Sweet Valley Confidential: Ten Years Later

by Francine Pascal

  Turns out later is just about here.

  Plus, he’s always thinking I’m fooling around. I’m not different than I ever was. I’ve been the same Jessica forever. Even when I was just a little kid, I liked boys to like me. And they did, and I was happy. It’s what makes me, me.

  It’s not like that’s all there is in my life. I love my sister and my family, and I really want to do something with my life. Maybe like the PR stuff I loved in college. I know I’d be good at it, but it’s not possible if I keep traveling around the world like this. Regan does his business by e-mail or phone, so it doesn’t matter to him where we are.

  No, it so isn’t working for me.

  I admit the first four months were beautiful. I was his darling and could do no wrong. Quite out of character for me, but it was nice. Around the fifth month I did my first wrong, or at least the first one Regan noticed—the actor.

  It was one of those endless charity affairs. Yes, I flirted a tiny bit, harmless flirting, just me being me, but Regan took exception and like went a bit nuts. He twisted my arm a little too hard, then swore it was by accident. Turned out, my perfect husband had a flaw—he could be very jealous, with dangerous hints of physicality. I’ve been there before with Mike and so don’t want to go back.

  With all kinds of apologies on both sides, that little aberration was forgiven and we moved on to another luxurious Mediterranean port, which happens to be here, in Cannes. And that’s where my second wrong occurred; in fact, it was earlier today. But this time I was like really completely innocent. Almost. All I was doing was sunbathing topless on the deck at the bow of my own boat. Well, my husband’s boat. It so wasn’t my fault that the captain was gorgeous and happened to be steering the boat with nothing in front of him but empty sea and my topless body. For hours. What was I supposed to do? That’s where the sun was.

  Again, Regan didn’t take kindly to such attention directed at his wife. He summarily fired the captain and chewed me out with words a little too menacing for the situation.

  Later, in our cabin, he really carried on.

  I’m not a dummy, and I can see that this is on its way to becoming a very nervous-making, unbecoming habit. Something has to be done.

  Of course, I called my sister immediately. And Elizabeth, always a rock, settled it. Maybe it will only be for breathing time, but for now I am going home to Sweet Valley, to Elizabeth, as soon as possible.

  Unfortunately, Todd is there, and I can just imagine his reaction. But I need Elizabeth, and that comes first. I need her desperately, need her love, her warmth, and her total understanding. When Elizabeth puts her arms around someone they just feel safe. And if that someone is me, her twin sister, there’re no questions asked, no judgments made, just the bottomless love of a big sister. Only four minutes bigger, but very big to me.

  Besides, I’ll have like the whole transatlantic flight to worry about Todd. My first concern now is getting away from Regan, getting the Delta flight from Nice to New York. I figure if I can make an early plane tomorrow morning and arrive in New York by afternoon, I can be on my way to Los Angeles later that very afternoon. By nightfall, I’ll be safe, with Elizabeth, the dearest person in my whole life.

  I walk down the dock, determined to tell Regan I’m leaving him, and why. Yes, I’m younger, but I’m his wife, not his child, and I refuse to be treated like some kind of chattel.

  In fact, there are a lot of things I can say to him. Like that I understand that he is used to being in charge—well, so am I. And though I admit initially I was a little overwhelmed by his world and took a more pliant position, it is time that he sees the real Jessica. It’s a matter of self-respect. And more important, respect for the truth.

  The decision is made: I’m telling him right now that I’m taking a plane to the States first thing tomorrow morning and that’s that.

  I can feel the good feeling of the right resolution. I feel like Elizabeth.

  I pull myself up tall and start down the dock toward the boat. Unfortunately, my heel gets caught momentarily between the planks of the dock, which cuts the elegant walk, but I simply pull it out and continue on, head still high. Nothing can stem my determination, but I’m so busy arranging the presentation of my bombshell news that I don’t even see Regan until I like nearly bump into him.

