The Port of St. Tropez

It was eight o'clock in the morning and Margo, my cook, had just put breakfast on the table. Ham and eggs on half a baguette fresh from the bakery, and a full pot of Taster's Choice coffee. I never had a taste for French coffee at breakfast, even when served au lait. But the breakfast, sandwich style, was delicious.

The telephone rang and Margo answered it in the kitchen. I could hear her voice clearly. "Oui, Monsieur. Oui, Monsieur, Monsieur Robbins is awake." She couldn't speak English well, but well enough to be understood. She came back to the dining room. "Monsieur Bobby is calling you from California."

I left my breakfast and walked over to the phone in the entrance hall. "Good morning," I said.

"Having your lox, bagel and cream cheese this morning for breakfast?" he asked, laughing.

"Don't make me crazy. I would love to be at my favorite deli," I said. "But I have been on a ham-and-eggs diet out here in the uncivilized world." I reached for a cigarette. "What are you doing up so late? It has to be midnight in L.A."

"I've got good news. Universal Studios picked up the television miniseries sequel to 79 Park Avenue and agreed to pay you $250,000 to write the story," he said. "But Sid Sheinberg has one stipulation. They want it in a hurry. They want Lesley Ann Warren to star in it, and they don't want to give her time to sign on to another project."

"How much of a hurry?"

"Two weeks. Sid said they had to have it in their hands in two weeks," he said. Bobby's voice sounded tinny over the transcontinental telephone line. "That's why they're willing to pay you that much money."

"Two weeks!" I said incredulously. "Nobody can write that fast."

"C'mon, Harold," he shot back. "You wrote Stiletto in a week."

"But that was another time. Fewer distractions. Right now we have my in-laws visiting from the States. There are half a dozen people arriving tomorrow to celebrate my daughter's birthday in two weeks." I took a drag off my cigarette. "I can't even get into my office near the port because Grace gave it to her gay friends until the birthday party."

"But if you had a place to work, you could finish the script?"

"Sure."

"You've got the yacht. Get on it, take it someplace where no one can bother you, write the 'bible' and you'll be back in time for Adreana's birthday. You have a crew of four on that yacht, and I know Cathy is a super cook." He was silent for a moment, then said, "Besides, we need the money. You're late on your taxes and we have to keep the company running."

"OK," I said. "Just start praying."

After I finished breakfast, I called the boat. Ken answered.

"Good morning," I said. "Everything OK there?"

"Fine, sir," he said.

"OK," I said. "Take Anton with you and go to the office. Bring my typewriter and about three packages of paper. Also get some Bic pens and two little bottles of Wite-Out. Bring it all back to the boat and get ready to set off for St. Tropez. Call the port captain and tell him we want a good place on the quay. We'll need it for about a week. Also tie in to the port telephone lines."

"Yes, sir," Ken said. "But aren't Mrs. Robbins' friends still staying at the office?"

"Fuck them," I said. "I don't care if you wake them up. If I'm lucky, they'll get pissed off and go to a hotel, and I won't have to pay their booze bill. Just bring what I asked for and I will be down in about an hour. Be ready to take off as soon as I get there."

"Yes, sir," Ken answered.

"Thank you," I said and hung up the phone.

Grace was standing behind me in the hallway, wearing a robe that had been ripped off from the Carlton Hotel. I went back to the breakfast table and she followed me. She sat down and reached for a cup of coffee. She stared at me—not angry, but allowing for the possibility. "Why are you taking the boat to St. Tropez for a week by yourself?" she asked.

I smiled at her. "A quarter of a million dollars."

"You're lying," she said, her voice rising. "You know I have Cliff and Victor here. I promised to take them to Monte Carlo on the boat today."

"You can get Jacques to drive you there. The new Seville has enough room for everyone," I said.

"What about my mother and father? And I thought I would take Adreana with us."

I looked at her. "You know damn well that your mother won't get on that boat. She was sick as a dog the first time, and she said she would never get on it again. It's been three years and she's kept her word."

"You're really selfish," she said. "I guess you won't even show up for Adreana's birthday."

"It's two weeks away," I said flatly. "I'll be there."

•

It took a little more than two hours to make the trip from Cannes into the port of St. Tropez. The port captain moved us into a good location, in front of L'Escale, one of the best restaurants on the port, and next to John von Neumann's Baglietto, painted like a gray Navy corvette and one of the speediest yachts on the Cote d'Azur.

