The Yellow Eyes of Crocodiles (46 page)

“So that’s why I saw you on television!”

“That’s right. I learned self-defense and combat skills, and became a martial arts champion. It all would have worked out perfectly if I hadn’t met that man.”

“You mean the guy in black I saw waiting on your doorstep?”

“Yes. I fell madly in love with him, and one night I told him my secret. That was the start of all my problems. He’s a terrible man, Jo, but I find him incredibly attractive physically. That’s a part of me I’m not proud of. When we’re apart, I can resist him. But when he’s right there . . .

“Very soon, he started blackmailing me, threatening to tell the press everything. Those were the Diana years, the scandalous years, the
annus horribilis
, remember? I warned Dad, he told my mother, and they did what every royal court does when they want to hush something up: they bought the man off. That’s when I moved to France. I spread out a map of Paris, took a pin, and closed my eyes. It came down on Courbevoie. Gary and I go to England during the holidays, and I’m assigned to the queen or a member of the royal family, undercover. That’s where those photos of Gary with William and Harry came from.”

Shirley paused.

“So now you have the whole story, pretty much.”

“And Gary knows all this?”

“Yes. I did what my father did. When Gary turned seven, I told him the truth. It forced him to grow up, and it’s created a strong bond between us.”

“What about the man in black? Won’t he keep following you?”

“When he showed up in France, I alerted MI6 and the royal secret services, and they put the screws to him. But I’ve decided
to make a fresh start. That’s why I can tell you all this. His coming to Courbevoie was the last straw. I decided I wouldn’t let him terrorize me any longer. When he left my flat early that morning, I felt disgusted. Disgusted and ashamed at letting myself be manipulated all those years. Now the services will keep him away from me.”

Shirley looked at the sky for a moment, then continued.

“You can send me Gary here for the holidays—and the girls too, if they want. Then in June, when Gary’s in Courbevoie studying for the
baccalauréat
, I’d like to come stay with you, to be near him. Would that be okay?”

Joséphine felt so shaken by Shirley’s story, it took a while before she could answer. When she did, she kept her tone light.

“Sure,” she said. “You’ll be a big improvement over Christine Barthillet!”

Iris stared out her bedroom window. She hated January. She hated February too, and the cold drizzle of March and April. In May her pollen allergy kicked in, and June was too hot. She hated her bedroom furniture. She wasn’t looking well. Her closet was full of clothes, but she didn’t have a thing to wear. Christmas had been grim.
What an awful holiday
, she thought, leaning her forehead against the glass.
Just Philippe and me sitting silently in front of the living room fireplace.

They never spoke about New York.

They were avoiding one another. Philippe went out a lot. He might come home at 7:00 p.m., but only to spend time with Alexandre, then go out again when Alex got ready for bed. Iris
didn’t ask where he was going.
Philippe is living his life and I’m leading mine
, she thought.
It’s always been that way, so why worry?

She tried to put Gabor out of her mind, but every time she thought about him, something ripped at her heart.

Worse, Iris’s fifteen minutes of fame were winding down. After the frenzy of the first three months, the media had moved on to other topics. She wasn’t as much in demand anymore. Iris looked at her date book.
Oh, yes, here’s something: a photo shoot for
Gala
next Tuesday. I wonder how I should dress? I bet Hortense will have some ideas.

She turned on the TV and caught an evening talk show she’d once appeared on. A young writer was discussing his new novel, and Iris felt a pang of jealousy. The host—Iris couldn’t remember her name—was saying how much she’d loved the book and its clean style: subject, verb, object. Short, fast sentences.

“That’s not surprising,” said the novelist. “I write so many text messages.”

Iris fell back on her bed, feeling depressed.
My book isn’t written like a text message. My book is real literature. What do I have in common with that nitwit?
She began to pace around her room. She had to come up with an idea.

“You aren’t looking your best these days,” Bérengère said at lunch the next day.

“I need to get back to my writing, and the idea terrifies me.”

“Well, you’ve created a tough act to follow. Pulling that off a second time must not be so simple!”

“Thanks for the encouragement,” snapped Iris. “I should have lunch with you more often. It does wonders for my morale.”

“Listen, for the past three months you were all anyone ever talked about. You were everywhere. So it’s normal to feel a bit low at the idea of shutting yourself away again.”

“I want it to go on and on.”

“But it has! When we walked into the restaurant just now I heard people whispering, ‘That’s Iris Dupin! You know, the one who wrote that novel.’”

