Time flew by and eventually Sandrine nudged me and lifted her right eyebrow, signaling that perhaps our guests might want to go home for dinner. But before I could speak, Bruno and Hélène, who had been off to one side whispering, turned and invited us all back to their place for dinner. “Bruno was going to barbecue tonight, and he always makes way too much food,” Hélène said.
“You have room for all of us?” Michèle asked. “I was going to have Valère take me out to Aix’s finest restaurant tonight.”
“Nonsense,” Bruno said. “It’s too hot to eat in a restaurant, and we have more than enough food.”
The little girls cheered, which was quite adorable, and we told the Pauliks we’d be at their place in thirty minutes so they could get things ready and Michèle could have a quick swim after her train journey. Sandrine got to work clearing away the aperitif dishes, and something seemed to be bothering her, so when we were alone I said, “You’re invited too, Sandrine.” I was worried that perhaps she felt a little out of place, as she was—thank you, Justin, yes, the hired help. But having spent the past few days with her, I felt like she, too, was a friend.
“Oh, I know I’m welcome there,” she answered.
“Then why are you pouting?” I asked.
She nodded her head in the direction of the swimming pool, where Michèle was splashing and yelling, “J’adore Provence!”
“Michèle?” I asked. “She’s nice once you get to know her.” But, then, Michèle had been perfectly amiable that evening, despite her abrupt entry.
“Well, I just got a text message from the garage that my car is ready. So I’ll be on my way. I’ve made up her room, and I’ll come back to help you once she’s gone.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Sandrine,” I pleaded. “I need you here during the day. Michèle will be no help whatsoever. She’ll be down at the pool all day, talking into her Dictaphone. She still gets her books typed up by a secretary. So will you come back tomorrow? We still have so much to do.”
Sandrine snorted. “I don’t trust her.”
I laughed and she gave me another raised eyebrow.
“And what are you basing that on?” I asked. “You know nothing about her.”
“She wants something—that’s all. Besides, I know who she is. She writes romances too. I recognize her from her book jackets. But Josy and I prefer your books. They’re . . . smarter.”
Our conversation was stopped by the appearance on the doorstep of a dripping wet, raucous swimmer. “I’ll get you a towel,” Sandrine said, looking Michèle up and down. “I mopped the floors this afternoon.”
“Oh dear,” Michèle answered with an audible amount of sarcasm in her voice. “Then I’d better stay outside. I say, Valère, bring me a shot of whiskey. I’m getting cold.”
Sandrine went upstairs and seemed to be taking forever to find a towel, and by the time I had handed Michèle a tumbler of whiskey Sandrine still wasn’t down. “She doesn’t like me,” Michèle whispered. I then knew she’d overheard our conversation.
“Just what are you doing here, Michèle?” I asked.
She threw her head back and laughed. “Why, I’m here to see you, darling Valère!”
What in the world is a succotash, Justin? Oh, just a bed of sweet corn? More corn? Then why don’t they say that? But these deep-fried frogs’ legs, they’re fantastic. What are they battered in? Yes, you’re right—it’s shredded filo.
The Pauliks didn’t have food as adventurous or glamorous as this, just a barbecue of lamb chops and sausages, as they had promised. But Hélène had made a fantastic potato salad, and for dessert we had oodles of fresh strawberries, nothing else. The conversation was very interesting, just as interesting as any conversation in Paris. Marine, their friend, asked about my books. She said, “Valère, if I may call you that—”
“You may,” I answered.
“Thank you,” she replied, very courteously. She had a very proper way of speaking, and before she began a sentence, you could see her brow begin to furrow, as if she were carefully choosing the best words. “I recently read an interview in Le Monde, with an American author whose name escapes me, who said that writers never talk about their stories—I mean the plot, or the characters—when they’re together. It’s more about the form—the narrative, for example—or the language. Is that true?”
“Absolutely,” I said, impressed by her question, and equally sous le charme of her beauty. “The things we had drilled into us in a high school or university—plot, theme, symbolism—don’t come up in conversations with fellow writers. But if we’re experimenting with the narrative—the form—we talk about that. Once you decide on the narrative form, the book can almost write itself.”
“I disagree,” Michèle cut in. And we finally had a glimpse of the real Michèle Baudouin, in all her bossy glory. “The story is everything. The characters rule.”
I could see Bruno, Hélène, and Marine looking at each other with confused faces. So Sandrine had recognized Rosalie di Santi, but not my neighbors. That gave me huge satisfaction, being the competitive and jealous asshole that I am. “Ladies and gentlemen,” I announced, waving my arm in Michèle’s face, “may I introduce my old school friend, known to the general public as Rosalie di Santi.”
They all gasped, even the big guy, Bruno. The little girls giggled, aware that there was something exciting going on but not knowing what.
“You can wipe that smirk off your face, Valère,” Michèle said as she downed her glass of red wine. “I’m not at all upset that these fine people didn’t recognize me as the romance writer, because, Valère, do you know how many of my books are in print right now, as we speak?”
“A few million?”
She roared with laughter. “Four hundred million.”
“Is that a lot?” Léa asked.
“Oui, ma chérie,” Bruno answered. He looked like someone had
