“Go online, I want you to see something,” Chelsea’s voice came over the phone.
“I’m late for dinner,” Serena replied, checking her reflection in the mirror.
She wore an ivory lace Givenchy dress and close-toed sandals. Her hair was brushed into a high ponytail and tied with a gold ribbon. She wondered if she was overdressed, if Nick would appear in a T-shirt and khakis. But she fingered the delicate lace and decided she wanted to wear something elegant and sexy.
“Dinner with a man?” Chelsea asked.
“You were the one who said Cannes had more eligible bachelors than any city in Europe.” Serena smiled.
“I haven’t left the office before nine P.M. in a week.” Chelsea sighed. “I eat spinach salad at my desk and wash it down with a green smoothie. Click on Vogue. I think you’ll be pleased.”
Serena brought up the cover of Vogue and glanced at the glossy photo of Beyoncé in orange Cavalli. She clicked to the third page and saw a photo of Malcolm and Laura dressed in evening wear and stepping into a silver Bentley.
The headline read, “The Fall of the House of Gladding” by Serena Woods.
Serena scanned the pictures of Malcolm and Laura and Zoe on the ski slopes in Thredbo, Malcolm and Laura on a speedboat in Sydney Harbor, Malcolm and Laura and Zoe being presented at Buckingham Palace.
“It’s in the online editions in sixteen countries,” Chelsea said. “It will run in the print edition on Monday.”
Serena quickly read her own words about the kidnapping, Laura’s desire to move out of Sydney, their decision to send Zoe to England. She read about Malcolm’s years of misery, his admission that he was wrong, and his plea for Laura’s forgiveness.
If I gave Laura the impression she doesn’t come first, I’ve failed as a husband. When we are young we think we can make the world anything we want it to be. As we grow older we realize there are few things we can control and even fewer things that are important. The only two things I can’t live without are my wife and daughter.
“Wow,” Serena said. She blinked back tears, afraid she’d smudge her mascara.
“I owe you that Aubusson rug and Tiffany lamp,” Chelsea replied. “It’s a terrific story.”
Serena glanced at the clock and grabbed her purse. “I hope it works; I have to tell Zoe.”
* * *
Serena strode through the lobby and entered a room with marble columns and paneled walls. The ceiling was painted with an intricate fresco and the floors were covered with Oriental rugs.
“I thought I’d find you here.” Serena smiled.
Zoe sat in a wing-back chair gazing intently at an ivory backgammon board. She wore a beige silk dress with pearl buttons. Her hair was curled behind her ears and she wore ruby earrings.
“I won three games in a row,” Zoe said. “If I win this game my father will owe me a hundred euros.”
“You play for money?” Serena raised her eyebrow.
Malcolm sat hunched in a leather armchair. He wore a navy blazer over a striped shirt and tan slacks. His cheeks were pale and his forehead was creased.
“It keeps the game interesting.” Malcolm looked up expectantly. “Serena, it’s wonderful to see you.”
“Chelsea called,” Serena said. “The feature is online.”
“I’m so glad!” Malcolm exclaimed. “Can I see it?”
“I left my laptop in my suite,” Serena replied. “Chelsea said it would be in the print edition on Monday.”
Malcolm jumped up and walked to the entrance. “I’m going to check my computer.”
“We’re in the middle of a game,” Zoe protested.
“Serena can take my turn,” Malcolm said, smiling. “You’re winning anyway.”
Zoe gazed at Serena’s lace dress and beige Manolos. “You’re wearing a new dress and you smell like Estée Lauder White Linen.”
“Nick and I are having dinner at Le Maurice,” Serena said, twisting her ponytail.
“My father has been living on aged scotch and pretzels.” Zoe sighed. “I can’t get him to sit still long enough to eat a steak and grilled vegetables.”
“If your mother had seen the photo of your father and the model she would have called,” Serena said, frowning.
“My mother is not the kind to scream over an international phone line.” Zoe ate a handful of cashews from a silver bowl. “She’s the kind who leaves your suitcases packed at the front door.”
“My parents are going on safari in Africa; they think they’re Meryl Streep and Robert Redford,” Serena replied.
“I don’t know what my father will do if she doesn’t forgive him,” Zoe said. “He keeps talking about fly-fishing in Alaska or joining a Buddhist temple in Thailand.”
“Maybe I shouldn’t go to dinner with Nick.” Serena sighed. “I should forget about men and concentrate on my career.”
