by Suzy K Quinn
‘I’ll choose my own dress, Leo. You know that.’
‘Really?’ Leo accepts a full, cold beer from the waiter. ‘I thought Marc liked things his way.’
‘He does,’ I say. ‘But I still have a mind of my own.’
‘You know, Cassandra will be at the Riviera Film Festival.’ Leo takes a swig of beer. ‘Talk about awkward. I gotta make sure I’m sat a million miles away from her. Because if the cameras get us in the same shot, there is no way Jen will ever take me back.’
84
‘You needn’t look so nervous,’ says Marc, squeezing my hand.
We’re on Rue François Sibilli – a major shopping street in Saint-Tropez.
The buildings are peach and sandy pink coloured, with white shutters and sparkling glass windows. Words like, ‘Valentino’, ‘Miu Miu’ and ‘Gucci’ are painted on the soft stone shop fronts.
‘I can’t help it.’ I stare at myself in a gleaming glass window. ‘I never know what to do with myself in designer shops.’
Behind me, an immaculate French woman strolls past in a white linen suit. She has perfectly coiffed blonde hair and a snakeskin envelope handbag under her arm. At her feet, trots a pure white poodle.
‘You’ll be fine,’ says Marc, kissing my head. ‘You look like a model. Any designer would be delighted to dress you.’
Sun warms the wide, spotless pavements.
‘I don’t feel that way.’ In my loose, white summer dress, I am way too scruffy for the well-put-together crowd milling around the shopping district. Everyone is so coiffed. So made-up.
‘You should,’ Marc insists.
‘I’m just not used to expensive clothes,’ I say, as we walk past Valentino. ‘Oh my god. Marc. Did you see who was in that shop?’
‘Who?’ He turns.
‘Mick Jagger.’
‘Ah … Mick’s here.’ Marc raises an eyebrow. ‘Surprise, surprise. He loves Saint-Tropez. Would you like to say hello? He’s a friend of mine.’
‘I’d be way too shy.’
‘Of Mick?’ Marc looks surprised. ‘There’s no need. He’ll love you.’
‘You’re telling me not to be nervous?’ I whisper. ‘These shops are for celebrities.’
‘What do you think you are?’ says Marc.
‘I’m … just ordinary.’ I see myself in another shiny window – just a normal twenty-something girl, with brown hair and eyes. Nothing special.
‘No you’re not,’ says Marc, leading me along the pavement. ‘Trust me. Ah – this is the place.’
Marc takes me into a shop of elegant trouser suits and astonishing gowns.
‘Enchanté!’ A tiny, pale lady rushes to greet us. She has a perfect, geometric white bob and darts of black eyeliner. ‘Marc Blackwell. It’s been too long.’
‘Claudette.’ Marc allows himself to be kissed on both cheeks. ‘I’ve brought someone for you to dress.’ He takes my hand and offers me forward. ‘My perfect wife. Sophia.’
‘Oh, I’m not perfect,’ I mumble.
‘Certainment!’ Claudette grabs my hand and twirls me round. ‘My goodness! What a body! I love her, Marc. For French fashion, there is no better shape. Come sit down here, Sophia.’
Claudette pats a pink velvet chaise longue and drops me down. ‘Now, my gorgeous girl. Wait there while I find beautiful gowns. You’re dressing for the Riviera Film Festival, right? Why else could you be here?’
‘Yes.’ I catch a glimpse of myself in a full-length mirror – long, wavy brown hair falling around my shoulders and eyes staring in surprise.
I have to admit, the French sun has given me a certain glow. But I’m just so ordinary. Nothing like the women in this town.
‘Ah. Perfect.’ Claudette pulls a full-skirted pink dress from a show rail, draping it across my body. ‘So Riviera. Don’t you think? Bold and beautiful.’
I look down at the elaborate fabric, wondering how anyone could walk with all the whirls and twirls bunched around their body.
‘Umm …’ I don’t know how to tell her I hate it.
‘No?’ Claudette steps back. ‘You don’t think so?’
‘It’s … um … I like simple things,’ I say tentatively.
‘Simple? You cannot have simple,’ Claudette insists. ‘Marc will tell you. Not for the Riviera Film Festival. What is that English phrase? Go big or go home.’
