‘I have to say I’m impressed,’ Honor says. ‘I wouldn’t have thought he had it in him, but he’s been positively attentive this week, from what I’ve seen.’
‘Not that you read the tabloids.’ Astrid nudges her.
‘Ahem. Of course not. It’s just nice when they talk about someone else but me and Jackson. But you two look adorable together.’
I sigh in a not very cool schoolgirl-type way. ‘He’s amazing. He’s been so sweet.’
‘Good in bed?’ Astrid asks nonchalantly, and they all laugh when I blush.
‘Come on!’ Lucinda blows some excess powder off my under-eye area. ‘Throw us a bone, love.’
‘Let’s just say,’—I consider my words—‘there’s a reason I’ve spent every night this week with him, and it’s not because I’m cold.’
They whoop, and Honor high-fives me, causing Lucinda to glare at her.
‘Good girl, Elle!’ Astrid says. ‘Who would have thought it—Josh Lander, head over heels. But I get it. You’re so gorgeous and smart. You must be like a breath of fresh air to him. I’m a little envious, I have to say.’
Astrid, for the record, is stunning. She’s a (natural, Swedish) platinum blonde who always looks like a silver screen film star. She’s married to an extremely successful hedge fund manager, Mark, and they have a little girl, Tabby, who’s four and just as gorgeous as her mother. (I don’t like Mark. I’m sure he was hitting on me when I met him at Astrid’s fashion show in February, and I’m usually really clueless about that kind of thing. But he made it quite obvious. She could do better; that’s all I’m saying.)
‘Can I address the elephant in the room?’ Honor asks. ‘Have you guys talked about what’s going to happen after Cannes?’
It is indeed the elephant in the room, because tomorrow evening I’ll be on my flight back to Heathrow, and Josh will be on a private jet back to LA with his A-list buddies.
‘I was obviously a little nervous about bringing it up,’ I tell them, ‘because, you know, I didn’t want to seem too keen. But it was all Josh. He mentioned it quite a few days ago, asked me if we could keep seeing each other once we got back home. He said he thought we had something special together, and I agree.’
Honor and Astrid exchange an impressed look.
‘What have you done with the real Josh Lander?’ Honor asks. ‘That’s amazing, sweetie. I’m so pleased for you. Our boy has fallen. Hook, line and sinker. I gather you feel the same?’
I consider how I feel when I’m with Josh. How secure and adored he makes me feel. And how he’s never made any issue of the fact that he’s mega-famous and I’m just a newbie. And obviously, I consider the ridiculous amount of lust and idolisation I have for him. I’m in pretty deep. I think about him every waking minute. Icravehim.
‘I’ve also fallen, big time. God help me.’
JOSH
I’m sitting with Brad and Davide at the Closing Ceremony, further forward than I would have managed on my own because a movie they co-financed is a part of the competition. Elle and I arrived separately. She had to turn up with herGraciecrew so they could all have their red-carpet walkabout together.
To say I’m excited for her, and nervous for her, and proud of her, would be a huge fucking understatement. Ellery Hart has blown me away, on screen and in person, more than I could ever have thought possible. She’s one in a million, and the best part is she has no fucking clue how brightly her star is shining right now. Will shine.
Those offers will come flooding in after this, even if she doesn’t get Best Actress. She’s on everyone’s radar now, and not just for art-house movies. Those looks are gold dust.Sheis commercial gold, and she’s going to hit the big-time. I hope her agent’s ready.
Graciewins thePalme d’Or,as expected, and the crowd goes fucking wild. We’re all on our feet, cheering and clapping and stamping as the entire team goes up on stage to receive the award. This is a big deal. Tina Winston is only the second female director after Jane Campion to be awarded this honor by the committee.
Elle’s up there with the rest of them, beaming from ear to ear and hugging Tina, and that douche who plays her boss, and some others I don’t know. She is a total queen in a platinum sheath, her golden hair up and fuck-off diamonds on herears. I can’t wait to take that dress off later. I can’t wait to move inside her while I tell her how fucking amazing she is, how much she blows my mind.
And I’m so goddamn happy she’s had this recognition for her movie, because there’s no doubt in my mind that her performance closed the deal. Even if she doesn’t get Best Actress.
She gets Best Actress.
And I am over the fucking moon. I’m unleashed. I stick my fingers in my mouth and whistle; I stomp and punch the air. My girl. My amazing girl, whom I’ve only just met and can barely lay claim to, is the queen of fucking Cannes, smashing it with a performance so nuanced and raw and enticing that everyone’s fallen for her.
This time, when she takes her place on the stage, it’s just her and Léa Seydoux, who’s presenting the award. Léa’s a beautiful, seductive woman, a Cannes veteran, but in my mind there’s no contest. My girl shines. She literally shines, and she’s the most adorable mix of being genuinely ecstatic and impressively poised. She thanks the committee in what sounds to my dumb ears like perfect French, which is very, very sexy.
Maybe I’ll get her to speak French to me later.
In bed.
When she’s naked and wrapped around me.