Zoe moved her backgammon piece across the board. “You have to go; you’re wearing Givenchy—and I want another slice of chocolate torte.”
* * *
Serena climbed the cobblestoned street of Le Seurat and saw Nick waiting outside Le Maurice. He wore a tan collared shirt and pleated navy slacks. His hair was damp and he carried a bouquet of yellow and white freesias.
They entered the restaurant and sat at a round table by the window. Serena picked up the leather menu, suddenly feeling out of place. She should be at PlumpJack or Greens with Chase. They would be sharing Bolinas Farms oysters and drinking a Sutter Home zinfandel.
“Let me order,” Nick said, touching her hand. “I know everything on the menu.”
Serena looked up and saw Nick’s warm smile and a small shaving cut on his chin. She felt his hand on hers and the air slowly left her lungs.
She placed her menu on the table. “I’ll eat anything except Brussels sprouts.”
Nick ordered fish soup followed by roasted sea brim with candied lemon. He selected a niçoise salad and calamari risotto with grilled asparagus tips.
They talked about Nick’s summer in San Francisco and Serena’s month in Cannes.
“I arrived during the Cannes Film Festival,” Serena said. “The hotel mixed up my reservation and I couldn’t find a room.”
“I’ve seen paparazzi hide in a public toilet to catch Tom Cruise when he pees,” Nick said, and smiled. “For a month, Cannes is the center of the universe. Even the air feels more expensive, as if the movie studios import the oxygen.”
“Zoe wanted to crash some of the parties on the yachts,” Serena replied. “But I was afraid a Russian bodyguard would throw us into the bay.”
“One of my friends attended a party where jungle animals roamed freely on the yacht,” Nick said. “A guest fainted when she saw a Bengal tiger.”
“That doesn’t sound good,” Serena said, grinning.
“Especially if she’s a famous producer.” Nick fingered his wineglass. “When I was a child my mother brought me to the red carpet. I’d stand behind the velvet rope waiting for celebrities. One year I got Harrison Ford’s autograph.”
“I love French actresses,” Serena mused. “Catherine Deneuve always looks so poised, as if she’d never experienced heartbreak.”
“You’ll have to come back next May.” Nick ate his last piece of sea brim. “I’ll get tickets to the Palme d’Or and we’ll rub shoulders with Tobey Maguire and Keira Knightley.”
* * *
Nick went to say hello to Maurice in the kitchen and Serena looked down at her plate. Yvette’s memoir was almost finished and Serena would be going home. She flashed on her parents’ mansion with its large rooms and sweeping views of the bay. She pictured her apartment with its hardwood floors and Pottery Barn furniture.
Why was she sharing seafood risotto with Nick when in a few weeks he’d be sailing in the Mediterranean and she’d be sitting at her desk on the sixteenth floor of the Transamerica building?
She placed her napkin on her plate and pushed back her chair. She grabbed her purse and was about to walk to the door.
“Wait until you see the dessert Isabel prepared,” Nick said, approaching the table.
Isabel followed him carrying a silver tray of chocolate profiteroles and fruit tarts with vanilla custard. There were two cups of milky cappuccino sprinkled with cinnamon and nutmeg.
Serena tried to blot out the images of Coit Tower and Fisherman’s Wharf. She sat down and put her napkin in her lap. She picked up a peach tart and took a bite. She looked at Nick and smiled. “It’s delicious.”
* * *
Serena and Nick walked out of the restaurant and down the steep hill to the harbor. They strolled along the beachfront and Nick took Serena’s hand. She let her palm rest in his, inhaling the sultry sea air.
She gazed at the sleek yachts and saw couples talking and laughing. The women wore shimmering cocktail dresses and gold sandals. The men spoke rapidly and poured bottles of French champagne.
“You look like you’re trying to solve the problems of the Western world,” Nick said as he glanced at her serious expression.
“Everyone in Cannes knows how to enjoy life,” Serena said. “I think I forgot how to be happy.”
“I’ll show you.” Nick stopped and touched her chin.
He tipped her face up to his and kissed her slowly on the mouth. He put his arm around her and pressed her against his chest. He kissed her harder, his lips tasting of peaches and chocolate.
Serena kissed him back, a shiver running down her spine. Suddenly she wanted to feel his mouth on her breasts, his hands in her hair.
“We’re creating a spectacle,” Serena whispered, glancing at the people standing on the yacht.
