Lost December (13 page)

“No,” Marshall said. “Just terminally wounded by the women’s movement.”

Lucy didn’t even look at him.

“So, what are we doing this afternoon?” I asked.

“I’ve got it planned,” Sean said. “First we’re headed down to La Tarte Tropézienne. It’s the finest pastry shop in Saint-Tropez. Maybe one of the best in France. It’s the birthplace of the cream-filled Tarte Tropézienne.”

How does he know these things?
I thought.

“Then tonight we’re going to the exclusive Les Caves du Roy. The place is fantastic—think Las Vegas meets a French grotto. The price to get in is being beautiful.” He turned to Marshall. “You might have to stay home tonight.”

Marshall shook his head. “Whatever.”

“Unlike America,” Sean said. “People here actually know how to dance.”

Les Caves du Roy is one of France’s most famous nightclubs. Sean was right about the club’s exclusivity and there were ill-tempered, muscle-bound guards posted at the club’s entrance to keep paparazzi away from the celebrities who frequented the establishment. I don’t know how Sean did it, but he got us in. The club was decorated in an oriental style with baroque columns wrapped in gold brocade. There were a lot of private nooks and corners. Lucy’s eyes were wide as silver dollars. “I think I see Bono,” she said.

“Where?” Marshall asked.

“Over there.”

“Where?”

“That guy sitting at the table next to the wall.”

“That’s not Bono,” Marshall said snidely. “He looks nothing like him.”

Lucy kept staring. “Or maybe it’s Sting.”

“Bono and Sting don’t look anything alike.”

“Well, maybe that’s because he’s in disguise.”

Marshall rolled his eyes. “It’s a good thing I like dumb women.”

True to his original plan, Sean got so drunk that Candace and I ended up taking him back to the hotel. He threw up in the taxi, which warranted a fit from the driver. I don’t speak French, but I didn’t need to to understand what he was saying. I ended up tipping him 50 euros just to quiet him down.

The next week or so, Candace and I spent most of our time on the beach away from the others, tanning, reading and drinking champagne or Cognac—though Candace was mostly into the fruity drinks, including one called the Saint-Tropez.
At night we’d meet up with the rest of the group for some exotic dinner.

It was the afternoon of our tenth day in Saint-Tropez when Sean came looking for me on the beach. I was alone, reading a Vince Flynn thriller. Candace had gone back to the room an hour earlier to shower and book us a restaurant for dinner.

“Time to leave,” Sean said. He was out of breath and strangely overdressed, wearing a beret and dark Vuarnet sunglasses.

“What are you talking about?”

His voice pitched. “I’m serious. We’ve got to go. I have a car waiting for us.”

Even with his eyes hidden behind sunglasses, his anxiety was evident. It was the first time I had ever seen him ruffled.

“We just need to leave. I’ll explain later.”

I looked at him for a moment then said, “Where are we going?”

“Cannes. It’s less than a hundred kilometers from here. Hurry, the car’s waiting.”

His insistence annoyed me. “Look, Candace and I will just meet you there.”

“No, that won’t work,” he said quickly. “We’ve all got to go together.”

I looked at him, wondering what he was up to. He clearly was motivated by something. “All right. I’ll get Candace.”

“The car’s parked on the street south of the hotel. Come out the south door and walk down to the street.”

“Why don’t you just have the car waiting out front?”

“We can’t do that.”

“What’s going on, man?”

“Nothing,” he said. “We’ve just got to go. Where’s Candace?”

“She’s in the room.”

“Tell her we have twenty minutes. Remember, don’t go out through the lobby. Go out the back door and take the walk to the next street, near the bakery we stopped at yesterday.”

“I need to check out.”

“No!” he blurted out. He must have realized how anxious he sounded because his voice calmed. “You can do it online from Cannes.
Don’t
go down to the lobby.”

“It will take us a few minutes,” I said. “We’re not packed.”

“Just hurry,” he said. “Please.” He looked around, then walked on past me.

More surprising than the conversation, was that he had actually said
please
.

