Chapter Twenty-Two
twenty-two
MAY 1990
VIVIAN had longed to return to France ever since her honeymoon, and now she was here for Cannes. It was nothing like Paris. Between the sleepy green forested hills and the endless horizon of tranquil sea, cobbled streets knit together shops and homes and hotels. Words rolled off people’s tongues as if they had all the time in the world. Maybe one day she’d learn French too.
Vivian now wore a dark blue satin dress with a beaded bodice and a skirt that rippled out loosely around her legs. It looked like deep water, the way it shifted in the light. Her husband’s hand rested around her waist. She wished she could grab a drink without his watchful eyes on her. She tried to predict what he would say to her later: that she slouched when she walked, that she drank too much, that she talked too loudly. They needed to be perfect together. Someone came around with a platter of champagne flutes. Richard took two and gave one to Vivian. She gratefully accepted.
Recently, she had been thinking about expanding to international films. She could go back to Hong Kong. Or maybe she could go to Europe. That’s what Anna May Wong had done, gone international when roles had gone stale in the U.S. The only question was what to do with her daughters. California had been a good home for her family, but her daughters would be grown and out of the house soon. This was a chance to seek out and talk to some directors.
Richard was trying to get his newest movie funded, a spy thriller, under the umbrella of his new production company. Vivian took a small sip of the champagne. She and Richard approached the table of a French film director. They talked while Vivian stood there awkwardly. The bubbles stuck in her throat. She laughed when the others laughed and drank more champagne to calm herself down.
And then Vivian and Richard were alone again, until Richard broke free, saying he’d spotted a friend of his. Vivian was left in the middle of the room, conspicuous and relieved all at once. She took another sip.
“Vivian, what a vision.”
She turned to see Eugene Lyman, his tall, imposing figure in a clean-cut gray suit. He looked tired. His beard was furrowed with gray. Vivian had seen him just weeks before, when they were meeting for his sci-fi drama that Vivian had auditioned for. He’d passed on her and it hurt.
“Eugene.” She swallowed her bitterness. “It’s lovely to run into you.”
“Gene, please. And likewise.” His voice dropped. “How are you feeling?”
Vivian paused. He was looking at her intently, cautiously. What did he mean? She was in Cannes. It was the weekend of celebrations. “I’m doing well.” She looked around. “Where’s Jeanette?”
“She’s home,” Eugene said. “Went up to see her mother in Seattle. Where’s Richie?”
“Oh, over there,” Vivian said lightly. “Talking to studio leads, I think.”
“Shaking them clean?” Eugene laughed. “I’m sure he’s charming them all.”
Vivian found herself smiling. “I suppose he does often do that.”
“Always has. Runs around showing off all his ideas like a little kid.”
“Young at heart,” Vivian mused carefully. She wondered if she should’ve changed the inflection of her voice to show that she adored her husband. She wondered if Eugene could tell.
“Listen. I wanted to apologize for Dawn Light ,” Eugene said. “I really did want you.”
“It’s all right,” Vivian said cordially. “Thank you for considering me.”
“Maybe next time,” Eugene said. “When you’re…”
“When I’m what?”
His eyes narrowed. “Never mind.”
They sipped on their champagne. Everything was starting to soften a bit around the edges. The pressure in her chest eased. Eugene Lyman drained his glass. “Speaking of young at heart,” Eugene said, and his gaze settled on her neckline. His fingers brushed Vivian’s bare arm. “You haven’t aged a day since I’ve met you.”
Vivian suddenly felt very exposed. Her eyes met with Eugene’s. He had always had warm eyes, but now his expression sharpened into something akin to hunger. Vivian let his hand rest on her wrist for a moment longer before withdrawing her arm to reach for her champagne glass. She tried to sound polite. “Thank you, Gene. I’m going to get myself another.”
She walked away, feeling his gaze on her. Heat swept the base of her neck, and she couldn’t tell if it was tension or disgust or fear. She crossed the room and accepted another champagne flute and looked instinctively to her husband to see if he was watching her, but he was deep in the middle of conversation. She eased out a breath and walked over to him, where he offered a small smile and slipped his hand around hers. He didn’t see, she thought. 天啊 . Thank the heavens.
“My greater half,” her husband said as he introduced her to the director. “Have you met my lovely wife, Vivian?”
After the festival awards had been announced and Vivian clapped politely for them, after the night settled and the stars had come out over the French Riviera, Vivian found herself a bit cold. Her husband gave his jacket to her and she took it gratefully.
She would be lying to herself if she said she hadn’t been jealous when others had won awards. She’d once auditioned with one actress who was always a wreck with remembering her lines, but now she was on the stage. Polished. It was her time, Vivian tried telling herself. Everyone had a golden era, if they were lucky. Maybe Vivian’s started and ended with Fortune’s Eye .
