Part 1: 5 Years Ago - The Whirlwind and the Clusterfuck
CHAPTER 1
Elle
I’ve been careful, until now, not to get sucked into the crazy machine that is the film industry. Admittedly, my acting career to date is a grand total of one bit part and one lead role. But still. It’s important to keep some perspective.
And I’ve always been a good girl. Head down. Work hard. Be ladylike. Unless there’s a dance floor present (I may or may not have been known as the Dance Floor Whore at university).
So, when I find myself at the Cannes Film Festival, going straight from the premiere of the filmGracie, in which I play the lead, to the Vanity Fair party, and there’s a dance floor beside the pool of whatever outrageous villa we’re at, I know I’m getting sucked in.
Big time.
I’m screwed.
But this is my night, and I’m damned if I won’t allow myself to succumb to whatever magic is in the air. My imposter syndrome is sky high. Any moment, one of those burly, ear-piece-wearing guys doing the rounds will chuck me over the bougainvillea-clad walls and out into the street.
And yet, A-listersI’ve watched on screen since I was a childare seeking me out. Shaking my hand. Air kissing me. And telling me I’m their bet for the Best Actress award at the Closing Ceremony next Saturday. Kirsten Dunst even hugged me in the loos and told meGraciemade her cry so hard, she had to have her makeup completely redone for the party.
It’s too much.
I’m at the poolside bar with my publicist, Mara,Gracie’s director, Tina, and a few other cast members. Mara’s as cool as a cucumber, even though she’s only been doing this a couple of years, but Tina’s almost as flustered as I am. She’s a cerebral art-house film maker from Chiswick, and she’s far more at home intellectualising in West London than she is hanging out in this kind of scene.
We started playing thehow many people can we recognisegame—well, Tina and I did while Mara surveyed the scene with a slightly bored air—but we gave up after thirty-three. It’s far more of a challenge to find people wedon’trecognise, servers and security aside.
Although there are stars everywhere I turn, my number one eye-treat this evening so far has been the dreamy A-list trio at the bar earlier: Brad Burton. Davide de Luca. And Josh Lander. Yes. The Holy Trinity of all that is gorgeous and golden and Hollywood. My inner schoolgirl fanned herself, my ovaries did the Can-Can, and I had to use every ounce of strength I had not to pull out my phone and try for a surreptitious shot. Because that would be the least cool thing I could ever, ever do.
Despite my best intentions, I’m getting sucked into the surrounding carnival faster than an earring up a vacuum-cleaner. The whole spectacle is so chic I’m dying. We’re perched high on a hill above the Bay of Cannes, super-yachts twinkling on an inky Med. Around me, clusters of household names laugh and flirt and do deals and catch up. Thereare fire eaters and go-go dancers and saxophonists on roller blades. No one is eating the canapes.
It’s completely over the top and absolutely wonderful. Our little group is very much on the periphery as we people-watch. But then the DJ playsCheap Thrills, and I know it’s time to stop being a wallflower. I graced the big screen at the Grand Lumière tonight, and whatever my inner judge is telling me, I deserve to be here as much as anyone.
More importantly,Graciemay bomb commercially, and I may never get another part. I owe it to myself to make the most of this crazy ride while it lasts.
‘Come on.’ I deposit my fancy cocktail—name, ingredients and potency level unknown—on the glass bar and give Mara and Tina a little shimmy. ‘Let’s show these guys how the Brits rock.’
Tina sniggers nervously, admiring my chutzpah even while recognising that I’m talking utter rubbish, and Mara rolls her eyes, tosses her cigarette and stubs it out with her Rock Stud stilettos.
‘Sure. Let’s do it.’
‘You really should be French,’ I tell her as we walk in the direction of the chequerboard marble dance floor. ‘You’re so cool. And so nonchalant. Please show me how to be like you.’
She brushes my shoulder in a move that’s almost affectionate. ‘Elle. You’ll never be cool. Or nonchalant. Just be you.’
‘Right,’ I mutter, feeling like a schoolgirl in her achingly cool wake. ‘Excellent. Really helpful, thank you.’
Maybe it’s the pulse of the music, or the scent of French cigarettes and flowers in the air, or the heady vibe of power and success all around me.
Maybe it’s the fabulous Paco Rabanne mini-dress I changed into for the party, which is little more than some huge silver paillettes—think giant sequins—on mesh, held up by fine chain-mail straps. Whatever it is, as we join the throng oflithe, glossy, immaculately dressed bodies on the dance floor, I find the music and I lose my inhibitions.
I losemyself.
Mara has a dancing rhythm of her own—a sultry sway that does little to accommodate the actual beat of the music but is very sexy.
Tina’s bopping like someone’s let her out of Book Club for the night.
And I absolutely go for it.
I gyrate my hips, throw my head back, brush my thick fringe off my forehead, and let my arms float in the air. I grind, I thrust, I squat. Again and again. My skin slicks with a fine mist of sweat. I feel limber and weightless and energised. I could dance like this all night.
