Faking It (18 page)

Luc looks right at my moisturizer blemish and smiles. Before I can stop him, and much to my horror, he reaches out and blends the moisturizer in with the tip of his finger.

“Thank you,” I mumble.

Will I ever get it together, present a smooth, sophisticated appearance, or am I destined to make a fool out of myself every single time I see Luc? He certainly looks sophisticated in his linen suit, white shirt opened at the neck, and expensive Italian loafers.

“You’re welcome.” Luc slides his hands in his pockets, unwittingly striking a pose like one of those hot Calvin Klein models. “And no, I didn’t.’

He’s smiling with his eyes. I think Tyra Banks calls it
smizing
. His eyes are sparkling, and in this light, they appear more green than brown.

“What?”

“You asked if I slept well. No, I didn’t.”

“Oh.” I make a lopsided smile. “Sorry.”

“Hey, did you know some people believe Percy Shelley had an affair with Mary’s stepsister, Claire?”

“Where did you read that?”

“I googled it.” He grins. “I googled you, too.”

“You googled me?”

Luc nods. “All night long.”

Under normal circumstances, I might find Luc’s confession alarming and pseudo-stalkerish, but here, in the south of France, I find it flattering, thrilling even.

I’m about to utter something cheesy like,
“Was it as good for you as it was for me?”
when Fanny joins us.

“What’s up, Jean-Luc?”

“I was just telling Vivia something I learned about Mary Shelley.”

“Is that right?”

“Feel free to use that information in your novel, just make sure you list my name in your dedication.” Luc turns his thousand watt smile on me, speaking as if Fanny doesn’t exist.

I’m so discombobulated by his smizing and googling, I can only manage a mumbled, “I will.”

“So what do you two have planned in Cannes?” Luc asks, looking at Fanny. “Will you be joining Chantal for her historical and cultural tour? She’s a wonderful guide, brimming with little known facts about the city. Most people say it’s the highlight of their trip.”

I would be a big fat moisturizer-smudged liar if I said Luc’s little Chantal pep rally didn’t make me jealous.

“It sounds like it would be an interesting day, but I’m spending the day with some of my childhood friends.”

“Are you from Cannes?”

“No,” Fanny says, proudly lifting her chin. Fanny prides herself on her Parisian heritage and accent, so I’m sure Luc’s question piqued her. “I was born in Paris, but I spent my summers at my father’s home in Cannes.”

“That’s nice.” Luc turns to me. “What about you, Vivia? Will you join Stéphanie or Chantal’s tour?”

“Neither.”

“Luc.” Chantal has stepped off the minibus, clipboard in hand, and is motioning for Luc to join her. “
Un moment, s'il vous plaît
.”

“Excuse me.”

Fanny turns her back to Luc and Chantal.

“I think he wanted to invite you to spend the day with him,” she whispers.

“What? No.” I shake my head. “No. No. No… Really? You think?”

“Yeah, totally.”

I lean in, whispering, “He googled me.”

“When?” Fanny whispers back.

“Last night.”

“I hope he used protection.”

“Ha ha.”

“He told you he googled you?”

“Yes!”

“Luc likes you. He really likes you. He lovvvvvvves you,” Fanny says in a singsong voice. “He wants to marry you.”

Someone clears their throat and we both jump. Fanny doesn’t turn around. She just stares at me with wide, horrified eyes. I don’t even have to look behind her. I
know
Luc is standing there by the nauseating roiling of my stomach and the prickly hot perspiration spreading over my body.

“The luggage has been loaded.” Luc’s voice is monotone and his expression flat. “We’ll depart for Cannes as soon as everyone gets on the bus.”

Luc doesn’t wait for our response. He turns and walks back to the front of the bus, standing near the door.

“Oh my God!” I whisper, slapping Fanny’s arm. “What are you, eight?”

“Sorry,” she whispers. “Do you think he heard?”

I shrug.

Fanny avoids Luc’s gaze as she steps onto the bus. If I weren’t so embarrassed myself, I would feel sorry for her.

I’m about to climb up the steps when Luc leans forward and whispers in my ear, his warm breath fanning my perspiration slick neck. “It’s too soon to know if the end of Stéphanie’s song was accurate, but the beginning was dead-on. I do like you, Vivia. I
really
like you.”

