In Search of Lost Boulevard Périphérique

Someone in the car behind Lala was honking at her in an unpredictable rhythm of long and short blasts that made Lala think he might be trying to communicate via Morse code. She lowered the driver’s side window and leaned out with her head turned over her shoulder.

“Listen, buddy, at this point I don’t know if you’re pissed at me or if you’re flirting with me, but in case you hadn’t noticed, NONE of the cars are moving!”

Damn, Lala thought. He probably doesn’t understand me. How do you say all that in French?

Lala put Kenny’s car into park and leaned her head back on the headrest. She closed her eyes and remembered how enthusiastic she had been feeling on the evening before that fourteenth of July.

The plan had been for Clive and Lala to drive to Gérard’s family estate for the celebration of Bastille Day and to spend the night there.

“In separate bedrooms,” Lala had declared, over and over and over again, during the coordinating of details. “Do not get any ideas, pal.”

“No ideas gotten,” Clive had assured her, over and over and over again.

They had planned to leave early so they could have the option of stopping anywhere along the way if an especially charming location appeared. But when Lala’s phone rang and woke her up an hour before the time she had set on the alarm, she jolted awake with the immediate and very unpleasant feeling that something must be wrong.

“WHAT?” she bleated at her phone.

“I’m so sorry. The good news is, your virtue will be especially safe. The bad news is, I can’t go to the party. We have to reshoot all the scenes at the farm. You know, the ones we did on the day the goat molested you.”

“I remember, Clive,” Lala growled. “I remember the goat, and I can hear you trying to suppress a long series of giggles. Why do they have to reshoot? Did you see the dailies? Did Clément suck? Oh, god, I forced him on the production to serve my own selfish, albeit very caring and humane, needs, and he sucked? I knew I shouldn’t have imposed an amateur on the film. I get so tunnel vision with animals, and now I’ve put the entire—”

“Lala, take a breath. Yes, I saw the dailies. Clément was amazing. I mean, he was brilliant. It’s me. I sucked beyond belief. I think Matthew wanted to fire me on the spot. I’ve got to redeem myself pronto or else I am fucked.”

“Oh. Okay,” Lala said.

“Listen, since I can’t drive you, I think you should take the train.”

“Why?” Lala huffed. “I’m perfectly capable of driving myself.”

“You’re a terrible driver.”

“What makes you think I’m a terrible driver?” Lala demanded.

“You told me. Those were your exact words.”

“Oh. Okay. Well, I was kidding.”

As she remembered her conversation with Clive, Lala opened her eyes and looked up at the ceiling of the car.

I wasn’t kidding, she thought. Driving myself today has already earned a top spot on my long list of dumbest ideas I’ve ever had, and I’m not even half of the way to my destination.

After she hung up with Clive, Lala was feeling defiant and irritated and like she had something to prove to patronizing men everywhere, so before she got the car from Kenny and headed out, she deliberately programmed the GPS on her phone to give her directions in French.

“Do you really think that’s a good idea?” Kenny had asked when she told him about her bold and confident decision. “It’s just an added layer of difficulty that maybe you don’t need when you’re—”

“Kenny,” Lala said through tight lips, “I know you mean well, but the patriarchy is really busting my ass this morning, so I’m in no mood.”

Lala shut her eyes again. Just as she did, the driver behind her leaned on his horn with a steady pressure. She thrust her head up and looked in the rearview mirror. The man was standing up as much as he could in a car and appeared to be pressing the full weight of his body on the center of the steering wheel. Lala leaned back out the window.

“Are you KIDDING? Aucune voiture n’avance, you big jerk! So why don’t you just calm the fu . . . Oh . . .”

Something had caught Lala’s attention out of the corner of her right eye and had taken her focus away from the car behind her. That something was a boulevard newly devoid of the traffic jam that she had assumed would be her destiny, if not until the end of time, then certainly for at least the next hour.

“Okay, okay,” she muttered. “I’m shifting into drive, Monsieur. My mistake. Sheesh.”

Lala hit the gas pedal and pulled over to the first free space at the curb that she saw. She turned the car off and covered her face with her hands. She shook her head and sighed.

We will be doing this, Lala told herself. We will take a deep breath and we will not be bested by le Boulevard Périphérique. We are strong. We are invincible. We are woman. We have no idea why we are using the royal “we” in our internal pep talk.

Kenny had changed tactics that morning when he felt the vibrating wrath of Lala’s irritation, and had decided to be overly encouraging because it might save him from any additional glaring. He had explained to Lala that she would be heading out of Paris toward the countryside via le Périph’, the multiple-lane road that circled the historic center of Paris and loosely defined its classic borders.

“It’s just like a freeway in Los Angeles,” Kenny assured her. “It’ll take you right to the A-4 and you’ll be in Reims in no time. Piece of cake. Nothing to worry about.”

“I’m not taking the highway to get to Reims,” Lala had explained.

“What are you talking about?” Kenny had asked, with an expression that immediately telegraphed grave concern for Lala’s grasp on sanity.

“I’m programming my GPS to avoid highways. It’s what I do in LA I take side streets. I don’t like Southern California freeways. I don’t like any freeways. I swear, I have no idea what the difference is between a freeway and a highway. In either case and in any event, I’m taking the scenic route to Reims.”

“Well, then you’ll get there on Tuesday. Late Tuesday or early Wednesday. Of the week after next.”

“Very funny,” Lala had sneered.

“I’m not trying to be funny,” Kenny had said.

