There's Something About St. Tropez (21 page)

 

 

In fact Sara was not stuck circling the port and the narrow back streets of St. Tropez, she had decided instead to be really adventurous and drive to Cannes. She had no plans on what to do when she got there; in fact all she knew about Cannes was what she had observed on TV's
Entertainment Tonight
about the film festival. She had seen the famous Hôtel Carlton with movie actors milling around, and now she wondered how it would feel to arrive there in the great white Bentley, hand it to the valet parker, sweep up the steps and order a glass of champagne, turning all heads as though she were someone important.

Of course, she couldn't do that, though. Or could she?

Sara thought quickly about the amount of money in her purse. It had to last her until her return flight to Kansas, ten more days, and even though Belinda was paying the hotel and had told her to stop worrying about money, it was still very much at the forefront of Sara's mind. She lay awake in bed worrying about the problem, while Belinda snored softly in the bed opposite. Of course Sara would never mention the snoring to Belinda, it might upset her. Belinda had such a perfect image, blond and sexy and glamorous as any movie star. Belinda would have been right at home on the terrace of the Carlton.

Steering the Bentley slowly through the notorious summer traffic at the St. Tropez roundabout, Sara was aware of heads turning to look at the beautiful car and to see who was driving it. She glanced down at her simple white cotton dress, passed on to her with Belinda's usual generosity. She knew from the label it was an Italian designer, and she was wearing her green snakeskin ankle-strap wedges. Her shoulder-length brown hair had achieved a new sheen from
the South of France sunlight and she wore no jewelry and no makeup save for a tangerine lip gloss. In fact, she almost looked like a woman who owned a Bentley like this. A woman who could drive up to the Carlton's doors and hand the keys to the valet and order a glass of champagne on that terrace.

Winding slowly along the two-lane road, at last she came to the Autoroute du Soleil. She thought that in the South of France even the freeways had glamorous names, like this one, the Route of the Sun. Turning onto it she drove sedately east, heading for Cannes. The GPS system told her exactly where she should get off and it wasn't long before she was driving along the famous Croisette, taking her time, passing the Palais des Festivals and the old town, gasping at the incredible yachts moored side by side for what seemed miles. And there was the Hôtel Carlton, beckoning this new Sara Strange like a beacon from a light house.

Almost without thinking, as though she had been programmed in fact, Sara stopped the car, handed it over to the valet, who bowed his head deferentially and called her
madame
, then she walked, knees trembling, up the steps onto that famous terrace.

The waiter showed her to a table near the back and in French she asked for
une coupe du champagne rosé
, pleased with herself for placing her order in French. She had learned by keeping her ears and eyes open around Belinda and the others, who all seemed so worldly-wise about everything, and rosé champagne was the most glamorous drink she could imagine.

The waiter placed a glass on the table, showed her the chilly bottle so she could read the label, Piper-Heidsieck Rosé Sauvage, then filled the glass. He set down a small dish, bowed, called her
madame
and departed.

Sara took a sip, eyes closed, savoring it. “Heaven,” she said softly. Aware she was talking to herself she sat up straighter and took a look at the other tables. There was a happy hum of conversation interspersed with bursts of laughter. Everyone seemed to be having a good time, but Sara was too nervous to really enjoy herself. She was a woman alone, deserted by her boyfriend—“the bastard” as Belinda called him. She wasn't rich like these people. In fact she had almost no money and even the dress she was wearing was a hand-me-down.

She took another sip of the champagne and nibbled on something delicious. She felt a long way from Starbucks in small-town Kansas.

A chic woman in a white linen shirt and tight white pants paused on her way past Sara's table. “Hey, great shoes,” she said with a smile and Sara found herself smiling back.
“Merci,”
she called after her, then realized the woman
was American. Ah well, at least she had a couple of words in French now: she knew how to order a glass of champagne and how to say thank you. As Belinda would have said, what more did a girl need?

Half an hour later, when the waiter had come by to ask if she would care for another glass and Sara had said
non merci
, she fumbled in her purse for the correct money, leaving a small tip in the saucer provided, unnecessary she knew because the tab almost always included the gratuity, then made her way slowly back across the terrace and down the stairs.

Her Bentley was parked right in front between an apple green Lamborghini and a custom Maserati convertible in dark blue with quilted tan leather upholstery. They were the most beautiful cars Sara had ever seen.

The valet smiled into her eyes as he held open the door. Blushing, Sara quickly adjusted her sunglasses, overtipping him lavishly. He had seen her coming and the engine was already purring. Slipping the car into gear she turned to smile at him, but he had turned away and was talking to two thick-set men, in white linen jackets, waving his arms and obviously explaining something.

Conscious that she had been drinking, only one and certainly not over the limit, nevertheless Sara drove carefully, drifting along the Croisette to the very end, then circling reluctantly back to the autoroute. It was, she thought dreamily, an adventure she would remember in those long winter months sipping her morning decaf skinny latte and keeping her jacket buttoned against the cold. Somehow her Toyota Corolla would never seem the same.

She first became aware of the car cruising behind her, maintaining the same speed she was, as she approached the St. Tropez exit. Puzzled, she checked it out in the rearview mirror. A big silver Mercedes 600. She told herself they were simply heading to St. Tropez like everybody else. Still she pressed her foot down a little harder and the Bentley surged forward. The Mercedes stayed right behind her.

It was afternoon and traffic was light. Sara was afraid to drive faster on the narrow curving road and she maintained her cruising speed, from time to time glancing in the mirror. Was the Mercedes really
following
her? She dismissed the idea, asking herself why they should.

The road widened slightly next to an area where trucks were able to pull to one side and allow the piled-up cars behind them to pass. Just as she approached it the Mercedes swung out from behind. It drew alongside, almost touching, forcing her into the narrow lay-by.