Let Me Live That Fantasy

Someone needs to pinch me hard. On second thought, don’t pinch me. If I am dreaming, I don’t want to wake up. Ever. I’m standing on the balcony of a suite at the Hotel Martinez, watching the beautiful people stroll along the
Croisette
, a palm tree-lined promenade hugging the shore of the Mediterranean Sea. We’ve stayed at some pretty swank hotels on this trip, but none of them have been as glamorous as the Hotel Martinez. When the posh set wants to chill in Cannes, the Hotel Martinez is their preferred crash pad.

“During the film festival, this is the celebrity hotel,” Fanny whispers as we are shown to our room. “Elizabeth Taylor. Robert Redford. Jett Depp. Orlando Bloom. Marion Cotillard. They have all stayed here. Think about it, Vivian. The bed you sleep in tonight might have been used by Bradley Cooper.”

“I don’t like Bradley Cooper.”

“Colin Farrell, Brad Pitt. Take your pick.”

“I’ll have both, please. Just not at the same time because that would totally ruin the fantasy.” I shuddered
.
“Great! Now I have an image of Colin Farrell and Brad Pitt in bed together.”

“Would you be serious, Vivian?”

“Sorry,” I say, bowing my head
.
“I will try to show the proper amount of reverence for the Holy Hotel Martinez, hallowed sanctuary of the rich and famous.”

“Thank you.”

Honestly, I’m not as impressed by celebrities as Fanny. I know they make millions of dollars a year and carry handbags that cost more than my annual salary, but it’s not like they’ve contributed to society in some profound way. Do the media really need to publicize trivial details about a celebrity’s life? I am not saying it wouldn’t be cool if I ran into Colin or Brad in the elevator. I just wouldn’t go all fangirl on them.

Fanny has left to meet her friends and won’t be back until late tonight, possibly tomorrow morning if everything goes well with Stefan, her teenage crush. That means I have twenty-four hours to kill in Cannes. The phone rings as I’m pondering my entertainment options.

“
Bonjour
,” I say in my sing-songiest voice.

“
Bonjour,
Madame Edwards. This is your concierge, Jean-Paul Cadet. On behalf of the entire staff, I would like to welcome you to the Hotel Martinez and to offer my services throughout the duration of your stay, should you require them.”

“
Merci
.”

“
De rien
,” Jean-Paul quickly responds. “I hope you find your rooms perfectly comfortable?”

“Oh, they’re amazing!”

“
Bon
,” the concierge says. “If there is anything you would like to make your stay more gratifying, please know I stand at the ready to serve you. You can reach me by merely pushing the blue button on your phone.”

“There is one thing,” I say, feeling awkward. “If you don’t mind?”

“
Bien sûr
! How might I be of assistance?”

“I haven’t had lunch yet. Could you recommend a good restaurant near the beach?”

“
Bien sûr.
Might I recommend ZPlage, one of three restaurants here at Hotel Martinez? It is located on our private beach, just steps from the
Croisette
.”

“Great,” I say, relieved that I won’t be spending half of my day lost in a wren of narrow alleys trying to find some restaurant. “Are reservations required?”

“Leave it to me, Madame Edwards.” Jean-Paul stops speaking and rustles papers. “Will you be joined by Monsieur Edwards?”

“No.”

“Just one, then?”

It might be my imagination, but the efficient concierge’s tone sounded a tad patronizing.
Poor Américaine. On her honeymoon and already neglected. Zut alors! She should have married a Frenchman, what do the Americans know of love, anyway?

“Yes.”

“I see.”

Jean-Paul pauses and I imagine him drawing a sad face in the guestbook beside my name.

“Perhaps you would like to take a swim in the ocean? Shall I reserve you a sun lounge, as well?”

“That’d be great. Thanks, Jean-Paul.”

* * * *

I pack my Kate Spade with my bikini, cover-up, paperback, and Hawaiian Tropic SPF 50, a thick white paste that makes my skin look as plasticky as an H&M store mannequin. The curse of being a ginger.

The maître d’ at ZPlage leads me through the hip open air restaurant to a table separated from the Mediterranean by a narrow swath of powdery sand. The maître d’ silently disappears and a handsome bronzed waiter materializes, bearing a menu printed in gold on heavy cardstock. I order spicy Asian noodles because it is the cheapest item on the menu. Twenty-five Euros? Are the French insane? They’re just noodles. Mister Foo apologized to me when he increased the price of his spicy noodles from $4.50 to $4.65. The waiter also talks me into ordering a Red Beach, a champagne cocktail made with Malibu, sirop de fraise, jus de citron, and pricey bubbly.

