Faking It

by Leah Marie Brown

  While waiting for my bankruptcy-inducing spicy noodles, I slip on my sunglasses and nonchalantly check out the other diners. Either I am overdressed in my maxi dress and strappy sandals, or I have inadvertently stumbled onto a Victoria’s Secret catalog shoot. Everyone is bronzed, beautiful, and nearly naked.

  The waiter returns with my cocktail. Two sips of the delicious concoction and I have to fight to keep my eyes from crossing. To say it’s potent would be the biggest understatement of the decade, maybe the century.

  By my fifth sip, I am sooooo glad I splurged thirty-five delicious Euros. That’s right math whizzes, the Red Beach set me back over fifty American dollars. Who cares if I have to eat Top Ramen when I get home? I’ll gladly pilfer condiment packages from fast food restaurants to survive if it means I get to sit in ZPlage and sip Red Beaches with anorexic Russian models and their playboy sugar daddies.

  When my pricey spicy noodles arrive, I am practically licking the bottom of my Red Beach glass, and I don’t care who’s looking.

  “Would you care for another Red Beach?” the waiter asks.

  Yes. Yes. Yes.

  “No, Merci.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Fuck me! Is he a waiter or a pusher? Just say no, Vivia.

  “Oshay.” I giggle at my verbal gaffe. “Just one more.”

  I don’t know what the French put in their spicy noodles, but they are sooo much better than Mister Foo’s. They’re spicier and more noodly. Noodly? Is that even a word? It should be. Noodly: the act of being noodle-like, as in, Vivia drinks one Red Beach and she feels noodly.

  I am floating on a cloud, a warm, fluffy cloud. I wouldn’t say I am drunk, just very relaxed. After signing my bill for the most expensive lunch ever, I float over to the changing cabanas.

  An overly-eager cabana boy helps me find my designated sun lounge. Seriously? Sun lounge? Leave it to the French to make two beach chairs and an umbrella sound like a hip and happening place to be.

  The beach at ZPlage seems to be where the beautiful people gather to sip champagne and pretend they don’t care that they are surrounded by beauty and ostentatious wealth. C’est normal.

  Behind me, an elderly woman with bleached blond hair and large bug-like Chanel glasses gesticulates mildly, elegantly, while conversing with a Laurence Olivier look-alike in Feragamo loafers. Loafers at the beach? Bien sûr! It is, after all, Cannes.

  Still wrapped in my alcoholic cocoon, I stretch out on my lounger and stare at the blue, blue sea. The breeze shifts away from me. The sun feels fiercer. A bead of sweat trickles between my breasts. I take the last sip of my Red Beach and watch the azure waves gently lap the shore. Why can't life always appear as beautiful as it does when one is sipping champagne in Cannes? It’s delightful. Hypnotic.

  “Baaaabe.”

  I don’t know how long I have been asleep or why someone with an Italian accent is calling me babe, but I wish they would go away and let me stay in my blissful little cocoon.

  “Baaaabe, hand me the lotion.”

  I crack open an eye to find a tall, buxom topless bleached blonde positioned like a bathing suit model on the lounger beside me, knee bent, one arm above her head. A paunchy American who seems to be performing oral sex on his cigar is on the other side of her. The woman is much, much younger than he is. She is wearing a skimpy orange bathing suit, her round ass hanging out of the minuscule triangles of fabric, and again I wonder if I've landed in the middle of a lingerie shoot.

  She notices I am staring at her and grabs a tube of expensive looking suntan lotion from the table between us.

  “You should use some of thees,” she says, waving the tube in my general direction. “You’re as red as the heels on my Louboutins.”

  “Merci.”

  I pop the lid off the tube and squirt a little of the lotion onto my hand. It shimmers on my palm like gold dust, and when I rub it into my arms, it leaves a satiny iridescence on my skin.

  “Thank you.” I hand the lotion back to her.

  She waves a manicured hand dismissively in the air and turns back to Paunch Daddy, who is still deep throating his Cuban.

  "Baaaabe, you need to go if you are going to meet Kiki."

  I cough as a toxic plume of cigar smoke floats downwind.

  The woman turns, studying me through a thick veil of mascara-ed lashes. “You’re choking! Would a piece of gum ’elp?”