  “I never saw anyone more adorable than you,” says my about-to-be-abandoned husband, his hands on my hips stabilizing my balance, his dark eyes alight with adulation. “I watched you walking down the dock and thought, You are the most precious thing in my life and I’m probably screwing it up.”

  Before I can answer, he says, “I behaved like a jerk. I’m sorry. Please, forgive me.”

  For the first time since we married, I know for absolute certain that I don’t love Regan. But discretion is the better part of valor, and truth can be overrated; there’s no point in putting yourself in a bad position just for a little self-respect.

  “Okay, you’re forgiven,” I tell him, and receive a big hug for my acquiescence.

  “Sensational. Tell you what. Why don’t we get dressed and go into Cannes for a little dinner—maybe even hit the casino later? What do you think? You like the casino, right?”

  “You know I do. But I don’t want to be out too late. I thought maybe I might go into Nice tomorrow morning for some shopping. I saw the most precious shoes the other day at Gucci that I so have to have. Off-the-wall expensive. That can be your punishment.” I hope I’m at my most adorable.

  “I’ll take you myself.”

  I must be.

  “No, it’s too boring hanging around while I shop. Besides, it inhibits me. You don’t want to inhibit me, do you?”

  “Never. And absolutely not tonight.”

  I kiss him lightly on the cheek, and then more seriously on the lips.

  “The driver can take you tomorrow. On y va, ma petite amie.”

  And so one happy lovebird and one about-to-fly-the-coop bird hold hands and walk back along the dock together to my husband’s yacht.

  I’m up before six; in fact, I hardly sleep all night, planning my escape. I force myself to lie in bed until seven. In a few hours this peacefully sleeping man lying next to me is going to be my enemy. I so don’t want to be around when that happens.

  I can’t take a suitcase, not even a shopping bag, only the things I can jam into my purse, which is a stupidly small but adorable two-thousand-dollar Judith Leiber. It’s like the only one I can get to without opening the cabinet above us.

  All I really need is my passport, cash, and credit cards. Everything else I can buy.

  By the time I finish jamming in my makeup, the purse looks like a leather beach ball; no way it will ever go back to its shape. As long as it’s ruined anyway, I squeeze in a pair of heels. It’s like the first time I’ll be traveling in sneakers.

  Quietly—silence is not possible in a boat where every move creaks or splashes—I creep past Regan on tiptoes and slip out of the cabin. On deck, the crew is busy carrying on supplies and, except for Georges, the driver, no one pays me any attention.

  “Les magasins n’ouvrent pas avant dix heures,” Georges tells me. Even though I don’t understand all the words, I already know the stores don’t open until ten, so I give him one for his English, which is, like, right up there with my French.

  “Nous allons passer l’airport for chercer un package of caoutchouc from ma tante.” Caoutchouc is my favorite French word. I’m not exact on the meaning, but I know it’s something to do with rubber. He gets “rubber” and “airport” and chalks the rest up to bad translation.

  “Oui, madame.”

  I get that. I follow him to the Rolls; he holds the door open, and I get in. I’m almost smiling, the worst is over and it’s not even eight o’clock and I’m going to make the Delta flight to New York easily.

  Then I feel a shadow on my right side and look up and see my husband.

  He opens the door.

  “I owe you a beautiful present, and I’m perso
nally coming to see that it’s beautiful enough for you,” Regan says, smiling as he slides in.

  I don’t say a word. All I can think is, Does he know what I’m planning?

  “Georges,” he says, “the Rue D’Antibes, s’il vous plaît.”

  “Oui, Monsieur.”

  The Rue D’Antibes is the grand shopping street in Cannes. All the best designers have shops there, and a nothing little black dress can easily go for thousands of euros. Under normal circumstances, I would be more than delighted; right now, I’m practically paralyzed with fear. I still haven’t said anything.

  “Madame,” Georges says. “L’airport?”

  That gets me my tongue. “Not l’airport, L’air du Temps, the perfume, Georges.” Then to Regan I say, “Thank goodness you’re here! He would have taken me to the airport.”

