Good night!I sent back.
On the way down to the lobby, the guest list safely tucked away in my bag, I reread Ben’s last message. It made my skin prickle, like the feeling of imminent danger. Ben had been working especially hard lately, sometimes coming home long past dinnertime, with little warning. I was used to him being lost in a new screenplay most evenings and weekends, outside of his day job. But this was beyond that. He was disappearing off to coffee shops to write at ungodly hours. Last weekend, he’d bailed out of attending a friend’s birthday party at the last minute, claiming inspiration had struck yet again.
I had refused to read anything into that. It was the guilt talking, I convinced myself. He wasn’t hiding anything from me.Iwas. I was the one jeopardizing everything we’d built together.
I shouldn’t have glanced toward the bar. I’d be a terrible spy. But Ben wouldn’t have known. He was turned to the side, talking to a pretty blond. Okay, I couldn’t tell if she was pretty from here, but her hair was nice and wavy, her dress looked expensive—and short—and her nails were painted in the kind of bright red you have to thoroughly maintain or risklooking sloppy.
How could I see her nail color from a distance? Well, that part was easy, since her hand was resting on my boyfriend’s thigh as she hinged forward, laughing at something he’d just said.
I don’t know what another girl would have done. Stormed toward them, demanding to know who this bitch was? Immediately jumped to the conclusion that a passionate affair was the reason for all these late work nights? Ran away in tears, already picturing the devastating breakup?
Maybe I gave you the impression that I’m just like other girls.
The truth was, Ben could laugh at the blonde’s dumb jokes all night long. He could let her rub his thigh and sneak subtle glances at her stupid boobs.
It would still pale compared to what I’d done to him, what I’d been doing behind his back for weeks.
Right before I turned to leave, another option occurred to me. Ben might follow her up to her room and be back into our own bed long before I returned from the party.
And then maybe, just maybe, Ben and I would be even.
And then maybe, just maybe, we could get back to living that perfect life I wouldn’t give up foranything.
Lou
It would have been such bad karma to turn up to Odetta Olson’s party uninvited. I wasdefinitelynot going to do that.
After leaving Liza, I went back to my hotel room to unpack, freshen up, and reset my mind. So what if our celebration had turned short? What if the studio executives were being dicks? That was on them. The recognition I’d always dreamed of was less than twenty-four hours away. Great things were coming for me; it was time to start acting like it.
I changed into a sky-blue top that made my eyes pop and a tight little skirt that showed off my legs. I’d explore Cannes, share this most fabulous time on social media, and be ready to shine at tomorrow’s premiere. It was a win-win-win situation.
Even though Odetta Olson had tagged the location of the party in her story, it didnotconstitute an invitation. I knew that. Just like I knew—after a quick search—that the venue was centrally located, close to the beach, off the Croisette. An obvious destination for my first day in Cannes. So off I went to the town’s famous waterfront.
It was lovely. I inhaled the salty air and absorbed the scenery. A patch of the beach had been turned into an outdoor theater, with chiclounge chairs adorned with the festival’s logo. The movie showing was by Terrence Malik, and looked even more poetic against the starry night. On the promenade, couples held hands as they strolled. Groups of young people talked animatedly about all things cinema, proudly displaying their festival passes attached to lanyards around their necks. I felt in sync with the whole town, in love with the movies, with the Hollywood dream shared by so many.
Along the way, I let myself get tempted by two scoops of pistachio at one of the many ice-cream carts. That would be my dinner, and it was the perfect flavor, creamy and fragrant. My body didn’t know what time of day it was anyway.
I kept walking, going nowhere in particular. But that’s the funny thing about following your dream: at some point I—randomly, I swear—ended up in the vicinity of the rooftop bar that was the venue for Odetta Olson’s party. And then I guess my steps took me the rest of the way. Now that I was there, I had to take a peek inside. Which is how I found out that there was a guest list. And someone at the door to check against it.
The young woman with the clipboard was about my age. She was friendly but all business. I told her my name—what was the harm in that?—and she kept her face neutral as she informed me that I wasn’t on the list.
It wasn’t a huge shock since, you know, I never got an invitation to this party, but I’d come so far already.
“I promise you I’m definitely in the movie.” I laughed because it was allsofunny. The stairs behind her led to the roof where the few guests ahead of me had disappeared. “These are my colleagues, from set. Can you look again? It’s spelled U.T.L.E.Y.”
“I’m sorry,” she said with a sad smile.
No, no, no. No one would ever take pity on me.
“I’m here as a surprise. No one knew I was coming.”
The woman glanced behind me. The line was growing longer. My chin quivered, the fatigue and disappointment crashing into me like an eighteen-wheeler. I muttered a halfhearted apology and stepped away from the crowd.
But I couldn’t bring myself to leave. The party was on the rooftop, but the bar at street level was open to everyone. I found the bathroom down a hallway painted in navy-blue gloss. Inside, an overpowering jasmine scent hit me. Three young women were huddled around the copper sinks, reapplying their lipsticks and checking their hair.
“I can’t believe Fiona Pills is posting photos from her movie set in Scotland,” the one in a red jumpsuit said.
“She’stotallysnubbing Cannes,” the one with curly hair added.
