“I don’t know what to say,” he finally mumbled.
“Did you call Delphine?” Alice asked, smiling.
“No. I was waiting to see you, waiting to see if this was really true.”
“So call her! Call her now.”
“You call her!” he said, smiling as well.
Alice telephoned Delphine, who screeched with joy. They all went out to dinner at a noisy restaurant near Saint-Sulpice, where Alice’s boyfriend, Gustave, the jovial banker, came to join them. They drank champagne, laughed, celebrated, and clicked their glasses to Margaux Dansor.
None of them had any idea that the book would touch so many hearts, become an Oscar-winning movie. None of them suspected that Nicolas Duhamel would gradually shed layers of his sympathetic aura to become Nicolas Kolt, a trifle more blasé, a touch less openhearted. But somehow Nicolas guessed that the golden-eyed woman sitting in front of him had given him the kiss of life. She believed in him. “Why should I leave Alice Dor?” Nicolas replied to the journalists. “She sold the rights to my book around the world, and to Hollywood. Why would I want to be anywhere else?”
“But don’t you want more money, more glamour, more everything?” his friend Lara had insisted recently. “You’re not even thirty. Why not go for those much bigger publishing companies? Alice gave you your chance, sure, but why stay with her?”
“Because I owe her that,” replied Nicolas. “Because I owe her everything.”
“You sound like a boring, faithful husband,” sneered Lara.
“Fuck off.”
Lara tickled him under the chin, taunting him.
“Oh, what a bad temper … Wonder why. Have you really started that new novel yet, by the way? Or have you been too busy answering your fans on Facebook?”
Nicolas’s palm itched to slap her jeering face. Everyone seemed unnecessarily keen to know about his upcoming book. Alice appeared reasonable when she prodded him gently about it. She put no apparent pressure on him, but he picked up her anxiety like a lightning conductor. He could feel her anguish growing like the ominous black speck in Lord McRashley’s mirror, looming larger by the day.
How could Nicolas possibly confess to Alice Dor, now that she had bought the book for such an exorbitant advance because she was terrified he’d succumb to the lure of bigger publishing houses, that there was no book at all? How could he confess to Alice Dor that in the past six months, since they’d signed the new contract with panache, he’d been merely resting on his laurels, lounging in the delectable veneration of his fans, flying business class, sipping champagne, accepting gifts, posing for photos, signing autographs?
Alice Dor had bought nothing.
IN THE QUIET LUXURIOUSNESS of the pink marble bathroom, Nicolas takes a shower. Through the splash of running water, he hears Malvina’s voice from the next room. She is on the phone with her mother in Warsaw. Nicolas listens to the complex resonances of a language he understands nothing of. He has never met Malvina’s mother, but he has seen photographs. The emotionally intense divorced forty-something woman has the same green-blue eyes as her daughter. Conversations with her mother always last awhile, so Nicolas knows he has time to check his BlackBerry. The device is hidden under the towel on the floor.
As Nicolas gets out of the shower, he glimpses his reflection in the full-length mirror and notices the beginning of a promising tan. He turns to admire it, the white of his firm buttocks contrasting with the bronzed hue of his long, muscular back. He leans to pick up the BlackBerry with a humid hand. Sabina’s BBM is still unread. He clicks on it, bracing himself. The words leap out. “I want you to come in my mouth.” An electrifying shiver etches its fiery path up and down his thighs. It’s as if Sabina is here, right now, on her knees on that marble floor, glistening lips half-open, eyes raised to his, defiant, wanton. He gives in to the erection coming on. Do I have time? he wonders hurriedly. Yes, he does, only a matter of minutes. He can feel the velvet of her mouth close around him, the pull of her cheeks and tongue. He can see the ash-blond hair falling back from her face as she works on him. He can see her long, elegant hands, her manicured nails, her golden wedding band. He can make out the moist noises her mouth and tongue make as she moves faster, still staring up at him. He sees both his hands on each side of her head, his fingers curling in to grab fistfuls of silky hair, making her head move even quicker. The orgasm builds up, powerful, and he teeters on its edge before he surrenders to it.
