by Anita Hughes
“I’m here to interview you.” Yvette sat across from Bertrand on a spindly antique chair. She smelled the blend of cologne and cigarettes and her heart beat faster in her chest.
“You know how I feel about journalists.” Bertrand shrugged. “You’ll print whatever you like: Prix Goncourt winner abandons serious literature to become a Hollywood hack. Tell me about your life; does Lilly still like ice cream?”
Yvette glanced at Bertrand and for a moment she saw them in the room above the ice cream shop in Juan-les-Pins. She pictured Bertrand kissing her breasts, inserting his fingers inside her, filling her with the most exquisite pleasure.
“Lilly is fourteen, she spends all her time on the telephone,” Yvette snapped.
“And Henri, how does he feel about his wife being one of the most revered women in France? Does it make his penis very small?”
“That summer in Antibes I took intimate photos of Henri and the actress.” Yvette twisted the diamond bird’s egg on her finger. “It turns out I was not the only one to capture her without her clothes on. The next year a blue movie surfaced. Suzy claimed she thought it was an art film, but Lush Meadows became an instant sensation. I told Henri if he didn’t let me go back to work, I’d make my photos public. It wouldn’t have made his clients happy that he was romancing a porn star.”
“Why didn’t you divorce him?” Bertrand asked.
“What would be the point?” Yvette looked past Bertrand to the Paris skyline. She saw the Eiffel Tower and the Tuileries Garden. “We have separate bedrooms; perhaps when Lilly graduates I’ll get my own apartment.”
“You should have cut off his balls and made them into a necklace,” Bertrand said as he stubbed out his cigarette. “He never deserved you.”
Yvette poured tea into a Limoges porcelain cup. She sipped it slowly, trying to keep her voice steady. “Tell me about Hollywood; does everyone drive a convertible?”
“I live in a mansion with a swimming pool shaped like an interior organ,” Bertrand said as he poured a shot of vodka from a crystal decanter. “I have a fourteen-car garage and my own tennis court. I spend my days trying to stop pimply-faced directors from ruining my lines.” Bertrand swallowed the vodka. “But they pay me like an Arabian sheik.”
“I’m glad you’re happy,” Yvette said quietly.
“Remember when I told you men get rich so they can fuck beautiful women?” Bertrand lit another cigarette. His eyes were dark and there were deep lines on his forehead. “I have everything I asked for.”
Suddenly Yvette couldn’t hold it in any longer. She slammed her teacup on the saucer and jumped up. “Why did you screw that actress? I would have left Henri for you!”
Bertrand walked over to his leather briefcase and removed a magazine. He opened it and handed it to Yvette.
“Do you remember when we met?” Bertrand asked. “I was staying at the Carlton-InterContinental in Cannes and you were a secretary. Your boss got food poisoning and you were sent to interview France’s most notorious writer.”
“Of course I remember.” Yvette blushed, picturing Bertrand stripping off his clothes and insisting she take his photo.
She glanced at the magazine and saw her byline at the top of the page. She quickly skimmed the story about the great success of The Gigolo and Bertrand’s plans for a follow-up novel. She remembered Bertrand looking like a young Marlon Brando and being so nervous she leaked ink on her skirt.
“I asked you what you wanted to do and you said you wanted to be a mother,” Bertrand continued. “If you left Henri he would have found a way to keep the children. I couldn’t make you lose the one thing you always wanted.”
“I loved you; you broke my heart.”
“Everyone recovers from love affairs.” Bertrand shrugged. “I took your advice, I decided to have children.”
“You have a family?” Yvette started.
“I’m married. Jenny is a television actress, quite pretty if you like skinny blondes. We got married on a cliff in Big Sur, all the guests were barefoot. Sadly, it seems I’m sterile, a bout of chicken pox as a child. I told Jenny I’d give her a divorce, but she enjoys being married to a French screenwriter.”
“I’m sorry.” Yvette realized her hands were trembling. She opened her notepad and unscrewed her fountain pen.
“God, what I would give to fuck you right now. Did you know that the president of the United States slept on this bed? Two-thousand-count Egyptian cotton sheets and down pillows so soft it’s like sleeping on a cloud.” Bertrand stood so close she could smell the vodka on his breath.