“Yeah, but that’ll stop.”

“No, it won’t. You’ll write another one.”

“It’s hard. And it takes so much time.”

“Well, it’s either that, or do something a little crazy, like hook up with some cute young guy. Look at Demi Moore. She hardly makes movies anymore, but people still talk about her because of her young boyfriend.”

“I don’t know any guys like that. Alexandre’s friends are too young. And there’s Philippe, let’s not forget!”

When their meals arrived, Iris looked at her plate in disgust.

“Eat!” said Bérengère. “You’re going to end up anorexic.”

“It’s better for television! The camera adds twenty pounds, so it helps to be thin.”

“Iris, listen to me. You’ll drive yourself crazy obsessing about all that. Go back to writing. That’s the best thing to do, if you ask me.”

Bérengère is right
, thought Iris.
I’m going to have to work on Joséphine. She’s balking at the idea of writing a second book. Goes
all stiff when I mention it. Next Saturday I’ll drive out to her place and we’ll talk. And then I’ll take Hortense shopping.

“No, Iris! Don’t keep insisting. I’m not doing it again.”

The two sisters were in the Courbevoie kitchen, and Joséphine was making dinner. With Gary added to the ranks, she felt as if she were feeding an army.

“I don’t get it, Jo. We’ve already done the hard part. We’ve made ourselves a place in the sun, and you’re giving it up.”

“I want to write for myself.”

“For yourself? You won’t sell a single copy!”

“Thanks a lot!”

“I’m sorry, that’s not what I mean. You just won’t sell nearly as many. Do you know what the
Humble Queen
sales are? I’m talking real numbers, not the bullshit figures they print on the advertising inserts.”

“I have no idea.”

“A hundred and fifty thousand copies in three months! And it’s still selling. And you want to stop that?”

“I just can’t do it, Iris. It’s made me feel dirty, like having sex with some stranger in a dark alley.”

“Do you know how much this little business is going to earn you?”

“Sure, fifty thousand euros.”

“You’re way off the mark. Ten times that!”

“Oh my God!” Joséphine gasped, covering her mouth with her hand. “What am I going to do with it?”

“Whatever you like. I don’t care.”

“What about taxes? Who’s going to pay taxes on that much money?”

“It’ll just get slipped into Philippe’s return. He won’t even notice!”

“Oh, no, I can’t do that.”

“Yes, you can. And you will, because we have a deal, and you’re going to stick to it. There’s no way Philippe can find out about this. He and I aren’t getting along, so this really isn’t the moment to tell him the whole story. Think about me, Joséphine, I’m begging you. Do you want me to get down on my knees?”

Joséphine shrugged.

“Cric and Croc clobbered the big Cruc who—”

“Forget it, Iris. The answer is no.”

“Just one book, Jo, and after that I’ll figure it out on my own. I’ll learn to write. I’ll see how you do it, I’ll work with you. It’ll only take you—what? Six months of your life?”

“Iris: no!”

“You’re so ungrateful! I didn’t keep a penny for myself, I gave it all to you. It’s completely changed your life.
You’ve
completely changed.”

“Oh, so you noticed that, too?”

Hortense stuck her head in the kitchen door. “Are you ready to go, Aunt Iris? I still have homework to do tonight. I don’t want to get back too late.”

Iris looked at Joséphine one last time, her hands pressed together in fervent prayer, but Jo firmly shook her head.

“Are you and Mom having an argument?” asked Hortense, as she fastened her seat belt.

“I asked her to help me with my next book, but she said no.”

Suddenly Iris had an idea.

“Do you think you could persuade her? She loves you so much. If you ask, maybe she’ll change her mind.”

“Okay. I’ll talk to her about it tonight.”

Hortense made sure her seat belt wasn’t wrinkling her brand-new Equipment shirt and turned back to Iris.

“Seems to me she ought to help you. I mean, after everything you’ve always done for her and for us.”

Iris assumed a piteous expression. “You know, the more you help people, the less grateful they are.”

“So where are we going shopping?”

“
Gala
is taking pictures of me next Tuesday, and I want to look disheveled, classy, and chic.”

Hortense thought for a moment.

“Let’s go to Galeries Lafayette. They have a whole floor devoted to new designers. I go there a lot. Can I come watch the photo shoot? You never know, I might hook up with some fashion editors.”

“No problem.”

“And bring Gary? That way, we can take his scooter.”

“Sure. I’ll give your names to the studio.”