Letter from Paris (14 page)

“I suppose nobody can give you advice you don’t want to hear either. I’m sure it’ll all work out.” India sighed. “So okay. Now you know why I’ve been a bit preoccupied today. Anyway, going back to what we were talking about, Henry told me Jean-Luc is going to be giving a lecture at The London College of Fashion tomorrow night.”

“Yes. I’m glad you can make it. How about we have dinner together afterward? I was hoping to meet him, but as it’s a fundraiser, he has a formal dinner with some alumni.”

“That sounds like a plan,” India said. “Speaking of dinner I’m starting to feel hungry. I haven’t eaten all day. Shall we order some food? The tapas look good.”

“Sure. Go for it. I’ll eat later. I’m not hungry right now,” Luella said, taking another sip of her wine. “Mind if I smoke?”

“Go ahead,” India said, though I wish you wouldn’t, she thought.

“So tell me more about Adam,” Luella said, lighting up and wafting the smoke away from the table. “How did you meet him? How long have you been together?”

“That’s a hard one to answer. I mean do you count the months we’ve been apart as ‘being together’ if you see what I mean? I met him the summer before last at my sister’s house. We really hit it off. It was a summer romance, but it was so much more than that. I was having a major crisis about work. I wanted to leave teaching but I’d no clue how to go about it. He really helped me build my confidence. Just being with him and his friends helped so much. There’s such a ‘can do’ culture over there.”

“Yes. I agree. I sense that when I’m in America too.”

“You feel like anything’s possible there, don’t you? Of course it wasn’t all about work. We just clicked. He makes me laugh. I feel like I can be completely myself around him.” She paused. “Anyway, for one reason or another I had to come back to London. He’s come to stay a few times, but then he got this huge part in this last movie and the travel just hasn’t worked out.”

“That’s tough.” Luella nodded.

“I keep trying to catch that girl’s eye. Hang on a minute; it’ll be quicker if I go inside to give her my order.” India said standing up and squeezing between the tables.

“Okay Luella. That’s enough about me,” she said a few minutes later coming back to her seat. “I want to hear about the new book you’re writing, the one set in Paris. You’ve written so many; where does the inspiration come from?”

“Ha.” Luella laughed. “I’m not so sure inspiration has very much to do with it. As I said earlier, it can be a slog.”

“But how do you get the characters? How do you dream them up?”

Luella looked thoughtful.

“Well,” she said, “I suppose you could say I audition them. I give them a name and some personality traits and get to know them. Sooner or later, one or two of them start to write their own dialogue. It’s hard to explain really. I suppose it must come from my subconscious. They start to take on a life of their own. They become real in my head. Mind you, I’ve been wondering lately if I have another book in me.”

“I’m sure you have,” India said. “You must have. It’s probably writer’s block.”

“Writer’s block is a myth,” Luella said, pausing while the waitress set down India’s plate.

“How so? I thought it’s an accepted fact,” India asked, dipping her pita bread into the humus.

“You’re forgetting about discipline. Talking of which, or the lack of it rather, I need more wine,” Luella said, looking up at the server and nodding in the direction of the ice bucket. “You can’t call it writer’s block if you don’t turn up at the computer to write. Writers write. Simple as that.”

“I suppose so,” India said thoughtfully. “It’d be like a dancer saying they can’t dance when they haven’t been practicing enough.”

“Exactly.” Luella smiled. “That’s exactly it. I’m not practicing enough. I haven’t been able to focus lately. That’s all it is. Real life has intervened. Frankly, I couldn’t have made up the stuff I’m dealing with right now. But let’s not go there. Let’s talk about something else. Where shall we go for dinner after Jean-Luc’s talk?”

13

The students sat with rapt attention in the college lecture hall. Jean-Luc clicked the remote control in his hand and a collage of rapid-fire images accompanied by a retro soundtrack of “Heart of Glass” hit the screen behind him. It abruptly switched to a Stravinsky piece India recognized as Orpheus, a composition she had decided years before, ranked as possibly the most painfully discordant piece of music she had ever heard.

