The Suitors (24 page)

And how could they? They’re used to stepping out onstage before tens of thousands of people, some of whom go into raptures or faint dead away; they’re obliged to sneak out of their homes in the trunk of a car and leave restaurants through the kitchen, and their slightest action is dissected by the press, which often buys information from certain members of their entourage incapable of saying no to easy money. In sum, there is nothing normal about their lives, so their ability to correctly determine how to behave in the most ordinary situations is often impaired, and they may find it hard—as it was for Cheryla with us—to behave naturally in all things, even when simplicity is all that’s needed.

“I loved her orange Croc leather shoes,” I said perversely.

My mother went on the defense: “Yes, a bit gaudy, I grant you, but very cheerful.”

“Yes, very … like her yellow hair …”

Frédéric burst out laughing, followed by Gay and Laszlo, while Lou, eager to rejoin Cheryla, let us know it was time to set out for the beach by pulling Mathias along by the sleeve. My mother never went down in the morning, so none of us expected her to accompany us, but I knew she was dying to go along, even though she was too much a prisoner of her own snobbery to admit to herself that she was as curious as any ordinary mortal about the star in our midst. And I knew that she would allow herself to come only if she could follow us as if this were nothing at all unusual, without anyone drawing her attention to the fact that her presence among us was truly exceptional. What did I want to punish her for? Putting L’Agapanthe up for sale, or her flirtatious enthusiasm for Béno’s attentions? Whatever it was, I turned toward her with a smile.

“Are you coming with us? I think it would be fun to get a closer look at her, don’t you?”

My cruelty was so wrapped in solicitude that it was almost the perfect crime, but I was filled with shame when I saw that spark of childish excitement die out
in my mother’s eyes as she changed her mind with regret, turning away from us now to return to her room, where nothing and no one awaited her. Not even my father, who was going with us to the beach for a scuba-diving expedition he’d been looking forward to for a long time.

I tried to minimize the importance of what I’d done: at least this way, my mother would not have to witness the grand tour performed by Charles, who set out sputtering around the bay on the brand-new Jet Ski as soon as we reached the beach, thus driving into hiding all the fish my father was longing to see. Nor would she have to endure the fresh blunders of Mathias as he kept tripping up over his own native tongue.

“Everyone talks about mankind’s role in global warming, totally forgetting the role of the sun, which they completely denigrate—”

“I think you mean ‘deny,’ ” observed Frédéric, who positively enjoyed correcting him.

But humor and lightheartedness could not dispel the bitter taste of my unkind action, and I could not manage to take pleasure in anything. Not the foaming edge of the waves embracing the rocks of the bay. Not the sight of Cheryla, whose ravishing body strapped into a suit made entirely of laces had utterly dismayed Lou,
who hadn’t anticipated having to go up against a woman twenty years older than she was. Not the conversation, which, hampered at first by the silent presence of the singer, grew more fluid once Charles rejoined us. He was so cheery and naturally at ease that he immediately enlivened the atmosphere by talking about London, where he lived, as did Cheryla, Béno, and Georgina.

While I pretended to take part in the conversation, I was looking at the sea, hypnotized by the mosaic of its shifting shapes and nuances. I felt down at heart. With good reason: watching Béno coddle Cheryla instead of my sister wasn’t going to buck up my morale. Especially since I had only to look away from that distressing spectacle for my mother to emerge from the dark corner of my thoughts, where she’d been biding her time, and reclaim the spotlight in wrenching scenes of her wandering the house like a soul in torment.

It was Lou who dispelled my morose mood. Passably entertaining when she was trying to vamp Frédéric and perhaps further her career, or when she tried to attract Cheryla’s attention by joining Mathias in a show of indifference, or when she boldly moved in to pepper the singer with questions, she now grabbed my attention for real when she kicked up a serious fuss by claiming to have lost a golden comb from her hair. She managed
to mobilize the guests—one after another and including Cheryla—to help her search for it over by the diving board, where she’d supposedly lost it.

That’s when I spoke up, somewhat bemused. “Really, I know Lou is upset, but no matter how valuable this comb is, perhaps we needn’t all be busily …”

It was too late, as I soon saw. Because Cheryla was standing right next to Lou at the foot of the diving board when a yellow boat hiding behind some rocks on the Saudi property next door suddenly shot out to the bottom of our ladder. It was loaded with apparently well-informed paparazzi, who snapped a barrage of photos from all angles, shouting “Cheryla, how ’bout a little smile!” and “Lou, get closer to Cheryla!”

The attack—because that’s what it was—came so abruptly that I needed a moment to gather my wits, and even then, I really understood what had happened only when the boat scooted off toward the Russians’ place, which it skirted respectfully. Béno was the only one with the presence of mind to shield Cheryla from the photo lenses still keeping up a steady fire, and he was the first as well to suspect Lou of having set up this ambush. The rest of us, inexperienced in the pitfalls of celebrity, began to catch on only when we noticed how furiously he glared at Lou while apologizing awkwardly to Cheryla, to
whom he’d promised privacy in a house well known for its discretion.

