us? Or, thinking rationally but unfeelingly, did he consider it absurd to have us bear such a burden when he would no longer be there to foot the bill? Having been taught never to contradict a man, or even openly question the validity of his decisions, we said nothing further.
We needed time to learn more about the family’s finances, assess the situation, and plan a counterattack.
Before getting into her car to drive home that evening, Marie turned to me, exhausted.
“We’ll talk soon,” she said sadly.
The first person I called the next day, however, was Frédéric, the uncle I would have loved to have. Ever since I was a child, he’s been telling me, “You, you’ve got that sparkle in your eye!”—although he also used to say he found me very serious for my age, probably his way of letting me know he thought I looked bullied and unhappy. He was on my side and made no bones about showing his preference for me by making me laugh and giving me the affection I craved.
“I don’t understand a thing you’re saying.” He sighed into the phone. “You’re talking too fast and I’m too hungry to think. Meet me at one o’clock at the Relais Plaza. You know their escalopes de veau viennoise are—”
“To die for, yes, I know. Thank you, Frédéric. I’ll see you later.”
Arriving a trifle early, I sat at his usual table across from the bar. He walked in looking dapper: oatmeal-colored suit, lilac handkerchief in his breast pocket, cashmere sweater draped across his shoulders, because he is always cold, even in midsummer. He’s an old man, now. More soigné than affected, he might seem sad and frail, but he’s a mischievous little devil.
“Monsieur Hottin!” cried Serge, the maître d’, rushing to greet him.
“Bonjour, Monsieur,” added the cloakroom lady, brightening into a smile.
It’s undeniable: Frédéric is fantastically popular. First of all, he’s a celebrity. In fact, he and his late sidekick, Brady, are to the world of variety theater what Ben and Jerry are to American ice cream: a gold standard. He is also very generous, particularly with the staff, whom he tips royally even though he isn’t rich (although he does live comfortably off copyrights since Brady’s death). And breaking every rule in the book with the naughty insouciance of an old man who’s nobody’s fool, he treats duchesses and chambermaids exactly alike, refusing to take anyone seriously, especially himself. He has even become something of a cult figure among trendy young authors, TV stars, culture vultures of all kinds, and nostalgic souls yearning for a Paris of cabarets and flash parties. They endlessly repeat his best lines and make a fuss over him in clubs where reality TV stars have taken over from the band of buddies he once formed with Françoise Sagan, the painter Bernard Buffet and his wife the actress Annabel, a society columnist named Chazot, and a few actors and comedians.
“Darling, bring me a bullshot with lots of ice, will you?” he asked the waiter. “So tell me. What’s all this about L’Agapanthe?”
I summed up the situation; Frédéric understood perfectly. He was one of the habitués at L’Agapanthe, a “pillar” of the house, my parents would have said, since they classified their guests according to their level of familiarity and seniority at the villa, and even treated them accordingly, like frequent flyers whose memberships vary in prestige and worth, depending on the regularity of their journeys.
Frédéric was at the apex of this hierarchy, as was Gay Wallingford, his nearest and dearest friend for over thirty years, and the family had more or less adopted this picturesque couple. Then came the regulars of the house. The term might seem dismissive, yet it referred to the happy few who were invited each year and had their designated rooms. Their role? To guarantee the basic ballast of visitors required to stabilize the villa on its cruise through the summer, and to mentor novice guests, whose very novelty was meant to spice up our season.
Then came the luncheon crowd known as the “cafeteria club”: neighbors who were writers, museum curators, artists, golfers, more often than not single or down on their luck, who came for lunch every day, attracted by the quality of the food and the company. Last came those run-of-the-mill arrivals who rolled in for lunch from Monaco, inland, or Saint-Tropez, and who—not being handpicked like our overnight guests—brought an eccentric midday fauna of rich Texan dames pumped full of Botox, drug-fiend photographers and gallery owners,