Nick looked at her closely. He leaned forward and tucked a blond hair behind her ear. “Then we’ll go somewhere more private.”
Nick kept Serena’s hand in his and she felt her heart racing. She didn’t know where they were going but she knew she wanted to be with Nick. She wanted to see his hard chest, watch him take off his shirt and unzip his slacks.
They walked up a cobblestoned alley and into a whitewashed building. A wooden staircase led to the third floor and the walls were pale pink plaster. Serena could smell butter and garlic and fresh baked bread.
Nick fumbled with his key and opened the door to his apartment. The living room had a slanted wood floor and large French windows. There was a floral sofa and a brick fireplace and a bookshelf full of paperback books.
“It’s not the Carlton-InterContinental, and most of the furniture belongs to my landlady.” Nick grinned. “But if you stand at the window you can see the bay.”
“It’s lovely,” Serena said.
She stood in the middle of the room and suddenly her euphoria vanished. Everything was unfamiliar: the coffee mugs on the counter in the tiny kitchen, the paintings on the wall, Nick’s jacket hanging on a peg in the hallway. A shopping bag held a Côte d’Or chocolate bar and a jar of green olives.
“When I saw you running down the dock, I knew I’d never met anyone more beautiful,” Nick said, fingering her lace dress. “You carry your heart on your sleeve, and it’s luminous.”
Nick kissed her slowly, pulling the ribbon from her hair. He turned her around and unzipped her dress. He led her into the bedroom and unsnapped her lace bra. He gently cupped her breast, drawing circles around her nipple.
He reached down and slipped off her silk panties. He plunged his fingers inside her, moving in a slow rhythm. He held her close, watching her bite her lip. He moved his fingers faster, feeling her body rise and fall in one long glorious motion.
Serena rested her head on his shoulders, waiting for the waves to subside. She felt the familiar sense of joy, of giving your body to someone else. She took his hand and pulled him down on the bed.
She slipped off his shirt and unbuckled his belt. She kissed him on the mouth and ran her fingers down his chest. He lay next to her, touching her breasts, her stomach, her thighs. He waited until her body arched and then he opened her legs and pushed inside her.
Serena clung to Nick’s back, smelling his musk shampoo. She felt his body working until she forgot about thinking and let herself be carried with him. She heard him moan and then her body opened so completely she couldn’t stop. She lay against him, sweaty and gasping for breath.
“You see?” Nick said, and grinned. “It’s not so hard to be happy.”
* * *
Serena stepped out of the shower and slipped on a cotton robe. She slathered her skin with Acqua di Parma lotion and spritzed her wrists with Chanel. She glanced at the mirror above the marble vanity and saw her cheeks were flushed and her eyes sparkled.
She had slept at Nick’s apartment and they made love again in the morning. Then they got dressed and ate breakfast at a patisserie by the harbor. After they shared blueberry scones and frothy cappuccinos Nick left to work on the boat and Serena returned to the Carlton-InterContinental.
She wished she could tell Zoe, but Zoe had left a note saying she and her father were taking the train to Saint-Tropez and asking where was her piece of chocolate torte. She signed it with a smiley face and two hearts.
Serena stood in front of her closet, deciding what to wear. She wanted to feel smooth silk or crisp cotton against her skin. She remembered the old movies she used to watch with her parents: Audrey Hepburn singing after she kissed George Peppard in Breakfast at Tiffany’s, Grace Kelly falling in love with Cary Grant in To Catch a Thief.
She selected a turquoise Nina Ricci dress and white slingback sandals. She tied her hair with a turquoise ribbon and grabbed her notepad. Her phone rang and she picked it up.
“Would you like to have dinner tonight on the boat?” Nick asked. “I’ll pick up tomato basil pizza and peaches and chocolate éclairs from the market.”
“We just had breakfast,” Serena giggled.
Nick’s voice was low. “For some reason, I’m still hungry.”
* * *
Serena walked down the hallway and knocked on the door of the Sophia Loren Suite.
Yvette opened the door. “Serena!”
Yvette wore black cigarette pants and a cropped red sweater. She carried a wide straw hat and oversize sunglasses. Her cheeks were lightly powdered and she wore bright red lipstick.
“I had breakfast at La Plage, they make the most delicious egg-white omelets,” Yvette said as she walked into the living room and pulled back the turquoise silk curtains. “Sometimes it’s lovely to be on the beach early and watch the fishing boats push out to sea.”
