The Currency of Love

by Jill Dodd

  Now I fly under the agency’s radar, in control of my plans. But success will hijack me and run me into the ground. I already know I’m not good at saying no. My freedom will dissolve and I’ll lose myself, and my barely stable footing. I don’t have a very good hold on myself to begin with.

  Right then I get the urgent desire to travel far away, where no one knows me. I want to get lost in a foreign city. After exercising my muscles of adaptability, I now crave the unfamiliar. I want to be lost again. I want to be uncomfortable and alone so I can hear my inner voice, somewhere I don’t speak the language. Maybe Japan. I could get lost in Japan. I need to get the fuck out of here.

  Silica sand quarry, Fontainebleau, France, 1980

  MONTE CARLO

  August 24, 1980, Paris and Monaco

  I sit in my little bed, writing a list of places I could go: Italy, Japan, Germany. Maybe a long vacation on a beach, where I can get my head straight. I have plenty of money right now, and the job I just finished paid double because it was lingerie. As I write my list of sunny vacation spots, the phone rings.

  “Gilles! Le téléphone est pour vous!” Madame yells down the hallway.

  I run to her room, to the phone on the marble fireplace. “Oui, âllo?”

  “Jill, it’s Pepper. What are you doing?”

  “Just hanging out.”

  “I’m calling to see if you’d like to come to Monte Carlo with me this weekend.”

  “That’s crazy, I was sitting here trying to think of where to go for vacation. Isn’t Monte Carlo superexpensive though?”

  “Oh, this trip’s free. You don’t have to pay for anything.”

  “I’ve heard that before. You’re kidding, right?” Finally I say, “Nothing’s free, little Poivre, but I’ll bring a lot of cash and I can run fast. I’m in!”

  “Great, I’ll arrange everything and pick you up Friday after work.”

  Pepper and I fly into Nice and drive along the coastal cliffs and seaside beaches. I absorb the glistening Mediterranean. The beach at Cannes is peppered with topless sunbathers. Ladies confidently basking with boobs hanging to their waists make me smile.

  Driving into Monte Carlo, you could almost smell the money. Manicured gardens filled with red, purple, and yellow flowers surround elaborate, sparkling fountains, and jewelry and couture stores seem to be everywhere. Grand palaces with ornate facades wave international flags. It looks like a miniature Paris on the sea—except bright, sunny, and much cleaner.

  We pull into the grand entrance of the Loews Hotel, where an army of doormen and valets in suits and top hats greet us. (I have no idea that one day I would stay at this very hotel every year for the International Swimwear Convention in Monte Carlo.) The massive lobby’s polished marble floors reflect the bright sunlight. A piano bar overlooking the sea has floor-to-ceiling glass. As I stand looking out, the sea sparkles all the way to the horizon.

  We take the elevator to our sunny room, with its own balcony and view of the sea. The butter yellow–striped wallpaper, floral bedding, and white faux bamboo furniture give it a happy vibe. As we settle in, Pepper suggests I go for a massage. It would be my first time, but why not?

  I make my way downstairs to the spa desk, where a woman signs me in and directs me to the locker room. I take everything off except my silky green panties and put on a white robe. I go to the massage room, put the robe on a hook, and lie on the table under a white sheet. A skinny French man comes in and rubs oil on his hands. He pulls the sheet aside and begins massaging my legs fast and not gently. I try and relax.

  He then shoves his hand up between my thighs. I jam my legs together while he fights to get into my panties, moaning. I flip a switch and my adrenaline kicks in. I grab the sheet and run to the dressing room. I pull my clothes from the locker, then race to the elevator and all the way back to our room still wrapped in the sheet, heart beating fast, focused on getting to safety. I throw on my bikini bottom and a T-shirt and go to the pool, looking for Pepper. I spot her on a lounge and rush over.

  “Pepper, the massage guy stuck his hand up my vagina!” I’m breathing fast.

  “What are you talking about? The masseur?”

  “Yes, that creepy masseur!”

  She bolts from her cushion. “I’m calling the desk.” She returns a few minutes later, laughing. “I called the spa, and the lady who answered is the masseur’s wife! He’s busted.”