I sat on the bench on the deck of the Gracara, and Cathy got me a fresh coffee while Ken went down the gangplank to give the port captain 50 francs. It was a token to make sure I got a good spot at the port, even on short notice.

The port was not crowded today. It was too early for the lunch crowd and most of the tourists were just arriving at the beaches. I lit a cigarette and went downstairs to the dining room to set up my workplace. I placed my typewriter mat and typewriter on a serving table that pulled out from the wall and drew up a dining chair that fit comfortably under it. Cathy had already set up the paper, eraser liquid and carbons. I plugged the typewriter into the wall socket—the yacht was wired for 110 volts as well as the standard 220 volts. Now all I had to do was work.

I looked at my watch. One o'clock and I was hungry. Cathy came up from the galley and smiled at me. "Would you like salade Nigoise?"

I looked at her. She knew I didn't care for salad, or for vegetables for that matter. "What else do we have in the galley?"

"Actually, nothing, Mr. Robbins," she said. "I was going to prepare omelettes for the crew. We left so quickly this morning, I didn't have time to do the marketing."

I knew the timetable. I also knew the rules. The crew eats before the passengers. Owner or not. "You have your lunch," I said. "Then you can go off to the market and get the things we need. I'll grab a bite at L'Escale."

"We're not upsetting your schedule?" she asked.

I smiled at her. "It's OK, Cathy. I'll be all right."

"Thank you, Mr. Robbins. I'll give you a super dinner tonight. I'll even bake you a chocolate cake."

"You're wonderful, baby," I said, starting down die gangplank.

The crowd was beginning to thicken now, but it was early July and not until August would all of France be vacationing in St. Tropez. Now hustlers of every sort from all the other European countries were here.

Fritz, the owner and maitre d', saw me as I stood on the sidewalk in front of L'Escale. He waved me inside and placed me in a small banquette that leaned against the entrance aisle wall. "You're alone?" he asked.

I nodded. "I've come down here to work."

He laughed. Coming to St. Tropez to work seemed funny. "OK, Harold, what would you like for lunch?"

"Entrecote bleu, pommes frites and a Heineken," I said.

He laughed again. "An American workingman's lunch," he said, moving to greet his other clientele.

Soon, a little waiter placed the beer and a chilled glass in front of me, with a small baguette and several pats of butter. "Bon appetit!" he said.

"Merci," I said and poured my beer into the glass.

A voice boomed in front of me. "Harold! What are you doing here? And alone!"

I looked up. It was Wally, a smiling, round-faced man, with a body to match. He lived in the apartment above the restaurant and I had known him for years.

"I came here to work," I answered. "There's too much going on at Le Cannet I have to be alone."

Wally nodded. "It's because of Adreana's birthday party, no? People are coming in. I received my invitation yesterday."

"Are you coming?" I asked.

"Are you?" he laughed.

"Of course I'll be there," I said. "It's my daughter."

"I will certainly be there. My wife is coming from Moscow with my daughter. I thought it would be fun for them."

Wally was an interesting man. From what I had heard, he had been in the CIA in Russia when he met his wife. After he married her, he resigned and moved to St. Tropez. They then had a baby, but his wife and baby moved back to Russia because his wife did not like France. She visited him on holidays and vacations so that he could stay in touch with his daughter. Of course, she might also be making sure that their daughter received her inheritance. Wally was a rich man.

"They'll have fun," I said.

A very attractive lady joined him in the small aisle. She smiled at me. I smiled back. Wally noticed and introduced us. "Dominique," he said. "I'd like you to meet the American novelist Harold Robbins." He then turned to me. "Harold," he said. "I would like for you to meet Baronne de Guillame of Paris."

I tried to stand up, which was impossible because of the banquette. "Madame la Baronne, my pleasure."

She smiled. "Please be seated, Mr. Robbins. The name is Dominique, to friends. And I hope we will be friends. I have read several of your novels and enjoyed them."

"Thank you," I said.

Fritz gestured to Wally, who turned to her. "Our table is ready, Dominique." Then to me: "We'll meet soon."

"I'm looking forward to it," I said. I watched them as they went up the aisle. She had a great ass and long legs. Too tall to be French, I thought. I wondered where she was manufactured. Then the little waiter brought my food and I ate quickly. While I was having my coffee, I looked across at Wally's table. His back was toward me, but her eyes were on me. I had to work. Damn.

I began as soon as I finished lunch. It was a comfortable setup. Avis, my stewardess, knew my working habits. While I was at lunch, she had set up a box of papers for me. One white sheet with four onionskin carbons behind. When I finished the story, I would send the original and two sets of carbons to the States. Two sets were for my files.