Next, they’ll be playing Kate Bush. Take me now Lord, she thought, squirming in her seat. Where are the models, the runway, the CLOTHES? Why this sequence of demolished buildings, metal sculptures and cars erupting into flames? Why all this ugliness. How much longer is this going to go on?

After what seemed like an age, the screen went black. There was a moment’s pause before the audience rose to its feet in thunderous appreciation. India struggled to her feet, nonplussed. What? A standing ovation? she thought, peering to see how Henry, who had been sitting next to Luella, was responding. If the way he was clapping were anything to go by, he’d experienced some kind of spiritual epiphany. People sat down again in reverent silence as Jean-Luc walked over to the lectern and thumbed through his notes.

“Thank you. Merci.” He smiled. “I do apologize if my English is not so clear. As some of you may know I am not Eeenglish.” There was a ripple of laughter.

“I would like to use a quote from a
leetel
fashion designer that some of you may have heard of. Her Name was Coco Chanel.” Another ripple of laughter. “Madame Chanel once said,
‘Fashion is not something that exists in dresses only. Fashion is in the sky, in the street, fashion has to do with ideas, the way we live, what is happening.’

“Let us take a few minutes to think about what is ’appening. What is ’appening now? We have a world that we are abusing by using up all our resources out of greed and corruption. We ’ave ‘the Internet’ that is changing everything. We ’ave crime, we have poverty, we ’ave war. Our planet is on the road to destruction. We ’ave a moral responsibility as artists to reflect that.”

Jean-Luc thumped the lectern with his fist.

‘’We are the vanguard of a movement. We have inherited this ‘brave new world.’ We must stand up and be counted. This is a revolution.”

The students rose to their feet again, clapping and screaming, punching the air, hooting and whistling.

If I’d known I was coming to a rally, I’d have brought a hard hat, India thought. The idea of working with Jean-Luc just got a whole lot more interesting.

Adam Brooks was taking in the afternoon sun, reclining by the seawater infinity swimming pool at Hotel du Cap-Eden-Roc. Lost in thought, he gazed across the expanse of glistening blue ocean to where the oligarchs’ sleek yachts were outlined against the horizon.

The woman stretched out next to him rolled onto her back, rearranged her Pucci sarong and adjusted her sunglasses and floppy white sun hat.

“We really should have booked a cabana,” she drawled. “I feel totally exposed out here.”

“You’re such a diva, Diane. Here, this might help.” Adam said, topping up her glass of rose Krug champagne and handing it to her.

“It’s okay for you. You’re clearly only too delighted to have that six-pack of yours on display. I, on the other hand, am an actress of a certain age. One rogue photograph could herald the end of my career.”

“You’re safe,” Adam yawned. “Nobody’s taking any notice of you. Relax. I’m going to make a call.”

Diane flipped onto her stomach. “Catch you later. Pass me that towel before you go.”

Adam hurled the towel at her head. “Thanks a bunch,” she grunted.

He threw on a shirt and slid his feet into deck shoes. Taking the stone steps two at a time, he reached the cantilevered Eden Pavilion terrace and pulled out his phone. The call went straight to voice mail. “Hey Indie. It’s me. Miss you,” he said. “Call when you get a minute. I have an idea to run past you…”

“Damn. Why don’t you ever pick up?” he muttered, thumping his fist against the granite pillar. “That woman is the most irritating person I’ve ever come across.”

“Adam. Adam Brooks, I don’t believe it.” A woman in a diaphanous sundress let out a shriek, leaping up from one of the long oceanfront tables and racing over to him.

Adam raised his hand to shield his eyes from the sun. A crazed fan; that’s all I need right now, he thought.

“ADAM! What are you doing here? I don’t believe it. It’s Natalie,” the girl gushed. “Natalie. You remember me?”

It took a moment for him to register. “Natalie. Of course,” he said, recovering quickly. “This IS a surprise.”

“Here, come and meet some of my new friends,” she said. “C’mon.”

Adam hesitated and then followed her the few steps to the table.

“Everyone. Meet Adam Brooks, the man who almost literally knocked me off my feet in Vegas a few months back,” she said, wobbling slightly on her six-inch espadrilles.

A couple of middle-aged men slid their chairs back and leaned over to shake Adam’s hand.