I signed our beachside bar tab, gathered up my things, then went up to our room. Candace was in the bathroom putting on makeup. “Hi, honey,” she said. “I got us courtyard reservations at Auberge des Maures. The concierge says we have to try the lamb.”

“We’ll have to try it later,” I said. “Apparently we’re leaving town. Sean has a car downstairs waiting for us.”

She came out of the bathroom. “What?”

“Sean says we have to go.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know, but something’s wrong. He’s scared. Really scared.”

“Scared of what?”

I shook my head. “No idea.”

“Why don’t they just go without us?”

“I said that, but he said we all have to leave. The way he said it made me nervous.”

“Do you think someone’s after him?”

“It’s possible.”

She went back into the bathroom. “Probably a jealous husband.”

“Whoever it is, he’s shaken.”

We packed our things and slipped out the back of the hotel as Sean had insisted. Lucy waved to us as we approached the van. The driver quickly put our luggage in back, then we climbed in. Sean was slumped down in the back seat, looking as nervous as a gazelle in lion country. As soon as we were inside, Sean said to the driver, “Let’s go.
Dépêche-toi.”

The car pulled out quickly, making its way through the colorful city to the highway. Oddly, none of us said anything about our abrupt departure, though I noticed Sean looking in the driver’s rearview mirror a few times. I looked back myself, wondering if we were being followed—wondering what he’d gotten himself, and maybe us, into. Only when we were on the highway did he relax. “You’re going to love Cannes,”
he said softly. “The film festival is over, but the celebrities usually hang out for a couple weeks after.”

“We’re going to see famous people?” Lucy asked.

“You can count on that,” Sean said. “Lots of famous people.”

I looked over at Candace. She looked at me and shrugged. I wondered if we’d ever find out what had happened.

We are living the life of celebrity
.

Luke Crisp’s Diary

On the way to Cannes, Sean informed us that the celebrities who came for the festival stayed in yachts or five-star hotels, like the one he had booked for us—the InterContinental Carlton Cannes. The hotel was built in 1911 and was located on the famous Promenade de la Croisette, close to the festival.

As we checked in, the clerk handed me a payment form to sign. I almost gasped when I saw the room rate. “Excuse me,” I said. “Is this correct?”

“Is what correct?” he asked with a heavy French accent.

“The price.”

“Yes, sir. That is the correct price of the room.”

The suites were nearly 2,800 euros a night—nearly $4,000. I turned to Sean. “Did you know it was this much?”

He shrugged. “It’s Cannes,” he said, as if that explained everything.

What made it worse was that I was still paying for Sean & Company. On the way to Cannes, Sean informed me that he still hadn’t worked out his credit card problem. He said his mother was an imbecile when it came to money, and it could be another week before the issue was resolved.

The man at the hotel counter looked annoyed. “Is there a problem, sir?”

“No,” I said. I signed the form.

The bellmen took our bags up to our rooms, then we all met at the Carlton Bar on the main floor.

“Our suite is beautiful,” Candace said. “We have a seaside view.”

“Which suite are you in?” Lucy asked.

“The Grace Kelly.”

“We’re in the Cary Grant,” Lucy said. “They’re incredible.”

“So are the prices,” I said, still reeling from sticker shock.

“The price does include butler and maid service,” Marshall said. “You get what you pay for.”

What I paid for
, I thought.

“Did you see the people lined up outside the hotel?” Sean asked. “They stand there all day waiting to get a glimpse of celebrities. One woman asked me for my autograph.”

“I don’t suppose you told them that you’re not a celebrity,” Candace said.

“Why would I do that?” Sean said. “I’ll be meeting up with her later tonight.”

Candace shook her head. “I saw a real celebrity,” she said.

“Who?” Lucy asked.

“Matt Damon.”

“Damon! Where?” Lucy said, jumping up from her seat.

“He’s gone,” Candace said. “He was just getting into a car as we were coming in.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because I know you. I didn’t want you to embarrass yourself. Or us.”

As usual, Marshall just shook his head.

“What’s that you’re drinking?” I asked Sean.

“It’s a Lady Carlton cocktail. It’s named after an English woman who lived in this hotel for twenty-five years.”

Twenty-five years at this rate, they should have named the entire hotel after her.