by Anita Hughes
* * *
“Serena!” Yvette answered the door. She wore a red silk robe and black slippers. Her silvery hair was smooth and her skin glistened with oils. “It’s almost midnight, has something happened?”
“You discovered Chantal, you’ve known her for years.” Serena tossed the magazine on the coffee table. “I want to know everything, I want to know the real reason I’m here.”
Yvette picked up the magazine. “Where did you get this?”
“From the sister of someone I’ve become close with.” Serena’s shoulders shook. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”
“Let me pour you a drink.” Yvette walked to the bar and filled two shot glasses.
“I don’t want a drink, I want to know how you could let Chantal write that letter,” Serena raged.
“Chantal didn’t write the letter; I did,” Yvette said quietly.
“You wrote the letter to the San Francisco Chronicle?” Serena demanded.
“Chantal couldn’t bear that her children would have no one after she’d gone.” Yvette slumped in a peach silk armchair. “She doesn’t know I wrote the letter; it was my idea.”
Serena picked up the shot glass and swallowed the brandy. “Tell me everything, right from the beginning.”
“I met Jeanne at a party at Ralph Lauren’s villa. I was already editor in chief of French Vogue, but we still spent a month every summer in Antibes.…”
* * *
“You don’t look like you are enjoying yourself,” Yvette said, standing next to a dark-haired woman with brown eyes and long eyelashes.
The villa had high ceilings and polished wood floors. The walls were lined with Picassos and Manets and a white grand piano stood in the corner. Waiters in white tuxedos passed trays of steak tartar and sashimi and julienned vegetables.
“The music was so loud,” the woman replied. “I walked down the driveway to ask someone to turn it down, and the host invited me in.”
“Ralph wouldn’t let a beautiful woman walk away,” Yvette said, and smiled. “It makes his parties more desirable.”
“I hardly go to parties, I like to stay home with my children.” The woman wore beige slacks and a cream blouse. She lit a cigarette and held it to her lips.
“You should quit,” Yvette said. “Smoking’s not good for you.”
“I’ve smoked since I was eighteen,” the woman said, and shrugged. “It calms my nerves.”
“Yvette Renault,” Yvette said as she held out a manicured hand. She wore a red Chanel dress and black stilettos. A diamond tennis bracelet dangled from her wrist and she wore black pearls around her neck.
“Jeanne Delon.” The woman shook her hand. “I’m sorry, I’m not good at conversation.”
“You don’t need to be. With your looks, I bet men stick to you like wax paper.”
Jeanne gazed at the Picasso and her eyes filled with tears. “The man I love left me.”
“What man could be so stupid!” Yvette exclaimed.
“I met Charles when I was twenty,” Jeanne replied. “I had just been fired, I had a one-year-old son and no place to live. Charles let us stay at his villa. I knew he was married but I was young and foolish. We became lovers and I ended up pregnant.
“He took care of us and visited the children several times a year. A month ago we ran into him and his wife at the Carlton-InterContinental. His wife gave him an ultimatum, and Charles said he could never contact us again.”
“What are you going to do now?” Yvette asked.
“I can stay in the villa, but I need a job.” Jeanne lit another cigarette. “I’m not qualified for anything.”
Yvette studied Jeanne’s high cheekbones and full pink mouth. She saw her luxurious brown hair and the wonderful shape of her face. She felt the same thrill as the first time she saw Naomi Campbell and Christy Turlington.
“Have you ever thought of modeling?” Yvette asked. “You should come to Paris and take some photos.”
* * *
Yvette gazed at the photo proofs and knew her instincts were correct. The camera captured something that wasn’t seen by the naked eye. Jeanne was mesmerizing, like a foal caught in the headlights.
Yvette glanced at the nervous young woman pacing around her office. She wore a cotton dress and white flats. Her nails were too short and her hair needed a good cut. But her features could have been painted by Leonardo da Vinci.
“We will have to do some work.” Yvette stood up and walked to the window.
Yvette loved Vogue’s large ornate offices on the Rue de la Paix. She loved being able to visit the Louvre at lunch or stroll through the Tuileries Garden. And she loved most that she had to focus on a million details and never had time to think about Bertrand.