  “Thanks,” I cough.

  I want to tell her I need an iron lung, not a piece of Trident. Sugar Daddy's cigar smoke is killing me. She reaches a manicured hand into her LV bag—who carries a Louis Vuitton to the beach?—and pulls out an elaborately engraved silver box. She hands the box to me. I remove the lid to discover white squares of gum inside. I am not sure what kind of person carries Chiclets in a silver monogrammed box, but in my next life, I want to be that sort.

  Miss Monogrammed Box tells me she is actually half-American, half-French, but has spent most of her life on “the Continent.” I’m tempted to ask her which continent, but instead ask her how she met Paunch Daddy.

  “Oh, you don’t want to know about zat.” She giggles and waves a slender bejeweled hand in the air dismissively, causing her massive breasts to jiggle. “Eet eez a complicated story."

  Miss Monogrammed Box is actually quite nice. She tells me that her man is from New Jersey and is in “zee business.” I am guessing, from the thick crop of hair circling his body and the copious gold chains around his fat neck, that he is from the Shore. When he smiles, he looks like Mr. Potato Head. His teeth are that white. Still, he's friendly.

  He snaps his fingers and a waiter appears.

  I can’t imagine snapping my fingers at a dog, let alone a waiter.

  Paunch Daddy asks if I would like a glass of champagne, but I politely decline. He tells me about his travels, his concerns over the lagging economy, and wonders aloud if he will have to sell one of his homes in Palm Beach, Hawaii, and France.

  “I feel you, brother.” I quickly pound my chest in a show of solidarity. “I let go of my San Francisco place before coming to Cannes.”

  I must still be on a Red Beach buzz. What other possible explanation could there be for my mocking Paunch Daddy?

  “Baaaabe,” Miss Monogrammed Box whines again. “Kiki is waiting. Aller! Aller!”

  Paunch Daddy snuffs his cigar in the sand before hoisting himself out of his chair.

  “Okay! Okay! Stop nagging me.” He deposits a fatherly kiss on Miss Monogrammed Box’s forehead. “See you later, G.”

  Paunch Daddy lights another Cuban and then disappears behind a hazy curtain of pungent cigar smoke.

  “’Ow rude of me.” Miss Monogrammed Box says, sitting up quickly. “I ’aven’t even asked your name.”

  “No worries.” I try not to stare at her bouncing breasts, which is not an easy task since they are aimed at me like two massive spotlights. “I haven’t asked you your name either, and I filched your lotion and your gum. I’m Vivia, by the way.”

  “My friends call me G.”

  “Just G?”

  She nods.

  “So you’re kinda like the performer previously known as Prince? That must make signing documents easy.”

  She giggles. She orders us each a Red Beach and commands me to tell her my life story, “juicy details and all.”

  “I don’t really have any juicy details. I’m just plain old Vivia.”

  “Nonsense,” she says, waving her hand in the air. “I know you’re fascinating and fobooliss. I could tell zat when I first saw you.”

  I take a sip of my Red Beach and begin telling her about the Nathan drama, sparing no subplots or embarrassing details. She listens with rapt attention, eyes wide, spotlight boobs aimed at me.

  When I finally finish my story, she takes a deep breath, exhales slowly, and announces in a dramatic voice, “Zat eez tragique! A truly tragique story. You poor, poor girl.”

  G’s iPhone begins playing Lorde�
��s “Royals.”

  “Excuse me,” she says, reaching for her phone. “Do you mind?”

  “No. Don’t be silly.”

  Here I am, sitting with a bona fide member of the jet-set—who thinks I am fobooliss—and what do I do? Dazzle her with my awesomeness? Nope. I tell her my most humiliating secret.

  “My friends,” G says, putting down her phone, “zey are going to join me.”

  In other words, please take your sad little Kate Spade bag and your tragique, little tale, and go back to your pathetic, little life. Adieu, Vivia!

  I reach for my Kate Spade bag, but G stops me.

  “You can’t go now! My friends are coming. I want you to meet them.”

  “I don’t want to impose.”

  “Nonsense,” she says, waving her hand. “Who’s imposing? We are friends now, you and me. Oui?”

