Mr. Charles Yardley married Mrs. Yardley, previously Mlle Melanie Clement, on one of his business trips to France twenty-five years ago. She had been modeling for Lanvin's first haute couture collection in 1985 and Charles had a 1985 Porsche 911 Carrera convertible parked outside of the event. Both were bewitched by the other's presentation. Charles Yardley, ten years her senior, made the right choices in life and cultivated quite an astounding wealth. The soon-to-be Mrs. Yardley recognized a tremendous opportunity for financial security. She made the right choice and married Charles and, from that point on, never again had to worry about how she would come to take care of her parents, who, up until then, had been shoved away into a home, stinking and clinging, but more importantly, she would never again have to beat herself over the head on how she would manage to support herself. She got the whole Yardley package. Charles and Melanie purchased a mansion together in the Riviera and in came both Mr. and Mrs. Clement. Charles did not have to worry very long about the complimentary, weighty, and intrusive spin on his new and fragile marriage to Melanie, because Mr. Clement died of a heart attack two years later, right before the birth of Sister, and Mrs. Clement's departure from the mansion followed shortly after due to the stubbornness of her colon cancer. Her body began rapidly deteriorating, her organs, already discombobulated under the stress of Mr. Clement's death, were not for or against her, but they were dying. One day a rigid, iron grip that had mercilessly held Mr. Yardley pinned down to the floor, an inane nagging from the old who can smell their own death approaching, disdainful and made bitter towards all youth and beauty, was lifted; Mr. Yardley's estate--his accumulated millions in capitol--was no longer stretched to cushion what was soon to be a pair of old, pale French vegetables. Mrs. Clement had died. Mrs. Yardley mourned appropriately, but not for any longer than absolutely necessary, because she had her own life. The Yardley's could eat their duck consommé and live.
The Yardley family moved back to America, keeping their French villa staffed abroad in preparations for future trips of business and for other, more frivolous excursions. Then Laurent was born, crowned by his parents as the future continuation of themselves. A boy to grow up and become a man. Perhaps, even to continue in his father's footsteps and build temples with the Yardley name etched into their facades. He would grow up and become the shining cliff of life that Mr. and Mrs. Yardley will attempt to grab at when they, too, begin to shrivel down to their arid roots, their brains collapsing into an acidic mush. Mr. and Mrs. Yardley are not mush yet, though, so Brother and Sister must at least appear to abide by familial code and lend strong, promising hands when called for by Mr. and Mrs. Yardley. Brother and Sister must look as if they have ambitions, so that Mr. and Mrs. Yardley themselves may shine for some years to come....
The next morning the Cornishes take a taxi back to the airport to continue on their return to London. The siblings stand outside the front door, waving as the taxi drives away to the front gate, sister smiling and brother quickly relapsing into a dead pose of boredom. Martha, kind enough to bring the Cornishes' bags down to the foyer, announces to the Yardley siblings that brunch will be served in an hour and then opens the door for the siblings. Sister walks inside and Brother follows.
Sister walks to her playroom as Brother diverges away to the back patio. Martha heads to the kitchen to assist the cook in the preparation of the Yardley's first meal. Usually, Sister and Brother do not wake up early enough to have breakfast. In fact, Martha might be able to count the times the siblings have woken and had an early breakfast together throughout the past two years on two hands, her two spatulate, white hands. While the lobster hollandaise sauce is being whisked and eggs cracked, Sister will be wanting her coffee with milk and Brother, his coffee with whiskey.
Now we go into Sister's playroom. Photographs are scattered across the desks against the walls. On one desk, a pair of sharp, fabric cutting shears rests next to a green Tiffany table lamp. Pendant emerald dragonflies with bright orange eyes are spliced with black, smoldered copper that bolsters the glass pieces of the lamp's cone. The cutting shears blush green, glistening at the inner edges. There is a brown paper binder on the floor next to the desk. Sister grabs a couple tasseled throw pillows from the couch and tosses them onto the floor near the binder and then sits down on the floor. She opens the binder and reviews pictures she has collected over the past few months that have been cut out of magazines, art books, and illustrated biographies on actors and artists that are dear to her. She takes a few seconds with each picture. Marlene Dietrich in a white, two-pieced suit, leaning backwards against a stair railing in the street. Catherine Deneuve in a golden seventies' spread for Chanel No. 5. Tilda Swinton, Joan Crawford, Bette Davis...
Sister holds the the last two photographs in her hands. My Mother told me never to speak badly of the dead. She's dead…Good! Her toes wriggle in her loafers. Davis' alleged icy epitaph, which she so graciously uttered for the late Crawford, sealed the famous actress rivalry in a state of titanic mythology. Two goddesses, one with melodramatically-thick eyebrows and eyes wide on the offense, the other with drunken cheeks, sagging and disdainful of other studio owned actresses. Their lips! Crawford was said to have had a nervous breakdown from the pressure her costar, Davis, hammered down on her head off-set. Finally, Davis sent Crawford off the stage, her insides writhing while her face worked as hard as it could to conceal the stench of artistic jealousy. No one could ever accuse the stars of being undedicated.