  “Caoutchouc?” asks Georges, totally confused.

  “God bless you,” I say, and turn to give Regan a loving hug. He doesn’t know.

  Georges swings the car up from the port toward the Croisette, the broad boulevard, the jewel of Cannes, that runs alongside the beach. He drives past the grand hotels and turns left at the corner of the Carlton, a white bedecked wedding cake of a hotel that dominates the Croisette.

  “Pull over, Georges,” says Regan. To me he says, “It’s too early for the stores to be open. Let’s get a coffee on the Carlton terrace.”

  “Love to.” I grab my stuffed purse à la suitcase.

  “You can leave that in the car,” Regan says. “Georges will watch it.”

  “Never. What if I need my lipstick?”

  Regan knows better than to persist in an area totally alien to him. I clutch my purse to my chest and follow Regan out of the car.

  Now the big question is how do I get away from him and to the airport?

  Regan, a man used to having the best seats in a restaurant, chooses a table on what is called the bord de mer, the border of the terrace overlooking the Croisette and the sea. Mr. In Charge orders for both of us, café crème and croissants.

  Then he starts telling me about the next port and the port after that. Since I don’t plan to be there for any of them, I barely listen. I’m trying to figure out like how to get away from him long enough to catch a taxi to the airport. The best possibility is the ladies’ room.

  “Be right back, darling.” I jump up, still clutching the bag. “Ladies’ room.” I head for the glass doors that lead to the interior of the hotel. I see a Herald Tribune on one of the tables, grab it, and race back to give it to Regan. I want to keep him occupied as long as possible.

  Once on the other side of the glass doors, I head straight for the front entrance. There have to be taxies there.

  Happily, there are.

  I jump right in the first one and the driver jumps right out.

  “M. Marville?”

  “No?”

  “Excusez-moi, madame, ce taxi est réservé pour M. Marville.”

  No point in fighting this. I see another taxi just behind this one, so I get out quickly, look around to see that Georges isn’t waiting, and when I see he’s not here, get into the second taxi just behind.

  “Nice airport, s’il vous plaît.”

  “Oui, Madame.”

  Gorgeous luck to get the cab so fast. But we don’t move.

  Mainly because the taxi in front of us is still waiting for the famous M. Marville.

  By now I’ve given up any attempt at French and ask my driver in a kind of fractured English, loudly and slowly, if he can go around the first car. He shrugs his shoulders, which like means either Huh? or I can’t do it.

  “Plane!” I add the wings with my arms. “Please, do something!”

  Again he shrugs, so I get out of the car and, without taking my eyes off the hotel entrance, ask the first taxi in my loud and slow facsimile of French if he can move just to let us pass.

  He adds the outspread hands to his shrug.

  He watches while I dig into my purse past all the makeup and under the heels and pull out a twenty-euro note.

  Now he understands my English/French perfectly and pulls the car up onto the walkway far enough over to let us pass.

  But my moron driver doesn’t get it. I race back to my taxi and frantically wave him to pass the first car. He starts the motor and I jump in.

  Just at that moment, M. Marville—how I remember his name in all my panic, I can’t imagine, but I do—leisurely comes out of the hotel with his wife or whoever.

  Before we can pass, the driver of the first car gets out and opens the back door and then the trunk.

  I like slide down low in my seat and peek out the window to see if Regan has come out. He can’t just be sitting there waiting for me to come out of the ladies’ room all this time. Regan is not the waiting kind.

  And where is Georges with the car?

  There’s nothing to do but wait for the Marville party to put their suitcases in the trunk and get into the car. But they’re in no hurry.

  Actually, maybe I’m building this up too much. What would really happen if Regan found me? Like could he force me to stay? This is my first time in Europe, and I don’t know the language or the customs and even though Regan’s French is far from fluent, he can be so forceful, even overwhelming. I know it’s just panic taking me into this craziness, but what if he said I was stealing from him? He could make up anything.