  “Oui.”

  “Bon!” She lifts her Red Beach in the air. “A toast! To finding new friends and losing miserable lovers!”

  We clink glasses and laugh.

  G’s friends arrive. They’re bronzed, beautiful, and nearly naked. They’re also surprisingly funny. The conversation flows as freely as the Red Beaches. I am up to four now, but who’s counting? I never knew the rich and beautiful could be so nice.

  G’s iPhone rings again and we all chime in with Lorde, singing about bloodstained ball gowns and tigers on gold chains.

  “Shh!” G presses a gold lacquered nail to her plump lips. “I can’t hear.”

  We burst into giddy champagne-amped laughter. G slides her finger across the screen and holds the phone to her ear.

  “Coucou! Oh, hello, my dahling.”

  I stare at the sun sinking low on the horizon and pretend I’m not listening to her conversation. I don’t usually eavesdrop on people’s private phone calls, but G is kinda riveting.

  “ZPlage, of course. Are you coming? Fobooliss. À bientôt.”

  She hangs up.

  “That was JJ.” She says it as if everyone knows JJ. “He’s on his way.”

  “JJ?”

  “A dear friend,” G explains. “You’ll adore ’eem, dahling. He’s fob.”

  The sky is a mélange of pastel purple, pink, and orange. Early evening has arrived and the beach at ZPlage has cleared. Nannies have taken their spoiled charges back to the hotel for their baths. The Russian models return to their rooms for a shellacking before heading to the casinos. In fact, except for two cabana boys, we are the only ones left.

  I lean closer to G. “I think they want us to leave.”

  “Nonsense.” She giggles. “ZPlage is always open for me.”

  A man arrives. He’s dressed in jeans, a white T-shirt, pinstriped vest, and dark sunglasses. He has dark shoulder-length hair, a soul patch, and a thin, kinda-sexy mustache. He looks familiar. I think I’ve seen him somewhere before. Maybe the restaurant earlier or the lobby?

  G hops to her feet. “JJ! Finally!”

  They kiss each other’s cheeks with the practiced ease of those who spend a lot of time on “the Continent.”

  JJ greets the others with equal affection and then pops a squat at the end of my lounger. That’s when I notice a familiar tattoo on his right bicep.

  Oh. My. Freaking. God. Jett Freaking Jericho, the award-winning actor famous for playing quirky and larger than life roles, is sitting close enough for me to smell his cologne. I could reach out and touch the bandana wrapped around his slender, tanned wrist.

  I stare in awe as the group chats in French. Jett orders us another round of Red Beaches and then turns to me and says, “So what’s your story?”

  G answers before I can.

  “Poor Vivia, she has a tragique story. Her fiancé left her at the altar after he found out she was not a virgin.”

  Jett turns to look at me. I can’t see his eyes behind the dark sunglasses, but I know he is staring at me. My cheeks blaze with a heat not caused by the alcohol.

  I sit in mute horror as G regales Jett Jericho with all of the details of my shameful story.

  “That our society still places so much emphasis on the chastity of women is ludicrous.” Jett says, breaking into a monologue. He speaks slowly, haltingly, and his speech is peppered with drawn out “uhs”. “The idea that a woman must remain a virgin until marriage is archaic, a foolish notion perpetuated by a chauvinistic majority to keep the gender balance off kilter.”

  The others nod their heads. Truthfully, Jett lost me at chastity, but I nod too.

  Jett Jericho looks at me and says, “You know what?”

  I rest my chin on my hand because it feels as if my head might roll off my neck.

  “What?”

  “You would look smashing with pink hair. You should dye your hair.”

  “Are you ssserious?” I hear myself slurring.

  “That’s a fobooliss idea, Jett!” G briefly rests her lacquered nails on his forearm. “She would look fobooliss with pink hair.”

  “Why should I dye my hair pink?”

  “Why shouldn’t you?” Jett frowns. “You’re coming off a broken relationship, right?

  I nod, and my head wobbles like a dashboard bobble dog.

  “Dyeing your hair represents the idea of change and allowing yourself to step outside the confines of your normal everyday life.” He removes his sunglasses and fixes me with his million dollar stare. “You must seek out pleasure, Vivia. Seize the moment. Live.”

