Serena sat on the gold velvet sofa nursing her second shot of vodka. She tried to swallow it but the alcohol made her stomach burn. She set it on the glass side table and closed her eyes, letting her misery cover her like a blanket.
She considered ordering room service and watching Casablanca or An Affair to Remember. But she pictured her office with its narrow view of the Bay Bridge. She saw Chelsea perched on her desk saying she thought Serena valued her career.
Serena walked to the bedroom closet and selected a navy linen dress and a pair of beige pumps. She applied an extra coat of mascara and twisted her hair in a knot. Then she grabbed her notepad and walked down the hall to the Sophia Loren Suite.
* * *
“Serena, come in,” Yvette said as she opened the door. She wore a black A-line dress and carried a bouquet of pink and red tulips.
“The hotel does a wonderful job with flowers, but it’s so satisfying to create one’s own arrangement.” Yvette walked over to a crystal vase on the cherry sideboard. “I bought these at the market in Rue d’Antibes, they smell heavenly.”
“They’re lovely,” Serena replied, suddenly wishing she’d stayed in her suite. She pictured all the bouquets Chase had sent her—white roses for her birthday, yellow tulips for her promotion, giant sunflowers because he thought they would brighten her desk.
“It’s so hot, would you like a lemonade or a glass of iced tea?” Yvette stuck the final bloom in the vase and set it on the dining-room table.
“I’m fine.” Serena gulped, trying to stop the throbbing in her forehead. She sat on a peach upholstered chair and flipped to a fresh page in her notepad.
“There’s something different about you,” Yvette mused, looking at Serena carefully. “You’re not wearing that stunning diamond ring.”
Serena gazed at her naked finger and instinctively covered it with her other hand. “I hate to wear it to the beach, it gets covered with suntan lotion and sand.”
Yvette started to say something and then she flicked a piece of lint from her dress. “Shall we begin? I have so much to tell you.”
* * *
“Bertrand arrived every day at lunchtime,” Yvette began. “He brought roast beef sandwiches and fruit tarts and bags of sweets for the children. Sometimes he brought great bunches of flowers—roses and lilies and daisies—I always gave them to Françoise to take home so Henri wouldn’t see them on the weekends.…” Yvette gazed at the crystal vase of tulips and her eyes clouded over.
“I’m finished.” Yvette put the manuscript on the antique desk.
It was late afternoon and sprinklers played on the lawn outside the floor-to-ceiling window. Françoise had taken the children to Antibes for ice cream and the house was quiet.
“Did you notice these villas smell like rotted wood?” Bertrand asked, sitting in a worn leather chair. He wore khaki pants and a white T-shirt and smoked an extralong cigarette. “The brochures describe them as ‘romantic’ and ‘timeless’ and American movie stars rent them for a fucking fortune. But if you’re not careful you could be lying in bed and the ceiling might fall on top of you.”
“Will you take the manuscript to your editor?” Yvette asked.
“I’ll mail it to Edouard at Hachette. He sends it on to Random House in London and Knopf in New York.” Bertrand shrugged, grinding the cigarette into an ashtray.
“You trust the French postal system?” Yvette raised an eyebrow.
“If I go to Paris, Edouard will force me to have lunch with bookstore owners and reviewers.” Bertrand frowned. “I’ll have to eat escargot and drink red wine and listen to them moan about French culture.”
“That doesn’t sound bad,” Yvette said, smiling.
“How am I supposed to write about misery and passion if I’m eating on fine china and sitting on a Louis Seize chair?”
Yvette glanced at the manuscript, bound with a blue ribbon. “I have to go to a dress fitting, I’ll take it.”
“Does Henri know you go to Paris alone?” Bertrand asked.
“I’m not a prisoner here, I do whatever I want.”
Bertrand picked up the manuscript and placed it in Yvette’s arms. “In that case, it’s all yours. I will give you Edouard’s address.”
“Are you sure you don’t want to read it?” Yvette asked.
“Why would I read it”—Bertrand’s dark eyes danced—“when I have complete faith in my translator?”
* * *
Yvette pulled out her compact as the train rolled into the Gare du Nord. During the train ride she had reread the manuscript, her stomach becoming a mass of butterflies. She even purchased a pack of cigarettes, hoping to calm her nerves. But she only smoked half a cigarette before she started choking and stubbed it out.
She painted her mouth with red lipstick and brushed her hair until it was a shiny black cap. She wore a red crepe Yves Saint Laurent dress from his latest collection. She paired it with a soft suede purse and patent leather pumps.
