portraits dating from the quattrocento. James Gandolfini, lead actor in The Sopranos, revealed a striking resemblance to the Doge Giovanni Mocenigo, as painted by Gentile Bellini, while Sonia Rikyel seemed to have inspired Otto Dix’s portrait of the dancer Anita Berber.
“I suppose Cate Blanchett corresponds all by herself to a number of Holbein portraits,” observed Gay.
“And Nicole Kidman might find herself as a beauty with rippling red hair by Dante Gabriel Rossetti,” added my mother.
I saw my father’s face cloud faintly with annoyance. Cate Blanchett and Nicole Kidman meant little to him in comparison to the grandmasters of painting, about whom, on the contrary, he could hold forth forever, but he preferred to keep quiet rather than offend Polyséna.
“Well, Laure,” said Frédéric brightly. “It’s high time to get a move on! You promised to drive me into town, remember?”
Like many fun people who disdain to conform to modern life, Frédéric had no idea how to drive. Surprised for a moment, then grateful for the diversion, I was about to reply when my mother beat me to it.
“Don’t be silly!” she told Frédéric. “Roland, the chauffeur, will take you. And if it’s to buy your Paris-Turf, I don’t see why you can’t ask Roberto to get it for you.”
“Flokie, darling,” said Frédéric, rising to kiss her hand, “you’re a sweetheart, tried and true, but I absolutely need Laure for my little jaunt because I’m going hunting for a present for her birthday, which—as you know—is only a few days away.”
Mollified by this logical explanation for Frédéric’s desire for my company, my mother let us go.
“Just give me time to call my son,” I told him.
“Fine, come get me in my room when you’re done—I know it might take some time …”
And he was right. I missed my son so much when he was with his father that I could bear the separation only by breaking it up with phone dates, replacing “See you next month” with “Till tomorrow” or “Talk to you later.” And he missed me. He was only seven, and he needed me. But his moods varied, and that day, busy getting ready for some fishing with his father, he barely said hello. I felt hurt, but relieved as well, because that meant he was happy.
“So, what’s the form?” said Frédéric after we’d settled in with our coffee on the terrace of the Hôtel du Cap.
He always came on like a punter checking bloodlines when asking about the pedigree of one of my lovers or a guest at L’Agapanthe.
“Jean-Michel Destret? But haven’t you seen his picture? It’s in all the newspapers.”
“You mean the one who looks like the class nerd with his hair parted on the side?”
“Exactly.”
“Hoo boy! Are we in for some fun. Who’s he for, you or Marie?”
“Whoever gets the first hit—we’re going to play it by ear.”
“Like flipping a coin?”
“That’s great, laugh at me! You know what I mean … and by the way, this is the first time you haven’t told me that a guy isn’t good enough for me.”
“I’m on my best behavior, just for you! I’m keeping my beady eye on the sugar daddy prize.”
“Hey, real sugar daddies are old, so if you don’t mind, I’d rather call this a blind date.”
“Blind date? I’m good with that! See how nice I’m being?”
I have always confided in Frédéric about my love life and always been able to count on him whenever I wanted to go AWOL or hit the hottest underground club of the moment.
“I think that’s a stupid idea,” he usually told me, “but I’ll totally support you in whatever stupid idea goes through your head.”
And he meant it, like the year when I had a crush on French movie star Daniel Auteuil. I went on and on about him to Frédéric (who knew him a little), asking what he was like and if there was a chance that he might like me. I always got the same answer.
“You’re pissing me off with your Daniel Auteuil!”
Until my birthday. I was blowing out my candles when he handed me the phone with a mischievous look. “Call for you.”
“Who is it?”
“Some guy named Auteuil, I think,” he told me, casual as you please, when he’d been pestering the actor relentlessly to please call me up and invite me out for coffee.
Friday, 12:30 p.m.
My mother had a strange look on her face when we got back from Juan-les-Pins shortly after noon.
“Flokie, what’s wrong?” said Frédéric.
“It’s Roberto. He fell. I’m afraid he’s broken his hip. Roland and