“Get you a haircut at Vidal Sassoon, buy a new wardrobe from Escada and Dior,” Yvette continued. “Teach you how to do your makeup and change your name.”
“Change my name?” Jeanne asked.
“France’s next big model has to be called something dramatic and romantic.” Yvette tapped her long red fingernails on the Louis XVI desk.
“Chantal!” she exclaimed as if she had found the gold at the end of the rainbow. “We’ll name you Chantal.”
* * *
Yvette took the biggest risk of her career and put Chantal on the cover of Vogue. The issue sold more copies than any since Catherine Deneuve burst onto the scene. Women were enthralled that a woman over thirty could still be beautiful. They wanted to know what creams and lotions Chantal used, who did her hair, where she bought her clothes.
Yvette convinced Chantal to move to Paris and her career skyrocketed. Cosmetics companies offered her large contracts; Elle and Bazaar plastered her on their pages. She became the face of Lancôme and spent a decade as the most desired woman in France.
* * *
“Chantal was proud that she earned enough to send Nick to boarding school and Veronique to ballet school,” Yvette finished. “She hoped Nick would become a doctor or an engineer and Veronique would be a famous ballerina.”
“Why did she retire?” Serena asked.
For a moment she forgot how Chantal ruined her family and was mesmerized by her story. She remembered seeing Chantal in her mother’s magazines and thinking she was the most beautiful woman she’d ever seen.
“She didn’t want anyone to see her grow old. I remember one day she came into my office and said Lancôme Satin Eye Cream wasn’t working; she’d discovered new lines around her eyes. She didn’t renew her contract.” Yvette fiddled with her emerald ring. “She returned to her villa in Antibes and took up painting and gardening. We lost touch; it was my fault, I was so busy. I ran into her by accident in Nice. I hardly recognized her. She was terribly thin and her skin was like paper.”
“Cancer,” Serena said.
“She has a few months to live.” Yvette nodded. “I insisted we have lunch, and she was so worried about Nick and Veronique. She regretted never telling them the truth about Charles.”
Serena heard her father’s name and something slammed hard against her chest. “So she decided to rake up the past, ruin my father’s career, and destroy my family.”
“Chantal did nothing,” Yvette corrected. “I wrote the letter to the San Francisco Chronicle. Then I saw your byline in Vogue and remembered Charles was your father. I met your parents at one of their salons in Paris. I thought if I brought you to Cannes to write my memoir you could convince your father to contact Nick and Veronique.”
“But you never mentioned them.” Serena frowned.
“I met you and you were so lovely. I saw how Chase hurt you and how hard you worked on my story.” Yvette smiled. “I’ve enjoyed myself more than I have in years. I couldn’t bring myself to cause you more pain; I hoped the whole thing would fade away.”
“Fade away!” Serena’s anger returned in waves. “My parents are hiding out in Africa, paparazzi were chasing me on the beach, my fiancé broke off our engagement!”
“I feel terrible
for what I did, I never meant to hurt you,” Yvette murmured. “But if Chase couldn’t handle that small storm, he would have made a poor husband.”
“I know.” Serena nodded, and the full depth of her misery enveloped her. She pictured Nick’s dark wavy hair and clear blue eyes. She saw his warm smile and the way he tucked her hair behind her ear. How could they possibly be together without causing more unhappiness?
“You didn’t tell me how you know Veronique,” Yvette said.
“I met Nick by accident; he rescued my engagement ring when Chase broke up with me,” Serena said dully. “We explored Monte Carlo and sailed in the harbor and ate fish soup and chocolate torte at Le Maurice. Tonight we all had dinner at Z Plage and he told me he loved me.” Serena’s eyes blurred. “I thought I was falling in love with him too. What am I going to do now?”
chapter twenty-four
Serena splashed her face with water and patted it dry with a white towel. She covered the dark circles under her eyes with concealer and dusted her forehead with powder. She searched her closet for something to wear, but the new turquoise Pucci wrap, the lace Givenchy she bought for dinner with Nick, seemed to belong to someone else. She selected a cotton jumpsuit and tied her hair with a blue ribbon.
