Pierre Cordalt
“Tell me about your last album, L’Histoire,” I murmured, leaning closer. Julian’s lips curled into a sly smile, her dark eyes glinting with mischief. “What would you like to know?” She asked, her voice low, intimate, a silk ribbon wrapping around my curiosity.
I let my fingers trail over the edge of the notepad beside her elbow, my question lingering in the air. “Who is it about? It’s such a passionate album. And what’s this business about a man who, couldn’t quite keep rhythm?”
Her laugh came soft, velvety, as she tilted her head. “That’s a tricky one,” She said, her gaze momentarily flickering away. When she looked back, there was something deeper in her eyes – a spark of heat, perhaps a whisper of memory. “You know how we musicians are. We flirt with ideas, play with truths, and lies.”
But this felt more than just playful. The French tabloids had buzzed, their pages alive with whispers of Julian entwined with an enigmatic older woman – a red-haired muse glimpsed in dimly lit corners, lips and hands lingering too long for mere friendship. The rumors burned hotter than a Paris summer, especially with Julian married to Charlie Coppola, the world-renowned executive chef.
Her album’s most provocative lyric lingered on my tongue: Putain, tu as étè le point culminant de ma vie. I pressed her, leaning in just enough to catch the faint scent of her perfume. “For those who don’t speak French, it means: F*cking you was the highlight of my life. Who was that about?”
Julian’s lips quirked, and she placed a single finger against them, shushing me with a silent promise of secrets untold. “A gentlewoman never tells,” she teased, her words a delicate caress.
“Is it true, though?” I persisted, my voice dropping to match hers. “That whoever it was..they were the highlight of your life?” Her smile softened, her guard slipping just enough to reveal something raw, aching. “Yes,” she admitted, her voice heavy with longing. “She will always be the highlight of my life. I’ll love her until my last breath. I only hope she knows that every single day.”
The air between us grew thicker. “Did you do it together? The rumors about voodoo?” I asked, almost afraid of the answer.
Her response was curt but unyielding. “Yes.”
I swallowed, my pulse quickening. “You’re bonded, then? For eternity?”
“Yes,” she said again, her tone resolute. “It can never be undone – suppressed, perhaps, but never erased. We braided our souls together in a ritual years ago.”
Her words hung between us, heavy and magnetic. I cleared my throat, pressing onward. “And the other rumors?”
Julian chuckled, the sound throaty, decadent. “There are always rumors, Pierre.”
“Wild ones,” I pressed. “About you and an older woman..and threesomes. Something about sharing an older man, and – raw eggs?”
She laughed again, this time unrestrained, her eyes sparkling with wicked amusement. “We Parisians did invent the ménage a trois, didn’t we?”
Julian Kelly, musical royalty, heir to a dynasty that rivals the legends of Hendrix, has traded her fame for a quieter life across the Atlantic. Yet, the whispers have followed her like a shadow, her allure too potent to stay confined.
“Why sell so many records, Julian? What does success mean to you?” I asked, my voice tinged with curiosity and something more primal.
Her reply came after a long, pensive pause, her lips curling once more into that enigmatic smile. “What I crave most, more than anything, is peace, and quiet.”
But as I sat there, caught in the heat of her gaze, I couldn’t help but wonder if the quiet she sought was merely a mask for the fire that still burned beneath.
Julian Kelly on L’Histoire
By Pierre Cordalt