Yvette sat perfectly still. She wanted Bertrand to pull her up and wrap his arms around her. She wanted him to pick her up and carry her into the bedroom. She wanted to make love until her lips were bruised and her breasts ached and she thought she was drowning.
Bertrand walked to the end table and poured himself another scotch. He swallowed it quickly and sank onto the brocade sofa.
“But I’m married,” he said. He glanced at Yvette and his black eyes sparkled. “And you know I take the marriage vows seriously.”
* * *
“You look beautiful,” Nick said as he kissed Serena on the mouth and handed her a bouquet of yellow roses. He wore a blue blazer over a white shirt and beige slacks. His cheeks were smooth and his dark hair was freshly washed.
Serena twisted her ponytail and fingered her Tiffany necklace. She had tried on three outfits before deciding on a Zac Posen silk dress and silver Manolos. She might be overdressed for dinner on the sand, but she didn’t want to be outclassed by a supermodel wearing straight-off-the-runway Alexander McQueen and Bottega Veneta stilettos.
Serena followed Nick through the revolving glass doors and inhaled the sultry evening air. The Boulevard de la Croisette was filled with couples sitting at outdoor cafés. Serena saw maître d’s passing out menus and waiters carrying trays of brightly colored drinks.
“V said she might be late,” Nick had said as they crossed the avenue. “Rehearsals are dragging on longer than she thought.”
“She’s an actress?” Serena clutched the roses against her chest. Nick still hadn’t told her who was joining them for dinner, and Serena was too nervous to ask.
“V is a dancer, she’s been on tour all summer,” Nick explained. “When they’re home they’re supposed to be on holiday, but the choreographer is a slave driver.”
“Nick!” a female voice called.
Serena looked up and saw a woman with her hair wrapped in a silk scarf. She wore oversize sunglasses and striped leggings. She had a cotton sweater draped over her shoulders and white loafers on her feet.
“There you are,” she exclaimed as she rushed up to Nick and hugged him. “You don’t look a day older, and I have to cover my face with foundation. Ballet is such a cruel world; I’m twenty-seven and I’m over the hill.”
“You look gorgeous.” Nick draped one arm around V’s narrow shoulders. “V, I’d like you to meet Serena.”
V extended her hand and looked curiously at Serena. She had high cheekbones and a slender neck. Her lips were coated with red lipstick and she wore diamond studs in her ears. “You haven’t said a word about her.”
“Nick hasn’t mentioned you either,” Serena stammered.
“Let me guess.” V glanced at Nick, a smile hovering on her lips. “You didn’t tell Serena that your sister is a principal dancer with Les Ballets de Monte Carlo.”
“Nick didn’t say he had a sister,” Serena replied. Suddenly the Mediterranean sparkled and the boats gleamed on the harbor. She watched the sun glide behind the horizon and felt the air escape her lungs.
“Nick thinks if he tells people his sister is a dancer they won’t talk about anything else,” V said, and pretended to pout.
“You’re not just a dancer, you’re one of the most famous ballerinas in Europe. I thought it would be fun to wait until you two met,” Nick said, grinning at V. “You’re quite capable of talking about yourself.”
“I saw yo
u perform at the San Francisco opera house,” Serena gushed. “Your Giselle was breathtaking.”
“You see,” Nick said, rolling his eyes. “You two are going to talk about ballet all night.”
Serena glanced at Nick and felt a warm jolt, like a small earthquake. She grabbed his hand and held it firmly in her palm.
“I promise we’ll talk about other things after I ask V what it’s like to dance under Piers Leon and be the youngest ballerina to ever perform Giselle.”
* * *
They sat at a round table on the sand and ordered cucumber martinis and mussels in a wine sauce. Nick selected lobster linguine with spinach shoots and a platter of sliced melon and San Daniele ham.
“I haven’t smelled butter in so long,” V said as she picked up a fresh bread roll. “When we perform we eat the same meal every night. One baked potato, a piece of grilled chicken, and Jell-O for dessert. Other women fantasize about Leonardo DiCaprio, I dream about profiteroles.”