  Just as I’m working myself up to hysteria, the Marvilles close the doors on the first car and my guy turns on the motor. That’s it. I sit up just in time to see Regan pushing open the hotel door.

  I’m back like flat down on the backseat when we pass the Rolls waiting with Georges at the wheel.

  How long before Georges tells Regan about the airport? He couldn’t have bought the perfume business. And what would Regan do? Would he go to the airport to stop me? Could he?

  For the twenty-five or so minutes it takes to get to the Nice airport, I’m so a wreck. My imagination is leaping off the charts. At best he would be fifteen minutes behind me. In the old days, before all this security, it would be enough time to jump on any plane, but now with all the checks, it like takes forever.

  I try to control myself and think rationally. Regan would expect me to go to New York, probably on the flight we came on, the Delta direct. So I won’t consider that at all. The best thing would be a flight to Paris or some major city where I can pick up a plane to New York.

  The driver asks what terminal I want. Of course, I don’t know. With hand motions I limit my words to “New York” and “Fast, fast!” It doesn’t sink in until I bring on the tears. Now he gets it.

  “Air France à Geneva. Après New York,” he says, and takes me to Terminal Two.

  I pay him, jump out, and race into the terminal. The big sign with the departures says my plane leaves in twenty-five minutes.

  With security today in the United States, it would not be possible.

  Nothing to do but try. Of course, there’s no line at the counter. I gear myself up for a long tearful story about why I so must be on that plane, but when I say first class to Geneva, the ticket agent just prints one out. It’s probably a commuter flight, but the magic words are first-class.

  Getting through security, I have to stop myself from turning my head constantly to make sure I’m not being followed, which, of course, probably makes me look like a terrorist except there’s no way, even without my heels, I look like someone who’s going to waste two-hundred-dollar jeans on a bomb.

  Inside the plane, seated in the luxurious second row, I stuff my bag under the seat in front and, reaching some sort of calm, let out a huge sigh of relief. I was more frightened than I’d thought possible. The back of my T-shirt is damp with sweat and the heat from my head makes strands of hair stick to my neck. My makeup is probably running, and I’m traveling first-class in sneakers. But I got away. I’m safe. For now.

  Soon I’ll be in the arms of my sister, the safest place in the world, and exactly the reason why I wouldn’t trad
e being a twin for anything. I have what everyone yearns for, another human being who will always be there when I need her and who keeps me from ever having to be alone.

  But not anymore. Now Jessica was just like everyone else; the uniqueness of the twinship was gone. She and Elizabeth had been like one person divided in half, viscerally connected, but not anymore. Now they weren’t even sisters.

  It’s true, she wasn’t alone. She did have Todd and he loved her and he’d be there for her, but it would never be the same. He was another person, a separate human being, not a part of her.

  She knew that she and Todd would have to deal with the Elizabeth problem in the future, but for now they felt like they were safe; they felt certain that Elizabeth would never come to Grandmother’s dinner.

  7

  New York

  The Wicked Teapot was a quiet bar in the early afternoon, but in the evening it metamorphosed into singles’ hell. The street in front was jammed with smokers and drinkers and smoker-drinkers.

  Elizabeth was not in the mood for this kind of scene. She’d just say hi to Liam and ask hey, could he maybe reserve a quiet table for her interview tomorrow? That sounded good.

  She squeezed her way inside only to find it even more solidly packed than the sidewalk. Behind the bar were two bartenders, neither of whom was Liam. Maybe he was on a break.

  “Is Liam working tonight?” She managed to get close enough to ask the young woman working the bar.

  “He’s through for the night. Got off a few minutes ago.”

  “Thanks,” Elizabeth said, and turned to tunnel her way through the crowd toward the door.

  “You might still catch him over there near the kitchen doors,” the bartender called out over the crowd.

  Elizabeth smiled a thank-you and shifted direction toward the kitchen where it was, thankfully, less crowded.

  But Liam wasn’t there. It was probably a dumb idea anyway.

  Elizabeth turned to go, then heard her name.

  “Elizabeth!”