The Lost Weekend: Cap d’Antibes, somewhere between 1967 and now.
A Hollywood actress who disappears to the French Riviera between films, arrives with one suitcase and oversized sunglasses, collects vintage photography and first-edition novels, swims before breakfast, keeps her name off the gate, and would rather host six friends around a candlelit table than be seen at the Hotel du Cap.
She wants a secluded villa in Cap d’Antibes that feels untouched since the 1960s—not restored into perfection, but beautifully preserved. Travertine worn smooth underfoot. Sun-faded linen. Walnut and lacquer. Murano glass beside pieces discovered at the Marché aux Puces. Striped umbrellas glimpsed through open French doors.
Nothing feels newly decorated.
The house carries the quiet glamour of another era: afternoons spent barefoot by the pool, a half-finished screenplay on the terrace, Campari before dinner, and the Mediterranean turning silver beyond the pines.
A house that doesn't recreate the 1960s. It simply never left them.
