The Yellow Eyes of Crocodiles (47 page)

When Hortense got home that evening, she was laden with bags of clothes Iris had bought her as thanks for devoting the afternoon to her.

“Mom, why won’t you help Iris with her book? She’s done so much for us these past few years.”

“That’s none of your business, Hortense. It’s between me and your aunt.”

“But Mom, for once you can do something to help her!”

“Hortense, honey, as I said, it’s none of your business. And now it’s dinnertime! Call Gary and Zoé, please.”

They didn’t speak further about it that evening, and headed for their respective bedrooms after dinner.

Hortense had been surprised by her mother’s firm tone.
That’s something new
, she thought as she got undressed. She was hanging up the clothes her aunt had bought when her cell phone rang. She sprawled languidly on the bed and answered in English, which immediately alerted Zoé that something was up.

“Who was that?” Zoé asked after the call. “An Englishman?”

“You’ll never guess!” replied Hortense, stretching on the bed with a graceful languor.

“If you tell me, I’ll tell you an incredible secret! A real grown-up secret!”

Hortense glanced at her sister. Zoé looked serious, her eyes full of the importance of her revelation.

“That was Mick Jagger. I met him in Mustique, and we became . . . friendly.”

“But he’s so old and skinny! And he has big lips.”

“Well, I think he’s attractive. Very attractive, in fact!”

“What about the other guy, the one who always calls when I’m asleep?”

“You mean old Chaval? I dumped him. He was crying on my lap and drooling all over the place. The king of pathetic.”

“Wow!” said Zoé admiringly. “That was fast!”

“You can’t waste any time in life. Gotta go for what you want. So, what’s your secret?”

Hortense was smirking. Whatever her sister’s secret was, it couldn’t possibly measure up to knowing Mick Jagger.

“I know why Mom doesn’t want to help Aunt Iris write the book.”

Saying this made Zoé feel very important, and she wanted to make the suspense last.

“How do you know that?”

With her sister looking at her with so much eagerness, Zoé couldn’t hold it in any longer. She told Hortense the story of how she and Alexandre had been hiding in the armoire, and what they overheard.

“Uncle Philippe was telling some man that Mommy wrote the book.”

“So that’s why Iris is pressuring her. She doesn’t just want Mom to help, she wants her to write the whole book!”

“’cause she never wrote the first one. Mommy wrote it. She’s the best, you know, the way-best!”

“Now I get it. Thanks, Zoé-cannoli.”

Zoé felt a wave of joy. Her adored older sister had called her “Zoé-cannoli,” which didn’t happen very often. She climbed into bed, smiling.

“I like it when you’re like this with me,” she said. “G’night, Hortense.”

“Nighty-night.”

Lying in her own bed, Hortense reflected how interesting life was becoming. Mick Jagger was phoning, her aunt was helpless without her, money would be pouring in . . . At the end of the year she’d take the
baccalauréat
, but she needed to pass with honors if she wanted to get into one of the top design schools in Paris or London. Learn and be successful; don’t depend on anyone else; charm men to get ahead; have money. Life was simple when you followed the right rules.

Mom’s going to earn lots of money
, she thought,
but only if she owns the rights to the book. I’ll have to make sure she didn’t get taken for a ride! How can I do that? Who can I turn to for advice?

She would figure something out.

Hortense shifted into her favorite position for going to sleep: on her back, arms at her sides, and legs together like a mermaid’s tail—or a crocodile. She’d always liked crocodiles. They didn’t scare her. She thought about her father. How life had changed since he left!
Poor Daddy
 . . . she thought as she closed her eyes. Then she caught herself.
No, I can’t waste my time pitying him. He’ll find his own way.

Philippe was surprised when Joséphine walked into his office. It wasn’t just that she had a tan, had lost weight, and looked younger. There was something else. She no longer slouched along staring at the ground, as if apologizing for existing. She strode into the office, gave him a quick kiss, and sat down.

“There’s something I need to tell you, Philippe.”

He gave her a sly smile. “Are you in love, Joséphine?”

Flustered by the question, she nodded. “Is it that obvious?”

“It’s written all over your face, in the way you walk, the way you sat down just now. Do I know him?”

“No.”

They sat in silence for a moment, and Philippe caught a look of turmoil in Joséphine’s eyes that surprised him. It eased the unexpected pang he’d felt at her news.

She took a deep breath and began. “You’re not going to like what I have to tell you, and I absolutely don’t want you to think that I wish Iris any harm.”

She hesitated again, and Philippe wondered if she would have the courage to look him in the eye and tell him the truth about the book.

“Let me help you, Jo,” he said kindly. “Iris didn’t write
A Most Humble Queen.
You did.”

Joséphine’s jaw dropped in astonishment. “You knew?”

“I had my suspicions from the start, and they’ve only gotten stronger. . . . Would you like a glass of water?”

Her throat suddenly dry, Jo nodded.

Philippe asked for some water and coffee to be sent in, then told his story.

“It happened more than fifteen years ago, when I was a young lawyer. I’d practiced in France for a few years, and was doing an internship with Dorman and Connelly in New York, in their intellectual property division. Feeling pretty full of myself, as you can imagine.