After she left Yvette she wanted to rush to Nick’s apartment and tell him everything. But it was past midnight and she was afraid to wake him. She lay in bed replaying the things Nick told her about his father: that he taught him to fly paper airplanes, that he took him to the Oceanographic Museum in Monte Carlo, that they fished together in the harbor.
She remembered Nick describing his father’s plane crash, how he believed in luck and being in the right place at the right time. She pictured telling him that Charles deserted him, and a lump formed in her throat. She slipped on a pair of sandals and entered the living room.
“I forgot sex makes you starving,” Zoe said. She sat at the glass dining-room table eating a bowl of muesli with strawberries and sliced peaches. She wore a beige linen dress with a wide red belt and ruby earrings in her ears.
“You saw Gregg?” Serena asked.
“I had Skype sex with Ian,” Zoe said as she popped a strawberry in her mouth. “It was the hottest night of my life.”
“I thought you told Ian you wanted a break.” Serena frowned.
“Ian called me,” Zoe replied, pouring cream into her coffee. “He met a female geologist in Byron Bay and couldn’t stop fantasizing about her. I told him I wanted Gregg to ravish me in the vineyards. We realized we do love each other but we were both horny.” Zoe’s cheeks turned pink. “The sex was so good, I can’t imagine what it’s going to be like when we’re in the same room.”
“Gregg is going to be disappointed.” Serena giggled.
“I could never date someone from Switzerland, I’d crave chocolate all the time,” Zoe said, and shrugged. “Ian understands me, and when he takes off his shirt it’s like Clark Kent becoming Superman.”
“What are you going to do?” Serena asked.
“Go home and do normal things: get married, have babies, grow old. Worry about getting fat, never have enough sleep, get into terrible fights.” Zoe grinned. “Doesn’t it sound wonderful?”
Serena gazed at the shimmering Mediterranean and her eyes filled with tears. She turned away from Zoe and walked to the balcony.
“We’ll stay friends; I’ll send you a first-class Qantas ticket and give you a tour of the Sydney Opera House,” Zoe said. “Please don’t cry; I’ll start crying and I’ll ruin my Estée Lauder foundation.”
“I met Nick’s sister last night,” Serena replied. “She’s a famous ballerina with Les Ballets de Monte Carlo. We ate dinner at Z Plage and Nick told me he loved me.”
“Shouldn’t you be smiling?” Zoe frowned. “You said you were falling in love with him.”
Serena paced around the Cary Grant Suite and told Zoe about Veronique’s box of old photos, Yvette’s letter to the San Francisco Chronicle, Chantal dying of cancer. She explained Nick and Veronique had no idea their father was a retired United States senator.
“That’s better than one of those blockbuster novels that lists all the characters and how they’re related,” Zoe said, and whistled. “Charles isn’t Nick’s biological father, so at least your children will be normal.”
“There aren’t going to be any children!” Serena exclaimed. “I can’t see Nick again. Chantal ruined my family’s life, I can’t cause everyone more pain.”
“Your father had a hand in your family’s unhappiness,” Zoe mused. “I love my father, but he’s acting like a child. He should go back to Sydney and resolve things with my mother, not run off with a supermodel or disappear to a Greek island.”
“How do you know he’s on a Greek island?” Serena asked.
“I don’t know where he is.” Zoe’s eyes narrowed. “I tried every airline at Nice airport. Then I went to the train station, but there are hundreds of trains leaving Nice every day. What do you want?”
“Nick worshipped Charles; if he discovers Charles abandoned him he’ll be devastated.” Serena bit her lip. “And I don’t know what Nick would say, maybe he’d be like Chase and think it was too overwhelming.”
“Put on your lace Givenchy dress and spritz your neck with Dior and go see him,” Zoe insisted. “You won’t know how he feels unless you tell him the truth.”
“I’ll think about it.” Serena nodded.
“I’m going to Missoni.” Zoe grabbed her purse. “They have the most beautiful Chantilly lace panties, and Ian is Skyping tonight at seven.”