The story began to move immediately. I had thought a long time about a sequel to the television miniseries of 79 Park Avenue. It would be about what happened when Marja, the main character, came out of prison. The conflict would be in how to keep her old life from destroying her new life. But it wouldn't be that simple. She wouldn't be able to get away from where she had been, no matter how hard she tried. It was going to become impossible for her to make a life for herself and Michelle, her beloved daughter.

By seven o'clock that evening, I had finished nearly all of the opening act. I stretched and went up onto the deck. Twilight was just beginning to fall. Avis brought a Glenmorangie on the rocks before I had a chance to sit down. I looked out onto the street.

The crowd was just beginning to return from the beach. The tourists were looking into the storefront windows, checking the restaurants. Those with children were buying ice cream or candy. They usually did not look up at the decks along the quay, not unless they had heard that there was a celebrity, singer or football player on one of the boats.

"Harold," a young voice called from the bottom of the gangplank.

I squinted to see who it was. "Leslie!"

"May I come aboard?" If you want to board a ship, you have to ask for permission.

I laughed. "Of course, Leslie."

She came up the gangplank, stood next to me and leaned down to kiss my cheek. "How are you, Harold?" she asked. "I haven't seen you down here for quite a while."

"I've been jammed up," I said. "Come, sit down. What would you like to drink?"

"Vodka tonic," she said, as I pressed the button to call Avis.

Avis came up. She knew Leslie. "Vodka tonic," she said, smiling.

Leslie nodded. "Thank you, Avis." She turned back to me. "Are Grace and Adreana here with you?"

"No." I answered. "They're at Le Cannet. I came over to work for a week."

Leslie looked puzzled. "I never heard of anyone coming to St. Tropez to work."

I waited until Avis put down the drink in front of Leslie. "There are just too many people at the villa. People are staying in the office. I had no place to work."

Leslie smiled and took a sip of her drink. "Anyway, I am happy that you are here. I've been wondering what you have been doing."

"Nothing important," I answered, looking at her. She was 19, small, maybe 5'3", with very long blonde hair, blue eyes, and skin almost black from the sun. She spent the days windsurfing in the nude, wearing her bikini only when she gave lessons. She had come from Australia a year before with her boyfriend, and he had left her broke on the beach soon after. As we backed into St. Tropez to dock, at just about that time, she caught one of the ropes from Anton and tied it to the stanchion. And now she was here every time we came in to dock.

"Want to have dinner?" I asked.

"I'm not dressed," she answered.

"You're bikinied," I said, laughing. "We're eating on the boat. You don't have to change."

Cathy served a simple dinner: Caesar salad, roast chicken with pan-roasted potatoes and the lovely chocolate cake that she had promised. Leslie ate as if food were going out of style. I knew she had not eaten well for a while. She had a second serving of cake with her coffee, and smiled at me shyly. "I've pigged out, but I really needed it."

"I know," I said. "But I'm glad you came to dinner. I don't like eating alone."

"You're sweet, Harold," she said. "May I have another vodka tonic?"

"No problem," I answered and gave the order to Avis as she cleared the table. I looked down at the quay. It was night now and the street performers and buskers were in full swing. A small crowd had gathered around each of them. The favorite was the young man who blew fire from his pursed lips.

"I know him," Leslie said as she sipped her drink. "He's from Australia, too."

"Were you with him?" I asked.

"No way," she said. "He has syphilis. He's had it since he was in Sydney."

"How do you know?"

"He was one of seven of us that came here," she said. "We found out when his girlfriend died in the clinic here."

"Where are the rest of your friends?"

"Gone," she said. "I'm the only one who stayed. For a windsurfer, this is the best place in Europe to be."

"Don't you ever want to go home?"

"I have nothing there," she said. "My father took off when I was a kid. My mother found another man, who was always trying to get into my knickers. Finally, I took off with Charles and the gang. After we got here, Charles got the hots for some French girl and took off."

"Why is the fire-breather still here?" I asked.

"French doctors cleared him for treatments at the clinic. Besides, Sam believes the fire will burn the syphilis out of his system. But he's going. He's as skinny as a stick. In Sydney he weighed almost 200 pounds."

I shook my head. "I'm sorry for him." I gave her a 100 franc note. "Give it to him."

She glanced at me, then turned and went down the gangplank. I watched her give him the money. She spoke to him for a few moments. He looked up and waved his hand to me. I waved. Leslie came back up the gangplank. "He thanked you very much," she said.

