearing a crisp yellow shirt and smiling into the camera.

  “I wouldn’t dash off to Cannes if I
was engaged to him,” Zoe said, and whistled.

  “Chase is very supportive of my career.” Serena slipped the phone back in her purse. She flashed on Chase picking her up to go to the airport, the delicious afternoon sex in her apartment, and a warmth spread through her chest.

  “I’d like a stream of sexy boyfriends,” Zoe said, her eyes suddenly clouding over. “Marriage seems so complicated.”

  Serena ordered a Rothschild Cabernet and a half dozen oysters. They talked about Serena’s job at Vogue and the incredible beauty of the Riviera.

  “I could stay here forever.” Zoe sighed, tearing apart a baguette. She wore a navy Stella McCartney dress that accentuated her full breasts and small waist. Her bangs covered her eyebrows and her lashes were coated with thick mascara. “The ocean is as warm as a bath and every night the maids leave Belgian chocolates on my pillow.”

  “Can I ask a personal question?” Serena asked, then hesitated. “How does a twenty-five-year-old girl afford a suite at the Carlton-InterContinental? It must cost more than some precious jewels.”

  “Should we start with the tomato gazpacho with buffalo mozzarella or the semicooked duck foie gras? They make it with the most delicious cherry juice and a dash of cream.” Zoe studied the menu as if it were a math exam.

  “I didn’t mean to snoop, but the shirts in your closet have someone else’s initials,” Serena persisted.

  Zoe bit her lip as if she couldn’t decide what to order. Finally she placed the menu on the linen tablecloth and sighed. “My name is Claudia Zoe Gladding, I’m Malcolm Gladding’s daughter.”

  Serena frowned, trying to remember why that name sounded familiar. She pictured the latest issue of Time magazine and the silver-haired man on the cover. He wore a midnight-blue silk blazer with a yellow handkerchief in his pocket. He stood on the steps of the Sydney Opera House, surrounded by long-legged models.

  “The head of Gladding House and the eighth-richest man in Australia?” Serena gaped. “I thought you were British.”

  “I was sent to boarding school in England when I was twelve,” Zoe corrected. “My father owns the largest fashion empire in Australia.”

  Serena frowned. “Why the fake name?”

  “My father is retiring and he wants me take over Gladding House.” Zoe pierced an oyster with her fork. “My mother is on every best-dressed list in Australia and my father dresses like he’s going to dinner with the prime minister. I’m good at business but I can’t put an outfit together. How am I going to be the face of Gladding House if I look like a waitress in a fast-food restaurant?”

  “I still don’t understand,” Serena replied. “What’s wrong with being Claudia Gladding?”

  “The first night at the bar I watched women wearing Courrèges slacks and heart-shaped Chopard watches. I wanted to be that woman—the one who glides effortlessly through a room turning heads and leaving a trail of expensive perfume. I thought the best way was to start from scratch, so I became Zoe Pistachio.”

  “That’s no reason to lie,” Serena said, shaking her head.

  “My mother and father are always in The Sydney Morning Herald, smiling into the camera like movie stars. I wanted the chance to make myself over without it being on page three of the Daily Mirror. Haven’t you ever wanted to make your parents proud of you?”

  “You’re a grown woman,” Serena said, and shrugged. “I’m sure your parents don’t care if you wear the wrong color blouse.”

  “My father runs a clothing empire, fashion is his religion.” Zoe fiddled with her wineglass. “I’m like the child who failed catechism class.”

  “What does your father say about you being in Cannes?” Serena asked.

  “He doesn’t know I’m here,” Zoe replied. “That’s why I need your help; you have to turn the ugly duckling into a swan.”

  * * *

  Serena sat in bed, scribbling interview notes on her notepad. Dinner had been delicious. Serena selected the Mediterranean sea bass fillets and Zoe had the organic lamb cutlets and they shared a classic chocolate fondue for dessert. After dinner they sipped amaretto and cream at the Carlton Bar, listening to the pianist and watching movie stars enter the revolving glass doors.

  Serena put the notepad on the bedside table and turned off the light. She longed to talk to Chase, but he was probably in a meeting. She thought about her plans for tomorrow: an early-morning run on the beach, shopping with Zoe, and the afternoon spent with Yvette in the Sophia Loren Suite.

  The hotel phone rang and she debated answering it. Zoe had gone to the gift shop to stock up on copies of Hello! and Paris Match. It rang again and Serena picked up the receiver. Perhaps it was Yvette, rescheduling their meeting, or Chase, anxious to hear her voice.

  A male voice came on the line. “Mademoiselle Pistachio, this is Daniel at the concierge.”