While waiting for my bankruptcy-inducing spicy noodles, I slip on my sunglasses and nonchalantly check out the other diners. Either I am overdressed in my maxi dress and strappy sandals, or I have inadvertently stumbled onto a Victoria’s Secret catalog shoot. Everyone is bronzed, beautiful, and nearly naked.

The waiter returns with my cocktail. Two sips of the delicious concoction and I have to fight to keep my eyes from crossing. To say it’s potent would be the biggest understatement of the decade, maybe the century.

By my fifth sip, I am sooooo glad I splurged thirty-five delicious Euros. That’s right math whizzes, the Red Beach set me back over fifty American dollars. Who cares if I have to eat Top Ramen when I get home? I’ll gladly pilfer condiment packages from fast food restaurants to survive if it means I get to sit in ZPlage and sip Red Beaches with anorexic Russian models and their playboy sugar daddies.

When my pricey spicy noodles arrive, I am practically licking the bottom of my Red Beach glass, and I don’t care who’s looking.

“Would you care for another Red Beach?” the waiter asks.

Yes. Yes. Yes.

“No,
Merci
.”

“Are you sure?”

Fuck me! Is he a waiter or a pusher?
Just say no, Vivia
.

“Oshay.” I giggle at my verbal gaffe. “Just one more.”

I don’t know what the French put in their spicy noodles, but they are sooo much better than Mister Foo’s. They’re spicier and more noodly. Noodly? Is that even a word? It should be. Noodly: the act of being noodle-like, as in,
Vivia drinks one Red Beach and she feels noodly
.

I am floating on a cloud, a warm, fluffy cloud. I wouldn’t say I am drunk, just very relaxed. After signing my bill for the most expensive lunch ever, I float over to the changing cabanas.

An overly-eager cabana boy helps me find my designated sun lounge. Seriously?
Sun lounge
? Leave it to the French to make two beach chairs and an umbrella sound like a hip and happening place to be.

The beach at ZPlage seems to be where the beautiful people gather to sip champagne and pretend they don’t care that they are surrounded by beauty and ostentatious wealth.
C’est normal
.

Behind me, an elderly woman with bleached blond hair and large bug-like Chanel glasses gesticulates mildly, elegantly, while conversing with a Laurence Olivier look-alike in Feragamo loafers. Loafers at the beach?
Bien sûr! It is, after all, Cannes.

Still wrapped in my alcoholic cocoon, I stretch out on my lounger and stare at the blue, blue sea. The breeze shifts away from me. The sun feels fiercer. A bead of sweat trickles between my breasts. I take the last sip of my Red Beach and watch the azure waves gently lap the shore. Why can't life always appear as beautiful as it does when one is sipping champagne in Cannes? It’s delightful. Hypnotic.

“Baaaabe.”

I don’t know how long I have been asleep or why someone with an Italian accent is calling me babe, but I wish they would go away and let me stay in my blissful little cocoon.

“Baaaabe, hand me the lotion.”

I crack open an eye to find a tall, buxom topless bleached blonde positioned like a bathing suit model on the lounger beside me, knee bent, one arm above her head. A paunchy American who seems to be performing oral sex on his cigar is on the other side of her. The woman is much, much younger than he is. She is wearing a skimpy orange bathing suit, her round ass hanging out of the minuscule triangles of fabric, and again I wonder if I've landed in the middle of a lingerie shoot.

She notices I am staring at her and grabs a tube of expensive looking suntan lotion from the table between us.

“You should use some of
thees
,” she says, waving the tube in my general direction. “You’re as red as the heels on my Louboutins.”

“
Merci
.”

I pop the lid off the tube and squirt a little of the lotion onto my hand. It shimmers on my palm like gold dust, and when I rub it into my arms, it leaves a satiny iridescence on my skin.

“Thank you.” I hand the lotion back to her.

She waves a manicured hand dismissively in the air and turns back to Paunch Daddy, who is still deep throating his Cuban.

"Baaaabe, you need to go if you are going to meet Kiki."

I cough as a toxic plume of cigar smoke floats downwind.

The woman turns, studying me through a thick veil of mascara-ed lashes. “You’re choking! Would a piece of gum ’elp?”

“Thanks,” I cough.

I want to tell her I need an iron lung, not a piece of Trident. Sugar Daddy's cigar smoke is killing me. She reaches a manicured hand into her LV bag—who carries a Louis Vuitton to the beach?—and pulls out an elaborately engraved silver box. She hands the box to me. I remove the lid to discover white squares of gum inside. I am not sure what kind of person carries Chiclets in a silver monogrammed box, but in my next life, I want to be that sort.