Ladyfingers: A novel

By Delorys Welch-Tyson

Ladyfingers is the hilarious sequel to author, Delorys Welch-Tyson’s best-selling novel, Gingersnaps. An internationally famous pop diva, ex-convicts, wealthy socialites, East Somarian kidnappers and the life style makeover guru, Madame Arthuretta Bozell are just a few of the outrageous characters descending on the French Riviera,. And they’re having a party… Follow their antics as they all eventually converge on the wedding banquet of a famous film director at the Negresco Hotel.

Ladyfingers is a satirical look at American foreign relations! “Ladyfingers is a hilarious romp through a sunny place if not for all the shady people.Writers Desiree Brown Simon and her husband David, the couple who moved to France in Welch-Tyson’s first novel, Gingersnaps, are caught up in the wacky intrigue that comes with the lifestyles of the nouveau riche and clueless. Who knew that the fine print that comes with winning the lottery jackpot says that youhave to spend the rest of your life as a character in a classic English farce?”
—Jan Alexander
author of Getting to Lamma

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Jun 7, 2005
• ISBN: 9780595799145

Delorys Welch-Tyson

Delorys Welch-Tyson is a writer, painter, and former owner of the Rainbow Connection Art Gallery in New York City. Author of the bestselling novel, Gingersnaps, she and her husband live in the south of France.

Book preview

Copyright © 2005 Delorys Welch-Tyson.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

iUniverse

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403

www.iuniverse.com

844-349-9409

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

ISBN: 978-0-5953-5418-4 (sc)

ISBN: 978-0-5958-6186-6 (hc)

ISBN: 978-0-5957-9914-5 (e)

iUniverse rev. date: 08/16/2023

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Two Years Later

DELORYS WELCH-TYSON

Author of the national bestseller Gingersnaps

Dedicated to My Husband

Allan.

He Knows Why...

In Loving Memory of My Dad,

Henry William Welch, Sr.,

Who Told Me To Do It Myself!

VERISIMILITUDE: the appearance or semblance of truth; likelihood, probability.

‘Boy,

what ever you is and where ever you is,

don’t be what you ain’t,

because when you is what you ain’t,

you isn’t.’

—Uncle Remus

CHAPTER 1

45420.jpg

"Here! Take that! How does that feel? she yelled as she dug the long, scarlet nails of both hands into the customs official’s breasts. Keep your friggin’ hands off me...you!"

The stunned official, a fleeting look of guilt crossing her face, sheepishly backed away from the angry woman, anxiously looking around for assistance from other members of airport security.

Fatigue mixed with outrage enveloped the offended woman. With an abrupt gesture of her right hand she brushed back her voluminous mane of dark brown wavy hair. Her arresting pair of large, espresso-colored eyes glared angrily from her mahogany-brown face.

Hushed gasps of recognition echoed around the two women.

Her indignation mounted as she glanced about at the fellow travellers, who now projected various expressions of stunned and curious amusement.

In an almost shriek she continued to berate the customs agent, "What in the hell do you think you’re doing...putting your hands on my body like that...you!"

A crowd had begun to gather around. This spectacle had obviously become an exciting diversion from the normal airport routines and hassles.

From out of nowhere, it seemed, the paparazzi moved in closer, blinding everyone in the area as the flashes of their cameras flared like New Year’s Eve fireworks in the woman’s direction.

Nearby, Desiree Brown Simon spun around on her heel in front of her departure gate in order to see what all the commotion was about. Her sudden movement caused her long braids to snap across her cheek at the same moment that the woman reared back her long slender hand and slapped the security official squarely on the left side of her face, leaving a deep, pink imprint.

Desiree, mouth agape, stood paralysed as the noise in the terminal escalated and people began rushing wildly about.

The enraged woman, she noted, was a famous entertainer!

In an odd and strategic way the woman had taken the typically routine and stressful environment of the contained travel anxiety of an international airline terminal and...presto...transformed it into her own element.