“One day I got a call from a studio executive who had a problem that involved a young Frenchwoman. As he told it, a
group of film students in their final year at Columbia had written a screenplay together. It won a faculty award as the year’s most promising student work, and was later directed and shot by a certain Gabor Minar. The movie went on the festival circuit and won some prizes. As it happens, Iris was a student in the same group as Minar, and had participated in writing it.

“So far, so good. But then things started to go wrong.

“Iris reedited the screenplay, turned it into a full-length script, and presented it to a Hollywood studio as her own work. They loved the story and promptly offered her a contract as a screenwriter, for lots of money. This was big news, and it was all over the industry press.”

“Yes, I remember,” said Joséphine. “Mother was thrilled.”

“And for good reason! Everything would have been fine except that one of the other students in the group heard about it. She got hold of a copy of Iris’s screenplay and compared it to the group’s original. She showed the studio that Iris had plagiarized it—that she was a thief. So they called my firm.

“The case intrigued me, and I went to work on it. When I met your sister, I fell in love with her, and moved heaven and earth to get her out of the jam. We hushed up the mess, and neither Minar nor any of the other students ever found out. The student who’d blown the whistle agreed to keep quiet in exchange for a wad of cash. I’d recently handled a couple of big cases and had plenty of money, so I paid her off myself.”

“Because you were in love with Iris.”

“Passionately.” Philippe smiled ruefully. “Iris agreed to the settlement, but she was very ashamed at being caught cheating.
Your sister is a frustrated artist, and that’s the worst thing in the world. So when I heard she was writing a book about the twelfth century, I knew we were going to have more problems. How did it even come about?”

Joséphine explained about Iris meeting the publisher, boasting about writing a book, and getting trapped in her lie.

“I was having money problems at the time,” she said, “and I’d always wanted to write, so I agreed to the scheme. Now Iris is begging me to write another book, and I don’t want to.”

They looked at each other in silence. Philippe toyed with his silver pen, bouncing it on the desk over and over.

“And there’s another problem.”

“What is it, Jo?”

“I don’t want you to pay the taxes on the
Humble Queen
royalties. Iris says I’m going to earn a lot of money. She also says that you can afford to pay the taxes, that you wouldn’t notice. I can’t let you do that.”

He smiled at her affectionately. “That’s a decent thought, and I respect you for it. But what choice do we have? If the publisher writes you a check for the royalties, word will get out, and soon everyone will know you wrote the book. Iris couldn’t survive the public humiliation, believe me. She might do something very foolish.”

“You really think so?”

He nodded. “I’m sure you don’t want that, do you?”

“No, of course not. She’s my sister. I’m grateful to her. Without her, I would never have written anything. The experience has changed me. I want to do more writing, but for my own enjoyment. If I’m successful, fine. If not, no big deal.”

“You’re a hard worker, Jo. Who said that genius is ninety percent sweat and ten percent talent? Iris refuses to face reality, whether it involves the book, her child, or her marriage.”

He told her about the New York trip and Iris’s encounter with Gabor Minar, as well as her stubborn silence since their return.

“That’s a whole other story that doesn’t concern you. But I don’t think this is a good time to tell the world that you actually wrote the book. The rights have been sold in some thirty countries, and there’s talk of a movie deal with a well-known director. Can you imagine what a scandal that would cause?”

Joséphine nodded. Philippe had stopped bouncing his pen.

“In that case, let me at least give you a big present,” she said. “Take me to a gallery that has a painting or a piece of art you want, and I’ll buy it for you.”

“That would be very kind. Do you like art?”

“I’m more of a history and literature person. But I can learn.”

He smiled, and she came around the desk to give him a kiss good-bye.

At the last minute he turned his head, and their lips unexpectedly met. Jo pulled gently back, but stroked his hair affectionately. He took her wrist and kissed it.

“I’ll always be there for you, Jo, always.”

“I know,” she murmured. “Thank you.”

Oh my God!
Jo thought once she was out in the street.
Life is going to get very complicated if things like this keep happening to me!

Feeling elated, she hailed a cab to go home.

T
he
Gala
photo shoot was wrapping up. Iris sat perched on a large white cube on a sheet of white seamless paper that ran up the brick wall of the studio. She was wearing a low-cut pink jacket with satin lapels and three enormous rose-shaped buttons. A wide-brimmed pink hat hid her short hair and brought out the blue of her eyes

“You look beautiful, Iris!” exclaimed the fashion editor.

“Thanks, Capucine, but let’s not exaggerate.”

“I’m serious. And I love your combining the Armani jacket and torn jeans with the big rubber boots. Very original.”

“That was my niece’s idea. Come introduce yourself, Hortense!”

Hortense stepped into the light and came over to meet the editor.

“Hello, Mademoiselle Cartier. I’m Hortense Cortès.”

“Are you interested in fashion?”

“Yes, very much.”

“Would you like to come to other shoots?”

“I’d love to!”

“Give me your cell phone number, and I’ll call you.”

“Can I have yours, too, in case you lose mine?”

Capucine looked at Hortense, amused by her nerve.

“Why not? You’ll go far!”

The photographer had finished his pictures. But before he packed up his gear, Iris asked if he would take some shots of her with Hortense.

Hortense came over, and they posed together.

“How about Gary too?” asked Hortense.

“Sure,” said Capucine. “Come on out, Gary!”

When he appeared, she gave a low whistle. “Well, aren’t you the handsome one! Would you be willing to pose for us?”