“This is Ross,” Natalie gushed, “CEO of Charles Davis Advertising Company and this gentleman here is Tom Waters from Saatchi and Saatchi. This is Sam Goldman, who needs no introduction of course, and Pete here is from Morgan Stanley. We’re all in town for the Advertising Festival.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Adam said, nodding at the guys at the top end of the table and smiling at the two women at the far end whom Natalie had failed to introduce.

“You must have a drink with us,” she said, pouting. “This place is awesome isn’t it? Come on. Here, sit next to me,” she schmoosed, waving to the hovering waiter who took her signal and lifted over another chair.

“I’d like to but I’m with a friend. She’s waiting for me,” Adam protested, nodding his head in the direction of the line of bleached calico parasols by the pool.

“How about just one glass of bubbles?” Natalie teased. “Tom here just ordered another bottle of champagne. We could use some help with it.”

Adam hesitated. Diane had been appalling company all morning; working with her was becoming extremely wearing. He wasn’t needed on set now for the next two days. Why not?

“Okay. If you’re sure I’m not crashing your business lunch.”

They sat down together. Natalie leaned forward, pulled the tiny shoulder strap of her sundress down her arm and crossed one long tan leg over the other. She covered the side of her face, tilted her head in the direction of the man next to her and mouthed, “B-O-R-I-N-G.”

Tom handed Adam a glass of pink champagne. “Santé, as they say here. So, what company are you with Adam? Don’t I know you from somewhere?”

“Adam’s an actor,” Natalie said, but Tom wasn’t listening.

“There’s John Hegarty. I must go talk to him,” he said, getting to his feet. “Sir John. Sir John,” he yelled. “Great to see you. I was hoping to catch you after your talk tomorrow.”

The others around the table were engrossed in conversation. Natalie moved closer to Adam. “So how long are you here for? I can’t believe we’ve run into each other again like this. It must be fate,” she said, circling the rim of her glass with her forefinger and then licking the tip of it very slowly with her tongue.

14

India was perched on a cubist stool in the Soho Hotel library, marveling at the eclectic mix of designs, the bold use of color, the luxe fabrics, the vibrant artwork. That’s a whole new take on library steps, she thought, admiring a neon-lit ladder resting against shelves of leather-bound vintage books. What an incredible space. Who’d have thought to put those rugs against dark wooden floorboards?

India had agonized for hours over what to wear for this first meeting – it was important to get it right. After all, Jean-Luc was one of the world’s foremost designers. She had settled on her Isabel Marant linen jacket, A-line Cottonier skirt and Repetto ballet flats. Surely you couldn’t go wrong with a totally French ensemble to meet a
Createur de mode
?

She stood up as Jean-Luc appeared in the doorway wearing a crumpled white linen suit and panama hat. The ‘story’ he is telling today is more
Last Days of the Raj
than anarchic revolutionary, India thought.

“Enchante,” he said, air-kissing her on either cheek. “Please let us sit down. I have ordered afternoon tea. We ’ave the room for the next hour; we will not be disturbed.”

“Thank you,” India said. “This is such a lovely room.”

“Yes. Kit ’as done an exceptional job. It ees a beautiful thing – the power of imagination in the hands of someone who knows what she is doing. Who needs to ’ave their own place in London when you ’ave a room waiting for you ’ere? And tomorrow I return to Provence to my abandoned house guests.”

India had gleaned from a recent spread in
Vanity Fair
that Jean-Luc entertained his house guests in grand style in his renovated farmhouse, a sprawling property nestled in acres of lush French countryside. Artists, musicians, writers, actors and designers, ‘dropped in’ for weeks at a time during the summer months to horse ride, cycle and swim. Evenings they would come together to dine around a reclaimed wooden trestle in the kitchen, a vast converted barn complete with Adobe walls, exposed ceiling beams, squashy sofas and a roaring fire. She had read that the wine they drank was from his adjoining vineyard, the organic vegetables picked daily by his chef. The milk was from his pedigree cows, eggs from his bantam chickens and herbs from his lavender-hedged kitchen garden. There were photographs of mouthwatering pastries created from ripe fruit from the orchard.