 

“Oh, this cannot possibly be the right address . . .”

Lala had passed many charming locales on her way to Gérard’s grandmother’s home. She had only had time to give each of them the briefest of longing glances as she motored through them at the quickest speeds that French travel regulations would allow.

Once Lala had finally driven outside Paris, guided by a new and stuffy British voice speaking clipped English on her GPS, it had become agonizingly clear that she would not be getting to Reims quickly on the country roads. As loping minute after minute after minute passed, she drove onward, silently debating different courses of action and unable to decide on any of them.

Turn around and call it a day and get hammered at the restaurant with Kenny and his grandfather and Atticus? Search for the nearest train station on the GPS, park the car there, and hope that a train to Reims is leaving sometime today? Park the car and speed-walk, because at least then I’ll be getting some exercise and I probably might even get there more quickly than at this rate on these gorgeous cobblestone streets and all these winding paths through these impossibly adorable villages?

And now she was driving up what looked like either an endless, diminutive public road or an endless, huge private driveway. Majestic trees bordered the car on both sides and bent toward each other to create a canopy for Lala to drive beneath as she talked to herself and fretted.

“I think I distinctly remember that Gérard described his grandmother’s place of residence as a house and not a freakin’ château . . . I really don’t think I packed anything fancy enough for this flippin’ castle . . .”

Lala turned into the circular path in front of the immense wooden double door at the center of the structure’s endless facade. The doors flew open and Marie-Laure came running out. She smiled and waved and rushed over to open the driver’s side door.

“There you are! Vite, vite!”

Marie-Laure took Lala by the elbow and helped her out of the car. She kissed Lala on both cheeks and then opened the back door to grab Lala’s weekend bag.

“I had no idea the house is this big,” Lala said. “Is this a fancy party? I don’t think I have anything fancy enough for a house like this.”

“Ma chère, it’s a picnic! Do not worry, you will look perfect! Now, you’ve got half an hour to rest in your room before the festivities start, so let’s get you upstairs.”

Marie-Laure escorted Lala inside. The entry hall had soaring ceilings and ended, after what Lala estimated was probably the full length of a football field, in a wide staircase.

“That Boulevard Périphérique thing?” Lala said as she peered at the portraits and tapestries that covered the walls. “Le Périph’? I got on and off that damn thing about a thousand times before I finally was headed in the right direction. I am serious, give me that swirling overpass on the 405 South just past the Getty Center, or that section downtown where you’re going from the 110 to the 10 and you have to get across five lanes of traffic from left to right in like two minutes? I mean, I’ve only ever done it as a passenger, but I would cheerfully do it as a driver any day of the week, including rush hour heading home on a Friday, rather than get anywhere near that damn périphérique again. I assume there’s champagne in my room?”

“Bien sur,” Marie-Laure said.

“Then I’ll be downstairs again in twenty-nine minutes, and I will be in fine fettle.”

 

Lala’s guest room for the holiday was considerably larger than the first apartment she had in New York City when she moved there after college. And it was rather a bit more opulent, given that her fifth-floor walk-up with a bathtub in the kitchen wasn’t quite up to the standards of an Architectural Digest spread.

A bottle of champagne sat in an ice bucket next to her bed. Lala popped it open and poured a full glass.

Lala lay down on the lush canopy bed for just a moment and woke up forty-five minutes later when Marie-Laure knocked on her door. The first thing she noticed when she opened her eyes was that she hadn’t had any of the champagne before she fell asleep.

“Are you ready, chère Lala?”

Lala grabbed the glass and chugged the contents.

“I’ll be down in five minutes, Marie-Laure! I fell asleep! That drive must have been way more stressful than I realized.”

Lala put on her sundress. It was a lovely soft cotton in light blue and it had a wide belt in the same fabric. She had specifically bought it for the Bastille Day celebration at a cozy boutique near her apartment that was owned by a friend of Kenny’s. Kenny had dragged her there under protest.

“I hate shopping! I look stupid in just about every outfit I ever try on! I have no visual taste and I don’t know what I’m doing! I’m not going to the party! I don’t want to go shopping!”

Once in the dressing room, having been given a selection of items by Kenny’s very warm and welcoming friend Simone, protest turned to praise as soon as Lala tried on the first dress.

“Omigod! This dress makes me look like I have a waist! I can’t wait to show it off at the party!”

Lala walked down the staircase with the bottle of champagne in one hand and her glass in the other. She was barefoot and had gotten a manicure and pedicure the day before, because Marie-Laure told her there would be lots of “adventures without shoes and much bathing” that weekend.

Lala didn’t normally get pedicures because it was hard for her to sit still that long and because she didn’t much like her toes. A friend in college had seen her toes for the first time a year or two after they met and was shocked and worried.

“Were you in some kind of horrible farm accident?” the friend had asked.

“I . . . No, I didn’t grow up on a farm. I haven’t spent much time on a . . . Why do you ask?”

“Why didn’t you warn me that you have these strange little hobbit toes?”

Lala’s friend had then taken to referring to any sandals that Lala wore as her “so-called open-toed shoes” and had ostentatiously made air quotation marks as she said that, and had cackled at her cleverness every time as though it were the first time she had ever come up with that memorable quip.

Lala had lost touch with her friend after they graduated. A bit by design. And had been a bit self-conscious about her toes ever since.

The second glass of champagne she was drinking as she walked through the doors that led to the endless lawn and gardens behind the house, and the image of herself in her new dress that she had enjoyed in the mirror before she left her room, had helped to put that thought about her feet on the back burner of a stove in a different time zone.