A stage!

At that moment, she was modestly clad in a pair of tight blue jeans, an oversized sweat shirt and a khaki jacket. Nevertheless, even in her agitated state, she had managed to create the illusion of performing before her adoring public, decked out in one of her Bob Mackie gowns, as the star of one of her extravagant musical productions.

"Well, ain’t that a pisser!" Desiree said aloud to herself, focussing in on the excitement. A perplexed frown formed on her face as she thought, That’s Amelia Jackson...or rather the infamous ‘call me Miss Jackson!’.

Desiree watched as Amelia Jackson gracefully spread her arms wide, waving out-stretched hands in one of her familiar stage gestures of warmth and welcome. At that instance, though, it was intended to convey an opposite message. She had created two corridors of space between herself and the observers as she was escorted from Heathrow by airport security police.

Almost everyone in the area heard her yell out to the air around her as she left the terminal, "Who in the hell do you people think you are, anyway?"

What on earth was that about? Desiree wondered as she contemplated on the spectacle of one of America’s most elegant and famous personalities being carted away by ominous-looking, uniformed foreign authorities.

Desiree turned away from the absurd situation to catch her flight out of London. As curious as she was to find out what was happening, she just wanted to get home to her husband and the comfort of the routines in their daily lives.

She was certain that she would read all about it in the papers the next day.

After all, it was Amelia Jackson, not exactly anyone you would call your everyday run-of-the-mill tabloid Queen. Ummpf! Life is a trip! she thought to herself as she picked up speed in order to sink into the soothing cushions of her seat of her flight back to France.

46133.png                     46130.png                     46128.png

As Desiree put her carry on bag into the overhead compartment, she was jolted from her private thoughts when someone with a thick, Midwestern American accent in the seat next to hers laughed jovially and asked, Did you see that commotion out there?

Desiree stared warily at the man occupying the window seat. She noticed that he possessed a ruddy complexion and was wearing a bad hair system. She sat down and answered with a sigh, "I think I saw something; but I’m not quite sure what it was." She reached in her bag and took out her copy of the London Times as a signal that in her opinion their conversation had reached a conclusion.

Nevertheless the gentleman had another opinion on the matter.

"That was that singer Amelia Jackson. I’m sure you know who she is, don’t you? I can tell from your accent you’re an American...like me."

"Why are you so sure about who I know, when you don’t even know me, Sir?" she asked, folding her paper on her lap, starting to read.

They were announcing take off, so she buckled her seat belt.

Let me help you with that, Miss, he insisted, ignoring her brusque remark. He started to lean over to help her.

No need. See? Voila...it’s done! she said, throwing him a caustic smile then turning back to her paper.

She punched that security agent lady square in the jaw! Did you see it? Did you see it? he proceeded with the excitement of a gossip monger.

No.

"Yeah...well she did...I tell you. Pow! Right in the jaw! What a spit fire she is!" he guffawed merrily.

Silence from Desiree, who just rolled her eyes and continued to try and read.

"My name is Bob Boozer, and yours...?" he held out his hand to shake hers.

Desiree ignored it.

Non plussed, he continued, Ah yes...Amelia Jackson, he sighed, What a dame!’ Have all her albums. Been to a couple of concerts of hers in Vegas. Some lady. Real classy. A credit to her..."

Look sir, I’m tired. She had had no desire to hear him complete an old, hackneyed concept.

Oh...I see, he continued. In London for business, were you? I’m retired, myself. Live in the South of France, near Nice.

Oh lucky me, thought Desiree, a neighbor!. Desiree had eventually realized that there was generally a certain peculiarly stereotypical type of American who seemed to be attracted to life on the French Riviera. She’d met this Bob Boozer type numerous times before.

I worked in the world of finance most of my life, he said proudly, nearly hooking his thumbs under his armpits, or so it seemed that way to her, anyway.

That really narrows things down, doesn’t it? she responded, curtly.

His loud belly laugh seemed to cause their seats to vibrate.

