Chapter 14
Chapter Fourteen
S ummer’s scorching heat hasn’t mitigated the hordes of tourists flocking to the south of France for the country’s beloved Bastille Day tomorrow. They pack the streets of Nice like sardines, but èze remains relatively quiet.
Manon and I have joined Solange for our first staff meeting. Her shop is in its next stage of evolution with a freshly painted sign waiting to be hung outside, a few new pieces of furniture still wrapped in cellophane, and stacks of posters outlining her services. The next level up will be air conditioning, I hope. The little white fan can only do so much to dispel the sweat glistening on my forehead. Besides, she’s only got enough in her budget for electricity between the hours of three and four, so we haven’t got time to waste.
Solange’s vision for the magazine is clear. Unique, attention-grabbing, incroyable .
Sure, sounds attainable.
Waving her pen in my direction, she instructs that we’ll need at least six articles for every publication. When I inquire about the categories we should cover, Solange shrugs and tilts her head down, eyeing me over the glasses glued to the tip of her nose. “That’s for tu to decide.”
“Noted,” Manon says with a confident nod, sipping her glass of lemonade.
Solange tosses a smile in her direction.
“How much is it? The magazine?” Manon asks.
“It’s free,” I say, scribbling in my notebook and hoping it passes off as me brainstorming article ideas.
Manon halts her leg-kicking against the flimsy fold-up chair. “ Gratuit ?”
“Oui.” Solange rests her crossed forearms on the table. “Because we offer space for publicité .”
We’ve already decided that I’ll do the article writing in English and Solange will translate to French. It’ll be a bilingual mirror.
“Just as long as there’s a clear... euh... how do you Americans call it. Call-to-action? To contact the travel agency at the end. C’est ce qui est important.”
I gulp, though my nod doesn’t impart any facade of confidence.
“You know what I was thinking?” Solange leans back in her desk chair. “How do you feel about video, Kat?”
I nearly spray my sip of sparkling water all over the tchotchkes littering her desk. “I, um?—”
“What if we started one of those,” Solange snaps. “YouTube channels.”
My abdomen squeezes inward. “Well, I mean?—”
“You can be our spokesperson, trying out the popular sites in the area, hmm? Our very own porte-parole . It will go well with the paper volumes.” Solange’s agility in the business realm is respectable. She most definitely has a keen eye on her prospects. But, I’m no spokeswoman. Put me in front of a camera, and I’ll forget every word in the English language, let alone French.
“I don’t know if I can commit the time,” I lie without giving it real consideration. Manon’s eyes burn into the side of my face. “With the younger ones and all.”
Solange doesn’t even try to mask her disappointment. “Bien,” she says, sighing. “Still. Think about it. And we’ll need something to keep the locals interested, something to spice up the content. I was thinking, ‘èze-clusives.’ Town buzz. Juicy stories. That sort of thing. Comprendre?”
I offer up a soft “oui,” though gossip pieces aren’t really my forte.
Solange spreads out a map of èze on her desk and uses a black marker to circle a spot not too far away from the Chessley villa address. “Check on that chateau that just sold.”
Leaning forward to look at the map, Manon gasps. “The castle.”
Solange chuckles. “Find out who the new owners are,” she says to me. “It’s the big question in town.”
Four o’clock rolls around, and Solange is forced to turn off the computer and the rotating fan. Manon and I thank her for her time and make our way back onto èze’s narrow cobblestone streets. I clutch my notebook against my chest, wondering how I’m going to produce six full-fleshed quality articles every two weeks. Solange insists that the publication schedule needs to be frequent in the summer to capture tourists’ attention.
I bury my nose in two blank pages staring back at me. Making bullet points for article titles one through six is easy, but filling them in proves to be much harder than I anticipated. My writer’s block only magnifies as we pass a local band practicing in an upstairs apartment who thought closing the shutters would mute their practice. Trombones wail, their vibrations fluttering flower petals in window boxes. Shop owners run up and down the street, plastering blue, white, and red streamers from door frame to door frame.
Manon had resumed listening to her music, but the second she looks up from her phone, she bolts a block ahead of us, striding to Howie as he kneels and opens his arms. He was just leaving a table under a red café awning, patting his adequately rotund belly and exuding practiced kindness to the waitstaff, even though he doesn’t speak a word of French.
“Manana Banana!” Howie bellows, embracing his goddaughter in a bear hug. When I’m within conversational distance, he nods to me. “Kat, how are you going?”
“How am I...”
Manon turns around. “Translation. What’s up.” She spins back to Howie and says, “Kat’s still learning our English too.”
I shrug, stuffing my lips together in a forced smile.
Manon’s gaze bounces between me and Howie.
“Howie, guess what?” she says.
He kneels again, his eyes alight and wholly interested. “What?”
Manon lays out the magazine spiel, the assistant to the editor bits, and the busy publication schedule.
