Serena slipped on her yellow Lilly Pulitzer dress and strapped on white leather sandals. She tied her ponytail with a yellow ribbon and coated her lips with lipgloss. She ate one quick bite of toast with strawberry jam and stepped into the hallway.
“Serena! I’m so happy to see you,” Yvette said as she opened the door of the Sophia Loren Suite.
She wore red yoga pants and a black leotard and clutched a paperback book. “I hate insomnia, but reading can be such a gift. I make a pot of tea and curl up with a book and before I know it, it’s morning.”
“My father gets insomnia.” Serena walked into the living room.
The turquoise curtains were pulled back and the bay shimmered like a sheet of glass. The sideboard was filled with platters of warm scones and berries and there was a pitcher of orange juice on the dining-room table.
“Have you read Anaïs Nin? She was born in Paris and was rumored to be Henry Miller’s mistress.” Yvette curled up on the cream silk love seat, tucking her feet under her. “Her diaries are quite … vivid. It’s strange how a staid married woman can meet a man and her whole life can change.…”
* * *
Yvette smelled Bertrand before she saw him. She entered the ice cream shop in Juan-les-Pins and inhaled his scent of cigarettes and sweat. She turned around and saw him sitting at a table, eating a banana split.
“How do you do it?” he asked. “You have to share your secret with other women.”
“What are you talking about?” Yvette blushed, seeing other shoppers glance at her curiously.
Bertrand walked to the counter and gazed at her floral cotton dress with its wide leather belt.
“You keep having babies, but you don’t get fat.”
Yvette clutched the pint of vanilla ice cream, trying to stop her heart from racing. She hadn’t seen Bertrand in two years, since the day she took the train to Paris. When she’d returned to Antibes she discovered Bertrand had left for Hollywood.
* * *
She finished translating the manuscript, feeling bold and reckless. She knew Bertrand wouldn’t read it and Edouard would say nothing, so she gave Bertrand’s dour heroine her own unrequited passion. She turned it in to Edouard like an addict giving up her opium. Then she waited to have her baby, hoping the early-morning feedings, the delirium of sleepless nights, would cure her.
Bertrand sent two dozen lilies when she gave birth with a note written on ivory notepaper. She read the words aloud: “‘You have done what I never could, created something perfect.’” Then she folded it carefully and slipped it into her lingerie drawer.
* * *
Yvette entered the vast kitchen and put the ice cream in the freezer. She poured a glass of lemonade and sat at the long oak table. Only when Françoise walked in asking about the steaks did she realize she had left their dinner at the ice cream shop.
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 length, 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.