“Oh my God.” Sara stomped on the brakes, shocked. “Oh my God . . .”

She threw a terrified glance at the Mercedes. The two men in white linen
jackets from the hotel were running toward her . . . Were those guns gleaming in their hands?

In a split second all the lessons she had ever learned from TV about car hijacking ran through Sara's head. . . . She knew she would be dead if she stayed here. . . . Flinging the Bentley into gear she screeched round the Mercedes and out of the lay-by onto the road. The big car swung violently and she fought to bring it under control, not even taking time to look in the mirror and see if they were coming after her. There was a roaring noise behind her and a loud honk from a
camion
, a sixteen-wheeler, almost in her rear window. She breathed again in relief. There was no way the Mercedes could get past it.

Wiping the sweat off her forehead with the back of her hand, she said out loud, “Oh God, thank you, thank you. . . .”

And then the tears came.

 

29.

 

 

Billy Bashford was finding France lonelier than he had expected, his inner loneliness only accentuated by the fun-loving young people in St. Tropez, hedonistic, uncaring and somehow joyous in a way he had not felt in a long time. Driving the Hummer along the Old Port he wondered if he would ever feel that way again, the way he had when he first met his Betsy.

Now Betsy had been fun-loving too, not like these people, but in her own way. She had told him on the day they met that she was an observer in life rather than a participator. “I'm a quiet woman,” she'd said seriously. “A school-teacher.”

Billy had almost expected her to say she taught an old-fashioned prairie-cabin school but in fact Betsy taught in a tough urban ghetto in Fort Worth, and what's more, she cared deeply about “her” kids, as she called them. “They never had a chance,” she said, “and I'm trying to give them one.”

After they were married, a mere six months later, Betsy had carried that promise through, and she and Billy had endowed a foundation giving Texas inner-city children full college scholarships. Several thousand had benefited so far and in Betsy's memory, Billy had endowed a new scholarship fund for those who went on to further education, a master's degree, or even, in two cases so far, a Ph.D. Betsy Lowell Bashford's name would live on and Billy was forever grateful for that.

He was grateful for his daughter too, so unlike her mother in character, though not in appearance. As a young child, three, four, Laureen had been a dimpled charmer, bright-eyed, and as Billy put it, bushy-tailed, always up to mischief, always curious, always running, jumping, riding her horse. Laughter
had rung round their front porch and through their hallways. God, life had been good then, he remembered as he headed for the St. Tropez parking lot.

The town was crowded of course, as it always was, and the pedestrians, in the way of all holidaymakers, took no notice of the rules, spilling off the narrow sidewalks into the road, almost under his wheels. A bunch of cute girls skipped out of his way, peeking in at him through the open window.

“Hey, Texas,” the prettiest one yelled. She was wearing tiny yellow shorts and a bikini top, and her long blond hair floated sexily around her suntanned shoulders. “Like the hat! What're you doing tonight?”

She spoke in French and of course Billy did not understand a word but he got her meaning. Looking at her he was almost tempted, but he remembered he was here for Little Laureen and merely smiled and waved.

Laureen was a problem. Not only was she refusing to go to the beach with him, or even the pool, and in fact had agreed to go into St. Tropez town only once, and that was because she'd wanted to buy a collar for the Chihuahua, but today she had simply disappeared after breakfast.

She'd said she was going for a walk but the new woman at the reception desk told him she had gone off with young Bertrand Olivier, and Billy had panicked. He had no idea who Bertrand Olivier was, nor what he was doing with his daughter. Then he'd spotted the two of them sitting on the beach, heads together—Laureen in a sunhat he knew was not hers—poring over a newspaper like coconspirators. They had jerked apart guiltily, scrambling to their feet, when he'd called out her name, then the boy had tucked the newspaper under his arm and mumbling something about lunch, had taken off.

“Weird kid,” Billy had said to Laureen, and she'd told him, defensively that Bertrand was okay. His mother had simply dumped him here, she said. He was alone . . . and anyhow . . . Her sentence had drifted off vaguely but Billy had understood.

Saying no more, he'd taken Laureen by the hand and the two of them had strolled the beach for an hour, Billy chatting to her about the sailboats, the pelicans, the good smells coming from the Beach Bar. Later, they'd had lunch together, he the grilled fish and Laureen french fries and a strawberry smoothie. Then she said she was tired and was going to her room. Left to his own devices, Billy had driven into St. Tropez and now he was circling the lot trying to park.

He'd just found a spot and was walking across the street when he saw the Bentley careen round the corner. He wasn't surprised, Belinda was a terrible driver. But then he saw it wasn't Belinda, it was Sara Strange. And, just
for a change, she was crying. But this was no ordinary crying. There was a look of complete terror on Sara's face.

He stepped off the sidewalk to flag her down and she almost ran him over, braking as he leapt out of her way.

Billy took one look at her, then said, “Get out of the car.”

Sara got out and stood obediently next to the Bentley.

Billy opened the passenger door and pushed her inside, slammed her door shut, then walked round to the driver's side and got in. Ignoring the curious onlookers staring at the expensive Bentley and its occupants, he drove off along the port.

After a while he shot Sara a keen sideways glance. “So what's up?” he asked, but all that happened was she began to cry again.

Billy drove aimlessly on, waiting for the storm to subside and the sobs to be less frequent. After a while she calmed down a little. He was out of town by now, driving along the beachfront in Ste. Maxime, then Juan les Pins. He pulled into a parking spot alongside the beach, got Sara out of the car, took her by the hand and led her across the road and down the steps to a café. It was little more than a hut really, selling suntan lotion and kids' beach balls, but it also sold simple snacks and drinks.