You’re a funny lady! I really appreciate the wit of a funny lady. Means they’re smart. Right? he slapped his thighs.

Silence.

"Well, what do you do, Miss?"

"Mrs." she stated sharply, correcting his presumptions.

I meant no disrespect...

Umm hum, she uttered skeptically. I’m a writer, she said, turning the page of her paper.

See? I told you! Funny ladies are smart. Are you famous?

"You tell me." Her eyes were still on the paper, although it had become apparent that she wouldn’t be able to concentrate...that is...unless she decided to punch his invasive and obnoxious lights out.

Airline travel, she thought, then sighed, shaking her head with resignation.

I can’t tell you if you’re famous unless you tell me your name, he laughed.

Always willing to make a possible sale, no matter how unlikely the potential customer, she looked over at him and said, Desiree Brown Simon.

Desiree...Brown...Simon? Happy to make your acquaintance. He scratched his hair system and said, "You could be famous, of course...I...I don’t know...’cause when I read, I read Tom Clancy."

That’s nice, she sighed, folding her paper and leaning back in her seat. She closed her eyes.

As I said...for almost forty years, I worked in the world of finance. I’m a close personal friend of George W. Bush, you know.

Desiree’s eyes snapped open for a moment. She wondered whether she should ask him what he thought that ridiculous gridlock of the previous year’s presidential election situation had been all about, then changed her mind. What business was it of her’s, anyway, she thought, that he was supposedly a friend of Bush? He was probably among the bevy of name-dropping Americans on the Cote d’Azur, who love to regale others with tales real or fabricated about their powerful and influential ‘close personal friends’.

She closed her eyes again.

Yep, he continued, "that George...such a warm, loving man. I’m sure you’re impressed that he appointed that charming colored General to Secretary of State...aren’t you?"

Pul-eese, she thought, turning her back to him in her seat.

As I said, I’m now retired. The wife and I moved over here a couple of years ago. My wife is French, you know. Yep, we...

Desiree slipped into a nap.

46139.png                     46137.png                     46135.png

In less than two hours she had managed to ‘cop some zs’, flee Bob Boozer, who had still been chattering away when she woke up and the plane arrived at the Nice-Cote d’Azur Airport.

Home.

Even though it was only February, she was able to flip back the top of her brand-new cream-colored Jaguar convertible. She pulled out of the long term parking area and drove onto the palm-tree-lined boulevard called the Promenade des Anglais. She pressed the button on her CD player and leaned back to unwind and enjoy the view.

Free...ee...like a ri...ver... she belted off key but nevertheless with smug satisfaction, along with Stevie Wonder. Her life had been a golden glow of serenity these past years since she and her husband David had decided to move to the South of France from the hectic pace of life in New York City, and the year 2001 was starting off nicely. She had had great fun in London, promoting her first novel.

Nodding her head mirthfully along with the upbeat tempo, she admired the passing landscape of long, elegantly phallic shaped Cyprus trees and the quirky looking Aleppo pines. She loved the flashy show biz like Hibiscus which flaunted themselves like beautiful women on a beach along the coastline of the French Riviera...their succulent petals tossing bright red kisses toward passers by.

She steered abruptly and adroitly to the right avoiding in all probability a side-long collision with the oncoming tour bus.

Damn... she sighed, wincing.

But then, what else was new, she thought to herself? Not only were these main roads...Corniches, as the French called them...perilously winding, but it was always tourist season and the buses appeared to be growing steadily wider than their lanes with each passing month. To complicate matters even more, she had to constantly be on the alert for exit signs on highways which seemed to her American eye to be consistently placed after the exit ramps.

It had appeared that way, anyway, when she had first arrived in France.

It had become increasingly obvious, over the years there, that the road signs were set up in some kind of configuration which reflected an unfathomable...to her, anyway...Gallic system of perception.