“Are we going to that cocktail party?” Malvina asks, dangerously near, just outside the bathroom door. Nicolas’s eyes jolt open. He gasps at the reflection in the mirror. Him, slack-jawed, naked, triumphant erection in hand. He chokes. He hadn’t heard Malvina end the conversation with her mother.
“We could!” he gulps hoarsely, shoving the BlackBerry behind a box of Kleenex and hiding his tumescence with the towel in one frantic move.
A tap of high-heeled sandals. Malvina steps into the bathroom. She is wearing a turquoise dress he has never seen. It is close-fitting, low-cut, and reveals every inch of her figure, but there is nothing vulgar or cheap about it. Her long, dark hair is combed back and tied with a black velvet bow.
Malvina looks suspiciously around the bathroom. Nicolas continues to dab himself with the towel, trying to look careless, normal, feeling his cheeks blaze red with guilt. Malvina continues her inspection. The BlackBerry is nowhere to be seen. His erection is dwindling by the second. Close call, he thinks. He beams at her.
“You are beautiful,” he says earnestly, and means it.
“Why are you so red, Nicolas?”
“Sunburn.” He grins sheepishly, caressing the velvet bow with his fingertips.
“Will Dagmar thingy be at the cocktail party?”
“No idea.”
“What will you do if she is?”
“Say hello, I guess.”
Nicolas rushes into the room to dress, heart athump the sultry heaviness lingering in his loins.
Later, at dusk, they walk down to the terrace together, hand in hand. Nicolas is wearing black jeans, a white shirt, and a new dark green jacket. He is aware of what a striking couple they make, his towering height contrasting with her sylphlike grace. He never used to have those thoughts when he walked in the street clasping Delphine around the shoulders. He didn’t care, back then, what he looked like. But since Hurricane Margaux, Nicolas cannot go anywhere without trying to decipher how he comes across to others.
Nicolas realizes he has left Dr. Gheza’s invitation in the bedroom, but it appears they do not need it, as they are ushered into a private area near the pool by a smiling waiter wearing the customary black suit. “Welcome, signorina. Benvenuto, Signor Kolt.”
Gentle music is playing, not too loud. A cool breeze blows, but the heat of the day remains in the air, lingering like a steamy caress. Candles flicker lazily. The sea is splendid and inky blue. Guests laugh, drink, and chatter. Waiters glide by with trays of beautifully presented tidbits. Nicolas and Malvina sip chilled champagne, gazing out to the darkening sea. Nicolas relishes the Ruinart, but also the sensation of being safe in a peaceful bubble of sumptuousness. Moments earlier, the news was on television, and he had watched placidly, a Coca-Cola in hand, even though what he saw on the screen was disturbing, with its customary quota of bloodshed, financial crashes, political conflicts, and sex scandals. He turned the television off, and the dramas of the day vanished. He knew that in the next room, and for all those around him now, it had been the same. Wasn’t the Gallo Nero a hideaway rich people went to so they could forget the turmoil of the outside world?
Nicolas is beginning to discover, with intertwined awe and guilt, how time slows down here, inching along at snail’s pace, as if coated with molasses. More important than anything else is what wine to choose at table, which earrings to wear, which cigar to savor. Nicolas sees that the guests tonight have perfectly pressed blazers or dinner jackets and ties. Most women (except the creature holding on to Nelson Novézan’s arm) are exquisitely turned out
. Nicolas takes in their attire. Not an easy move, as Malvina is monitoring every flicker of his eyelashes. The Belgian wife is wearing a flowing apricot jersey dress with a flattering crossover neckline. The Swiss lady swimmer, long and lean, is spectacular in an off-the-shoulder floor-length emerald green number. The voluptuous short-legged brunette oozes sex appeal in a plunging scoop-back gown embroidered with glittering sequins. The blond French wife carries off a glamorous wrap dress with Parisian panache.
Nicolas looks around the terrace for Dagmar Hunoldt, wondering nervously what he should say to her, how he should introduce himself. But she is nowhere to be seen. Mr. Wong and Miss Ming, in matching black-and-red silk kimonos, bow their heads regally. The gay couple, cooly elegant in white-and-beige suits, are conversing with Alessandra, the cloying fan, and her mother, both in bejeweled djellabas.
