No gluten.
No grains.
No dairy.
I have Crohn’s disease, an autoimmune disorder that inflames my gastrointestinal tract, and while it’s landed me in hospital more than once, I’ve had success in managing it over the past couple of years through an anti-inflammatory diet. The occasional cocktail excepted. I keep it very quiet. There’s nothing glamorous about Crohn’s, so it’s my little secret.
I’m pondering why watermelon and mint is such a heaven-sent combination when Mara bursts into my room. She has a key card; she’s on a mission to usher me through these frenetic days of interviews and screenings and galas and little else. She needn’t bother; I’m perfectly capable of setting my own alarm and getting myself out of bed. I have excellent self-discipline, but I like that she takes her job so seriously.Gracieis a big deal for everyone involved, and this press junket needs to run smoothly, and I’m a major part of its success (the junket and the film). I get all that.
Mara’s in major mother-hen mode this week, and so I let her order me around as much as she wants. It’s her way of caring. I have at least an hour before the interviews start, and I’m not doing any shoots in Cannes, so I don’t need much time to get myself looking presentable. I have full hair-and-makeup treatment for all the evening events, so I’d rather keep it simple during the day and let my skin breathe.
Therefore, I’m fully prepared to push back if Mara has plans to bully me into the shower. But her face is twitching, and she looks moderately excited for her.
‘You seen Twitter?’
‘No.’
I haven’t turned my phone off Airplane Mode yet. I’ve been enjoying ignoring the existence of the outside world beyond this breakfast, and this view, and the heavenly breaths of still-fresh air on my bare legs.
Her perfect eyebrows shoot up. ‘Well, let me tell you, young lady. You’ve caused quite a stir.’
Huh?‘What kind of stir?’
‘A viral one. Look.’ She holds out her phone, which is a far more expensive model than mine and clad in a black Valentino Rockstud case. I take it. The Twitter app is open and as I scroll, I see the same video reposted again and again and again.
It’s one of me and Josh Lander dancing.
Oops.
I look up at her, and she nods tersely. ‘Check out the hashtag.JELLERY.You and Josh are trending. Watch it.’
I don’t really do Twitter. I mean, I post links aboutGracieand I dutifully retweet any press about it, but that’s really it. I don’t engage much. I have an undeservedly decent following, but I’m still an unknown in the Twittersphere and in the world more broadly.
I click on one of the videos, whose caption is#JELLERYfollowed by lots of flame emojis, and watch. Oh, holy cow.
Someone with a great view of us has captured everything. They were clearly filming me dancing before Josh Lander even shimmied up behind me. I’m going for it. I’m not ashamed—I’ve been told often enough I’m a great (if dirty) dancer—but I’m a bit shocked it’s all over Twitter. And my dress looksfab. I am indeed a human disco ball.
Oh.
There he is.
He sidles up, a huge grin visible on his face, and tucks in behind me. I clock him and look back, and there’s the hint of a smile on my face, but thank God I don’t fangirl too hard. And we go for it in sync.
‘Watch his face,’ Mara says unnecessarily, because I can’t focus on anything else. It’s not always visible as he matches me squat for squat, but once he stands up and allows me tocontinue my hooker moves, I get a perfect view. I and the rest of the world.
He’s transfixed. His eyes are on me as I gyrate and shimmy up and down the length of his body. He’s definitely checking out my bum, and at one point he clenches and unclenches his fist before he slides his hand over my waist and begins to move with me again.
And his face. I wasn’t wrong about that glimpse I caught when I looked back at the end of our dance. He runs his free hand through his dirty blonde hair and seems to bite his lip. His jaw—that gorgeous, angular jaw—clenches. If I was an objective viewer, I’d say the expression on his face was priceless.
‘It’s priceless,’ Mara says. ‘He looks so fucking turned on.’
‘Oh my gosh.’ I put my hand over my eyes. ‘Don’t say that.’
‘What? It’s true. And you can’t be surprised—you basically gave the guy a fucking lap dance. I’m surprised he didn’t stick a fifty between your tits.’
I cringe. ‘I can’t imagine that makes much of a change from his usual nights out, then.’
It’s true. Josh Lander has a reputation for partyinghard.
