Free French Coast by Anita Hughes

giggling that they felt like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman . She looked more closely and realized the navy dress was the Stella McCartney dress she had loaned to Zoe and the white pumps were Serena’s own pair of Guccis.
    She flashed on the text Zoe sent saying she was taking a bath and made reservations at Côté Jardin for seven P.M. Why was Zoe sitting at Café Poet when she was supposed to be submerged in bubbles?
    Serena followed Zoe’s gaze and saw an older man wearing a straw hat and a burgundy blazer. He wore suede loafers and a gold Rolex on his wrist. He was leaning forward and whispering to a woman with long chestnut hair and a full pink mouth. She wore a low-cut silk dress and gold espadrilles on her feet.
    The man took the woman’s arm and led her out of the restaurant. Zoe pushed her chair back and hurried to the door. She waited till the couple strolled down the Rue Félix Faure, and then she turned and followed them.
    *   *   *
    Serena entered the Cary Grant Suite, slipping off her sandals and feeling the smooth marble under her feet. The air smelled of hyacinths and roses and the French doors were open to reveal the sun setting over the bay.
    â€œYou’re not dressed for dinner.” Serena frowned, seeing Zoe hunched on the ivory silk sofa. She wore a cotton robe and terry slippers. Her eyes were puffy and there were red blotches on her cheeks.
    â€œI ate a bad truffle in Mougins,” Zoe said. She didn’t look up from her copy of French Elle . “I can’t go to dinner.”
    Serena debated whether to tell Zoe she had seen her at the restaurant. But Zoe looked so fragile, like a kitten that had been saved from drowning. Serena stepped onto the balcony and gazed down at the elegant boutiques.
    â€œYou’re not going to find that je ne sais quoi sitting here.” Serena walked back inside. “We’re going to put on our sexiest dresses and go shopping.”
    â€œThe boutiques are closed.” Zoe shrugged. “It’s after six P.M. ”
    â€œThey put a closed sign on the door but there’s always someone inside in case Angelina Jolie makes a night pilgrimage,” Serena said. “I’ll give you a crash course on Yves Saint Laurent and Dior.”
    Zoe put the magazine on the coffee table and looked at Serena, her eyes flickering with excitement. “We can pretend we’re Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast at Tiffany’s .”
    â€œGet dressed.” Serena grinned. “We’re going to outshop Katie Holmes and Blake Lively.”
    *   *   *
    Serena and Zoe stepped onto the sidewalk, breathing the warm night air. Serena wore a beige silk dress with spaghetti straps and a wide orange belt. Her hair was tied in a high ponytail and her mouth was coated with shimmering lipgloss.
    â€œI’ve never seen so many stylish women.” Zoe sighed. She wore a snug Lacroix dress and silver stilettos. Her eyes were still swollen and the blotches on her cheeks were hidden by Estée Lauder powder. “I feel like Cinderella’s ugly stepsister.”
    Serena squeezed Zoe’s arm. “By the time we’re done, you’re going to look like a princess.”
    They started at Bottega Veneta and worked their way through Sonia Rykiel, Chanel, Dolce & Gabbana, and Hermès. The salesgirls were resistant at first, tapping the glass and shaking their heads. But Serena insisted they open the door and spoke in rapid French.
    â€œWhat did you say?” Zoe asked when the tall, stoic saleswoman at Christian Dior ushered them into the hushed showroom.
    â€œThat I’m writing a story on French boutiques for Vogue, and Dior is my top choice for the cover,” Serena said, and grinned, fingering a red silk blouse with tiny pearl buttons.
    Zoe gazed at the rows of summer dresses in bold colors. They were made of the thinnest fabrics and accessorized with vibrant purses, chunky necklaces,