  But I don’t find it funny. I am still shaken up. “You look like you need a drink,” Pepper says.

  “Good idea.” I take a deep breath.

  “Monsieur, we’d like something to drink, please,” Pepper sings in French. She is over my episode. The waiter hands us a menu with color photos of drinks topped with flowers and umbrellas.

  “Une yellow polka-dot bikini, s’il vous plaît,” I say.

  “Moi aussi,” Pepper agrees.

  He returns with two pastel yellow drinks topped with whipped cream and purple orchids. I have no idea what is in them, but I have at least two. Pepper’s friends join us at the pool: Andrew and his preppy sister, Giada, who seem like rich college kids from the East Coast. They are on break from school in Switzerland and visiting their dad in Monaco. Lucky them. All of us Americans bake in the warm sun, laughing, showing off our French to one another. The polka-dot bikinis do the trick, and I am finally relaxed and a little drunk.

  “Gilles, we’ve been invited to a party tonight in Cannes. Gotta be ready by eight. You wanna take a nap?”

  “That sounds perfect,” I say.

  We close the curtains and pass out until the front desk calls at 7:30 P.M.

  “Did you bring a dress?” Pepper asks.

  “No, I’ve got a skirt and a men’s tuxedo shirt from the forties.”

  “I’m wearing this.” She holds up a tight black dress. “I’ve got to get alone with Andrew. Isn’t he gorgeous?” She puts her leg on the bed, pulling up her stockings and attaching them to her garter belt.

  “Don’t you think he’s a little young for you?” I ask.

  “He’s not too young. He’s in college.”

  “He’s too young for me and you’re older than me. What is he, like eighteen?” I tie my bow tie. “You’re crazy, Poivre.”

  After a knock, Pepper runs to open the door. Andrew is standing there, seriously handsome—the spitting image of John F. Kennedy Jr. He looks perfectly comfortable in a suit. The only time I see guys in suits at home are at proms and weddings. I feel instantly intimidated, telling myself I am too old for him, which is just an excuse I make up in my head. In reality, I don’t feel good enough. Andrew is a sophisticated, white-collar college kid. Me? I’m blue-collar, not in college, a model.

  “Hi, baby!” Pepper purrs.

  “Hey, girls, my dad’s downstairs with the car, are you ready?”

  “I’m ready.” I watch him out of the corner of my eye because he’s so handsome, while Pepper’s hot on his trail.

  We find his dad, Dominic, and sister, Giada, waiting in the lobby. I can see where he gets his good looks. Dominic is handsome, with dark olive skin and thick salt-and-pepper hair. He looks Greek or Italian. His shirt is unbuttoned partway, showing his chest. Giada looks like a young version of Jackie O. How do they even look like this? I wonder.

  “So this is the famous Gilles I’ve been hearing about. You’re just as beautiful as Pepper said. I’m so glad to meet such a lovely young lady.”

  “Thanks, nice to meet you too. Dominic, right?”

  “Yes, and this is my daughter, Giada. And you obviously know Andrew.”

  “Yes, we all met at the pool.”

  “Ladies, gentleman, shall we?” Dominic holds his arm out, leading us to the black Rolls-Royce limousine.

  “This car reminds me of an old Jaguar limo my dad fixed up. It had a little bar in the back like this.”

  “So your dad’s a car buff?” Dominic asks.

  I nod. “A big car buff.”

  “I love cars too.” Dominic pops a bottle of Crista
l as we drive through Monaco. The grand palaces, Casino de Monte-Carlo, Casino Café de Paris, and the beautiful Hôtel de Paris are spectacular at night. I don’t think Monte Carlo has a bad section. All this wealth makes me feel safer somehow. I think about Grace Kelly, Princess of Monaco, who married the wealthy prince. “Hey, girls, should we go gambling after dinner? Did you bring your passports?” he asks.

  “Jill’s not old enough. You know the law, you have to be twenty-one,” Pepper says.

  “Can’t I sneak in?” I want to see the inside of these beautiful old buildings.

  “No way. Trust me, you don’t want to get in trouble here. They take their gambling laws very seriously,” Dominic says.

  We speed down the winding coast, drinking champagne and singing along to music all the way to Cannes.

