French Coast by Anita Hughes Read Free Book Online Page A

studied the menu as if it were a math exam.
    â€œI didn’t mean to snoop, but the shirts in your closet have someone else’s initials,” Serena persisted.
    Zoe bit her lip as if she couldn’t decide what to order. Finally she placed the menu on the linen tablecloth and sighed. “My name is Claudia Zoe Gladding, I’m Malcolm Gladding’s daughter.”
    Serena frowned, trying to remember why that name sounded familiar. She pictured the latest issue of Time magazine and the silver-haired man on the cover. He wore a midnight-blue silk blazer with a yellow handkerchief in his pocket. He stood on the steps of the Sydney Opera House, surrounded by long-legged models.
    â€œThe head of Gladding House and the eighth-richest man in Australia?” Serena gaped. “I thought you were British.”
    â€œI was sent to boarding school in England when I was twelve,” Zoe corrected. “My father owns the largest fashion empire in Australia.”
    Serena frowned. “Why the fake name?”
    â€œMy father is retiring and he wants me take over Gladding House.” Zoe pierced an oyster with her fork. “My mother is on every best-dressed list in Australia and my father dresses like he’s going to dinner with the prime minister. I’m good at business but I can’t put an outfit together. How am I going to be the face of Gladding House if I look like a waitress in a fast-food restaurant?”
    â€œI still don’t understand,” Serena replied. “What’s wrong with being Claudia Gladding?”
    â€œThe first night at the bar I watched women wearing Courrèges slacks and heart-shaped Chopard watches. I wanted to be that woman—the one who glides effortlessly through a room turning heads and leaving a trail of expensive perfume. I thought the best way was to start from scratch, so I became Zoe Pistachio.”
    â€œThat’s no reason to lie,” Serena said, shaking her head.
    â€œMy mother and father are always in The Sydney Morning Herald, smiling into the camera like movie stars. I wanted the chance to make myself over without it being on page three of the Daily Mirror . Haven’t you ever wanted to make your parents proud of you?”
    â€œYou’re a grown woman,” Serena said, and shrugged. “I’m sure your parents don’t care if you wear the wrong color blouse.”
    â€œMy father runs a clothing empire, fashion is his religion.” Zoe fiddled with her wineglass. “I’m like the child who failed catechism class.”
    â€œWhat does your father say about you being in Cannes?” Serena asked.
    â€œHe doesn’t know I’m here,” Zoe replied. “That’s why I need your help; you have to turn the ugly duckling into a swan.”
    *   *   *
    Serena sat in bed, scribbling interview notes on her notepad. Dinner had been delicious. Serena selected the Mediterranean sea bass fillets and Zoe had the organic lamb cutlets and they shared a classic chocolate fondue for dessert. After dinner they sipped amaretto and cream at the Carlton Bar, listening to the pianist and watching movie stars enter the revolving glass doors.
    Serena put the notepad on the bedside table and turned off the light. She longed to talk to Chase, but he was probably in a meeting. She thought about her plans for tomorrow: an early-morning run on the beach, shopping with Zoe, and the afternoon spent with Yvette in the Sophia Loren Suite.
    The hotel phone rang and she debated answering it. Zoe had gone to the gift shop to stock up on copies of Hello! and Paris Match . It rang again and Serena picked up the receiver. Perhaps it was Yvette, rescheduling their meeting, or Chase, anxious to hear her voice.
    A male voice came on the line. “Mademoiselle Pistachio, this is Daniel at the concierge.”
    â€œZoe isn’t in at the moment,” Serena replied.
    â€œCould you please inform Mademoiselle