  “Zoe isn’t in at the moment,” Serena replied.

  “Could you please inform Mademoiselle Pistachio her missing suitcase has been located. It was put on the original flight she booked to Milan. It has been rerouted to Nice airport and will arrive at the Carlton-InterContinental in the morning. The airline apologizes for the confusion.”

  Serena hung up and leaned back against the pillows. Zoe never mentioned she had bought a ticket to Milan. Serena flashed on Milan’s runway shows and cutting-edge designs. If Zoe was really interested in fashion she would have kept her reservation instead of coming to Cannes. Cannes was spectacular, but Milan was the center of the fashion world. There had to be another reason why Zoe was in Cannes. Serena slid under the covers, certain Zoe was still hiding something.

  chapter four

  Serena walked along the promenade, past the shuttered boutiques and cafés. She had run the whole length of the Boulevard de la Croisette, inhaling the sultry morning air. The beach was empty except for a few seagulls and fishermen pushing their boats out to sea. Serena watched the sun inch up the sky and the sea turn from pale gray to a royal blue.

  She and Chase used to run together every morning. They loved jogging along the Embarcadero, watching the ferries crisscross the bay. Serena missed his wide smile, the way he wrapped his arm around her waist and kissed her on the mouth before they parted.

  Serena’s phone rang and she slipped it out of her pocket.

  “I’m standing in the most beautiful spot on the Côte d’Azur, thinking about you,” Serena said when Chase’s name scrolled across the screen.

  “I miss you so much; I saw the most stunning roses at Podesta Baldocchi and I have no one to give them to.” Chase’s voice was tight. “I tried calling you last night; I couldn’t sleep. I woke up at five A.M. and jogged to the top of Potrero Hill.”

  “Is something wrong?” Serena asked.

  “I’m not sure,” Chase said slowly. “It’s about your father.”

  “My father,” Serena said, clutching the railing. Charles had had a minor heart attack during his last term as senator. Since he retired he exercised every day and ate lean meats and fresh fruits and vegetables.

  “My friend Cory called me,” Chase continued. “He works at the Chronicle. He received an anonymous letter saying that your father had a secret second family. He promised he called me first; he hasn’t shown it to anyone.”

  Serena tried to focus, but the Mediterranean became a blur and the yachts sparkled like shining daggers. She sucked in air, feeling it fill her lungs like a hot air balloon.

  “Women used to write my father letters all the time when he was in Congress,” Serena said, trying to keep her voice steady. “They wanted money or their fifteen minutes of fame.”

  “The letter was postmarked from France. Apparently the sender accused your father of keeping a mistress and two children while he was consul general in Paris,” Chase continued. “If he doesn’t acknowledge them, she’ll write to every newspaper in the country.”

  “That’s ridiculous!” Serena exclaimed. “We lived in Paris fifteen years ago. Have you seen the letter?”

  “I’m going to Cory
’s office.” Chase’s voice was flat. “I’ll read it myself.”

  “It’s probably written on some old typewriter with all the Ps missing,” Serena said lightly. “With instructions on where to leave a stack of unmarked hundred-dollar bills.”

  “Try not to worry, I’m sure it’s nothing,” Chase agreed. “But we should hold off announcing our engagement until I get to the bottom of it.”

  “What did you say?” Serena demanded.

  “I’m about to announce my candidacy,” Chase continued. “I can’t have a breath of scandal.”

  “My mother is sending out the invitations to the engagement party,” Serena replied. “She booked Harry Denton’s Orchestra and McCalls Catering.”

  “We’ll have the engagement party when this blows over,” Chase said soothingly. “We need to keep it under wraps for now. Your parents will understand, they were in politics for thirty years.”

  Serena felt an icy chill fill her veins. “They might understand, but I don’t.”

  “We don’t want to call attention to us and embarrass your family,” Chase replied. “I’m doing this for us. Trust me; I’ll take care of it.”

  Serena hung up and watched the seagulls peck at the sand. She wished she were in San Francisco, eating breakfast with Chase at Betelnut. She pictured fluffy egg-white omelets and strong black coffee. She and Chase would drive up to her parents’ house and they would all laugh about the letter.

  When Charles was young he was very handsome, with Serena’s blond hair and bright green eyes. He often received fan mail from women who’d seen his picture in the paper. Sometimes he was photographed hugging striking actresses or models at political fund-raisers.

  But Charles was devoted to his wife. Serena couldn’t count the number of times she’d heard the story of how they met. They were both students at UC Berkeley in the 1970s. Charles was sitting in a tree protesting nuclear power, and Kate was lying on the grass reading a copy of Fear of Flying.