“My, I’m glad you went through with it.” He looks up at me and nods. “Can’t wait to see what you do with the gig. You know, Kat. You have just the initiative we look for in our Young Soarers.”
The blood drains from my face.
“Now I don’t have any part in recruitment or admissions, but I can tell you, this magazine would be wonderful for your portfolio.”
I try to slow my aggressive nodding. “Definitely, yes. Of course.”
Now I just need to make sure these next few magazine issues blow their freaking socks off.
Howie rises, smoothing out the wrinkles in his pant creases.
“Well, I’ve got to be off. Heading to see your father, Manana Banana.” He bows his head toward me. “Miss Kat, always a pleasure.”
This time, my nod is appropriately even-tempered. But I have to remind myself to say the words floating in my head.
“Yes, likewise,” I manage to get out with a grin.
As Manon and I depart from her godfather, she plugs in her headphones and resumes her album, but my head is in a daze as I chew my inner cheek. Not even the blank notebook pages can steal my attention now.
The Young Soarers application is due in just over a month. So I better get this magazine thing right.
We only make it a few more doors down until we round the corner to the flower shop, displaying loads of vibrant sunflowers and violet iris bushels on the sidewalk. I hope to see Emi next door in the Cave, but someone else has just exited the store.
Vivian steps out onto the winding sidewalk, hoisting her couture bag over her shoulder. Before she starts off toward the car park, she squints at me and Manon. Lifting her hand over her eyes, she starts to walk closer. Immediately, I pretend to be picking out a bouquet.
“Bonjour!” Vivian prances over to me and Manon. “Kat, right?”
I push a smile through my makeup-lacking cheeks. “Oui.”
Don’t be cold to her, Kat .
“Lovely seeing you again.” Vivian leans in for the double bise on the cheek.
My gaze travels to Vivian’s sparkly sandals and pearly toenail polish. I quickly clasp my hands behind my back, hiding the chipped burgundy on my fingernails.
“Funny running into you,” she says. “I just finished a conference call at the Hermès office with some buyers in Asia, so forgive me if I look a mess. I’m actually on my way to the crêperie for a birthday party.”
Damn. She’s really got her stuff together. Corporate fashion house mogul with an afternoon rendezvous with friends.
“You look great,” I insist. “I love those shoes.”
“Oh,” she says, waving her hand. “Just some goodies Angela sent me. But you probably get so much yourself, huh?” She clears her throat as she reads my blank face. “You know, I’m actually looking for Jamie. Do you know where he is? He’s not answering his phone,” she says, wagging her cell.
I grip the straps on my backpack.
Does she know about the Vigne? I can’t risk telling her if she doesn’t know. It’d be unfair to him. Besides, I’m not entirely sure he’s there. Not having seen him or the tire marks in the gravel driveway since we rescued Manon from the chateau last week.
“I, um... I’m not sure actually.”
Vivian crosses her arms. “Hmm. Seems like no one does. I can’t believe he would just ditch me like that.”
“Oh, did you have plans?” I twirl my ponytail.
“No, but he just runs off every time before I get the chance to ask.”
So maybe they aren’t a thing. Butterflies tingle in my stomach.
Stop that .
“He could just be busy with the business. With his father and everything,” I suggest.
She rolls her eyes, but not at anyone directly. “All of a sudden, now he cares about that. But maybe you’re right. Where else would he be?” she says rhetorically. She must not know about him moonlighting as a pastry chef.
I politely smile and notice a bored Manon leaning against the exterior of one of the stone buildings. Vivian and I bise on the cheek again. She emphasizes how great it was to run into each other, and I conventionally nod in agreement. We wave each other off, leaving Manon and me to head for the house.
The entire walk back, I try to compartmentalize all that just happened in the last forty minutes from the publication’s first due date, to bumping into Howie and getting the inside scoop on the program I’ve been clamoring for, to coming across Vivian in her pursuit to find Jamie.
Annoyingly, that last part is rather stickier than I’d care to admit. It’s not like she’s done anything wrong to me, so it’s unfair for me to dislike her. I shouldn’t even care anyway. I know what this feeling is—jealousy. But I don’t need to feel jealous. I’m not going for Jamie. He wouldn’t go for me. Or else he already would have, I’m sure. Besides, I’m not gonna crap on Vivian for existing when she’s actually kind and career-driven. An inspiring acquaintance. In any other circumstance, we’d probably be the best of friends.
When Manon and I reach the villa’s front gate and traipse over the crinkly drive, I check the yellow rectangular box adjoined to the house’s exterior. Its painted letters read “La Poste”. It’s where I drop off my letters to Damien and the postcards to Mom every morning at 8 a.m.
Normally, the only mail is for Nick or Angela. But at the bottom of today’s stack is one addressed to me. And it’s from Damien! From aboard the Ocean Cloud IV somewhere in the Mediterranean Sea.
I bite my lower lip. Finally, someone who shows up for me.