So, soon after their move, she decided to endure the years long now you see it, now you don’t school of French driver’s education in preparation for the written test. It often felt like an advanced course in French psychology. Even though she would have been able to continue using her New York license, she realized that her well being would depend on many levels, learning the mentality of the people among whom she’d chosen to live and negotiate with on a daily basis.

Despite the fact that she was obligated to take the written test in French instead of her native language, she was proud of herself and amazed that she passed it with an almost perfect score on her first try. After that, what lay in front of her was the next step...the infernal, years-long battle with the French motor vehicle bureaucracy which would finally enable her to pass the road test was a bureaucratic web from which she thought she would never escape. It had appeared to be an enormously expensive battle between quality control and privatization.

Since she’d been living abroad, she’d been surprised at how many of her American counterparts arrogantly felt that they could move to such a complicated country as France and enjoy a positive relationship with their environment with merely a bit of cash and a limited knowledge of the customs and language. One would assume that before taking such a great leap that one would be better off spending some time studying the mentality of the people...the codes...the signs...the culture...the rules of the road, so to speak. After all, all of the Americans she had met had had the luxury of making a choice. They were not indigent refugees from oppressive regimes, who had to flee for their lives to foreign sanctuaries with only the clothes on their backs.

Desiree lowered the volume of Stevie’s sanguine lyrics and ran the fingers of her right hand through her braids.

As she turned into the traffic circle, she jammed suddenly on the brakes as she saw that the car ahead of her had just crashed into the large statue on the traffic island.

The statue, done by a French sculptor had been carved into a large wooden hand. The fore and middle fingers of the sculpture had been formed, spread-eagle, into the peace sign.

The impact of the crash had knocked off the forefinger.

Oh, my God! Desiree gasped.

She then noticed that smoke was emitting from the car which appeared to be a brand new, year 2001 model Mercedes Benz convertible sports car. The blonde head of a woman was slumped over the steering wheel.

Desiree pulled her car over and turned on the distress signal.

She got out and walked over to the Mercedes in order to see if the woman was alright.

A couple of vehicles sped passed them seemingly unaware of the disastrous occurrence at the traffic island, which lead her to believe...based on her traffic school lessons, anyway...that the odds were that those vehicles were neither driven by French drivers nor persons possessing a French drivers’ permit.

Her conclusion proved to be accurate, she noticed, as she passed a helmetless man on a bicycle...who had almost crashed into her. He looked at her, snarled something that sounded like ‘dumb bitch’, in a distinctively deep-South, USA accent, causing Desiree to almost gag from his emission of repugnant alcohol breath. He was situated in the wrong lane...his bicycle chain hanging ominously near his breaks. Then she heard him yelling to someone on his cell phone, saying, these French people can’t drive to save their lives.

Desiree wondered how he could possibly distinguish a French national from anyone else on the roads of a major French city. Did this obvious jerk think that a French license plate defined the driver’s nationality? After all, the license plate on her Jag was a 06 Alps Maritime one, yet she was a bonafied, 10th generation American citizen.

She had felt as if she wanted to knock this narrow-minded American off of his rickety bike and kick him into a bloody pulp, then she thought that perhaps that not only was the man intoxicated but that he might also be a victim of someone of other nationality’s nescient propaganda concerning the French.

As she approached the woman’s Mercedes, her eyes met the American’s again. He glared at her, and then he made a gesture signalling a right hand turn, despite the fact that he turned left.

God bless you. Go in peace, Desiree mumbled to herself.

She approached the woman’s car.

Madame...puis-je vous aider? Avez-vous mal? she asked with genuine concern leaning over toward the woman in the damaged car in order to gain a better assessment of the woman’s condition.

The woman slowly lifted her head in a daze. She frowned and looked blankly at Desiree and said in a unmistakably American accent, I...I don’t speak French...I didn’t see the...

It’s okay, I speak English. I’m American. Are you hurt? Desiree asked.

Desiree faced another blank stare from the disoriented woman.

I...I...d...don’t...know..., she reached up and rubbed a bruised area of her forehead and winced.