“I’ll have to try it.” Serena nodded, sitting on an upholstered chair at the bamboo dining-room table.
“You look luminous this morning,” Yvette said, eyeing her carefully. “I was talking to Chelsea, she told me why you’re not wearing that stunning engagement ring.”
“She shouldn’t have done that.” Serena’s eyes flickered.
“I agree, but editors do talk,” Yvette replied. “She was worried about you.”
“I’m much better, thank you.” Serena bit her lip. She unscrewed her pen and opened her notepad.
“Love is the most interesting emotion,” Yvette mused, gazing at the shimmering Mediterranean. “When our heart breaks we think it will never heal, but it can be quite resilient.…”
* * *
Yvette didn’t mention leaving Henri again for the rest of the summer. The last week of August was so hot, they had to keep the windows open. Yvette lay naked on the mattress, listening to children playing on the sidewalk, and wondered what she was doing. Then she would feel Bertrand’s mouth on her breast, his hand gently parting her legs. and couldn’t imagine being anywhere else.
“I don’t know why I let Edouard talk me into going to New York,” Bertrand grumbled, reaching over Yvette for his packet of cigarettes. “At least Hollywood has palm trees and the Pacific Ocean. In New York it’s impossible to get a taxi and they leave the garbage in the street.
“Pays de Cocagne is going to be performed on Broadway.” Yvette felt his palm brush her skin. Even though they had just made love she wanted him all over again.
“I’m going to spend six months listening to actors destroy my words,” Bertrand moaned. “Americans all sound like cowboys.”
“I wish I could come with you,” Yvette said. She pictured the long winter in Paris without Bertrand. She saw dinner parties where she had to make sparkling conversation, business functions sitting next to Henri and feeling his thigh pressed against her leg.
Bertrand caressed her nipples. He moved down her body and buried his face between her thighs. He inserted his fingers deep inside her, pressing one hand on her stomach.
He lowered himself into her and came so violently she was afraid the plaster might crack. Then he rolled off and thrust his fingers in her again until she thought the waves would never stop.
Bertrand stood up and walked to the window. He grabbed his singlet from the chair and wiped his brow.
“That’s what I’ll remember when I’m stuck in a dark theater drinking weak American coffee.”
Yvette felt her body shudder and closed her eyes, wishing it were already spring.
* * *
It rained all winter and Yvette spent afternoons in Grand Magasins trying on items from their spring collections. She bought Courrèges culottes and brightly colored swimsuits and silver sandals. She imagined strolling along the beach at Juan-les-Pins and making love on the white sand.
She helped Pierre with his math, pinned Camille’s hair in a bun for ballet, let Lilly pour the flour into the cake mix. She fixed Henri’s martini and listened to him talk about the bank, counting off the days in her head.
* * *
Yvette arrived in Antibes in the last week of May and felt like a bird let out of its cage. The villa Henri rented was a small castle with high ceilings and dark wood floors and rich velvet sofas. Yvette ran from room to room pulling back curtains and opening windows like Julie Andrews in The Sound of Music.
The second weekend of the summer they were invited to a party by Robert Evans. He had won the Palme d’Or for his latest film and it was the most coveted invitation of the season. Yvette had her hair done at the Carlton-InterContinental and spent the afternoon shopping in Cannes. She wanted to wear something different from all the movie starlets with their gold mesh dresses and platform shoes.
* * *
Yvette walked around Robert Evans’s villa to the swimming pool and searched the lawn for Bertrand. She saw elegant men and women with bronze skin and heavy gold jewelry. She smelled the sweet scent of marijuana mixed with floral perfume.
“I thought I’d find you here, I saw Henri surrounded by skinny actresses,” Bertrand said as he came to stand beside her. He wore a striped shirt and a white blazer. He held a shot glass in one hand and a lit cigarette in the other.
“How was New York?” Yvette tried to keep her voice steady. “Did you acquire an American accent and a love of baseball?”
“I stayed in a place called Greenwich Village, where the women go braless and the men don’t cut their hair.” Bertrand ground the cigarette into the grass and looked closely at Yvette. “I missed French food and wine and perfume.”
Yvette leaned against a marble column and surveyed the scene. A band played soft jazz and couples danced barefoot on the lawn. A few women stripped off their clothes and jumped topless into the pool.
“Do you remember when I first saw you at Ryan O’Neal’s party?” Bertrand asked. “I said you didn’t belong in such a den of iniquity.”
