And as I revel in that unmatchable feeling of being one with the rhythm of the music, I gradually clock that Mara and Tina are moving away from me.
And looking at me oddly.
And that Marion Cotillard has just shot me an approving smile and a thumbs-up from the left.
And that there’s heat building right behind my body.
Human heat.
I glance behind me and do what must be a comedic double take, because, inches from me, is Josh Lander, and the guy is moving. In. On. Me.
Oh, holy cow. Oh, my goodness. Josh Lander is mirroring my moves, and he’s now actually touching me. I can feel his knees right behind my knees. That means that right behind my bum is his… Jesus. Don’t dare think about Josh Lander’s penis.
My quick peek at him has confirmed that not only is he hotter than any actual human has a right to be, but that he’s in a white shirt, a few buttons undone at the neck. Sleeves rolled up. I have no idea what he’s wearing on his bottom halfbecause craning my neck to look down at Josh Lander’s crotch seems ill-advised, even through my mystery-cocktail haze.
But instead of freaking out, like I would have put serious money on my doing, I embrace this madness. Having such a huge, hot Hollywood star gyrating inches from me gives me the most enormous surge of adrenalin and, to be honest, power.
I double down.
Hell, I may never again get to dance with someone this gorgeous and this famous. (To be more explicitly frank, I may never again get to dance with someone whose face graced my teenage self’s bedroom wall.)
I may as well just go for it.
The track changes to Rihanna’sWork, but she may as well be singingtwerkbecause that’s basically what I do. I grind. I twerk. I thrust. And I squat and rise. And squat. And rise. I throw my head back and toss my hair (which is very Bardot-esque tonight) in Josh Lander’s face and throw my arms around. My dress acts like a disco ball, its silver paillettes reflecting all the lights of the dance floor back in every direction. Andrightbehind me, because I can feel him, Josh Lander matches me beat for beat. The music pulses through our veins in tandem.
Then the light but delicious pressure of a hand on my waist. He’s guiding me. Pulling me in closer to him.
Oh my gosh, I’m gyrating against Josh Lander’s crotch.
Around us, people are clapping and whistling and clearing a larger space for us. Oh, dear Lord. I’m hazily conscious of a lot of phones aiming in our direction.
I want to turn around so badly, to slide down Josh Lander’s rock-hard body and possibly graze his arm or his stomach through his shirt with my fingers. But I won’t. I’m not brave enough, and I don’t know him. I mean, I know him, obviously, but I don’t actuallyknowhim.
Everyone’s eyes are on us, and I’m struck by a possibly childish desire to be the one to end this little dance floor flirtation (if simulating sex, while fully clothed and upright, with an A-list celebrity, in the presence of many other A-list celebrities does indeed pass as a flirtation). And so, as the song comes to its conclusion, I brave another backwards glance.
I look him in the eye, and dearest Lord, if his heavenly face isn’t radiating amusement and intensity and a teeny bit of lust. The jut of that famous, stubbled jaw is tense. He licks his bottom lip, and my gaze istherefor it. He’s catching his breath (gratifyingly, he looks more out of breath than I feel) and his chest, so close to my shoulder, is heaving.
I give him a coquettish grin. Casual, just a twist of my mouth. Like we’re partners in crime and I’m not some total random.
‘See you,’ I say.
And off I sashay without a backwards glance.
Leaving Josh Lander on the dance floor.
Working that mini-dress.
And resisting the urge to punch the damn air.
CHAPTER 2
Elle
Irouse myself early the following morning and take breakfast on a teak lounger on my delightful south-facing terrace. I have a lovely junior suite at the Hotel Martinez, bang in the middle of Cannes’ iconic La Croisette, and I’m damned if I’m not going to make use of the terrace, even if I’ve been warned about long-lens photographers. I’m wrapped up in a fluffy white robe—I’ve nothing to hide.
Alfresco breakfasts are one of my biggest pleasures when I’m on holiday, and although my schedule here is more labour-camp than holiday, I can take some time for self-care before the craziness starts again for another day. And so I tuck in happily to the spread in front of me as I watch staff rake the sand and lay out the mattresses for the day at the Martinez’s beach club across the road. The sights and sounds and smells of Cannes on this calm May morning are sublime. Oh, to start every day this way!
Breakfast consists of a pot of black tea (I love French tea in its posh little muslin bags), a herb omelette which is utter perfection, and the prettiest fruit platter garnished with mint.