That and the fact that Gérard leapt up from the vast picnic blanket he was sitting on with a group of people to greet Lala with a radiant smile.

Oh, merde, Lala thought. How do you still make my heart race? And why do you look so much like my Terrence? That is just the weirdest thing on record.

“Lala! Come meet our friends!”

Lala did her best to focus on all the names she was hearing for the first time. It was a little hit-or-miss throughout the day and the evening, both of which involved lots of delicious food and more champagne than Lala thought she had ever seen in one place at one time, including at her wedding to Terrence.

“Pierre? Is it Pierre? Am I remembering that correctly?” she said to the debonair older man who had joined her on the terrace to open a new bottle. She had discovered when they were standing next to each other in line at one of the many buffet tables that they were both vegetarians, and she had grabbed every opportunity since then to flirt with him.

“It is Pierre,” the gentleman said, smiling. “I like the way you pop. Did Gérard tell you that all of this is from his family’s vineyard?

“Get outta town!” Lala said. “That is wicked cool! Oh, and just to confirm, that’s an American idiom. I don’t literally want you to leave Reims.”

Lala had, early on, given up the idea of trying to speak French to anyone at the party because they all spoke English so perfectly and because she didn’t want to hurt their ears.

“Pierre,” Lala continued. She filled their glasses and winked at him. “Apropos idioms, I heard the most adorable French one recently. The grumpy fruit vendor near my apartment said it to me the other day, and I don’t think she meant it as a compliment. It seems that I parle français comme une vache espagnole!”

Lala saw Pierre recoil and just as quickly try to hide that he was doing that.

“Aren’t you gallant!” she said. “And is that an adorable way of describing not speaking French well, or what! Like a Spanish cow! Which I’ve never heard speak French, but I can’t imagine it sounds very good! I should, in my own defense, point out that it’s my accent, as you just noticed and don’t pretend you didn’t, you sweet man, that causes the problems. My syntax and vocabulary and grammar are, I think, quite pas mal, if I do say so myself. Oh, look, they’re choosing teams for pétanque!”

Though Lala’s physical skills were almost exclusively to be found at the gym or on a hike, she had heard about this popular French version of bocce before, and on that Bastille Day she ended up being quite good at it on her maiden foray into the sport. Possibly, as she theorized somewhat stridently, because the champagne was loosening her pitching arm.

She sent her steel ball rolling toward the small wooden ball that the players were trying to get their aim closest to. Lala’s ball landed, rolled, and came to rest just a few centimeters from the goal. Lala pumped her fist in the air and turned to one of her teammates.

“Oui! The bubbly is kickin’ in, mes amis! Pas mal for a beginner, huh, Clothilde? Did I get that right? It is Clothilde, isn’t it? We are winning this thing, huh!”

Gérard was on the losing team and was very noble in defeat when Lala ran up to him waving her steel ball in his face at the end of the match.

“Nous avons gagné, SUCKA!”

“Toutes mes felicitations, chère Lala,” he said.

“And we’re having your family’s champagne? What? You weren’t perfect enough already?”

Oh, jeez, Lala thought. Way to act like you’re still in love with him. Change the subject. STAT.

“You know, something just occurred to me, Gérard, and I’m feeling very ungracious that I haven’t asked about this before now. Where’s your grand-mère?

“She’ll be here a bit later. She’s at a demonstration in town. Her women’s political group organized a protest against the mayor. He called a female reporter a little tart, loosely translated. That didn’t sit well with my grandmother. If he knows what’s good for him, he’ll issue a public apology. My grandmother doesn’t give up easily.”

“She sounds great! I can’t wait to meet her!”

Lala paused and smiled at Gérard and suspected that she looked like a crazy person. Like a crazy person in love. That was something she had done more than once when she worked with Gérard in New York and had a painfully overwhelming crush on him. Something she had done more than once a day. Often repeatedly in one hour. Before she knew that Gérard had a gorgeous girlfriend named Marie-Laure.

Lala could only keep smiling and bobbing her head at Gérard while she searched for an exit line. At last, one popped into her mind.

It’s not melodic, but it’ll have to do, she thought.

“Okey doke. See ya around!”

Just before the fireworks in town were to begin, the buffet tables were once again loaded with an infinite spread of savory and sweet treats. The champagne bottles, Lala suspected, were spontaneously regenerating themselves in a legendary wonder of nature that had no actual basis in scientific fact.

The view from the estate was gorgeous, and Lala was sent into paroxysms of delight with each explosion of lights and colors. She was sitting on one of many picnic blankets, and had chosen her spot to be as far away from Gérard as possible so that she wouldn’t be tempted to embarrass herself again by wearing her heart on her sleeveless arms. That concern being momentarily abated, Lala gave herself free reign to wax loony about the patriotic fireworks display.

“Wow! Look at that one! That is incredible! Omigosh, look at that one! It’s even bigger ’n’ better ’n’ brighter than the last one! Wow! That one might be the best so far! Wow! Wow Wow Wow Wow WOW!”

Lala turned to the man sitting next to her on the blanket and raised her champagne glass.

“Those are some fabulous feux d’artifice, huh!”

The man smiled and nodded and clinked his glass against Lala’s.

“Vive la France!” Lala cheered. “Listen, Pascal, can you get someone to hit ‘Pause’? I really need to run inside for a brief bathroom break, and I don’t want to miss any of this! It is Pascal, isn’t it?”