“You can eat anything you like,” Nick told her as he wrapped a slice of melon in ham. “When we were children you always stole my chocolate cake.”
“Now I have to watch every ounce.” V tore a piece of bread and popped it in her mouth. “If I eat an extra slice of toast I can’t fit into my tutu.”
“I thought the fashion world was difficult,” Serena said, smiling. “I can’t imagine what it’s like to be a dancer.”
“Serena is a features editor for Vogue in San Francisco,” Nick explained. “She’s in Cannes writing a story.”
“You work for Vogue!” V exclaimed. “Has Nick shown you Chantal’s pictures?”
“Who is Chantal?” Serena asked.
“Nick never likes to talk about Chantal.” V shrugged. “I remember when we visited him at prep school, none of Nick’s teachers knew his mother was one of the most beloved models in France.”
“Chantal lives in Antibes.” Nick’s voice was tight. “She’s retired and she’s very private.”
Serena looked at her plate, trying to think of something to say. She glanced at Nick but he was hunched over his plate.
“I see an old friend,” V said as she jumped up. “Excuse me, I’ll be right back.”
“I was going to tell you about Chantal,” Nick said finally.
“You don’t have to tell me anything.” Serena’s voice shook. “We hardly know each other.”
“My mother started modeling after my father died,” Nick began. “She wasn’t tall enough to do runway, but she had the most beautiful features. She became the face of Lancôme and was on the cover of Vogue and Elle. She retired a few years ago, she said women should grow old in private.” Nick’s eyes grew dark and he stared at his plate. “It turned out she didn’t have to worry; she was diagnosed with inoperable cancer.”
“I’m sorry.” Serena froze. Suddenly she felt foolish for being hurt that Nick hadn’t confided in her.
“It’s one of the reasons I came back to Cannes, I didn’t want her to die alone,” Nick continued. “I was trying to find the right time to ask you to meet her.”
“I would love to meet her.” Serena glanced at Nick and her eyes filled with tears. “Your mother was a famous model and your sister is a world-class ballerina. Is there anything else you aren’t telling me?”
Nick wrapped linguine around his fork. He ate spinach shoots and sweet baby tomatoes. He took Serena’s hand and traced a circle around her palm.
“Maybe one thing,” he whispered. “I think I’m falling in love with you.”
Serena kissed him slowly, tasting cucumbers and vodka. She closed her eyes and heard the waves lapping against the shore. She kissed him again and felt her heart hammering in her chest.
* * *
“Cannes never changes.” V sighed, scraping up the last bite of crème brûlée. “I should hang up my point shoes and spend my days playing in the sand.”
“It’s beautiful everywhere you turn.” Serena nodded, gazing at the lights on the Boulevard de la Croisette.
It was almost dark and she could see the coastline from Nice to Monaco. White villas perched on the hillside and pastel-colored apartments lined the narrow streets. She felt Nick’s hand on her thigh and a shiver ran down her spine.
Ever since Nick said he was falling in love with her she had been in a heightened state. The melon tasted sweeter, the martini was stronger, the crème brûlée was impossibly rich and delicious. She listened to Nick and V talk about Cannes and his new sailboat and felt like she had been inducted into a secret society.
“I feel like walking,” V announced after Nick paid the check. “Let’s go to Nick’s apartment and play old CDs. I have a box of nineties music—when I was a girl I wanted to be Madonna.”
“I always knew I wanted to work in fashion.” Serena clasped Nick’s hand. “When we lived in Paris my mother took me to the runway shows.”
“I used to raid my mother’s wardrobe.” V nodded. “She collected the most divine outfits from photo shoots: Lanvin, Givenchy, Valentino.”
* * *
They climbed the three flights of stairs to Nick’s apartment. Serena put the bunch of roses in a glass vase and filled the coffeepot. V disappeared into the bedroom and returned with a cardboard box.
“I stash a lot of my things here,” she said as she sat cross-legged on the sofa. “We never stay in one city long enough, and I’m too lazy to get my own place. Then I’d have to pay the water and garbage bills and water the plants.”