  I focus on his eyes. They are rimmed with black eyeliner. I wonder if he always wears black eyeliner. It forms a neat artistic line beneath his thick eyelashes and I’m amazed the humidity hasn’t caused it to smudge or melt. I consider asking him what brand of eyeliner he uses when he slams his fist on the table. The empty Red Beach glasses clink together.

  “Life is about transformation, regeneration. It’s about going down in flames and rising up from the ashes,” he says lighting a cigarette and taking a deep drag. He blows the smoke in a ring, which hovers over his head like a crown. “You must rise from the ashes, Vivia.”

  “What would people think if I dyed my hair pink?”

  “Who cares what people think?” Jett gesticulates wildly and his cigarette leaves billowy contrails of smoke in the air. “You can’t live your life worrying about what other people think, my dear. You just gotta do you and keep on rollin’.”

  OMG! Jett Freaking Jericho just called me his dear.

  Jett slides his glasses back on and continues talking. “Just go and do what you want and live how you want to live without hurting anybody else. Just take life as it comes. It is how I live my life.”

  “Pink hair?”

  “Oh, yeah,” Jett says. “But it’s not about the hair. The hair is just, like, a metaphor.”

  I stare into his brown eyes, and suddenly I am convinced. If the man who played Captain Black Marrow in the most popular pirate movie ever made thinks I should dye my hair pink, then by God, I will do it. I must do it.

  G fishes in her LV bag and pulls out her iPhone. Her fingernails click across the screen and a moment later she is holding the device to her ear and speaking rapid French. She hangs up.

  “Voila! It is done.”

  “What is done?”

  “You have an appointment at the Salon Martinez in fifteen minutes.”

  “I can’t afford it.”

  “Nonsense,” G says. “It’s my treat.”

  “I couldn’t.”

  “Shit!” Jett says. “I’ll pay for it. Think of it as an emancipation gift.”

  “’Eet’s decided. Aller! Aller!”

  G presses a fresh Red Beach into my hand, links her toned arm through mine, and leads me away. We climb the stairs leading to the Croisette, follow the white crosswalk lines, and enter the Hotel Martinez. When G ushers me into the chic salon, I am so wasted I can barely keep my eyes open.

  The next hour passes in a blur. I have a vague idea my hair is being cut, colored, curled, and teased,
but since no mirrors hang in the Salon Martinez, what’s happening to my head remains a mystery.

  “Mirrors indicate a lack of trust in the process,” Veronique, my Master Stylist says. “We believe the client should yield to the certainty of perfection.”

  When we return to ZPlage an hour later, Jett is just getting ready to depart. He takes one look at my head and claps his hands.

  “Bravo, Vivia! Bravo.”

  Jett grabs my iPhone, throws his arm around my shoulders, and snaps a picture of the two of us.

  “Let me get one,” G squeals, holding up her iPhone.

  With his arm still around my shoulders, Jett flashes the peace sign. Is it me or did the beach suddenly tip precariously to the right? I rest my head on Jett’s shoulder and flash a peace sign. G snaps the pic, and I stumble over to the lounger.

  Jett squats beside me, slides his sunglasses on top of his head, and stares into my eyes. “Live openly. Be bold, Vivia, and make no excuses for who you are. And if all else fails, get drunk. Get really, really drunk.”

  “Thanksss, Jett.”

  Through half-lidded eyes, I watch Jett Jericho stroll down the beach and disappear into a gaping black hole between two changing cabanas. I doubted Fanny when she told me about a subterranean tunnel connecting the hotel to the private beach. She said it was used by celebrities to avoid the paparazzi.

  G orders us another round of Red Beaches and a tray of appetizers. I’ve already consumed enough alcohol to pickle my liver. I can’t remember when I was this drunk… Maybe the night I slept with Travis? I know I should probably thank G for her generosity and say goodbye, but I don’t want to spend the night alone in my hotel room. I am in one of the most glamorous cities in the world.

  Seriously? Who goes to Cannes and spends the night sitting in their pajamas, eating Nutella, and watching sad dramas on Eurovision?

  Not me!

  Chapter 20

  Captain Black’s Ass Art

  “Stop!”