Lala scrambled up off the blanket and ran into the house. As soon as she got inside, she felt just a little dizzy, possibly from having stood up too quickly and having jogged the short distance to the house too exuberantly after having so much delicious champagne. Lala noticed that there was a door ajar just down the hallway to her left and glimpsed a wall of books through the opening. She immediately thought that the trip to the bathroom could wait, and that her equilibrium would no doubt benefit from being in a library. She slipped inside the dimly-lit room and peered at the titles on the shelf nearest to the door at her eye-level. The books all looked old, and all of the titles were in French. She continued on along the wall and saw several titles in English and Italian in the next sections of the shelves. She returned to the first shelves she had seen and stood on her toes to search the titles higher above her head. One of the first books she saw on that upper level made her gasp. Lala carefully extracted a thick volume with ornate letters on the spine reading Le Comte de Monte Cristo.

As Lala turned to the center of the room with the idea of picking out a comfortable chair to sit in so she could wallow in the original French of her favorite classic novel, she was startled when a door at the far end of the room opened and a petite woman in a sleek black pantsuit entered the room. The woman had a tight grey bun and she wore a large pair of glasses that somehow managed to look elegant even as they took up much of her small face.

“Oh, je suis désolée, Madame. Excusez-moi,” Lala said.

The woman smiled and strode across the room with her hand extended.

“Ah, Gérard and Marie-Laure’s American! Welcome. Je suis Arlette, Gérard’s grandmother.” She spoke with a voice that sounded somewhat strained and raspy.

Arlette shook Lala’s hand, then kissed her on both cheeks and took a look at the book Lala was holding.

“You have excellent taste, my dear! That’s my favorite.”

“Mine, too!” Lala said. “Je m’appelle Lala, and I am so happy to meet you. How was the protest?”

“Effective,” Arlette said.

“Brava! I’m so sorry I snuck into your library. It is heavenly.”

“Not a bit. Come sit with me for a moment. I’ve been standing all day shouting and waving signs.”

Arlette led Lala to a small sofa. They sat down next to each other, and Arlette put her clenched hand to her lips and tried to clear her throat.

“Wait,” Lala said. “Perhaps some of your family’s incredible champagne would help soothe your voice?”

Arlette smiled and said, “I feel sure it would.”

“I’ll be right back.”

Lala ran out to the lawn, grabbed a bottle off the buffet table, secured two clean glasses, and rushed back inside, calling back to Gérard, who was on the patio as she zipped past him.

“Your grandmother is, I suspect, utterly fabuleuse!”

Lala scooted back onto the couch, where she popped the bottle, poured, and handed a glass to Arlette. Arlette took a deep sip and patted her collarbone with her fingertips.

“Much better. Merci mille fois. My dear, am I remembering correctly? Did you and Gérard work together in New York?”

Ohhh, merde, Lala thought. She knows. He told her.

“Mmm,” Lala said.

Lala paused. Arlette covered Lala’s free hand with hers and gave it a quick squeeze. They both took several sips of champagne before Lala spoke again.

“I had such a crush on your grandson. Of course I didn’t know about Marie-Laure until . . . and then . . . I kind of had a bit of a complete and utter meltdown at work.”

“Mmm,” Arlette said.

“Gérard looks just like my late husband.”

“Oh, my dear. You were widowed? I’m so sorry.”

The door Lala had entered the library through opened wide and a gangly older man stopped in the doorway when he saw the two women inside the room.

“Ah, Étienne, mon cher,” Arlette said. “Come meet my new friend, Lala. She’s the American.”

Lala stood and Étienne took her hand and kissed it.

“Enchanté,” he said. He bent to kiss Arlette on both cheeks and clasped his hands together in supplication as he straightened again.

“Will you two lovely ladies forgive me if I leave you so soon? I must retire.” Étienne tilted his head toward Arlette and smiled at Lala. “Protesting with my wife is exhausting for an old fellow like me. I shall see you tomorrow, yes?”

“Absolutely,” Lala said.

The women watched Étienne leave the room and close the door behind him.

“How nice that Gérard’s grandfather supports your causes,” Lala said.

“It is nice, indeed,” Arlette said. “Étienne is not, however, Gérard’s grandfather. My first husband died many years ago.”

“I’m so sorry.”

Lala paused and took another sip of champagne.

“And you found love again.”

“Twice,” Arlette said. “Étienne is my third husband.”

“Wow,” Lala said. “You are brave. And you are my hero. I’ve found love again. Once. What happened to your second husband?”

“He died.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry. You were widowed twice. I imagine the second time was just as awful as the first time. Or worse?”

“Worse in some ways, yes. It was a long time ago. Are you and your second love getting married?”

Lala shook her head and shrugged her shoulders.

“I don’t know. Maybe I’m too scared. I don’t think I can do it again. I can’t be brave like you. I can’t be widowed again.”

Arlette picked up the bottle and filled their glasses.

“This is why the Good Lord made champagne,” she said. “And why he made us strong.”

“I don’t know. It’s just that . . . I keep thinking about how I have no hope of ever seeing or speaking to Terrence again. Not in this lifetime. Afterlife? I hope so. But I miss him now.”

Arlette nodded.

“He had this way of saying ‘sure’ that was a little different from the way I say it, and I always thought it was so adorable. And he said it a lot, because he was so agreeable. I’d say something and he’d concur, and he’d express that by saying ‘Shore, shore.’ Not ‘shur,’ the way I pronounce it. It was ‘shore.’ I have video of Terrence. I haven’t been able to watch any of it yet. But I know I don’t have video of him saying ‘Shore, shore’.”

