French Coast

by Anita Hughes

  Yvette saw Bertrand again a week later at the Marché Provençal. It was late morning and she had come with Lilly to buy cut flowers and fresh fruit. Bertrand was standing at a stall, talking to the woman who sold peaches. He walked over to Yvette and inhaled the lilacs and dahlias.

  “So this is the infant who made your stomach into a watermelon?”

  Yvette glanced at Lilly, whose mouth was full of raspberries. She had dark curly hair and blue eyes like Henri. She wore a pink cotton sundress and sandals with white bows.

  “Lilly is almost two,” Yvette replied. “You weren’t here last summer.”

  “I was in Hollywood.” Bertrand took out his gold cigarette case. “The movie business moves like a glacier. But they give you a mansion and fill it with fine wines and thick steaks and beautiful women. By the time they’ve ruined your book so you recognize nothing but your name in the credits, you’re in a stupor.”

  Yvette took Lilly’s hand and moved to the next booth. The sun was hot and she felt like she might faint. “Are you working on a new book?”

  “I’m resting on my laurels.” Bertrand blew smoke rings. He wore khakis and a white T-shirt and a straw hat with a black ribbon. “La Femme spent sixteen weeks on the New York Times bestseller list. I should thank you for the translation, but I had to endure receptions in Los Angeles and New York. I even got invited to the White House. The men in Washington dress like penguins and the women resemble horses.”

  “I’m glad you won’t need my help this summer,” Yvette said as she inspected an orange. “I’m busy with the children; Lilly runs me around in circles.”

  “Is Henri in London, buying banks?”

  Yvette’s cheeks flushed and she bit her lip. “Henri is in Paris; he will be here on the weekend.”

  * * *

  By the time Yvette walked home from the market, she had a terrible headache. Her skin was hot and her throat was dry. She turned Lilly over to Françoise and went to bed.

  She stayed in her room for a week, reading D. H. Lawrence and Nabokov. She pictured Bertrand’s slick black hair and dark eyes and her body quivered. She wanted him to caress her cheeks, to kiss her lips, to crush her against his chest.

  On the eighth day she woke up and her skin felt cool. She glanced in the mirror and her hair was glossy and her eyes sparkled. She slipped on a cotton dress and sandals and ran downstairs to breakfast.

  She didn’t think about Bertrand until an invitation arrived to a party at Peter Fonda’s villa. She knew Henri would be angry if she declined. She put the invitation in Henri’s pile of mail and forgot it.

  The night of the party, Henri called to say he was delayed in Paris. Yvette glanced at the black Chanel strapless gown and red Ferragamos in her closet. She gazed at the diamond bracelet Henri had given her for their anniversary. She slipped on the dress, teased her hair, sprayed her wrists with Dior, and ran down the oak staircase.

  * * *

  She entered the villa and smelled a mix of perfume and cigarettes. The living room had high ceilings and cherry floors covered by floral rugs. A large abstract painting took up one wall and potted palm trees framed the window.

  Yvette saw Bertrand standing next to the painting. He wore tan slacks and a white cotton shirt with a leather belt. He held a martini and talked to a blonde with full breasts and a wide pink mouth.

  “Suzy and I were discussing the painting,” Bertrand said when Yvette approached. “Suzy admires the artist’s use of colors, but I think it’s bullshit. Any child can splash paint on a canvas.”

  Yvette drained her glass of cognac. “I need to talk to you.”

  Bertrand raised his eyebrow and bowed to the blonde. “Excuse us, we have business to attend to. Where is Henri?” he asked when they stepped outside into the courtyard.

  “He was delayed in Paris.” Yvette suddenly wanted to slip off her heels and run home. She turned to Bertrand and took a deep breath. “I want you to kiss me.”

  “What would Henri say?”

  “Henri has a mistress on the Rue de la Paix,” Yvette replied. “He sees her every Tuesday and Thursday and five days a week during the summer.”

  Bertrand lit a cigarette and blew slow smoke rings. He paced around the courtyard and turned to Yvette.

  “Am I like a pinup in your bedroom—and now that your husband has a woman it is all right to kiss me?” Bertrand stubbed out the cigarette and marched back into the villa. “If you want revenge, go find a pool boy.”