"It's OK," I said.

"May I have another vodka tonic?"

"You'll be smashed," I said.

"I don't care. Whenever I talk to Sam, I get depressed."

"You can have a drink," I said, pressing the service button again.

Avis brought the vodka tonic before I could ask. "Thank you," I said to her. I asked Leslie, "Where are you staying?"

"I have a bunk at the hostel," she said. "It's nice and clean and they have showers. It costs only five francs a night."

"That's not bad," I said. I opened my wallet and gave her 500 francs.

"That's too much," she said. "If I went into the hostel with this much money, someone would steal it." She thought for a moment. "Will you be here for a week?"

"I think so," I said.

"Then maybe you could give me 50 or 100 francs a day. That would be better."

"OK," I said. She gave me back the 500 franc note and I gave her a 100 franc note.

"Mr. Robbins!" A woman's voice came up from the quay.

I looked down. "Madame la Baronne," I said, standing up.

"May I come aboard?" she asked.

"Of course," I answered.

She came aboard. She was even taller than I had originally thought. Maybe an inch or two taller than I am. "Welcome aboard."

She smiled at me and then looked over at Leslie. "Your daughter?" she asked.

I laughed. "No, she is a friend. She teaches windsurfing." I gestured to Leslie. "Leslie, may I present the Baronne de Guillame."

Leslie held out her hand. "I am happy to meet you, Madame Baronne."

Dominique shook Leslie's hand. French style, once up, once down. "I am also happy to meet you, Leslie."

I turned to Dominique. "Please sit and have a drink with us. What would you enjoy?"

"Champagne," Dominique replied. "Everything else makes me drunk and silly."

I pressed the button. "A bottle of champagne," I told Avis, and then I turned back to Dominique. "Have you had a nice dinner?"

"As usual. L'Escale's food is good but boring. Wally takes dinner there every night." Avis returned and set a bucket with ice on the table and a champagne glass in front of each person. She then popped the cork with expertise and filled our glasses. Dominique tasted hers as she watched Avis return to the cabin. "She is a pretty girl," she said.

Leslie laughed. "If you think she's pretty, you should see Cathy, the cook. Harold's boat crew is famous for having the most beautiful girls in the south of France."

Dominique looked at me. "Do you hire girls because they're pretty or because they are competent?"

"I hire them for the job," I said. "Pretty is a bonus."

Dominique looked at Leslie. "And isn't this one too young to be your petite amie?"

I reached for Leslie's hand. She was clearly uncomfortable. Her world was young and simple, not like Dominique's. "She is beautiful, of course, and I would not be unhappy if she were my petite amie. But she is attached to a very bright young man."

Leslie put down her drink. "But I am also a bit late. I promised to meet my friends at the disco."

I looked at her as she stood up. "Come see me tomorrow?" I asked.

She kissed my cheek. "I'll be here." She then turned to Dominique. "Bonsoir, Madame. I am sorry that you did not enjoy your dinner. I had a lovely time on the Gracara with Harold," she said and scooted off the boat.

I said to Dominique, "You are not very nice."

"I said nothing," she said, filling her glass.

"She is a sweet child in a strange world and you are a bitch."

"Do you want me to get off the boat?" she asked.

"You can suit yourself," I said to her. "I don't like guests of mine to feel uncomfortable."

She took another glass of champagne before speaking. "You're angry," she said. "Would you like to spank me? I have no panties on under my dress. You can take me down to your cabin. I'm sure you have a leather belt. And it will make you feel better."

I laughed. "And would it make you feel better?"

She smiled seductively. "I'd love it."

I stared at her for a moment. She was beautiful and intriguing, but I was here to work. I smiled and shrugged. "Not tonight, Dominique."

She laughed and finished her champagne. "There will be another time." She rose, kissed my cheek and walked across the deck and down the gangplank. She turned and gestured with her hand as she disappeared into the crowd.

I lit a cigarette. Avis came on deck. "Is it all right to clear?"

"Of course," I said. Then I thought for a moment. "Wake me at seven-thirty," I said. "I'll have breakfast at eight, and I'll get to work as soon as I've eaten."

•

It was after nine before I got to the point in the script where Marja comes out of jail and is met at the prison gates by the attorney who arranged her parole. I had already started my second pack of Lucky Strikes. I leaned back and stared at the pages. It felt like the story was moving, and that's what a writer always wants to feel. But you never know if it's good or bad.

I heard a voice from the deck steps. "Harold?"