Lala paused and tried to catch her breath so she could then whisper a thought that she often returned to.

“If I could just have dinner with him once a year. Once every ten years. That would be enough. I could look forward to that and it would be enough now.”

“You know I understand,” Arlette said. “Most of us who have experienced what you have understand.”

“David is wonderful. Kind and lovely and wonderful, just like Terrence. And he’s alive. Now. Even if he breaks up with me because I’m basically a high-functioning lunatic, at least I could still see him every five or ten years. Unless he takes out a restraining order. And even then I could at least force a hug on him and hear his voice before the police show up to enforce it.”

Arlette let out a hearty, dirty laugh that sounded like a bark. It made Lala love her even more than she already did. Lala beamed at her.

“You’re so fabuleuse. You remind me of my favorite aunt. You two have to meet sometime. This may be the best champagne I have ever had. Kudos to you and your family. If David dies, I’ll never be able to see him or speak to him again. No matter where I go, no matter what I do. I don’t think I could stand that again.”

Arlette took Lala’s hand. Neither of them put their champagne glasses down.

“My dear, may I tell you a little story?”

“Of course,” Lala said. “I would love that.”

“I was devastated when Gérard’s grandfather died. I felt as though my life was over, as though I wanted it to be over because I couldn’t bear to be in so much pain. And then I met Antonio. He was Italian and he was wonderful and he was fifteen years younger than I was.”

“Wow,” Lala said. “That is very cool.”

And a much better bet, statistically speaking, Lala thought.

“And very safe, wouldn’t you expect?” Arlette asked.

“That’s actually exactly what I was thinking,” Lala admitted.

“By rights, he should have been the one to lose me. But it didn’t work out that way. Because there are no guarantees.”

“Mmm. It would be nice if there were,” Lala said.

“Mmm,” Arlette agreed. “Étienne is several years older than I am. Who knows what will happen? Perhaps we’ll both die on the same day, within minutes of each other. That happens sometimes. Sometimes you just get lucky. And how lucky we are to find more than one person to love us.”

“But . . .” Lala began. “If we’re widowed again . . .” She realized that she had to wipe away a few tears.

“Oh, I’m not going to be widowed again,” Arlette announced. “Everything I just told you is entirely theoretical. I have made it very clear to Étienne that I will be going first. I have told him this many times.”

“Oh?” Lala said. “And what does he say when you tell him that?”

“He doesn’t say much. He usually just wags his finger at me in a very affectionate way, which I take as an indication that he knows that I know how poignantly ridiculous my demand is. And then we have lovely sex.”

“Oh,” Lala said. “Nice.”

I think I’ve found a new mentor, Lala thought. Not to replace Geraldine. In addition to . . .

Arlette tapped the cover of the book Lala was holding.

“Our favorite,” Arlette said. Lala nodded her head vigorously.

“It’s my Bible. My Talmud. My Qur’an. My Baghavad Gita. My Atheist’s Guide to the Universe. I just made that last one up. I don’t know if it actually exists.”

“The last words of our favorite book?” Arlette asked.

Lala nodded again.

“Wait and hope,” Lala said at the same moment that Arlette said, “Attendre et espérer.”

“And the subtext?” Arlette said.

“The . . . the subtext of what?”

“Of those words?”

Uh oh, Lala thought.

“Umm . . . gimme a sec . . . That we should wait and hope?”

“That we should live. Without fear. As I have learned, my dear, if you give up on love you give up on your life.”

Lala smiled at Arlette and nodded.

“I’m very literal, so subtext is not my forte. That’s why I need a writing partner when I work on a screenplay. You know, where subtext counts for a lot ’n’ stuff.”

There was a knocking at one of the tall, wide windows and they both jumped up a little at the sudden sound. Thankfully, no champagne was spilled. They looked over to the window and saw Gérard standing outside on the patio, peering into the library. He waved at them. Arlette went to the window and opened it. Gérard leaned in and enveloped his grandmother in a very loving hug.

“When did you get back?”

“Just now, mon cher,” Arlette said. “I have been having a lovely visit with our dear Lala, and I think now you want to have her back, oui?”

“Si je peux,” Gérard said. “The pool beckons.”

“It’s excellent timing. I shall join my husband and you young people shall go swimming.”

“Wonderful. Vite, vite, Lala.”

Gérard shut the windows and waved at them again before he hurried out of their range of sight. Arlette walked back to the couch and took Lala’s chin in her hand. She looked Lala in the eyes with a warm and earnest gaze.

“Please tell your dear aunt and your dear David that I will hope to meet them one day soon. Perhaps on a very celebratory occasion. And I suspect you may have some idea of what my subtext is when I say that. If not, ask your writing partner.”

 

Lala had hugged Arlette and had promised her that she would reflect on Arlette’s example. Then she had rushed upstairs and had put on her favorite bathing suit of all time, and in fact the only swimming ensemble she currently owned. She bought it many years ago when she still lived in New York for a bachelorette weekend at a resort in Montauk for one of her college friends. Like a classic little black dress, it was one piece and slimming. She loved the way she looked in it.

Yes, she had thought as she did an enjoyable once-over in the mirror, no one will notice my hobbit toes in this.