  * * *

  The next morning Yvette was reading in the breakfast room when she heard someone knocking. She walked to the entry and opened the front door.

  “Wait for me tomorrow at the end of the lane,” Bertrand told her as he swept inside. His dark hair was slicked back and his cheeks glistened with aftershave. “I will meet you at one o’clock.”

  Yvette changed three times before she selected an outfit. She settled on a black lace dress with a wide black hat and black-and-white Gucci pumps. She waited until Françoise took the children to the beach, Lilly bouncing along in her wagon. Then she hurried down the gravel path to the corner.

  “You look like you’re going to a fucking garden party,” Bertrand said, jumping out of a green MG and opening Yvette’s door.

  “You have a car,” Yvette said as she slid onto the leather upholstery.

  “Everyone in Hollywood drives.” Bertrand shrugged. “It suits me. When I’m bored at a party I can make a quick getaway.”

  “Where are we going?” Yvette asked.

  “If you talk, I’ll change my mind. Be quiet until we get there.”

  * * *

  “The Hôtel du Cap-Eden-Roc?” Yvette raised her eyebrow as Bertrand pulled down the long drive flanked by stately trees.

  The hotel rose before them like a castle. It had a gray slate roof and French windows with thick silk drapes. The courtyard was filled with Bentleys and Rolls-Royces and brightly colored convertibles.

  “The staff are good at keeping secrets,” Bertrand said, and gave his key to the valet. “Did you know Prince Edward and Wallis Simpson stayed here after their marriage? Chagall comes every August and never signs a check. He doesn’t want anyone to sell his autograph.”

  Yvette followed Bertrand into the lobby with its Persian rugs and Louis XVI chairs. Glittering chandeliers hung from the ceiling and side tables were filled with crystal vases and Lladró statues.

  “You can afford this?” Yvette whispered as they approached the gold-inlaid reception desk.

  “I could wallpaper the walls with hundred-dollar bills,” Bertrand hissed. “In Hollywood they pay you like a gigolo.”

  * * *

  They entered a suite with glorious views of the bay. The living room had creamy marble floors and burgundy sofas. The bedroom had a four-poster bed covered with a red silk bedspread and a signed Monet on the wall.

  “Oh,” Yvette murmured, admiring the bedside table piled with books, the Tiffany lamps, the silk robes laid out on the bed.

  “Did you think I would seduce you in some cold courtyard or against the sink in a guest bathroom?” Bertrand placed his hat on the antique desk. His eyes softened and he took Yvette’s hand. “I’ve waited ten years; it is time to teach you about love.”

  Bertrand placed the Louis XVI desk chair in the middle of the room. “Take off your clothes and sit down.”

  “Why?” Yvette asked.

  “How can I know how to touch you if I don’t study every inch of your body?”

  He started by sucking her toes, glancing up to watch her face. When he saw that she was on the brink, he stood up and inserted his fingers inside her. She cried out but he put his other hand in her mouth, letting her bite down on his thumb. She felt the long waves fold in on themselves, carrying her body like a current.

  He laid her on the bed and she expected him to enter her quickly, like Henri, breathing hard and collapsing against her chest. But he took his time, touching her, kissing her, stroking her breasts. He made her hold his long, hard leng
th, and then finally he lowered himself inside her and came with the force of a typhoon.

  Yvette got up and drank a glass of water. She stood by the window, picturing Lilly’s round cheeks, Pierre’s serious blue eyes, Camille’s pout. Then she crossed the room and lay on the bed. She closed her eyes and put Bertrand’s hand between her legs.

  chapter sixteen

  Serena sat at the wicker table on the balcony, gazing down at the Boulevard de la Croisette. It was early morning and couples clutched folded newspapers and bags of croissants. Serena watched salesgirls unlock boutiques and fill the windows with metallic sandals and silk scarves.

  Zoe and Malcolm had gone on a day trip to Monaco and asked Serena to join them. But she wanted to finish the piece on Malcolm and send it to Chelsea. She pictured Chelsea’s expression when she received an exclusive feature about Malcolm Gladding and felt a small surge of excitement.

  The hotel phone rang and she ran inside to answer it. Every few hours she’d been checking her phone or calling reception, asking if she had any messages. She kept waiting to hear her father’s voice, hoping that somehow he could explain the photo.