At the window, a line of pretty, giggling girls have gathered, their noses pressed to the glass.
Marc frowns. ‘Do you have a private dressing area?’
‘Certainment.’
85
Claudette leads us to a pretty, walled garden full of flowering honeysuckle and lavender.
There’s a wrought-iron table and chairs, and a woven, wicker garden sofa.
‘You can change out here.’ Claudette bumps a wheeled clothing rail onto the patio. Then she props a full-length mirror against the wall. ‘It is totally secluded.’
The rail is hung with gowns she’s selected for me, and a few I’ve chosen myself.
‘I’ve never been in an open-air changing room before,’ I say, smiling at the feel of sunshine.
‘Perfect weather today, huh?’ says Claudette.
‘Perfect,’ I agree.
‘You know, I never thought Marc would marry.’ Claudette fluffs out gowns. ‘Sophia, you have to tell me. How did you win him around?’
‘It was me who won her around,’ says Marc, gruffly.
‘So now we have some of the story,’ says Claudette. ‘But how did you meet?’
‘I was Sophia’s teacher at Ivy College,’ Marc tells her. ‘And I fell in love with her the first moment we met. Very inconvenient, I must say.’
‘Her teacher? Scandalous!’ Claudette laughs. ‘I love it. Wait there – you both need a glass of wine in this heat.’
‘So Claudette never thought you’d get married,’ I tease Marc, when Claudette disappears inside. ‘How does this woman know you so well?’
‘I would never have married anyone but you,’ says Marc.
‘How do you know Claudette?’
Marc’s lips tilt into a smile. ‘I shot a movie here. Years ago.’
‘I think I know which one. Drug Money.’
He raises an eyebrow. ‘You’re quite the Marc Blackwell fan.’
‘I’ve seen all your movies.’ I falter. ‘Even the one with Cassandra …’
My insides burn as I remember the scene between Marc and Cassandra. It’s passionate and animalistic. The characters are supposed to have sex in the school locker room, but you don’t see that – only frenzied kissing.
It’s not the only movie Marc kisses a woman in. But it’s the only one, to my knowledge, where he had a relationship with her off screen too.
I look away from Marc.
‘Sophia,’ Marc says softly. ‘It was a million years ago. I was a different person.’
I nod, blinking at a rim of tears. ‘I know. I just … wish it had never happened.’
‘So do I.’ Marc puts his arms around me.
‘Here we are.’ Claudette returns with two glasses of chilled white wine, and an elaborate gown over her arm. ‘I found another dress too – something you just have to try, Sophia.’
The gown is covered in giant, silk roses and flows along the floor behind Claudette.
‘I know, I know.’ Claudette places wine glasses on the table. ‘You said simple. But just try this one, okay?’ She hangs the gown on the rail, fingers lingering over the fabric roses. ‘It’s the perfect colour for you.’
‘I think plain will suit me better,’ I insist.
‘At the Riviera Film Festival you cannot be plain,’ says Claudette. ‘Just try it. Marc – you’re her husband. Can’t you convince her? The man always has the last word. Right?’ She laughs. ‘They’re the ones with the wallets.’
‘Sophia can choose whatever she likes,’ says Marc. ‘I don’t tell her what to wear.’
‘You don’t?’ Claudette looks surprised.
‘Soph
ia isn’t my possession,’ says Marc. ‘She’s my wife.’
‘Not how most men around here think,’ Claudette muses. ‘You should see them – dressing their wives in gold Rolexes and diamonds, wanting everyone to see how much money they have. Okay – so I’ll leave you to try on, okay? Call me if you need anything.’
Claudette vanishes back into the shop, swishing a big, black curtain across the glass doors.
‘Sophia –’ Marc begins.
‘It’s okay Marc.’ I attempt a bright smile. ‘You’re right. The past is the past. It hurts, but … that’s how it is. You’re my husband. We have a baby together. There’s nothing for me to be jealous of.’
‘And yet you are jealous. Aren’t you?’ His eyes bore down on me.
‘I can’t stand to think of you with that woman,’ I admit.
‘Does it help if I tell you I can’t stand the thought either?’
‘A little,’ I say.