And then she had paused for a moment to remember how her critical friend had once asked Lala if she was concerned that her lack of foot digits might one day result in her not being able to stand upright, and basically just tumbling forward whenever she stood because her feet had nothing with which to balance and grip? To which Lala had responded, “It’s worked for me so far, you snippy bitch.” And then Lala had laughed insouciantly to indicate that her friend’s cutting observations were of no consequence to her. Which they kind of were. And kind of always would be to an extent as tiny as her toes.

When Lala got downstairs and approached the pool, the first thing she immediately noticed was that no one else was wearing a bathing suit. Or a tee shirt. Or a pair of shorts. Or anything at all.

Because, what with the naked shoulders bobbing out of the pool and the unclothed bodies lounging in the lounge chairs, it was a detail that was hard to miss.

Oh, Lala thought. Well.

Gérard saw Lala and swam over to the edge of the pool. He walked up the stairs and approached her. Naked.

Yikes, I’ve never seen his wiener before, she thought. I’ve never actually even seen his bare chest before. Don’t stare. No need to stare. Everything probably looks exactly like Terrence’s. God, how am I not going to swoon? How am I not going to do something crazy tonight?

“Hey! Hi! Yeah! Fun!” Lala said. “I’m overdressed!”

I sound demented, she thought.

“Pas du tout,” Gérard said. “Nudity is not obligatory. I need more champagne.”

He put his arm around her waist and led her to one of the buffet tables.

Don’t stare, she thought. Do not stare. I would absolutely love to get a good look at it, though. Omigosh, there’s Marie-Laure. God, her boobs are fabulous.

“There you are!” Marie-Laure said. She jogged over and kissed Lala. On the mouth.

Whoa, Lala thought. Hello. That was very pleasant. And more than a little surprising.

Marie-Laure grabbed a champagne bottle, grabbed Lala’s hand, and ran back to the pool with her. Lala planted her feet halfway there and stopped. Marie-Laure gave her a questioning look. Lala quickly slid the straps of her bathing suit off her shoulders, wriggled it down her hips, stepped out of it, and kicked it off to the side. Then she grabbed Marie-Laure’s hand and continued to the pool.

“I was feeling conspicuous,” Lala explained. “Don’t look at my toes.”

The two women stood at the top of the double-steps that led into the center of the pool. They grasped the middle rail as they walked down together. Lala tried not to make it obvious that she was checking out the other guests checking her out.

I feel good, she thought. This is fun. I wish David were here. So we could have fun like this. Together. Naked.

“You have such lovely breasts,” Marie-Laure said.

“Ditto,” Lala said. “And I think I’m blushing.” And how’s your boyfriend’s wiener? she silently asked. I’m guessing great, n’est-ce pas? I’ve kind of always wanted to know. Not kind of. Actually.

“This water is amazing,” Lala said. She stepped off the stairs and the water, which was as warm as a Jacuzzi, enveloped her up to her shoulders. She noticed that there was no chlorine smell to bother her nose. She dipped her index finger in the water and touched the tip of it to her tongue.

“Are you serious? This is saltwater? This is a saltwater pool?” Marie-Laure nodded happily and Lala shook her head admiringly. “Damn it, y’all are so cool!”

Marie-Laure drank directly from the champagne bottle she was holding and passed it to Lala. As Lala took a big swig, Gérard landed next to them in the water in the form of a smooth cannonball. Lala and Marie-Laure laughed and sputtered and wiped saltwater off their faces. Gérard emerged from the water like a male Venus. Lala fully expected him to be standing on a gigantic half clamshell.

The champagne bottle made a full round through the trio and then was passed around one more time in the opposite direction. Lala could feel her fingertips starting to prune. She was staring at her right hand and rubbing her fingertips together when Gérard calmly handed the champagne bottle back to Marie-Laure and grabbed Lala and kissed her. Their bodies were suddenly right up against each other in the pool. And she was kissing him back. And then while she was reeling from having a years-long fantasy become a tipsy reality, she was suddenly kissing Marie-Laure, and it was a great kiss, and it was even better than the kiss she had shared with Gérard. The two women released each other, and Lala saw that Gérard had been watching them kiss and that he was really enjoying it.

“Is it just me, or is their unbridled delight at girl-on-girl both adorable and irritating?” she asked Marie-Laure.

“Not just you,” Marie-Laure said. “Both. Pas de question.”

“God, this is so much fun,” Lala said. “But you know what’s missing?”

“Clive?”

Lala noticed Gérard responding to Marie-Laure’s uncensored enthusiasm for the British movie star with a quick flash of irritation. And she gave him credit for just as quickly changing his expression into a classic Casanova’s “I’m up for any permutation” stance.

“Well, sure, Clive’s adorable, but I was thinking of my fiancé . . .”

 . . . to-be-my-fiancé?, Lala thought.

“David,” Lala said. “My fiancé. Full stop. If he’ll still have me. Please forgive me. I’ve got to be somewhere.”

“You are somewhere,” Gérard said. He winked at Lala and looked very pleased with himself.

Oh, and how bilingually clever do we imagine we are? Lala thought. Stay cocky, mon ami. And, no, I just can’t entirely stop thinking about your penis.

Lala smiled at Gérard and patted his wet shoulder with her dripping hand. She realized that she wasn’t being very successful in keeping her smile or her pat from seeping over into the realm of the patronizing. And so she reconciled herself to the near certainty that her next words would also be rather condescending.

“Somewhere else,” she said. “Vite, vite.”

 

It was agreed, reluctantly by Lala and only after extensive lecturing by everyone except Pierre, who had given up trying to “persuade this woman of anything because she is an American and they are notoriously stubborn,” that it was far too late and Lala was far too drunk to drive back to Paris that night, and she would just have to wait until the morning.

