Chapter 25
BIX
There’s plenty of time before lunch, and I’m eager to leave the Dark Prince to his brooding, so after a few minutes I exit the suite and make my way down to reception.
“Maurice, hi,” I say once I reach the concierge desk. “I’d like to see the village. Is it far?”
“Just five minutes, mademoiselle.” He offers a warm smile. “Take the steps leading down from the pool, and you’ll be there in no time. The Friday market is quite charming.”
“Thanks. I could use some fresh air.”
Two minutes later, I pass the coconut-scented sunbathers lounging around the pool.
A few pair of sunglasses discreetly flip up as I walk by. Are they wondering who I am? Do they recognize me as Slayer’s latest conquest?
Conquest. The very word makes my cheeks warm. I think back to that first night when Slayer shared such passionate kisses...and how much I wanted to be his conquest.
The sound of my name wakes me from my daydreaming.
“Ms. Bismark, the village is just that way,” the handsome guard in black is saying as he opens a security gate for me.
“How did you know who I was?”
“It is my job to know every guest here,” he explains with a professional smile. “You will find the gate that leads to the village near the bottom step. Enjoy your day, mademoiselle.”
“You too.”
I love this gorgeous hotel where everyone knows my name and anticipates my every wish. I could grow used to this life, even if it’s built on pretense.
Once I’m out of the hotel grounds, I follow the winding path toward the village square, Place des Lices.
It’s small and quaint, surrounded by cafés where older men play pétanque in the dappled shade. The lazy clinking of metal balls against each other creates a soothing soundtrack.
Walking past the square, the delicious smell of ripe fruit and fresh bread leads me to the Friday market.
Vendors call out in rapid French, selling everything from local honey to handmade pottery. Tourists and locals alike meander the stalls, sampling olives and cheeses.
I’m examining a table of vibrant scarves when I hear music floating through the air—not recorded tracks, but live instruments.
The sound is joyful, almost defiant in its imperfection.
Following the melody, I discover a small bandstand set up at the edge of the market. A group of young musicians plays what sounds like a jazz standard, though with a distinctly French flair.
Their instruments are mismatched, their setup informal. Yet there’s something authentic in their performance that draws me closer.
At the center stands a lanky guy in a blue-and-white striped shirt and jaunty beret, conducting with energetic gestures as though the market square is his personal concert hall.
A small crowd has gathered, mostly other young people sipping espresso and nodding along.
A hand-painted sign reads L’Association Musicale de Saint-Tropez presents Jazz au Marché.
I find myself swaying to the rhythm, transported back to my grandmother’s apartment. Back to a place and time where records spun endlessly and music was as essential as oxygen.
The bandleader scans the audience as the group finishes their number, and his eyes land on me. Something like recognition passes across his face before he offers a theatrical bow.
As the band shuffles through sheet music for their next piece, he hops down from the bandstand and approaches me.
“You are enjoying the music, no?” he asks in accented English.
“Very much,” I reply, surprised. “How did you know I speak English?”
He grins, revealing a charming dimple. “You are Bix Bismark, yes? Slayer’s new girlfriend?”
I tense, immediately on guard. “How—”
“Le Matin announced your arrival this morning. Everyone’s talking about it.” He offers his hand. “I am Paul Rousseau, local DJ, sometimes bandleader, always music enthusiast.”
“So everyone knows?”
“Saint-Tropez is small.” Paul shrugs. “Everyone knows everyone’s business. What do you do when you’re not being Slayer’s girlfriend?”
I try to remember the press packet. But even though I studied it, Slayer’s girlfriend had no profession. No job. She wasn’t even a college student.
Her persona was simply that of a high-society debutante, flitting from party to party.
“I sing,” I say, wanting to give Slayer’s fake girlfriend an identity. After I speak, though, I realize maybe I wasn’t supposed to say that. Milo hurled the dos and don’ts of what I’m supposed to say so quickly it’s all a blur.
“Why aren’t you with Sterling Records too?”
“Apparently I’m not the kind of singer Sterling Records wants on their label.”
Paul’s eyes light up. “What kind are you, then?”
I hesitate, not sure how much to reveal to this stranger. But there’s something in his face that keeps me talking.
“Jazz, mostly. My grandmother was a jazz singer back in the day. Never made it big, but taught me everything I know.”
“Americans invented jazz, but the French perfected the appreciation of it,” Paul says with mock seriousness before breaking into another grin.
“Would you like to sing with us? We’re missing our usual vocalist today.”
“Oh, I don’t know…” I look around. I’m pretty sure Slayer, Milo, and Sterling wouldn’t be happy about that.
“Please. The market crowd deserves better than my terrible singing.” He gestures to the bandstand. “One song. Whatever you like. If it’s a standard, we know it.”
I glance around, suddenly self-conscious. But before I can overthink it, I nod.
Paul guides me to the bandstand, then introduces me in French to his bandmates.
They greet me with curious smiles.
“What would you like to sing?” he asks.
I consider for a moment. “‘Summertime’?”
Paul relays this to the bandmembers, who nod enthusiastically.
They get into position, and the pianist plays a few introductory chords, filling the market air with that familiar, languid melody.
I close my eyes, swaying slightly as I wait for my entrance.
When I begin to sing, I’m not thinking about Sterling or contracts or even Slayer.
I’m thinking about humid New York summers, about my grandmother humming at the stove, about Hilary and me as children sprawled on fire escapes to catch the evening breeze.
The band follows my lead perfectly, the saxophonist improvising responses to my vocal lines as though we’ve performed together for years.
I let the final notes hang in the air, soft and sustained, before opening my eyes.
For a moment, there’s only silence.
Then the crowd erupts—not a Broadway ovation, but enthusiastic applause punctuated by whistles and calls of “Encore!”
Paul’s eyes are wide with genuine surprise. “Where did you learn to sing like that?”
“My grandmother,” I say, unable to suppress my smile. “She always said jazz isn’t something you learn from books.”
“She was right.” He regards me. “You’re the real thing, aren’t you? Not just some model they paired with Slayer for the publicity.”
I feel myself flush. “I should get back to the hotel.”
I dart away before he can say anything more, but as I make my way back toward Le Majestic, I feel lighter than I have in quite some time.
For fifteen minutes, I wasn’t Sterling’s creation or Slayer’s arm candy. I was just Bix, singing because it’s what I love to do.
I check my phone and see a text from Milo: Lunch at Caroline, 1 pm sharp. Wear the green swimsuit from Antoine’s collection. The bellman brought your wardrobe to your room. Don’t be late!!!
Reality crashes back. I have forty-five minutes to transform into the sophisticated girlfriend Sterling expects.
Still, as I climb the steps to the hotel, I find myself humming “Summertime,” a small act of defiance against the role I’ve been assigned.
Maybe Paul is right. Maybe there’s room for real music in this weekend of pretense.
“Ah, Ms. Bismark,” Maurice calls as I pass through the lobby. “Did you enjoy the village?”
“Very much,” I tell him. “It was exactly what I needed.”