Was she terrible for wanting more? After the Oscar she thought she would get big drama and monologues, but it was like she was back to the beginning. They still weren’t writing roles for Chinese women. Not to mention her anxieties about her fading youth. What roles she could audition for could be closed to her now. After the awards she went out to dinner with a few of Richard’s friends. She knew them, too, through movies she’d heard of, awards show appearances and industry parties. She let the conversation float over her and drank the wine that her husband poured for her, and by the time their taxi pulled up to their hotel, Vivian was relaxed and warm and tired.
She unlocked the door to their hotel room and threw Richard’s jacket over a chair. “I think I’m going to draw a bath.”
She’d hardly finished her sentence when the door slammed behind them. She jumped.
Her husband said, “You have one chance to explain yourself tonight.”
Vivian put her palms on the dresser behind her, steadying herself. “What part would you like me to explain, Richard? The part where I was at your side all night, like an obedient dog?”
“Don’t lie to me. You thought I wouldn’t see you practically entangled with Gene Lyman?”
Her heart dropped. So he had seen her. She’d been foolish to assume otherwise. “It was nothing,” she said calmly. “I swear.”
“You were alone with him.”
“Because you left me there!” Vivian cried. “You left me to go talk to someone else.”
Before she knew it, he had grabbed her by the hair and there was a sharp pain in her skull. Her right cheek slammed into the wall and his fingers clamped down on her arm, hard enough that she cried out.
“Don’t raise your voice at me,” her husband said quietly, in her ear. “Not when you’ve been whoring around some other man who’s about to divorce his wife. Who rejected you for a movie.”
Vivian tried to stay still. The hand twisting her hair tightened and tears came to her eyes. Her mind scrambled, protectively, for rational thought. She could kick him and run. But then where would she go? She was all alone in the middle of France. “I’m sorry. He was the one who approached me. I didn’t want to offend him. He could give me a role in the future.”
“Oh yes, your next movie,” her husband said softly, letting her go. Vivian stumbled away. “Because it always has to be about the next movie, doesn’t it? Nothing is ever enough for my dear wife, not your Oscar, not even your husband. What will you do? Fuck your way through the Academy until you have another?”
“Fuck you,” Vivian spat, matching his vitriol. “The worst thing I ever did was marry you.”
Her husband’s eyes sparked with anger. For a moment she wondered how he would hurt her next. But then his hands fell limply to his sides. “So you want to leave me.”
Vivian said nothing.
“I’ve only ever loved you.” He sank into an armchair, tugging his tie loose. “I’m the most faithful husband you’ll ever meet. I love your children like my own, and you want to leave me.”
Suddenly Vivian blinked and there were tears. Before she knew it, she was closing the space between them. “No, no,” she said. “That’s not true. I didn’t mean it.”
“This isn’t the wife I know.”
“I’m sorry,” Vivian whispered. Her cheek throbbed and her eyes still smarted. She was going to bruise, but this was not the first time. Nor the second or third. Since that first night, though, her husband had been careful. And she covered for him even more carefully. A polite phone call to the front desk when they were staying in a New York hotel, to tell them that the plate accidentally dropped to the ground and cracked. Long sleeve options for every trip, and full-coverage foundation she had overheard a makeup artist recommend to another actress hoping to conceal a birthmark, for her face and neck. Yet now she reached for her husband, and he collapsed onto her shoulder.
“You know I love you more than anything,” her husband murmured into her ear. “It just hurts me so badly to think of you with someone else.”
“There’s no one else,” she sighed. “Let’s go to bed.”
“I’m going to kill Gene Lyman.”
“Please don’t. Let’s go to bed.”
She opened the windows to let in the light sea breeze. She glanced backward and when her husband didn’t object, she let the windows open a bit wider.
She lay in bed that night, feeling Richard’s breathing settle beside her, when a sudden pressure seized her chest. She started to lose feeling in her limbs. She clenched her fists. Maybe she was dying; maybe this is what dying felt like. Maybe she would let it happen and Richard would wake up next to a cooling body. A muffled whimper emerged through her gritted teeth, and her husband stirred. He sighed her name, and she clenched her fists again, tears streaming down her cheeks. He rolled over and held her as she squeezed her eyes shut.
“Were you all right?” her husband asked that next morning.
“Yes,” Vivian said. “Sorry. Just a bad dream.”
“Don’t apologize,” her husband said. He stood and walked to the windows. “Come, look.”
She joined him. There was no screen. Soft, warm air floated in. It was the cusp of summer. From this point of view, the French Riviera spread out before them, the buildings with their terra-cotta tile roofs cascading upon the beaming sand and the turquoise sea. It was hard not to be besotted with the romance of this place. Vivian felt his arms around her and she let him hold her.