5

Virgile had tired of the conversation. He drained his glass of Champagne and set it down on the table, next to the winemaker’s plate.

He gave his companions a nod and walked away, returning to the reception hall, where people seemed to be having more fun. A disk jockey with rose-colored glasses, a skin-tight leatherette T-shirt, and safety pins piercing his upper lip was beat matching on vinyl. Several bleached and natural blondes were dancing, their arms raised and their hips swaying. The heavy synchronized thumping struck Virgile right in the chest. He snatched another glass, gulped the contents, and put it back on the server’s tray. The lithe young man with slicked-back hair, mustache, and a wine stain on his shirt paid him no mind, preoccupied as he was with keeping his glasses upright while snaking between the dancers.

“Are you lost?”

Virgile froze. There was something familiar about the voice: slightly fluted, both soft and husky. He glanced over his shoulder and was petrified. He had seen her in magazine and television images—languishing on a yacht in the Bay of Antibes, climbing the palace stairs at Cannes, displaying her duplex near the wealthy Parisian Trocadéro neighborhood, holding up a César, a tear of joy clinging to her eyelashes, laughing at a private party in Bains-Douches. Simone Margerolle was a fantasy woman who existed in a vague, distant place. And there she was, in flesh and blood. More in the flesh, as it were: curvaceous breasts beneath the shimmering silk fabric of her plum-colored sheath, voluptuous hips, and tiny waist.

Virgile forced himself to focus on her intense blue eyes.

“Shush! Don’t say a word,” she said, putting a finger on his lips.

Virgile picked up the scent of pears. She’d dipped her finger in Champagne. He had no choice but to comply. He was tongue-tied.

“Let me guess. Film? Theater? Modeling?”

He worked to dispel the mental image of this gorgeous actress licking the Champagne off her finger. “Nothing like acting or modeling,” he finally said.

“Literature? Visual arts?” She looked up at him, smiling flirtatiously, aware, he knew, of the effect she was having.

At this, Virgile began to relax. Flirting was something he knew how to do. He mustered a coy look. “You’re getting colder.”

Simone wrinkled her nose. “I hope you’re not in public relations, like everyone else.”

“I’m not like everyone else.”

Simone tilted her head. “Hmm, the plot thickens, I love that! An athlete, then?”

“In my spare time.”

“Don’t tell me you’re a gigolo!”

Virgile smiled. “Would that be so terrible?”

“You do have what it takes, I’d say,” Simone said, sizing him up. “You’ve never considered taking advantage of your killer physique?”

“Taking advantage?”

“What I mean is, you could use it to live on. There’s no shame in that.”

“No shame, I grant you. But I’ll leave that to other people. It’s not my thing.”

“Come now, be nice. Tell me who’s hiding behind that charming face. I’ve never seen you at the château before.”

Virgile looked around the room. “It’s my first time here. Nice place.”

“You mean gorgeous… Elegant… Over the top but still classy. Like everything else related to David. So, are you going to tell me why you’re at this party? Or is it shameful?”

Virgile sighed. “Sorry to disappoint you, but I’m no celebrity or VIP. I’m the assistant to Benjamin Cooker, the winemaker who’s working with Mr. Navarre on the vineyard he wants to revive.” He held his breath, waiting for Simone to murmur “that’s nice” and move on.

But she didn’t. “I’ve heard a lot about your Benjamin Cooker,” she said. “David swears by him. Now I understand. That explains the adorable accent from the southwest of France. Are you from Bordeaux?”

“At present, yes. But I’m originally from Bergerac—Montravel, to be exact.”

“I’m not familiar with Montravel, but it doesn’t matter. Will you take me out on the dance floor? I love this number.”

“I’m a very bad dancer.”

“So what? Make believe you’re good. And make me happy.”

Simone took Virgile’s hand and led him to an empty spot on the crowded dance floor. He step-tapped as best he could, out of kilter, a little drunk. The Champagne was making him dizzy, and pleasantly so. Simone swayed gracefully, brushing against him.

Virgile couldn’t quite believe what was happening. It wasn’t that he had never been with a stunning woman. He was experienced. But this was different—an otherworldly flirtation that put him off-balance. She wrapped her arm around his waist and rested her head on his shoulder. It wasn’t the hand-in-glove sensation he’d felt with Margaux. The fit wasn’t quite right. Still, he felt himself surrender. Her neck smelled of vanilla and alcohol. Her skin was moist. He stroked her back. Her breasts pressed against his chest felt unbelievably delicious.

They danced a long while, both close and apart, depending on the music. Now and then a friend of the actress would come up and whisper something in her ear, and she would burst out laughing, throwing her head back and showing her perfect white teeth. She clung to Virgile tighter and tighter and murmured a few words. She needed Champagne, more Champagne, and still more. He complied and rushed over to the bar. But when he returned to the dance floor, Simone had disappeared.

He wandered for a good hour, looking through all the rooms with a glass in each hand. He went outside to scan the shadows in the courtyard, passed the buffet tables again and again, and waited in vain near the bathroom while sipping from one of the glasses. The actress was nowhere to be found.

He had downed the second glass when he ran into Benjamin, whose tired face betrayed his irritation.

“What have you been doing, Virgile? I’ve been looking for you.”

Virgile decided to keep the encounter with Simone Margerolle to himself. “I was just dancing, boss.”

“And did you exchange phone numbers with any of the lovelies you danced with? Oh, I forgot—isn’t Instagram the way you young people stay in touch these days?”

Virgile gave Benjamin a curious look. “How did you know about Instagram, boss?”

“Give me some credit, would you? I do read, you know. But so much for social media. We need to take off. We have a lot of work to do tomorrow, and it’s already late.”

Virgile surveyed the scene and realized many of the partygoers had left. Several of the drunken ones who remained were sprawled on the banquettes. The proudest had lost all dignity, while those who didn’t care were just being themselves. The photographer from the magazine Voici! was snapping pictures that he knew would be unprintable but would come in handy for his personal files. No one seemed to mind.

“When did Liza and her assistants leave?” Virgile asked.

“Actually, not too long ago. They finished filming, and, surprisingly, David told them they could stay. As long as they were inconspicuous, I didn’t mind.”

“So where’s David? I’d like to say goodnight.”

“I haven’t seen him. He was drinking heavily. He probably went off to bed.”

The disc jockey was packing his equipment, and the catering crew was picking up the dishes and glasses. Just as Benjamin and Virgile were opening the door to leave, a cry rang out, silencing the clatter of porcelain and crystal.

“Simone is dead!”