I’m going to call for help. Desiree said. Without waiting for the woman to respond, she took control and walked back to her car to make a call to the police from her cell phone.

As Desiree got in her car and began to dial for the proper authorities she watched a filthy, beat up, old Volkswagen with two suspicious-looking characters, one man with dark curly hair partially wrapped in a tattered scarf of some kind and another with greasy reddish hair, both, a flagrantly incongruous dishevelled counterpoint to the woman’s expensive tailored look, drive up and stop next to the woman’s expensive luxury car.

They emerged menacingly from their old jalopy.

Desiree slid down in the driver’s seat of her car as she saw one of the men...with reddish color hair...wearing a strange, ripped-overalls-and-tee-shirt attire, walk over to the door of the passenger seat of the woman’s car and shout authoritatively, Dégage!

The woman, still apparently bewildered, held her hand up defensively."

The other man reached over and grabbed her arm roughly and yelled, Viennes avec nous!!

Desiree gasped, again, as she watched the woman being pulled out of the car seemingly without even a whisper of protest and led into the weird-looking vehicle. Desiree slid down a little further down into the driver’s seat as inconspicuously as possible and watched one man speed off in his nasty looking car with the obviously confused woman...an apparent hostage of some sort.

But then, who knew? She could simply had been a witness to some kind of domestic ‘situation’.

The other man, casually got into the woman’s Teutonic chariot, as if it was his own, turned on the ignition, revved up the engine and followed his companion into the bright light of the Riviera day.

A nervous knot formed in Desiree’s stomach as she sat up, turned on her ignition to continue on her way. She glanced back at the damaged statue and muttered to herself, Weird shit. and took off with the speed of an unwitting witness to a crime.

I wonder what that was all about? she asked herself, returning to Stevie’s music. She frowned with concern as she thought about the fact that within a few hours she had witnessed two droll episodes involving American women in Europe.

As she turned onto the motor way, she remembered that she had read that Amelia Jackson had bought a villa nearby a while ago.

Several real estate brokers had used that bit of information as a sales tactic in an attempt to get David and Desiree to commit to the purchase of one of the outrageously priced houses or apartments they had in their listings. She and her husband had laughed together over the fact that those agents hadn’t realized that high profile Americans chose to live abroad in order to enjoy a bit of precious anonymity. They were certainly not there to attract even more gargantuan tour buses, or cause homeowners and brokers to inflate the prices of their properties to monstrously unrealistic heights.

When she and David had finally found the villa that suited them, they had been able to negociate a purchase price that was substantially less...to say the least...than the original asking price.

It just goes to show you.

She wondered if Miss Jackson had been on her way home when the authorities decided to haul her away. Desiree also wondered what she had been doing in London.

She moved into the right lane to make an exit.

Maybe she had been recording an album or something there, she thought, stopping at the red light.

Momentarily wondering if she should make a trip to the market to pick something up for dinner, she quickly dismissed the idea, remembering that David had already made reservations at the posh La Metropole Restaurant, in order to celebrate the conclusion of her book tour.

She became giddy with satisfaction as she thought about the fact that both her husband’s book, Plantation Punch and her novel, Food For Thought, were both number one and two on the best sellers list, respectively.

It was absolutely amazing to her that she would be on the same list with her husband when this was only her first novel, since she had spent 20 long years as a psychologist in New York, while Plantation Punch was his 11th book...the last six having been best sellers.

As she negotiated the serpentine road, winding up hill through an almost garishly leafy forest of pines, eucalyptus, palm trees and bright, blooming succulents to their villa, she thought back to the difficulties surrounding the last 5 years of her practice.

She had become all burnt out.

Commuting into New York City from Connecticut had become increasingly more stressful by the day. She had stopped driving into the city and instead took the commuter train for a while. At least she could read a book or sleep during the hour and something commuter run. But to get to her office required her to take a crowded subway as well. Then, there had been a bombing on one of the subway lines.