  “Getting hold of you is harder than storming the Bastille; reception wouldn’t connect me until I told them I was your doctor.”

  “You’re not my doctor,” Serena laughed, twisting her ponytail.

  “I did provide necessary first aid,” Nick said. “I was wondering if you’d like to have dinner.”

  “I’m working on two deadlines.” Serena shook her head.

  “You have to eat,” Nick persisted. “We’ll go to Vesuvio and order caprese salad and salmon pizza.”

  “It’s tempting,” Serena said, smiling. “But room service fills the sideboard with grilled trout and seafood linguine.”

  “Then I’ll join you,” Nick replied. “I have to check on your knee; a good doctor makes a follow-up visit.”

  Serena hesitated, flashing on Nick’s wavy dark hair and blue eyes. “Come at eight P.M., I’ve gotten used to eating late.”

  * * *

  Serena stood in front of her closet, choosing between a teal Lanvin dress and a strapless silk Pucci. She finally selected the Lanvin and paired it with diamond earrings and low white sandals. She slipped her hair into a knot and added lipgloss and mascara.

  “You’re recovering nicely,” Nick said when she opened the door.

  He wore a yellow sports shirt and navy slacks and carried a pink cake box.

  “The chocolate torte is from Isabel,” Nick said as he handed it to her. “She said no one makes better torte than Maurice, not even the pastry chefs at the Carlton-InterContinental.”

  Serena put the cake box on the sideboard and filled two plates with truffle risotto, grilled sole, and Japanese eggplant. She placed them on the linen tablecloth and added a basket of warm baguettes and a pot of herb butter.

  Nick sat across from her and they talked about Serena’s years in Paris and Nick’s boarding school in Connecticut.

  “After school I’d stroll down the Rue Saint-Honoré and memorize the clothes in Celine and Dior and Yves Saint Laurent,” Serena said, scooping up sautéed baby peas. “I wrote articles for the school newspaper on the latest collections.”

  “I built a boat and raced it in the school regatta,” Nick told her as he sipped a glass of French chardonnay. “I came in last but I was hooked for life. I’ve sailed through the Strait of Gibraltar and around Cape Horn and across the Tasman Sea.”

  “Why did you stop racing?” Serena asked.

  “The catamarans built for the America’s Cup are as tall as skyscrapers with sails as wide as tennis courts. It was the second week of practice and we capsized in the San Francisco Bay. I was under for six minutes.” Nick gripped his wineglass. “When I reached the surface, I thought my lungs would explode. My teammate was trapped for ten minutes.”

  “What happened?”

  Nick’s eyes dimmed and his jaw clenched. “He died.”

  “So you quit?” Serena raised her eyebrow.

  “I kept going out with the team, but I knew my luck had run out. Other sailors can smell fear; I had to quit to protect them.”

  “What are you going to do now?” Serena asked.

  “Fix up boats, sell them, and buy bigger boats,” Nick said, and shrugged. “Maybe I’ll lead tours around the harbor.”

  “Don’t you miss racing?” Serena ate the last bite of risotto.

  “Sometimes you lose the thing that is most important to you,” Nick said slowly, putting his fork on his plate. “But something new comes along that’s better than you could have imagined.”

  * * *

  Nick poured two glasses of cognac and they stepped onto the balcony. Serena gazed at the yachts blinking in the harbor and felt a warm glow, like a candle trying to ignite.

  “It’s so beautiful.” She smiled. “It’s like being inside a jewelry case.”

  “When I sailed at night, I’d look up at the sky and think it was studded with diamonds,” Nick murmured.

  He put his arm around her waist and pulled her toward him. He kissed her on the mouth, putting one hand under her chin.

  Serena tasted chocolate and wine and butter. She smelled musk aftershave and shampoo. She felt his hand move toward her breasts. His fingers brushed the sheer fabric over her nipples and suddenly she froze.

  She pictured Chase’s blond hair and yellow Georgetown T-shirt. She remembered how he knew exactly where to touch her. She saw his slow smile when her body reached and shuddered.

  Serena pushed Nick away and walked inside. She sat huddled on the sofa as if she’d survived a storm.

  “This isn’t the right time,” Serena said when Nick followed her.

  Nick looked at her as if he was about to say something. He walked to the sideboard and cut two slices of chocolate torte. He handed Serena a plate and grinned.