“And, no, there won’t be any trains running at this hour, Lala,” Pierre had huffed on his way to his bedroom. “This is France. We aren’t as obsessive as you Americans are. We’re not a twenty-four-hour society, merci beaucoup.”

Clearly Lala had whined the question, “But can’t I catch a traaaaiiiiiin?” once too often for Pierre’s liking.

Lala marched up the stairs in a snit of drunken petulance. If Lala’s beloved mother was watching her daughter from Heaven, she would at least have been comforted to note that her sometimes bossy child was making a point of putting her feet down very gently as she stomped on the steps, and was whispering her outrage rather than shouting it so as to “not wake your lovely grand-mère, Gérard, though if she were awake, I feel sure that wonderful and inspiring lady would agree with me that love is patient, love is kind and it does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud, and that those words especially apply to driving to Charles de Gaulle in the middle of the night.”

Lala took a hot shower when she got back to her room, and for a minute she felt entirely confident that she had sobered up enough to drive. She was going to march right back downstairs, declare her conviction to everyone, and demand that they get her car out of the multi-car garage that was somewhere on the property, right after she took a tiny little five-minute cat nap.

When she next opened her eyes, the glass in the windows was covered with torrential rain. She had been sleeping naked on her stomach the whole night and well into and beyond the morning. Lala hadn’t managed to dry her wet hair or even free it from the towel turban she had created.

She lifted her throbbing head and her bloodshot eyes saw that a large breakfast tray had been set up next to her bed. She smelled the tantalizing aroma of especially fragrant coffee.

I think I need to barf, she thought.

She put her head back down on the bed and waited for the moment to pass, which it thankfully eventually did. While she was trying not to have to vomit, Lala silently prayed that it had not been Gérard who had delivered the food to her room, not because she was, in principle, opposed to him seeing her naked, as her willing participation in the skinny dipping had clearly substantiated, but because she felt confident that splayed on a bed with her limbs twisted in unnatural directions was probably not a staging that would be showing her at her best.

As soon as she was sure she wasn’t going to be sick, Lala, without stopping to think that it might be a bad idea given the possibly tentative calming of her hangover, ate the scrambled eggs and the flaky, buttery croissant (to which she paused to add apricot confiture) and the sautéed new potatoes, and chugged all the coffee straight from the pot because pouring it into a cup seemed as unnecessary a step as transferring Häagen-Dazs Vanilla Swiss Almond from the container to a bowl before she ate it all while watching yet another episode of an irresistibly addictive television show.

Lala sat straight up after swallowing the last mouthful and scrunched her lips upward in an expression of nervous anticipation. After three very loud burps, she felt that maybe her future held respite rather than disaster, and she decided she was willing to risk standing. She tottered upward and stood swaying for several moments.

Okay, I think I’m good.

She tottered to the bathroom and peered in the mirror.

Oh. Well. Okay. Maybe those creases will eventually come out of my face.

Lala unwrapped the terrycloth from her head. Her still-damp hair, which had essentially been tightly trapped in an impromptu steam room for hours, was crimped and crinkled in some sections and dreadfully flat and lifeless in others. It also smelled vaguely of mold.

The shower she took that rainy day in that exquisite estate in that lovely, world-famous town outside the French capital lasted forty-five minutes. When Lala would speak of it in the future, she would describe it as “the closest I have ever come to communing with the divine.”

She held the blow dryer to her strands until they were bone dry. Then Lala quickly dressed, quickly packed up her belongings, and ran down the stairs carrying the tray with her. She found Gérard and Marie-Laure and Arlette and Étienne in the kitchen, where they had just finished having lunch. All the other guests had already headed home.

“I had a wonderful time!” Lala said. “Thank you so much for everything. You must promise me that you will come stay with us in Manhattan Beach so I can reciprocate. I don’t mean to be abrupt, but I’m in a terrible hurry, as I suspect I may have explained, repeatedly and in a slurring voice, last night. Breakfast was delicious! Thank you so much! Gérard, you weren’t the one who brought it up to my room, were you?”

Lala’s car, as it happened, was already waiting for her in the circular driveway, having been brought out of the garage by her new life coach, Arlette. The four of them walked Lala outside, each one brandishing a large umbrella against the still pouring rain. Gérard put Lala’s bag in the backseat. Lala got in the driver’s seat and buckled her seatbelt.

“Godspeed, my lovely girl,” Arlette whispered to Lala. She kissed her on both cheeks. “No matter what the outcome, please remember that I am proud of you for doing this.” Lala grasped her hand and squeezed it.

“I think there’s a good chance that I wouldn’t have the courage to do this if I hadn’t met you,” she said.

“Then I’m especially glad we met,” Arlette said.

Lala closed the door and rolled down the window. Gérard leaned in and caressed her cheek with his palm for a moment. As suddenly as Lala had felt the pressure of his hand on her face, it was gone. She blinked and shook her head imperceptibly and focused on not blushing.

“You will be okay driving back?” Gérard asked.

“Of course!” Lala said. “I’m very good on freeways. Highways. Motorways. Whatever the fuck y’all call them.”

 

Lala’s hands had been clenched in white-knuckled terror for so long, she was starting to suspect that arthritis might be the permanent result of her misguided bravado.