Serena poured three cups of coffee and sat next to V on the sofa. She watched her pull out a stack of CDs and a pile of magazines. V found a copy of French Vogue and flipped through the pages.
“Here’s Chantal.” She handed it to Serena. “Isn’t she beautiful?”
Serena gazed at the two-page spread of a woman with large brown eyes. She had glossy chestnut hair and full red lips. Her eyes were framed by thick eyelashes and she had high cheekbones like Elizabeth Taylor.
Serena looked at the pictures closely and a chill ran down her spine. She glanced at V and saw her untie her scarf. V shook her long blond hair over shoulders and twisted it into a bun.
“She doesn’t look like you,” Serena said, trying to stop her hands from shaking.
“Nick got her coloring,” V said, sipping her cup of coffee. “I take after our father.”
“Do you have a picture of him?” Serena asked.
V dug through the box, bringing up programs from Swan Lake and The Nutcracker. She had a newspaper clipping about the America’s Cup and a picture of Nick standing in front of a huge catamaran. Finally she found a yellowed photo of a man and a woman and two children.
“It’s the only one I can find.” V handed it to Serena. “Dad was always the photographer, so he’s never in the photos.”
Serena glanced at the photo of a pretty brunette standing next to a man with blond hair and green eyes. She looked more closely and noticed the man’s angular cheekbones and dimple on his chin. She opened her mouth to say something, but the room spun and she slid to the floor.
* * *
“Are you all right?” Nick stood over her. He held a damp cloth in one hand and a glass of water in the other.
“I’m fine.” Serena pressed the cloth against her forehead. She tried to stand up but her legs felt like jelly.
“Why don’t you lie down,” Nick suggested.
“I should go home, I just remembered I promised Chelsea another five hundred words.” Serena’s hands were clammy and she couldn’t catch her breath.
“I’ll walk back to the Carlton with you,” Nick insisted.
“No!” Serena exclaimed, biting her lip. “I don’t want to drag you away from V.” Serena turned to V. “Could I borrow that copy of Vogue? It might be an interesting addition to my story.”
“Of course.” V gave her a quick hug. “I had so much fun. It’s been so long since I stayed up past eight P.M. and talked about anything except pliés.”
“I’m coming downstairs.” Nick put his
hand on Serena’s arm. “I don’t want you to fall down the stairs.”
* * *
“Are you sure you’re all right?” Nick asked. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“I must have eaten a bad mussel,” Serena replied. “I’ll walk it off and be good as new.”
Nick wrapped his arms around her shoulders. He pulled her close and kissed her softly on the mouth. He released her, tucking her hair behind her ear.
“I meant what I said at dinner. I know we live in different places”—he looked at her and his eyes were like sapphires—“but I’ve never felt like this before; we can make it work.”
Serena smelled his musk shampoo and wanted to bury her face in his chest. She remembered the yellowed photo and wanted to run as fast as she could. She started walking down the narrow cobblestones and stopped and turned around.
“Why is your sister called V?”
“It’s short for Veronique,” Nick replied. “When I was a kid I couldn’t say her name, so my father gave her a nickname.” He grabbed her hand. “You didn’t answer my question.”
“I didn’t know it was a question.” Serena turned and ran down the hill.
* * *
Serena paced around the living room of the Cary Grant Suite. She had come home and changed into a long-sleeved T-shirt and sweats. She added a cashmere sweater and slippers but she couldn’t get warm. She sat on the ivory silk sofa and wrapped her arms around her chest.
She remembered the boy in the photo Chase had shown her was named Giles and thought she had made a mistake. But she flashed on Nick saying when he arrived at boarding school he didn’t fit in. Maybe he thought Giles sounded too French and gave himself an American name. She recalled her father’s description of the young girl who threw her arms around him at the Carlton-InterContinental and knew she couldn’t be wrong.
She picked up the copy of Vogue and gazed at the photos. Chantal’s eyes were liquid pools and her skin was like honey. She had the kind of beauty that made you forget other women existed.
Serena flipped to the front of the magazine and scanned the Letter from the Editor. She saw Yvette’s photo and her spiderlike signature, and the rest of the page blurred. She grabbed her purse and ran down the hallway to the Sophia Loren Suite.