  Earth crunches under the tires as we pull off the cliffside highway and roll to a stop. “We’re here!” Dominic shouts. We pile out and wander in the dark instinctively toward the music, twinkling lights, and huge fire in the distance.

  “What is this place?” I ask. Pepper body-slams me, wrapping her arms around my chest, singing “La Vie en Rose” in drunken French. I wobble in my black suede pumps through the dirt.

  Dominic puts his hand around my waist. “Jill, this is the famous old Le Pirate, come on, you’ll see!”

  The music intensifies as we get closer. I can’t believe my eyes—I see hordes of long-haired, tattooed, shirtless pirates, strumming guitars and banging tambourines. A crackling bonfire blazes twenty feet high, lighting up the dark night. I look overhead, where more pirates are climbing on ropes with daggers clinched between their teeth. It is like a scene out of Pirates of the Caribbean, except the movie hasn’t been made yet.

  A long table sparkles with candles, crystal, and silver, and at the head sits a young Egyptian-looking girl with dark exotic eyes and jet-black hair. Her beaded dress shimmers in the flickering light. Sophisticated ladies and gentlemen converse animatedly around the table.

  In the past, I may have felt out of place, but after modeling in Paris, I can fit in anywhere. Suddenly, a suited man stands up and hurls his champagne glass into the fire. Another guy throws his on the rocks and shards of glass fly. Adrenaline rushes through me as pandemonium breaks out. Of course, I jump right in. “I love this place!” I scream to Pepper. “It’s better than the Greek restaurants in Saint-Germain!”

  “I bet Hollywood doesn’t have places like this, does it?” she yells back.

  A dark-tanned, greasy old pirate hands us each a glass of champagne. “Salut!” I take a swig while another pirate pulls out my chair. Dominic begins introducing the other guests at the table, which was futile with the thundering music. I shake hands, nod, and smile anyway.

  Plates of baked potatoes with sour cream and caviar are served. I pucker at the salty, fishy taste. I gulp champagne and hurl my glass in the fire. A pirate promptly brings me another. As the Spanish guitars, tambourines, and drums speed up I want to dance, not eat, so I stand up and throw my plate of food in the fire.

  As I turn back around, I notice a man smiling, watching me, smiling and laughing a little. Normally, this would be creepy, but it’s not. He reminds me of my friend’s dad, whom I danced with at a wedding. I smile and sit down. As he brings his chair over next to mine, I’m glad he isn’t some young guy who’s going to try to sleep with me. His short stature, round tummy, and balding head give me the upper hand. I feel in control of the situation.

  It is too loud to talk, so he takes my hands and pulls me up to dance, and we twirl together all around the dusty ground. It feels as if we’d already danced together many years before. The pirates gather around and the guests clap with the music. Suddenly, he stops, grabs a chair, and throws it into the fire. Flames envelop the chair, turning it to a charred skeleton. He’s laughing, and I hurl one in too. Then we laugh at each other and slam together again like two magnets, whirling around to the gypsy music in front of the flames.

  It is only us dancing. Everyone else is drinking and laughing at the festive table, making a pretty backdrop for our world. Musicians circle us again, and he and a pirate grab my hands and feet, scoop me up, and swing me back and forth like a rag doll. I let my head fall back with my hair grazing the dirt, watching the flames upside down. I am totally surrendered to the spirit of the party, euphoric with freedom.

  They lower me to the ground, and I stagger slightly to the table. My new friend helps me into my chair but he remains standing, watching me. When he lowers himself slowly onto his chair, he leans toward my face, his sparkling eyes locked on mine. We sit looking at each other and start laughing again. Then he tenderly pulls my left arm, palm up, onto the table, pushes my sleeve up, and writes I love you, in blood, down my forearm. It takes me a minute to realize it’s blood. I’m stunned, but I like it. It feels like we’ve made some kind of secret pact.

  A pirate sees the blood and whisks him away for a bandage.

  Time stands still, and all I can do is look at the bright red words. All the noise falls silent in the middle of the madness. My heart soars overhead like a bird. I keep the blood on my arm.

  Pepper rushes over. “Let me see your arm. Are you bleeding?” As the words register, she screams, “Oh my God, Jill. It says I love you! Do you know who that was?”

