They greet me with curious smiles.
“What would you like to sing?” he asks.
I consider for a moment. “‘Summertime’?”
Paul relays this to the bandmembers, who nod enthusiastically.
They get into position, and the pianist plays a few introductory chords, filling the market air with that familiar, languid melody.
I close my eyes, swaying slightly as I wait for my entrance.
When I begin to sing, I’m not thinking about Sterling or contracts or even Slayer.
I’m thinking about humid New York summers, about my grandmother humming at the stove, about Hilary and me as children sprawled on fire escapes to catch the evening breeze.
The band follows my lead perfectly, the saxophonist improvising responses to my vocal lines as though we’ve performed together for years.
I let the final notes hang in the air, soft and sustained, before opening my eyes.
For a moment, there’s only silence.
Then the crowd erupts—not a Broadway ovation, but enthusiastic applause punctuated by whistles and calls of “Encore!”
Paul’s eyes are wide with genuine surprise. “Where did you learn to sing like that?”
“My grandmother,” I say, unable to suppress my smile. “She always said jazz isn’t something you learn from books.”
“She was right.” He regards me. “You’re the real thing, aren’t you? Not just some model they paired with Slayer for the publicity.”
I feel myself flush. “I should get back to the hotel.”
I dart away before he can say anything more, but as I make my way back toward Le Majestic, I feel lighter than I have in quite some time.
For fifteen minutes, I wasn’t Sterling’s creation or Slayer’s arm candy. I was just Bix, singing because it’s what I love to do.
I check my phone and see a text from Milo:Lunch at Caroline, 1 pm sharp. Wear the green swimsuit from Antoine’s collection. The bellman brought your wardrobe to your room. Don’t be late!!!
Reality crashes back. I have forty-five minutes to transform into the sophisticated girlfriend Sterling expects.
Still, as I climb the steps to the hotel, I find myself humming “Summertime,” a small act of defiance against the role I’ve been assigned.
Maybe Paul is right. Maybe there’s room for real music in this weekend of pretense.
“Ah, Ms. Bismark,” Maurice calls as I pass through the lobby. “Did you enjoy the village?”
“Very much,” I tell him. “It was exactly what I needed.”
CHAPTER 26
BIX
“You’ll love the Caroline,” Milo says as our limousine pulls up to a valet wearing pressed white shorts and a chest-hugging white T-shirt.
“It’s where anyone who matters in Saint-Tropez comes to see and be seen.”
Through the car window, there’s a low, white structure built on blinding white sand, with the azure Mediterranean beyond.
“I feel underdressed,” I whisper, tugging at the seafoam green cover-up Antoine selected. Beneath it, I’m wearing what might be the most revealing, yet also the most expensive bikini I’ve ever worn.