‘You’re the girl who changed me,’ says Marc. ‘Who gave me a beautiful daughter. Who made me fall in love. No one else will ever come close to you.’
He finds the small of my back, stroking back and forth, eyes holding mine. ‘So choose your dress, Mrs Blackwell.’
‘It’s difficult. I need to look elegant. But … I hate being all trussed up.’
‘Mm … interesting choice of words.’ Marc raises an eyebrow. ‘You always look elegant. Even when tied to the bed. You should trust Claudette. She’s been in this business a long time.’
‘This sort of thing just isn’t me,’ I insist, taking the cloth-rose gown and holding it against my body. ‘I mean, can you imagine me in this?’
‘I think you’d look incredible in it,’ says Marc. ‘Maybe it’s time to push your boundaries.’
‘You don’t think you’ve pushed them enough already?’
‘Not nearly enough. Let me help you undress.’
‘Do you think that’s a good idea?’ I ask.
‘One of my better ones.’ His eyes have taken on that dangerous look.
‘Like marrying me, you mean?’ I say, hanging the gown back on the rail.
‘Exactly right.’ Marc comes to stand behind me, lifting my dress up over my head. He throws the dress over the rail, then runs a knuckle from my neck all the way down my spine.
I stand in plain, cream-pink underwear, shivering with pleasure.
‘Hold onto the dress rail,’ he says, lifting my hands to the cool, metal bar between swinging gowns.
As my fingers adjust to the cold, Marc slides my panties down my legs. As I feel them drop to my feet, his fingers come between my thighs, moving back and forth, sending delicious shivers all over my body, building up friction where I’m most sensitive.
‘Oh god Marc,’ I whisper, leaning into the rail. ‘We shouldn’t do this here.’
His hand falls away, and hear the zip of his trousers.
‘Marc.’
Firm hands clasp my backside.
I swallow and close my eyes, waiting.
Marc squeezes and releases, squeezes and releases my buttocks, until I have to stifle a little moan. Then he parts my backside.
I gasp, gripping the rail, as he enters me in one long stroke.
‘OH!’
I yelp with the tightness, and Marc stops.
‘Okay?’ he whispers.
I nod, not trusting myself to speak.
When I don’t make any other sound, Marc slides further in, little by little, until he’s all the way in.
Then he starts to move.
‘Oh Marc.’
I feel his hand clamp my mouth, and the other come between my legs, rubbing where I’m hot and sensitive.
He moves slow and steady, getting deeper with every stroke.
My eyes are tight shut now, and I’m moaning against his hand as he builds up pace.
The slow, gentle movements become faster and harder, his hips smacking into my backside, my hair jerking tight in his hand.
I’m so caught up with him, so outside of myself with pleasure, that my orgasm takes me by surprise. It burns and sparkles, building to a hot flame between my legs that melts into gentle heat.
Marc grasps my hips again and pulls himself into me, his body throbbing and rigid as he comes inside me.
His fingers clench me tightly, digging into my skin, and I feel him jolt.
‘Sophia,’ he whispers, and I hear his hard breathing.
I hold tight to the rail, panting and a little sore. I feel like my backside is glowing bright red.
After a moment, Marc’s gentle fingers glide down my buttocks and he slides out of me.
‘Well Mrs Blackwell,’ he growls ‘Have you decided which outfit you like best?’
86
I feel Marc pull up my panties, as I cling to the dress rail for support.
‘God, Marc. You certainly choose your moments.’
His lips quirk into a smile. ‘From time to time, I like to remind you who’s in charge.’
‘Oh, so you’re in charge of me, are you?’ I turn to him, smiling.
‘Just then I was,’ he says. ‘Could you have stopped?’
‘No,’ I admit.
Marc pulls me into his arms. ‘Good.’
I catch a sideways glance of myself in the mirror, tangled up in Marc’s body.
‘How do I look?’ I ask.
‘You want my opinion now?’ says Marc.
‘I always want your opinion.’
‘I think you look beautiful in everything.’ Marc watches us in the mirror. ‘But you’re going to the Riviera Film Festival – why not wear the biggest, showiest gown there is? You won’t look out of place.’
‘Maybe I will try that dress with the roses,’ I say, reaching for the rail. ‘Even though I’m not a rose anymore.’