  Her words, like a slap in the face, pull me out of my dream state. “No. How would I know?”

  “It’s Adnan Khashoggi,” she screams into my ear.

  “I can’t hear you. Tell me later!” I plea.

  Pepper knows her way around a party, and realizes I’m drunk. She takes my hand and the two of us walk to the rocky cliff and sit on a boulder overlooking the water. It is suddenly much quieter. I feel the cool, salty breeze pass over my face as we stare at the glistening sea below, and the boat lights twinkling in the distance. It is one of those nights where the moon reflects on the water like a sparkling road coming straight at you.

  My head starts spinning. This is not good. Pepper sees the look on my face and sneaks behind me, putting her arms around me in the Heimlich maneuver and squeezes hard. I throw up all over the rocks. “Why did you do that?” I gag.

  “You’ll thank me in the morning,” Pepper says in her tough girl, street-smart way. “I lived with an alcoholic and did that to him all the time. Are you okay? I’m gonna go talk to Dominic.” She leaves me on the rock.

  Eventually, the party dwindles down. The music slows and people head to their cars. I am drained. Pepper and Dominic come over to me. Pepper leans in close and whispers, “Adnan wants you to come have coffee with him on his boat.”

  “Who?” I still couldn’t understand the name she said.

  “The man you were dancing with.”

  “Oh, thank you, no, I’m tired. I just want to go to bed,” I say.

  They look at each other and whisper back and forth. Finally, Dominic says, “Jill, do you see that ship way out there? That’s his.”

  It looks like the Queen Mary all lit up in the night. My mouth tastes like vomit, and my head is spinning. I can’t imagine going on a ship right now, no matter how big it is. “Not tonight.” Coffee? Sure he wants coffee.

  We pile into the limo and drive back to the hotel. I sit between a blond-haired girl in a blue dress and Pepper. I sway side to side with the curves in the road as the girl in the blue dress whines at me to stop leaning on her.

  The next morning, Pepper orders breakfast from room service. Time to get up. I drag myself out of bed and onto the balcony. The morning sea is totally still. It’s already warm, and the sun makes my head pound. Then a splash of dark red catches my eye. My arm is covered in dried blood. Last night’s party rushes back, and I laugh to myself.

  Pepper is bubbly and way too awake. “What a party! Wasn’t that great?” She giggles. “Aren’t you glad I made you throw up?”

  I am not ready for this. “Yeah, it was crazy, and yes, thank you for that.” I am still coming to.

  “After I dropped you off, I went to Andrew’s
room.” She smirks, lighting a cigarette.

  “You’re crazy. He’s a baby, Pepper.”

  “Not last night.”

  There’s a welcome knock at the door and Pepper answers it. The hotel waiter has brought a silver platter overflowing with goodies—and thank God, two cafés au lait. He sets the tray down on the balcony.

  Pepper keeps babbling on excitedly. I think it’s sex euphoria.

  After breakfast, I get back in bed and stare out at the sea. Dominic calls around noon.

  “Yes, great! See you later,” Pepper says in French, and hangs up the phone, gleaming. “Jill, you’re invited to Adnan’s yacht for dinner tonight. He really wants to see you.”

  “Who?” I want to be sure we are talking about the same person.

  “Adnan, the man you were dancing with last night—the one with the blood? He wants you to come to his boat for dinner,” she says.

  I thought about the night before. It was totally crazy and fun. I don’t know if it was my artistic nature or the adrenaline junkie in me, but I liked the blood. I found it romantic. I wanted to see him out of curiosity, but I was also nervous. Who writes in blood and owns a big ship like that? “Okay, I’ll go, but only if you come with me,” I finally say.

  “Of course I’ll come!”

  We relax at the pool without the fancy drinks this time. The sun and sea bring back memories of childhood vacations on the water, so I pretend that I am in California. With my imagination, I can teleport myself anywhere.

  Around 4 P.M. we go upstairs to get ready. I have only a small bag of clothes, so I pull on a white eyelet skirt and wrap an orange scarf around my chest as a top. I wear my white moccasins—perfect deck shoes.

  Fontainebleau, France, 1980