Nelson Novézan, already tipsy, leans on the overripe blonde squeezed into a leather pantsuit on his arm. This must be his sex queen. Nicolas grins, holding his glass up to them. Novézan leers back, ogling at Malvina in her turquoise dress, taking her in from head to toe with a lecherous smile. Malvina turns her back to him, disgusted.
The Natalie Portman twins arrive with their Labrador, and they are such a sight that everyone swivels to admire them. Nicolas does it discreetly while Malvina turns to ask for a glass of water. He notes their vaporous pale pink chiffon frocks, their slim golden thighs, their vertiginously high red-soled pumps, and the strands of hair tumbling from artfully disheveled chignons. Just before Malvina’s gaze comes swinging back to him like an accusing boomerang, Nicolas glances down to the Labrador with a benign smile.
A balding man with tortoiseshell glasses and a navy blue blazer introduces himself as Dr. Otto Gheza, the hotel director. The man standing next to him is an actor. Tall, blond, American, in his fifties. Nicolas cannot remember his name. It is on the tip of his tongue. He smiles and nods, feeling foolish. For God’s sake, he has seen enough movies with this guy. How could he forget his name?
“When can we expect your new book, Signor Kolt?” says Dr. Gheza brightly.
Nicolas smiles back, the thin, tight smile. He has an answer ready for that question. He fires it. “As soon as I’ve finished it.”
“My wife loved The Envelope, by the way,” drawls the American actor, puffing on a cigarette. “Bawled her eyes out for days. I only saw the movie, didn’t get around to reading the novel. Robin was amazing as Margaux, wasn’t she? Bet you loved the movie.”
Nicolas nods. As the American rambles on, he realizes that most of the people on the terrace seem to have taken in who the actor is, and they appear to be sending nods and smiles the actor’s way. He also notices they have recognized him, as well. The Belgian wife, her champagne level high, makes a clumsy beeline for him, ignoring Malvina, Dr. Gheza, and the American actor. Her name is Isabelle and there is nothing Nicolas can do or say to make her shut up.
“Oh, oh, oh,” she says breathlessly, batting her eyes and clutching her pearls as if they are about to slip from her pulsing jugular. The heat has made her makeup clammy, and it’s weaving its way into the wrinkles of her face. “I cannot believe that you are here, on this island, tucked away on the Tuscan coast, away from the madding crowds, while I’m reading that book of yours! Wait till I tell my sister and my mother. They read you before I did, you see, and they kept telling me, ‘Isabelle, you have to read Nicolas Kolt. You are going to love that book.’ I couldn’t read the book before now, you see, I’ve been so busy. I have a shop on the avenue Louise in Brussels. Do you know Brussels? Of course you must; I read somewhere that your mother is Belgian. This is unbelievable. You are going to have dinner with us, aren’t you, with my husband, my son, and my daughter? How divine. What do you think? Oh, let me just take a picture of you so I can send it to my sister. She is going to be green with envy. Now wait a minute. I can never figure out how these phones work. Where do I need to press—”
The pear-shaped daughter utters only one word, loudly, but it brings her mother back to reality. “Mother.”
“Oh, dear, I’m so sorry. I got carried away. I only wanted to—”
Nicolas, embarrassed, looks out to sea as the daughter firmly steers the mother away.
“I guess you get that a lot, don’t you?” The American actor grins. “Hell, I used to, in my heyday.”
“Now now,” scoffs Dr. Gheza “I’m sure ladies still fling themselves at you today, Chris.”
Chris. Nicolas racks his brain. A blond American actor in his fifties named Chris. The guy’s face is so familiar. But nothing is surfacing. Once again, he scrutinizes the terrace. No sign of Dagmar Hunoldt’s imposing silhouette. Was it really her? How can he find out? He can ask the receptionist. On his way down to the pool tomorrow morning, he can do that offhandedly: “Oh, by the way, has Dagmar arrived?”