I turned and looked up to the upper salon. Dominique's face peered down the steps. "I am sorry to intrude, but I would like to invite you to lunch."

I stared at her. "I'm working."

"Work or not, you have to eat," she said. "I have a car and a reservation at my favorite restaurant on the hill behind the village."

"No, thank you," I said, firmly. "I'm afraid it will take too much time."

"Ninety minutes here and back, I promise. The patron used to be my chef in Paris. I have already ordered the menu," she said.

"I don't know," I said. "I am on a deadline."

"I'll be back at one o'clock," she said. "If you don't come there will be nothing lost." Then she disappeared.

I tapped out another cigarette. Ken appeared and flipped open his Zippo. "Thank you," I said.

He had a smile on his face. "Are you going with the baroness?"

"Not baroness, that's English. The French is baronne," I said.

"The French always have their own way of doing things," he said. "But I think she wants to rape you."

I began to laugh. "I should be that lucky," I said. "All she asked me for was lunch."

Ken smiled. "Are you going with her?"

"Jesus," I said. "I have no privacy on this boat."

"I'm the captain," he said, smiling again. "I have to know everything that's going on."

"Fuck you," I said. "I have to get back to work."

"But you are going to have lunch with her?"

I didn't answer.

Ken went back down to the galley. I could hear his voice telling the others, "Mr. Robbins will be going out for lunch."

Marja was a great character to write about. I felt as if I were telling the story of someone I knew, a real woman. The pages flew and I was almost halfway through the story when I heard Dominique's voice from the opened deck door.

"Harold," she said, with her faint accent, "I am waiting for you."

I looked at my watch. She was exactly on time. I glanced down at the pages again. It had been a good morning's work. "Give me a moment to wash up," I called to her.

Her car was a Peugeot. We arrived at a small restaurant in the rolling hills behind St. Tropez. She tooted her car horn as we drove up. The restaurant had only 12 tables. As we walked in I saw that only one of them was set, with a tablecloth, a service of silver and glasses for two.

The patron, a tall, bald man, greeted us warmly. He smiled at Dominique, kissed her hand and said, "Madame la Baronne."

She smiled at him. "Charles," she said. "It has been a long time."

"Too long, Madame," he concurred as he led us to the table.

"And Therese?" Dominique asked.

"She is well, Madame," he said as he helped her to sit. "Thank you, Madame." Then his face split into a large smile. "I have made your favorite dishes. Escargots. Then I have prepared a crown roast of lamb. For dessert, chocolate cake and fresh whipped cream. And I have been able to find the same burgundy you used in your cellar in Paris."

"You stole it," she laughed. "Philip would kill you if he knew."

"But I knew, Madame, there would come a time when you would be here with us. What would you have me serve, that awful cote de Provence that all the restaurants have in St. Tropez?"

"Thank you, Charles, for all of your thoughtfulness," she said, smiling. "Charles, my friend, Harold Robbins, the American author."

He bowed. "It is my honor, sir. I have one of your novels, The Carpetbaggers."

He turned to go into the kitchen and I looked at Dominique. "I don't see any other customers. Business is slow if we are the only ones here."

She laughed. "He is normally closed at luncheon, but he opened for me when I called."

"You've really got clout," I said, and laughed.

"Clout?" she asked.

I laughed again. "You are a very important lady."

And lunch began. It was superb. I was so full by the end of the meal I didn't think I could get up from the table. I looked at my watch. I couldn't believe it. It was five P.M. 'Jesus! I blew the whole afternoon!" I called Charles. "Laddition, s'il vous plait."

Charles shook his head. "Monsieur Robbins, you are the guest of Madame la Baronne."

I looked at Dominique. "That's ridiculous. The check should be mine. After all, you introduced me to a beautiful restaurant and we've had a wonderful afternoon."

"Don't be silly," she said. "This is France. I invited you to lunch. And besides, I'm richer than you are."

I started to laugh. She was right. It was France and she probably was richer than I was. And what the hell. "OK," I said. "But I've got to get back to the boat. I still have work to do."

"Oh, I am so sorry," she said. "Charles went to get the car, but he was unable to start the motor. He is trying to find someone to fix it."

"Can we get a taxi?" I asked.

"This is St. Tropez," she said. "There are only two taxis in town and they work only at the hotels."

I turned to Charles. "Do you have a car we can borrow?"

"No, Monsieur. All I have is a horse and wagon. It is not strong enough to take you down into town. But there is no need to worry. I have a lovely guest room for you."