‘A rose by any other name …’ Marc gives me his half smile.
The dress is covered in roses of different sizes and colours, even on the shoulder straps. A palette of soft grey, ballerina pink and ice white falls from collar to ankle.
I stroke the giant silk roses with my fingers. ‘Romeo, Romeo. Will you help me with this?’
‘Gladly.’ Marc takes the dress and helps me step into it.
‘You’re good at this,’ I say. ‘Have you helped many women to dress?’
As soon as I ask the question, I regret it. It’s not funny. Not with Cassandra’s ghost still floating around.
‘I don’t remember other women,’ says Marc, pulling the zip up my back. ‘Not now I have you.’
‘Good answer.’
‘It’s true.’ Marc is still watching me in the mirror. He sweeps my hair around my shoulder, exposing my neck.
I see myself, hardly believing the girl who looks back at me. The dress. It’s stunning.
I thought the fabric would be loose, but it clings tight to every curve of my body. Like a work of art. I’m cocooned in a nest of crushed silk, held from shoulders to feet in softness and beauty.
‘What do you think?’ I ask Marc.
‘You know what I think. You look astonishing.’ He plants a kiss on my neck. ‘Absolutely astonishing. But I prefer you with no clothes at all.’
I don’t want to take the dress off. But I let Claudette wrap it carefully in tissue paper, smoothing and folding so it fits perfectly in a matt-pink dress box.
Claudette drops rose petals in to fragrance the dress, then slides the lid into place and wraps a jet-black ribbon around, finishing with a bow.
‘Voilà!’ she announces. ‘Now. I have the perfect pair of shoes, also.’
She takes a pink and black striped shoebox from a shelf, and folds back the tissue paper.
Inside the box, I see silk stilettos with a fabric rose on each toe strap.
‘They’re beautiful,’ I admit.
‘They’re yours,’ says Claudette. ‘No charge – I insist.’
I glance at Marc.
‘Claudette,’ says Marc. ‘I’ve never been a fan of complimentary. Charge them to my accoun
t.’
‘No, no, I absolutely insist.’ Claudette waves a dismissive hand. ‘By the end of the week, Sophia’s photograph will be in every fashion magazine in Europe. That’s payment enough.’
87
That afternoon, Marc and I shoot our last scene on the cruise ship, as we sail from Saint-Tropez to the Riviera Film Festival.
I know the moving ship will look great against the sunset, but it means we have a time pressure.
Once we arrive at the Riviera, the noise and light of the film festival will ruin the shot.
‘Just relax,’ Marc tells me, as I mess up yet another take. ‘You’re over thinking it.’
The sunset is beautiful. Perfect. And I know my lines. Marc and I have rehearsed this scene a dozen times. But he’s right – I am over thinking it. And putting too much pressure on myself to be perfect.
Marc takes my arms, shaking them loose like that first time I was on stage with him. He turns to Nadia. ‘Let’s go.’
We shoot the scene, and as Marc and I share a passionate kiss for the cameras, I know we’ve got it right. We’re in character. And there’s chemistry. Lots of chemistry. How could there not be with he and I?
‘Great,’ Nadia shouts. ‘Just great, you guys. Wow! We did it. Everything in the bag. Next stop, the Riviera Film Festival.’
The shouts and cheers become deafening as our tender boat reaches the Village International Riviera.
‘Oh wow.’ I grab Marc’s hand, grinning at the Palais des Festivals lit by neon pink and green strobe lights.
A red carpet runs the length of the building.
‘This is crazy.’ I watch fans screaming outside, as the tender comes in to dock.
Marc frowns. ‘Lucky Ivy stayed on the cruise ship.’
‘I’m just sorry Tanya had to miss this,’ I say, fingers drumming the boat’s fibreglass superstructure.
‘It was invitation only honey,’ Nadia interrupts, leaning into our conversation. ‘I’m sorry to leave the Cruise gang behind too. But it’s all about Rapunzel now. Hey – this is the way to travel, don’t you think?’ She takes a sip from a tumbler of ice and whisky, then hands it to a wobbly waiter, struggling to keep his footing on the waving boat. ‘Last year, I was stuck in traffic for hours.’