And then, I don't know exactly how to describe it, I feel like the world is pulling away while at the same time becoming seriously claustrophic. I shout, "Stop the car," and everybody turns and looks at me like I'm insane, but they sort of expect me to be insane anyway, and the car does come to a stop in the middle of Cannes and I do climb over three men and fumble desperately with the door handle, which finally releases and before anyone really knows what's happened I've spilled out of the car and into a crowd of people on the sidewalk. I look back at the car and slide out of my high heels, grasping them in my hand as I begin running through the crowd toward the Majestic Hotel, where there's a swarm of photographers and kleig lights. I veer onto a side street, passing a gay bar where there's a man wearing a tutu, and I nearly run into the little girl with the red roses, who grabs my wrist and says, "Madame, come with me.”
And this time, I do.
In the early morning I am walking back to the yacht, feeling even MORE hungover and wasted than I ever have in my life, except maybe when I was younger and I first met Tanner and we would spend whole weekends snorting cocaine and drinking vodka. I would very often call in sick on Monday, but I never got in trouble because everyone knew I was seeing a big movie star and that was more important for the image of the gallery than having someone answer the phone. And it was especially useful when Tanner used to come into the gallery to pick me up. He was obsessed with me at first and would stop by the gallery quite often, just to make sure that some other man wasn't trying to seduce me, and these incidents were usually faithfully recorded by the gossip columns (although they didn't mention my name, because I wasn't "somebody" then), providing free publicity for the gallery. Everyone treated me awfully well and seemed to really like me, but did they have a choice? Even back then I was being USED by other people for my ability to attract men. And I have never wondered about this before, but I do now: Would I be ANYTHING without a man?
A taxi pulls up in front of the yacht, and a tall, handsome man wearing a polo shirt and jeans gets out and turns toward me, and I realize it's my husband.
The sun is shining; it must be later than I thought.
The bustle of the harbor begins to fill my consciousness the first mates hosing the decks, a young woman walking by with produce from the farmer's market, people scurrying by with press passes—and as Hubert approaches, holding his beat-up leather valise, I see, for the first time, his prodigious blandness. How, underneath all the fuss about his family and his looks and his background, he is still, in the end, JUST SOME GUY.
"Hey," he says. "What happened to you?”
“What do you mean?" I ask.
"You're bleeding. You've got blood on your hands." He looks down. "And on your feet. And ink stains. What happened to your shoes?”
"I don't know.”
"Well, how are you, anyway? Did you get my message?”
"That you were coming?”
"About renting a speedboat. Hey, as long as I'm here, I thought it might be fun if we spent the day waterskiing.”
Waterskiing?
Hubert carries his bag onto the yacht. "Marc De Belond has a house here. I thought we might hook up with him.”
Hook up?
"Hey baby," he says. "What's the matter? Don't you like Marc De Belond?”
I turn and hold up my bloody hands. I say, "The gay men took my shoes.”
IX
Dear Diary: You're not going to believe this, but I'm STILL on this DAMN boat floating around in the Italian Riviera.
And Hubert is still here.
Okay. Here's the problem. Number one, I think I'm going insane, but I'm not sure if it's because I'm sick to death of being stuck on this boat with Hubert and Dianna, or if maybe I really am a NUT JOB like everyone says.
Because number two: People saw me that night at that cafe with the little girl. And her little friends. And the strange gay men, who tried to take my dress—they kept saying the word "copier," which I supposed meant they wanted to copy the dress and then give it back—but there wasn't enough time. And all the glasses of cognac. And the broken glass on the floor. And sure enough, this "yet another embarrassing incident" was reported in Paris Match.
"I don't think I'm going to change much," I said to Hubert, quite threateningly, after he'd read it and, without saying anything, evinced his displeasure by raising his eyebrows. Dianna defended me: "Sweet Jesus, Hub, I've been accused of killing my husband. Aliens took away half of my husband's body. And you're upset about your wife being spotted with underage street urchins and a couple of gay guys in dresses?" And then I said, cunningly, I thought, "All I wanted was a little attention.”
Which is true. That was all I wanted. Because I still don't feel like I get attention from my husband, which is really crazy because he did fly all the way here to be with me and then took an unexpected week off, but I don't just want him to BE HERE. I want him to pay a certain and specific kind of attention to me, and he just doesn't.
When I'm with him, I don't feel ... significant. I want to be everything to him. I want to be essential. I want him to be unable to live without me, but how can I be these things if he won't let me?
And if he won't let me, what am I doing with my life?
Naturally, these thoughts put a horrible expression on my face. At least I think they do, because this morning, when I'm lying in bed and Hubert comes into our stateroom supposedly looking for sunscreen, he turns to me and says, in a tone of voice that I can only interpret as RUDE, "What's your problem?”
I know my response should be "Nothing, darling," but I'm tired of mollifying him. Instead, I say, "What do you mean, what's my problem? What’s your problem?" and I turn over.
"Whoa," he says. "Maybe you should go back to sleep and try waking up again.”
"Yeah," I say. "Maybe I should." Then he leaves the room.
I HATE him.
I jump out of bed, pull on my bathing suit, and storm up to the top deck.
Dianna is there, drinking coffee and polishing her toenails, which, as we all know, is verboten on this boat because the nail polish could spill and ruin the teak decks. As we also all know, Dianna doesn't give a shit. She's already caused thousands of dollars' worth of damage to the boat by walking around in spike heels and greasing her body with tanning oil, leaving indelible footprints that the crew keeps pointlessly trying to scrub away. "Hey, I could buy this boat if I wanted to," she keeps reminding them. But the point is, people like Dianna Moon never do. "Hi sugar," Dianna says, not looking up. "Want some coffee?”
"Coffee makes me vomit. In fact, everything makes me vomit.”
She looks up in alarm. "I don't, do I?”
"No," I say, resignedly. I move to the railing, leaning over the side. The wind ruffles my hair slightly.
This Dianna Moon business—her self-absorption, her prodigious insecurity—is getting to be too much.
"Do I look fat?" Dianna asks, and I automatically respond, "No," although the truth is, Dianna is a bit fat. She has the kind of body that will be matronly at thirty-five, no matter how much she diets or exercises.
"Are you going to Hubert's aunt's house today?" SHIT. Princess Ursula. I'd totally forgotten about her and nod glumly, remembering that Princess Ursula hates me. Once, at a funeral, she came up to me and said, "Oh Cecelia, you're such a natural at funerals, because you always have a sour, downturned expression on your face.”
And these are my relations?
"Do you think," Dianna says, examining her large toe, "that Lil'Bit Parsons will be there?”
This is such an unexpected question, so out of left field, that I say nothing as the terrible feeling of other people knowing something I don't descends upon me like a shade blocking out the sun. "Lil'Bit Parsons?" I croak.