Yvette took a taxi to Saint-Germain-des-Prés and entered the brick building. The lobby was carpeted in a green shag rug and the walls were lined with framed book jackets. Yvette saw a photo of Bertrand in his early twenties: his shiny black hair was thick, his stomach was flat, and his eyes seemed to be lit by a fire.
“You must be Yvette.” A thin man wearing a dark blue suit appeared from an inner office. “My secretary told me you were here.”
Yvette followed him down a hallway to an office with large windows and a polished wood floor. There was a wide cherry desk and floor-to-ceiling bookshelves crammed with books.
“Trust Bertrand to hire a translator who’s a beautiful woman,” Edouard said, motioning for Yvette to sit down.
Yvette’s skin bristled. “I was a journalist before I got married, and I have read all Bertrand’s books.”
“Bertrand’s last book sold more copies in a year than all my other titles combined.” Edouard shrugged. “You are not alone.”
Yvette stared at Edouard’s beaklike nose and gold Cartier watch, and her courage escaped her. She gave him the manuscript as if she were handing over a newborn baby.
“Do you mind if I wait while you read the first chapter?”
“You want me to read it now?” Edouard raised his eyebrow.
Yvette pulled herself up to her full height and tried to stop the nauseated feeling. “Yes, I do.”
Edouard sat down and untied the blue ribbon. He set the manuscript on the desk and quickly turned the pages. Yvette glanced at the clock and picked up a copy of Le Monde. She read Paris Match and Hello!, glancing up and studying Edouard’s expression. Finally he set the manuscript aside and looked at Yvette.
“It’s terrible, isn’t it,” Yvette blurted out.
“It is true to the manuscript.” Edouard sighed, rubbing his forehead.
Yvette let out a deep breath. All the doubts that had been forming over the last month bubbled to the surface. She had transcribed page after page, looking for Bertrand’s brilliance. But the plot was too simple, the characters weren’t likable, the dialogue was stilted.
“I typed out fifteen pages of notes.” Edouard slumped in his chair. “Bertrand returned them with a letter saying I could write the fucking novel, and he’d eat duck à l’orange at Tour d’Argent. Two weeks later he sent me a second draft; the only thing he’d changed is he added an e to his protagonist’s name.”
“I thought it was me,” Yvette said. “I thought I ruined his story.”
“The public won’t care, they’ll read anything with his photo on the back cover.” Edouard frowned. “But the reviewers will skewer him; it will be a bloodbath.”
Yvette pictured Bertrand standing in the middle of the garden, protecting her from the storm. She remembered him stripped naked for his photo, exposing himself to the world. She saw him eating ham sandwiches and chocolate cake like a greedy child.
“When does this go to print?” Yvette asked.
“We go to press in August,” Edouard replied. “The American and UK editions follow in October.”
“Give it to me.” Yvette pointed to the manuscript. “I’ll have it back to you in two weeks.”
“What are you going to do?” Edouard asked, tying the pages with the blue ribbon.
Yvette stood up and clutched the manuscript to her chest. “I’m going to make it a masterpiece.”
* * *
Yvette stepped out at the Gare d’Antibes and saw Bertrand waiting on the pavement. He wore a white straw hat and clutched a bunch of daisies.
“What are you doing here?” Yvette asked.
“I bribed Françoise into telling me when your train arrived,” Bertrand said, and took her arm. “It’s almost dark, a beautiful woman shouldn’t walk along the streets alone.”
“Juan-les-Pins is a resort town, it’s perfectly safe.” Yvette raised her eyebrow.
“We’ll get something to eat on the way,” Bertrand said, ignoring her. “I’ve been working on the new novel all day, I’m starving.”
“I ate a sandwich on the train. I should get back to Pierre and Camille.”
Bertrand pressed his fingers into her arm. “Two pieces of white bread and a wilted lettuce leaf isn’t a meal. We’ll have a proper British tea.”
* * *
They sat in a booth in a teashop on the main street of Juan-les-Pins. The table was covered by a checkered tablecloth and set with blue-and-white ceramic plates. There was a pot of English breakfast tea, a jug of cream, and a plate of warm scones.
“The British don’t know fuck about literature, but no one makes better clotted cream,” said Bertrand, slathering jam on a peach scone. “How was Edouard?”
“He looked just as I imagined.” Yvette smiled, nibbling a digestive biscuit. “Serious and thin.”
“Did he make a pass at you?” Bertrand asked.
Yvette burst out laughing. “He read the manuscript and I sat and waited.”
Bertrand put his cup down so quickly tea spilled onto the saucer. “He read it while you were sitting there? What did he say?”
Yvette fingered her purse, with the manuscript hidden inside it. She added a spoonful of honey to her tea and stirred it with a silver spoon. She took a sip and looked at Bertrand. “He absolutely loved it.”