That’s when I remembered the errand Lou and Mathias had run earlier that morning in Juan-les-Pins, and their embarrassment about it. Silly me, I’d wondered if they were trying to score some drugs, but although I was bold enough to imagine that, I was too naïve to believe it, and finally concluded that having arrived empty-handed, like so many guests before them, they were now trying to find a nice little inexpensive gift for my mother, who clearly didn’t want anything. I would never have imagined, however, that our two guests might be negotiating a deal with paparazzi to sell stolen faked pictures for cold cash—and the promise that Lou would be photographed next to the star, to give a boost to her sagging career.

Horribly embarrassed, Marie and I apologized as well to Cheryla, who was obviously used to this kind of misadventure and who could not have been more courteous as she kindly assured us that she knew we’d had nothing to do with the affair. Turning my back on the other guests gathered, still a little stunned, around the singer, I spoke to Lou and Mathias.

“I’m going back up to the house. Are you coming with me?”

Was it something in my voice, or their certainty that they would have to pay the price of their treachery? They followed me in silence to the top of the lawn and said not a word in protest when I ordered them to pack their bags and leave the premises before lunchtime.

I was proud of my reaction. Because in kicking out those two boors I now deeply regretted inviting, I felt as if I’d avenged all those who, like me, had been afflicted with an old-fashioned upbringing and were thus condemned to be preyed on by shameless spongers and other obnoxious leeches, who take cruel advantage of our innate inability to fight dirty the way they do, forcing us to put up with all sorts of aggravation.

I still remember a story my father told me once to prove it.

A man approaches a Rothschild sitting at a table in the restaurant L’Ami Louis.

“Forgive me for disturbing you, Monsieur le Baron, but I have a favor to ask of you.”

“Yes?”

“Here’s the thing: I’m dining with a man to whom I owe a considerable sum, of which I possess not one penny. Once he realizes this, he’ll seek to get rid of me, but I’m sure that if he thought that we knew one another,
I would rise in his esteem and he would treat me gently instead of skinning me alive. So I would like to ask you to pretend to know me when I wave to you.”

Too polite to send the importunate man packing, Rothschild agrees. And so, after finishing his meal without having seen the other man wave to him, he feels duty bound to speak to him while leaving the restaurant.

“How’ve you been since I last saw you?” he says affably.

“Listen, my fine fellow, just because you’re a Rothschild doesn’t mean you can take liberties. And this is not the first time I’ve had to ask you to stop bothering me!”

So, having dealt with the problem of Lou and Mathias, I realized that I should inform my mother of the incident, for she certainly had a right to know the details of the adventure I’d robbed her of through sheer meanness. After taking a deep breath, I headed for the bathroom where she was doubtless getting ready for our usual luncheon party. I knocked on the door. No answer. Except
for a kind of muffled, indeterminate noise I found rather scary, so I entered the bathroom, where I was stunned to find my mother crouching in a corner with her head down and blood on her fingers, trying to stop up her nose.

“Mummy!” I cried. “What happened? Did you hurt yourself?”

I grasped her chin firmly, as if to remonstrate with a child, and raised her head, which she had kept stubbornly down until that moment. It’s only a nosebleed, I thought with relief, until I saw the lost look in her eyes brimming with tears.

“Mummy, please, get up, these things happen, we’ll take care of this,” I told her, in the midst of a silence that felt even more alarming than weeping would have been.

I put cotton compresses in her nostrils and ordered her to stretch out on the daybed that sat in the middle of the room.

“Lie down. I have news that will perk you right up.”

To settle her nerves and make sure she remained calm, I told her all about the episode of the paparazzi but made no attempt to find out why she’d been crying and what had brought on the nosebleed. I kept her company like that until lunchtime when, after redoing her chignon, she returned to her role as mistress of the
house as if nothing had happened, welcoming Diane von Furstenberg and Barry Diller, Christian Louboutin, the landscape architect Louis Benech, Larry Gagosian, Ty Warner, the contemporary art collector Patrizia Sandretto Re Rebaudengo, and other members of the “cafeteria club.”

MENU

Salade Niçoise
Deviled Eggs
Chicken Croquettes
Tomato Rice
Skate Salad with Lemon and Capers
Endive Salad with Roquefort
Poached Peaches with a Coulis of Crushed
Raspberries
Salted Caramel Macarons

The events on the beach and the news of Lou and Mathias being sent packing made a great impression on our luncheon guests, who pressed us with questions, thoroughly regretting having just missed out on an adventure right up their alley. My mother gathered Barry Diller, Rebaudengo, and Ty Warner at her table, while Marie and I had Béno, Frédéric, Charles, Gagosian, Louboutin, and Cheryla at ours. Cheryla’s embarrassment at having been the cause of the morning’s disturbances seemed to have broken through her reserve, because she began to tell us about her brother’s role as her stage manager and how her sister was in charge of her dressing room.

“How many pairs of shoes do you have, for example?” I asked her.

“Seventeen hundred.”

“Oh, my goodness, I see! And how many are Christian’s?” I continued, gesturing toward Louboutin, who was just tackling a deviled egg.

“Come on, enough!” said Béno with theatrical impatience. “Leave Cheryla alone!”

“And what happens when you buy clothes, how does that work?” inquired Marie, but Béno cut right in.

“She only shops at boutiques after hours, of course, or there’d be a mob scene!”