  “It’s always time for cake.”

  * * *

  Serena woke up and slipped on a navy jumpsuit. She brushed her hair into a ponytail and tied it with a white ribbon.

  “Whoever said grapefruit tastes better with sugar is mistaken,” Zoe said when Serena entered the living room.

  Zoe sat at the glass dining-room table, stabbing a grapefruit with a spoon. She wore a white linen dress and Gucci flats. “Room service left the most delicious chocolate torte; I ruined my diet for a week.”

  “Nick came for dinner, he brought the cake.”

  “Nick had dinner in the suite?” Zoe raised her eyebrow.

  “He’s bright and warm and funny,” Serena told Zoe as she poured a cup of coffee. “But then he kissed me and all I could see was Chase. It was like playing spin the bottle and ending up with the wrong guy in the closet.”

  “He doesn’t have to run for mayor and wear a Brioni suit to be the right guy,” Zoe said. She pushed away the grapefruit.

  “I don’t have time for men!” Serena exclaimed. “I have to save your parents’ marriage and finish Yvette’s memoir so Chelsea doesn’t put me on the next flight to San Francisco.”

  “Yesterday we saw the Prince’s Palace and the Museum of Napoleonic Souvenirs and ate crepes at Café de Paris.” Zoe sighed. “Today my father wants to visit the medieval fortress at Saint-Paul de Vence and the flower market in Nice. He’s like a race car zooming around a track. He can’t stay still and he’s terrified of being alone.”

  “At least you know where your father is,” Serena said, adding cream and sugar. “I haven’t heard from my parents in days. I keep expecting my father to call and say it was all a mistake.”

  “We’re the ones who are supposed to be falling in love with the wrong men and making our parents frantic,” Zoe said as she tore apart an almond croissant.

  “Maybe we’re part of the wrong generation.” Serena sipped her coffee. “We should have been young in the sixties.”

  “I could never be as thin as Twiggy.” Zoe shook her head. “And the hairstyles were awful.”

  * * *

  Ser
ena closed her laptop and dialed Chelsea’s number.

  “Thank God you called,” Chelsea’s voice came on the line. “Givenchy is threatening to pull their ad unless they see some copy.”

  “I haven’t finished Yvette’s piece yet,” Serena replied. “Remember when you said to keep my eye out for Malcolm Gladding? How would you like an exclusive?”

  “An exclusive what?” Chelsea asked. “The inside scoop on his winter collection isn’t going to sell full-page ads.”

  “An apology to his wife for not listening to her after their daughter’s kidnapping, for running around Cannes with another woman,” Serena continued.

  “Sir Malcolm Gladding admitting he was wrong?” Chelsea’s voice was low.

  “Twelve hundred words in black and white.” Serena nodded. “He’s desperate to win her back.”

  “When can I have it?”

  “I just sent it.” Serena’s shoulders relaxed.

  “This will keep Harry Ames off my back.” Chelsea paused and her voice was soft. “Why didn’t you tell me about Chase?”

  “Tell you what about Chase?” Serena gripped the phone.

  “I saw him at Boulevard with Ashley Pearson,” Chelsea said. “They were sitting next to each other in a booth.”

  “Ashley Pearson?” Serena pictured the petite brunette whose great-great-grandfather founded one of San Francisco’s first banks.

  “They were sharing calamari with lobster stuffing, and they weren’t discussing finance.”

  Serena hung up and sat on a gold velvet armchair. She imagined Chase at city hall, being sworn in as mayor. She saw Ashley in a cashmere dress and pearls, waving at the crowd.

  Serena walked to the dining-room table and opened her laptop. She poured a fresh cup of coffee and started typing.

  chapter seventeen

  Serena closed her laptop and walked onto the balcony. She had been working all day and suddenly she was starving. She wanted to put on a pretty dress and go to a restaurant. She flashed on the fish soup at Le Maurice, the savory smell of herbs and butter and the cozy, intimate tables.

  She thought about calling Nick and asking if he wanted to join her for dinner. She pictured his long legs, his wavy hair and easy smile. Then she remembered his mouth pressed against hers, his hands fumbling with her dress. She was going home in two weeks and she didn’t want to start a relationship. She’d put on her new Celine tunic dress and eat a plate of seafood pasta by herself.