It had been neither stress relieving nor cost effective.

David had been telling her to take a sabbatical for quite some time, but she hadn’t wanted to abandon her patients. So she started taking Yoga. It helped, for a while.

Though she had had a thriving practice, many of her patients, it seemed in the last couple of years, were suddenly chronically late for their sessions or simply stopped showing up, without warning. In the beginning of this trend she was never quite sure whether it was the fault of her patients or that of her assistant who scheduled the appointments.

Then, files began to disappear. She hired a couple of new assistants and when things didn’t improve she took on the clerical responsibilities herself.

Then, payments were skipped and checks began to bounce. And to make things worse, most of her patients no longer had the type of health insurance which would cover mental health care services.

She felt that perhaps the economy had taken a downward turn, although she had heard and read in the media exactly the opposite at that time.

Not only did she find that it had become almost impossible to know what to believe or how to interpret the situations around her but also she felt that something was stripping away her livelihood...her identity.

In her view, she felt that some invisible force had taken most of her patients away. Her heart had become broken with the feeling that just as she thought that she was making headway with some of them, something more compelling and unseen had become more fulfilling than her therapy sessions.

Perhaps it was simply that they could no longer afford her services.

Nevertheless, the message had become crystal clear. That chapter of her life had come to a close.

David had been encouraging her over the years to write self help books, or begin to paint again. Because she felt that she had unfinished business concerning her career as a psychologist, she decided to take a stab at the writing.

What alternative did she have anyway? she thought to herself, feeling the anger of someone whose home had been vandalized rising and beginning to erupt like a volcano.

Desiree had become patently aware of the fact that she was not alone in her career troubles. A number of her colleagues were in the same predicament and her friends in various other professions were losing their jobs.

She pushed back the anger and disappointments of the past and refocused.

Subsequently, she and her husband decided to rent a secluded house in Hawaii, leaving their house in Connecticut in her sister, Aletha’s, quite capable and covetous hands. Desiree recuperated in the sun and completed Food For Thought in a matter of months.

While her agent in New York searched for interested publishers, they decided to look for a house in the South of France, which they had talked about doing for quite some time.

Both their families had reacted rather strangely to their decision to move abroad.

Desiree’s family, the Browns, tried to suppress their disapproval because the entire family knew that the parents’ main problem was that they didn’t want to float nor fly. They didn’t like airplane travel and cruises made them sea-sick.

David’s parents had asked, "Why on earth would the two of you want to live among people like that?"

Evidently, David’s parent’s being Jews of European heritage, had a problem with the fact that the two of them were moving to a continent which has had a long and questionable history with their particular ethnic group.

Although she still missed her work as a psychologist, she had found her new work as a writer quite fulfilling––especially after receiving her first royalty check.

It had seemed to her ironic that although she had lost almost all of her patients to the ‘invisible forces,’ that her book...in which she applied her same therapeutic techniques and philosophies...hit the best seller list immediately after its release.

Desiree concluded that sometimes one had to simply find a different path in order to continue to follow one’s calling.

Desiree stopped her car in front of the Italianate wrought-iron gates to their Provencal-styled villa. She pressed in the security code to the house. As she drove into the garage she looked up and noticed that David was standing at the window of his study waving at her with one hand and holding the phone receiver with the other.

She wondered who he was talking to. Hoping that it was someone with some juicy gossip from the States, she felt a flicker of homesickness. Maybe it was time to pay the folks back home a visit, she thought smiling to herself and taking her travel bag from the trunk.

She closed the garage door and walked out onto her grounds. Her eyes gazed complacently over her orchard of lemon, tangerine and olive trees. She adored her grape and bougainvillaea vines which grew ornately over the stone walls which protectively encircled the gardens of their home.

The family Golden Retriever who they had brought all the way from Connecticut and Hawaii in their pursuit of a new life, barked an effusive welcome and jumped up on his hind legs to rest his front paws on her shoulders.