I'd been had. I turned to Dominique. "You are really a bitch. Do you think he might have a few horse whips in that guest room for you?"

She smiled. "After all, we are in the country."

"Honey," I said, "I'm going to sit here at the table until some customers show up for dinner in a car. Then I'll get back to town. I told you, I'm on a deadline."

She stared at me. "Don't you like me?"

I smiled. "I love you. But I have to work."

"You would stay here if the windsurfer were with you," she said petulantly.

"You're beginning to sound like my wife." I held up my hand. "Charles, may I have a scotch on the rocks, please?"

He placed the drink on the table for me and looked at Dominique and then at me. "We have several customers arriving around seven. I am sure that one of them can give you a lift into town."

Dominique smiled at me. "Champagne," she said to Charles. "Not a bottle, just a coupe."

It was eight P.M. by the time we returned to the yacht. I gave 200 francs to the chauffeur who had brought us back, and he returned to the restaurant. Dominique walked up the gangplank with me. Leslie and Ken were on the deck.

"We began to worry about you," Leslie said. "Ken told me you would be back after lunch, around threeish."

I smiled. "We were in the hills when her car died."

Ken nodded. "Things like that can happen."

"Yep," I said. "I think we all need a drink."

Ken looked surprised. "What about dinner? Cathy's prepared some of your favorite dishes."

"Is there enough for Leslie and the baronne?" I asked.

"Cathy always has enough," he assured me.

"I can't eat," Dominique said. "I'm satiated and exhausted."

"I'm sorry, then," I said. "Thank you for the luncheon. It really was delicious."

She turned to Leslie. "Are you staying for dinner?"

Leslie smiled. "I never pass up an invitation for dinner."

Dominique still looked at her. "Then you will stay on after dinner?"

Leslie again smiled. "If Harold asks me. That's another thing I never turn down if I have an invitation."

"But Harold said that he would be working after dinner," Dominique said.

Leslie nodded. "I can sleep until he's finished working."

Dominique smiled. "Then bonsoir, ma petite," she said and went off the boat.

Leslie looked at me. "She's a tough lady."

"Yes," I said. "And a very interesting one."

I worked after dinner until midnight and then went down to my cabin. Leslie was naked, fast asleep on the single bed across the cabin from my double bed. I stretched out in my Jockeys and disappeared into another world.

•

I felt my shoulder being shaken. I opened my eyes to find Dominique bending over me. I looked across the cabin at the single bed. Leslie was gone. "What the hell is the matter with you? Couldn't you see that I was sleeping?" I snapped.

"It is after ten," she said. "Ken told me that you wanted to start working early."

"Did he tell you to come down here?" I asked.

"I didn't ask him," she said.

"How did you know that I wasn't fucking Leslie?" I asked. "What would you have done then?"

"Watch and applaud," she laughed. "But Ken told me that she left for the beach at eight." She sat down on the single bed. "Did you have sex with Leslie last night?"

"None of your business," I said, standing up and heading for the bathroom. "Besides, what difference does it make to you?"

She walked across the cabin and looked right into my eyes. At the same time she slipped one hand down the front of my Jockeys and cupped my balls. She kissed me and spoke softly. "I want to have a real affair with you, not just a fuck."

I could feel myself growing hard. Then I lifted her hand away. "Dominique," I said. "I have things to do. Maybe another time."

"Maybe then I will not have the time," she said.

"C'est la vie," I said and closed the bathroom door behind me.

When I came out, she was gone. Her scent remained. Then I saw a small note on my pillow.

Cher Harold,

There will be a time. And it will be right for both of us.

Avec amour, Dominique.

I smiled. I didn't believe I would ever see her again. Wally told me that evening that she had returned to Paris. I stayed in St. Tropez until I finished the script. I returned to Cannes for Adreana's sixth birthday party. It was beautiful and I would not have missed it for the world.

I received the money promised for the script. But there was a disappointment. Lesley Ann Warren, who had played the lead in the original miniseries, decided that she would not do the sequel. Bob Weston and I tried to get Universal to sign another actress for the part, but they refused. They preferred to pay the money and forget it.

In September, Grace and Adreana returned to Los Angeles so that Adreana could begin school.

I stayed at Le Cannet to start work on a new novel, The Betsy.

The telephone rang. "Harold," said a familiar voice.

"Yes, Dominique," I said.

She spent the days windsurfing in the nude, wearing her bikini only when she gave lessons.

"You are really a bitch. Do you think he might have a few horse whips in that guest room for you?"