Malvina is talking to the gay young men. She seems less shy, less self-conscious. Nicolas is relieved. She is a true loner. Her idea of a perfect evening is curling up on the sofa in front of the TV, her feet tucked in his lap. He looks on. How pretty, how young she is. When he was with Delphine, she looked after him. Now he is the one mothering Malvina. It is a pleasant feeling, but at times it overwhelms him. Her personality is tricky to handle. Confronted with her long silences, Nicolas never knows which attitude to choose. Sometimes his impatience takes over. She reminds him of Delphine’s daughter, Gaïa, the champion of the pout and tantrum. Nicolas carefully avoids eye contact with the Belgian lady (now drunk, lipstick smeared over her teeth) as well as with Alessandra and her mother, who are slowly but surely creeping up toward him in a maneuver to hem him in. He nods to Mr. Wong and Miss Ming, then makes a dash for the bar.
Nicolas has already had three glasses of champagne. Perhaps a fourth one would be a mistake. He asks the barman for some sparkling water. It is surprisingly hot, even though it’s evening now. As he drinks, Nicolas thinks of Sabina. He cannot suppress a smile. What the hell is he doing, frankly? Leading on a housewife from Berlin with sizzling texts? Sexting, instead of texting. A part of him feels slightly ashamed. Does he really have to engage in this? Wouldn’t it hurt Malvina terribly if she ever found out? Nicolas brushes the guilt away. He’s doing nothing wrong, after all. It’s a virtual business, no flesh to flesh, no exchange of body fluids, no contact. It’s not as if he’s having an affair. Of course, it would be difficult to explain to Malvina, if she ever stumbled on a message from Sabina. But that’s not going to happen. His BlackBerry never leaves his sight, and even if she finally were to get her hands on it, she’d have to get by that password.
“Anything else, signor?” asks the barman. He is a burly man in his late thirties, with a warm smile. The name tag on his black lapel reads Giancarlo.
“No, I’m fine, thanks,” says Nicolas.
“I hope you are enjoying your stay at the Gallo Nero?”
“Yes, I am. Thank you, Giancarlo.”
“Nice weather, isn’t it? If you like the heat, of course.”
“I do,” says Nicolas. “I came here for three days of sun.”
“It’s nice to see people your age. Most clients here are older.”
Giancarlo mixes a cocktail with an energy that Nicolas finds interesting to watch.
“Some summers, it’s depressing,” the barman adds with a grimace, lowering his voice. His Italian accent is enchanting. “I shouldn’t be saying this with Dr. Gheza nearby, but believe me, it can be like a retirement home sometimes.” He winks.
“Come on, man.” Nicolas chuckles.
“No, it’s true, signor! I enjoy seeing young blood here. Not always the case, you know. Tomorrow, however, will be a great day for young blood.”
“Why?” asks Nicolas, intrigued.
“Photo shoot for a famous fashion magazine. They’re flying in the hottest models.” Giancarlo cocks an eyebrow. “Is your girlfriend the jealous type, signor?”
Nicolas stares at him, deadpan.
“Malvina is beyond jealous.”
�
��She can’t be more jealous than my wife.”
“Try me,” says Nicolas.
The barman gets going on another cocktail with the same ardor.
“Well now,” Giancarlo muses, shaking away, “Monica cannot stand that I even glance toward another woman. I did not say ‘at’; I said ‘toward.’”
“Ditto,” says Nicolas.
“I see. There’s more. Monica has a crazy obsession with my ex-girlfriends. She is convinced I am still in love with them.”
“Ditto.”
“And this: Monica goes crazy if I check my phone too often. She thinks I’m having an affair or something.”
Nicolas laughs and says, “Sounds like Monica could be Malvina’s sister.”
The barman laughs, too.
“Your girlfriend won’t enjoy tomorrow, signor. Too many dazzling young ladies frolicking around. Perhaps you will need to stay in your room all day. I’m joking, of course. You’re a writer, I believe?”
“Yep.”
“Sorry, I don’t read.”
Nicolas has heard that sentence so often, he wonders how it is possible he has sold so many copies.
“I mean, I don’t read books,” Giancarlo adds hastily. “Of course I know how to read.”
“Of course,” says Nicolas.
He realizes he is hot, thirsty, and dying for a drink—and not water.
“I’d like some champagne, please, Giancarlo.”
The Other Story Page 9