I missed you, too, Hemingway, she giggled, as he licked her left cheek and then bounded back through the open door of the house.

David met her at the front door to help her with her bag.

Who was on the phone, babe? Mom? Aletha?

Hey, Dez, first things first... he said, giving her a hug, then playfully letting his hand slide down onto her firm, round derriere, Did you miss me?

Her eyes slid longingly but with slight reservation over her husband’s body.

He stood in front of her, flashing that thick-lipped Mick Jagger smile he had. He was clad in a pair of frayed, blue jeans shorts telling his sinewy beige thighs.

She brushed a quick flirtatious kiss across his lips, ran her fingers fleetingly over his soft curly chest hairs and said, Let me go and take off these traveling clothes.

"Please do!" David teased.

"I’m a bit tired. I want to take a nap. Later, we’ll have dinner and when we come back home I’ll show you just how much I missed you."

She swept past him to head upstairs to her bathroom.

As she passed his study, she noted a stream of notes and piles of books on the floor which indicated that he was deeply into the flow of his next novel. She noticed that both his computer and the television were on.

She removed the jacket of her pants suit and hung it on the brass rack in the bathroom and turned to look in the mirror. Her mind flashed back to Heathrow Airport, Oh yeah, David...! she yelled out, Guess who I saw at the Airport...Amelia Jac...

What? I can’t hear you...wait a second.

He walked in and leaned against the bathroom door.

As I was saying, I saw...

That was Elliot on the phone, he interrupted.

The smile on her husband’s face conveyed to her that he was almost bursting with a savory piece of news.

"Elliot? What on earth does he want this time?" She asked shaking her head with amusement as she began to remove the makeup from her face.

Elliot was her husband’s brother...a celebrated filmmaker living in Los Angeles. Over the last few years, he had acquired a sizable following in France. Desiree had found that development rather puzzling since Elliot’s films were so quintessentially American. Actually they were even more provincial than that...they were essentially New York stories, told from an urban, New York, Jewish point of view.

"When’s he coming, David? That is what he called about, right? She put the tips of the fingers of her right hand to her lips looking a bit bewildered, and asked, Why do you think we are seeing more of him since we moved over here than we did when we all lived on the same continent? He has to travel twice as..."

You know he loves France. Plus that, he likes visiting us.

Umm hum, Desiree mumbled skeptically under her breath.

A sly smile formed her lips as she glanced at him, then picked up her bath sponge and moved toward the shower stall.

David had always refused to acknowledge the intensity of the sibling rivalry between the two brothers, particularly concerning their careers. David, being the older of the two, set the pace. Each time David released a novel, within months, Elliot would release a film. It was rather silly, really, she thought.

While they lived in the States, they probably saw Elliot at most, once a year. Now, he’d been appearing on their doorsteps regularly. She knew it had to do with the fact that since they were both very high profile men, back in the States, the two of them stayed away from each other’s territories. Now that he had this following, he was recognized almost everywhere he went in France, whereas David, being a more low keyed American writer...preferring to keep his private life private...was rarely recognized.

Desiree was content in knowing that her husband, despite Elliot’s competitive obsession, enjoyed his brother’s success almost as much as he enjoyed his own, despite the fact that Elliot had now apparently decided to impose himself on his brother’s home turf.

Dez...Elliot’s getting married! He stood at almost attention, running his hands through his dark curly hair to watch her reaction.

"You’re kidding! Why would he be getting married? she laughed, That’s ridiculous!" She fanned her hands at him, then began stripping off her clothing down to her undergarments.

Why is it ridiculous? he laughed.

He’s never been married before. What is he...forty two...forty three?

He’s forty two years old, Dez. You know that.

Oh, yeah...right, she said sarcastically.

Desiree reflected on the fact that Elliot Simon had over the years lived in serial monogamy with a long list of fawning and adoring fans who he called his lovers or significant others. He possessed a cruel talent for convincing these women of his total devotion...then leaving them standing dazed and out in the dust when