* * *
Serena curled up on the silk sofa, trying to decide what to do. She could pick up flaky croissants and milky cappuccinos and go to Nick’s apartment. She pictured sitting on the floral sofa telling Nick the whole story. What if he asked her to leave and told her he never wanted to see her again?
Serena’s phone buzzed and she answered it.
“I couldn’t wait to call and see how you are,” Nick said. “You looked like you were stranded on a dinghy in the middle of a typhoon.”
“I slept all night,” Serena said as she twisted her ponytail. “I’m much better.”
“I wanted to come over this morning, but I have to go to Saint-Tropez,” Nick said. “An Italian count is interested in buying the catamaran.”
“That’s wonderful.”
“I’ll be back tomorrow night,” Nick replied. “We’ll drink a bottle of Veuve Clicquot to celebrate.”
“I’ll keep the champagne flutes chilled.” Serena nodded.
“I told you you brought me good luck,” Nick whispered. “Ever since we met, everything is perfect.”
Serena pressed END and held the phone in her palm. She gazed at the crystal chandeliers and the pink marble floors and the royal-blue silk sofa. She leaned against the satin cushions and did what she had wanted to do since Veronique showed her the photo. She put her head in her hands and cried.
chapter twenty-five
Serena walked to the balcony and gazed at the harbor. It was midsummer and the crowds had thinned. Tourists left for Monaco and Saint-Tropez and Provence. They would wind their way north to Paris, possibly squeeze in Rome or Florence before flying home. Serena flashed on summer in San Francisco, the early-morning fog, the noon sun breaking through and shimmering on the bay.
She used to love stepping out of the Transamerica building at lunchtime and peeling off her wool jacket. She remembered meeting Chase and eating lobster at Fisherman’s Wharf. She pictured returning to Vogue, eating tuna sandwiches at her desk, going home to an empty apartment and single-serving salads from Trader Joe’s.
Her phone rang and she ran inside to answer it.
“I just read your copy,” Chelsea announced. “I haven’t been this excited since they added the male stripper to Beach Blanket Babylon.”
“I’m glad you like it.” Serena smiled.
“It’s going to set the literary world on fire. Who knew that two of the most beloved boo
ks of the twentieth century were written by the editor in chief of French Vogue.”
“Rewritten,” Serena corrected.
“And the sexual chemistry between Yvette and Bertrand is mesmerizing. You’ve done a wonderful job, I can’t wait to read how it ends.”
“I’m almost there,” Serena replied.
“I showed it to Harry Ames and he was impressed. I may not just redecorate your office; I may get you a promotion.” Chelsea paused. “How does senior editor sound?”
Serena gasped. “It sounds wonderful.”
“What’s your favorite color?” Chelsea asked.
“Green.” Serena grinned.
“I’ll tell the decorator lime green walls, maybe a framed Seurat behind your desk.” Chelsea paused. “It’ll be a reproduction; Harry likes to think he’s generous, but he is stingy as hell.”
* * *
Serena hung up and slipped on her sandals. She smoothed her hair and rubbed lipgloss on her lips. She grabbed her notepad and walked down the hallway to the Sophia Loren Suite.
“Serena!” Yvette wore black cigarette pants and a red silk blouse. She had black Gucci flats on her feet and a black pearl necklace around her neck. “I wasn’t expecting you.”
“Chelsea called,” Serena said as she walked into the living room. “She’s excited about the piece.”
“I’m glad.” Yvette nodded. “Have you seen Nick? I thought I could go with you and explain to Nick and Veronique what I did.”
Serena’s eyes flickered and she felt a sharp pain in her chest. She straightened her shoulders and smoothed her Lilly Pulitzer dress.
“Nick is in Saint-Tropez on business,” Serena said. “Chelsea is eager to find out how your story ends. Did you see Bertrand again?”
“Bertrand died a year ago.”
“I had no idea,” Serena replied. “Was it lung cancer?”
“Bertrand was healthy as a horse,” Yvette laughed. “The stupid man got run over by a taxi in New York City. I remember when I received the letter from his solicitor.…”
