Honor
The Cote d’Azur sinks into my bones and works its alchemy on me in no time. I check my phone as little as possible and leave Lydia to filter my emails. Give myself over to recalibrating to this delicious, indulgent way of life.
That first night, we dine in a characteristically French style—at leisure, and with appreciation. There are drinks on the terrace first: delightful sparkling rosé from Chateau des Anges’ own vines, with olives from the olive groves on the property, and crostini topped with quintessential Provençal tapenade, and rolled up anchovies speared with cocktail sticks.
It’s my favourite time of day: that, and first thing in the morning. Dawn and dusk are the times when the sky is at its most magical and the temperature is manageable in this part of the world in high summer. Showering and dressing for dinner after an indulgent day by the pool feels decadent, as does taking my place on a shady sofa on the terrace.
Elaine insists I sit facing the sea to drink in the view. I’m cool in a laser-cut Cult Gaia sundress, and all is good with the world as I sip my drink. Especially because my dear friends arearound me, the children’s whoops carrying across from the well-shadedpétanquecourt, and Noah is sitting a couple of feet away, stretched out with a glass of pastis and a lazy grin on his far-too-handsome face.
It’s not a set-up between the two of us; of course it isn’t. There’s no way on earth Elaine would have invited me out here for Noah; there’s no way she’d entertain the mere idea of her golden boy getting it on with a married woman whose daily life is tabloid fodder.
And yet, this little group of six feels balanced. Elaine and Philippe, married for decades and revelling in having their friends around them in their favourite place. Evelyn and Angus, still completely in their honeymoon period, their new family providing them with so much happiness. And me and Noah. It feels natural with him. Natural, but charged.
The only way I can explain it is that I’m conscious of him at all moments. I keep seeking him out. If I’m in the pool and he gets in, the water feels warmer. When he seeks me out for a game of backgammon or to see if I’d like a drink, it’s strangely thrilling. And when he sat down next to me on the sofa this evening, I did a tiny internal air punch.
And the smiles. The smiles he gives me are like gifts: warm, and generous, and radiating appreciation. I’ve had smiles like that from men my whole adult life, but I usually shut them down with my well-honed frostiness. Not Noah. Not these smiles.
It’s silly. I know that. I’m a long-time married woman and it’s natural I should get some cheap thrills from the attention of a good-looking, slightly younger guy. I don’t have my husband to myself. It makes sense that the farce playing out in the British tabloids and the US celebrity sites right now is making me defiant. Itchy. Distracted.
And yet, this sense of supreme well-being continues. It continues through the next morning, when Noah and I meetEvelyn and Angus on the clay tennis court to play an early, single set of mixed doubles, in the short window before the heat builds.
It continues as I watch his form on the court. That easy elegance translates through to his tennis style, and it’s heaven to watch.
It continues when, after we whip their arses six-four, Noah throws a lazy arm around my shoulders as he leads me off the court, and leans his head into mine as he tells me:Well played, partner.
It continues when I busy myself with making some espressos in the butler’s pantry after breakfast, and he walks in. I turn to look behind me and clock the look on his face, which is definitely checking out my arse, before he collects himself.
It continues every time he says my name. When any of the others say my name, it’s nothing, but when it comes from Noah’s lips it feels loaded, and the sound of it whips through my abdomen like something delicious and forbidden.
It continues through the long, lazy lunch chef Gui serves up ofpissaladièreand crisp salads and cold meats and cheeses so ripe they could walk off the platters, as the carafes of palest-pink rosé dotting the long trestle table miraculously empty and refill themselves and the adult guests groan and tug at the waistbands of our clothes.
And it continues until, as I lie in the blessed shade of a day-bed by the pool, Rollo fast asleep and curled into me, my mobile goes. It’s Mara, our publicist. I reject the call. Mara calls straight back. I sigh and, disentangling myself from Rollo, sit up. Keep my voice to a whisper.
‘Hi.’
Mara’s walking. There’s traffic in the background, and she’s out of breath.
‘Have you seen TMZ?’
A warning pang hits me in the stomach, an unwelcomecontraction of muscles, as if my body knows better than I do what’s coming.
‘No. Why?’
A sigh. ‘They’ve just released an exclusive with a former server from Chateau Marmont, who claims to have evidence Jackson and Leila shared a room there.’
Shit shit shit. ‘What’s she saying?’
‘It’s all hearsay. She doesn’t have photos, or anything. But the hotel hasn’t been able to stop her blabbing. Said she cleared away some room service one morning, and they were in bed together. TheDaily Mailjust called me for a comment because they’re going to run it.’
‘Does Jackson know?’
‘Yeah. That’s why I’m calling you. I didn’t want you to be blindsided.’
‘I see.’ There’s nothing else to say. Mara won’t try to hush this up because Jackson doesn’t want her to. Because, unlike all the other times we’ve bribed and pleaded with and threatened the press because Jackson wanted to protect his ‘family man’ image, this time it serves him to let the press speculate. Because it will be gold-dust forVet, when it launches.
I end the call and stumble off the daybed and up to the house. The force of the mid-afternoon sunlight is blinding. I hear my name. It’s Evelyn behind me. Rose is in her arms, grizzling and swiping at her hot face with her tiny hands.
‘I’m going up to give Rose a bottle in the shade. You okay?’