She had just pulled into a rest stop at the side of the . . . she still didn’t know what it was actually called, so she kept thinking of it as a freeway, but in a futile attempt at distraction from the hell she had inflicted on herself, she was thinking of the route in the literal French translation of free and way, manières libres, which had been good for exactly one silent grunt of a chuckle as she tried to stay calm while maneuvering along the road with semi-trucks and high-class automobiles that were giving no adjustment to their driving because of the torrents of rain all around them.

Lala sat in the parking lot of the rest stop. The lights of the small snack shop behind the gas pumps read as blurry and melting through the water cascading down the car. Lala stretched her stiff fingers over and over again.

I’m not a good driver in sunshine, she thought. She shook her head and was surprised to find herself beginning to hum The Wedding March. God, I really have to pee.

Lala threw the door open and ran into the store. It wasn’t much of a distance, but she was soaked by the time she got inside. She blinked to adjust to the bright lights. A woman was standing behind the counter with her back to the door. She was reading a magazine. Lala walked up to the counter. She assumed the woman must have heard the door open and close. She assumed the woman must have felt the increasingly irritated energy of Lala’s unacknowledged presence. The woman did not, however, turn around or take her eyes off the magazine.

Oh for fuck’s sake, Lala thought.

“Excusez-moi?” she said.

The woman took a full beat to even lift her head, let alone turn around, which took another full count of ten.

Omigod! Lala thought when she finally saw the woman’s face! It’s the dreaded daughter! What the fuck is her name again?

“Madame Pettt-eeeettttt-BOWWWNNN,” the woman sneered with a pronounced look of aggressive disappointment.

Omigod, no, Lala thought. No, no, I do not have the energy to deal with this . . .

“Oh, gosh, please, call me Lala,” Lala said.

“Nice to see you again, LaLAAAAA,” the woman said, with no hint of pleasure in her voice or face.

Oh god, Lala thought. No. That’s almost worse.

“Bathroom?” she begged.

The woman made a quick jerking motion with her head toward a short hallway in the middle of the far wall. Lala ran in that direction, yanked the door open, scooted inside the bathroom, and bolted the door behind her like one being pursued by a mythical beast.

What is her damn name? she thought.

Lala came out of the bathroom a few minutes later, after soaking her hands in hot water, which made them feel much better. She smiled at the woman and tried to sound gracious.

“How’s your dear papa?”

“My pa-PAAAA?” the woman said. “Oh, he is very fine, thank you. He was very much enjoying working on the movie for which you hired him, and he is now an actor and he is very happy.”

“That’s nice,” Lala said uncertainly. The woman’s clear disdain was making her increasingly nervous.

“He is fine, my pa-PAAAA,” the woman repeated. “I, however, am not.”

“Oh,” Lala said. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

I realize that dashing out right now without another word would be very rude, even in the face of her appreciable lack of courtesy, Lala thought. That’s not the issue. The issue is, do I care?

“Yes, well, my FATHERRRR has insisted that I work here, you see, since I no longer have a building to manage for him because now that building is YOURRRR building.”

“Uh, yeah,” Lala said.

“And now he says I must learn some proper VAAAAALUES, and I must work here because it is owned by a friend of his, and my father got me this job so I can LEARRRRRN.”

I may be having a mild stroke, Lala thought. She realized that she had subconsciously decided to start moving herself, millimeter by millimeter, toward the urgent but distant promise of the exit.

“My father is now only paying for my rent and my credit card bills. Everything else, I must pay for with what I earn here, La-LAAAAA.”

Lala winced at the sound of her name, then twitched, and then jerked her head back involuntarily as though to get her ears as far away as possible. She almost hit the base of her skull against a rack with magnifying eyeglasses on it that she had somehow moved herself dangerously close to.

“And what I earn here,” the woman said, “is a pittance.”

She does speak English very well, Lala thought. “Pittance.” You don’t hear that every day in Manhattan Beach. What is her name? This is going to drive me nuts . . . Why isn’t she wearing a name tag? Isn’t that the law, or something? Maybe not in France . . .

“Right, well, okay,” Lala said. “Good luck, then.”

And with that, Lala bolted for the door. And skidded to a stop just before she opened it.

“Umm . . . what is this called?” she asked, and gestured outside.

“This?” the woman repeated with unfettered disdain. “Rain?”

“The road? What is a big road, a highway, freeway . . . What is it called in French?”

“Ohhh,” the woman groaned as if she had been inconvenienced and insulted beyond the outermost boundaries of civilization. “L’autoroute?”

“Omigosh, of course,” Lala said, and actually slapped her forehead, just in case her words weren’t enough to indicate her exasperation with how dense she had been.

And, Lala thought, I think I may be starting to get subtext, because the clear unspoken message that last word she spat at me is that I am, in her estimation, a complete idiot.

Lala smiled at the woman, waved good-bye, and ran out into the rain. She lunged for the door to her car and slid inside, even more soaked than she had been when she had entered the store.

Actually, I’m a bit pipped at my Gallic Heartthrob, Lala thought. I don’t know why Gérard didn’t just tell me it’s an autoroute before I drove away. It might have brought me some measure of, well, if not peace, then at least closure, during this shit show of a journey.

And then Lala suddenly remembered something because she hadn’t been trying to remember it for the past few minutes since her focus had been distracted by the French word for “freeway,” and she once again slapped her forehead in a universal gesture of regret and recrimination.

“Celestine! Of course! Her name is Celestine!”

That was going to drive me nuts all the way to Paris, Lala thought as she started the car up again and shifted it into gear. Okay, let’s get this shit show of a journey back on the road, shall we?