Yvette felt Bertrand’s hand brush her back and was almost dizzy. She wanted him to take her into the house and find a spare bedroom. She wanted to unzip her Hervé Léger black dress and slip off her lace panties. She wanted him to fill her up so that the long dry months of waiting would be over.
“I was wrong.” Bertrand pulled out a gold cigarette box and tapped out another cigarette. “You proved more wanton than I imagined.”
“We could leave now,” Yvette murmured, glancing at Bertrand. The sexual energy danced on his skin like an electric current. “I could tell Henri I have a headache and have to go home.”
“And miss all the fun?” Bertrand shrugged, gazing at the waiters carrying trays of caviar and foie gras. “There is no rush, we have all summer.”
Yvette tried to concentrate on Bertrand’s descriptions of Times Square and Fifth Avenue and the theater district. She suddenly spotted Henri walking into the pool house. She excused herself, telling Bertrand she had to use the bathroom.
Yvette stood at the window and saw Henri talking to a small blonde with big breasts and a full red mouth. Yvette recognized Suzy Meadows, a young American actress who wanted to make European art films.
She watched Suzy perch on a billiard table, her skirt playfully arranged around her legs. She saw Henri hand her a drink and put his hand on Suzy’s breast. She stood, mesmerized, as Henri unzipped his slacks, fumbled with Suzy’s panties, pushed himself against her.
Yvette let out a little gasp and thought she would vomit. She watched her husband’s face crumple the way it did before he came. Then she heard him call out and saw him collapse against Suzy’s pink cotton dress.
Yvette ran around the garden to the front of the villa. She stumbled into the entry and asked the valet for her coat.
“Where are you going?” Bertrand stood in the foyer, still holding a shot glass.
Yvette turned around but her eyes were blurry and she couldn’t focus.
“I’m going home, I have a headache,” she mumbled, running down the stone steps to the driveway.
* * *
“I’m leaving him,” Yvette announced.
It was Monday morning and Henri had returned to Paris. Yvette waited till Françoise took the children to the beach and rushed to Bertrand’s new rooms in Juan-les-Pins.
“Let’s not spoil our first day together,” Bertrand said as he looked up from his morning coffee and newspaper. “We have a real bed, and a hot plate so we can make coffee and fried eggs.”
“I saw Henri having sex at the party.” Yvette’s voice rose. “In the pool house with Suzy Meadows.”
“Are you jealous?” Bertrand raised his eyebrow.
“Of course I’m not jealous! I don’t need to stay with him,” Yvette continued. “I can tell the judge what I saw.”
“Henri will say it was dark, you were drinking.” Bertrand shrugged. “You mistook him for someone else.”
“I saw his face, I saw her blond hair!”
Bertrand took her hand and led her into the bedroom. He unbuttoned her blouse and buried his face in her breasts. “We’ll talk about it another time. Let’s try out the bed, the old mattress was murder on my back.”
* * *
Yvette chose a red Yves Saint Laurent linen dress with white buttons. She paired it with gold earrings and Gucci flats. She sprayed her wrists with Dior and grabbed her purse. She was going to tell Bertrand she had made up her mind. Then she was going to see a solicitor and ask Henri for a divorce.
Yvette stopped at the Marché Provençal and bought a basket of strawberries and a carton of eggs and a loaf of French bread. She selected a bunch of purple daisies and a box of chocolate éclairs. She climbed the narrow staircase to Bertrand’s room and knocked on the door. Bertrand wore white shorts and a black singlet. His hair was slicked back and he smoked a thin cigarette.
“I was shopping, I brought you some eggs.” Yvette held up her shopping bag. She glanced in the room and saw a woman perched on the sofa. She wore a white halter top and a pink skirt. Her blond hair was tousled and she wasn’t wearing lipstick.
“Let me introduce you,” Bertrand said as he ushered Yvette inside. “This is Suzy Meadows, a delightful young American actress. She is interested in playing Gigi in La Femme; we were going over some lines.”
Yvette glanced from Bertrand to Suzy, her heart beating like a drum. She saw Bertrand inhale his cigarette deeply, the way he did after they made love. She glanced through the door and saw the sheets to the bed lying in a heap on the floor.
“I forgot I have an appointment, enjoy your breakfast.” Yvette dropped the carton of eggs on the wood floor and heard them crack as she stumbled down the stairs.