Popcorn in one hand, detonator to blow up everything in the other. Just in case things didn’t go our way.
Whatever it took.
We’d come too far to go back now.
Lou
In my decade of struggles and soul searching, I came to believe that tomorrow is always the best day of the year. The past is just memory;it doesn’t really exist. Had last night’s mishap in front of everyone at theDon’t Be Sad!party even really happened? It was easy enough to ignore it, along with the passive-aggressive texts from my actor friends back in LA. Technically they were happy for me but had a hard time swallowing the fact that the studio had flown me over to attend the Cannes Film Festival for my first real role. (It was their assumption, one that I happily left uncorrected.)
Another thing I deleted from my mind: I was on my own, getting ready for the most important event of my life. When I told my family about my movie premiering at Cannes, their response had been lukewarm. Was I financially stable now? Had I quit the coffee shop already? I would have liked to tell them that I’d booked other great roles since filming had wrapped up onDon’t Be Sad!but it was only a matter of time now. They wouldn’t believe my success until it was right there in their faces.
And that’s when tomorrow turned into today. Premiere day.
After the somewhat “spontaneous” purchase of my last-minute flightto Cannes—the most money I’d ever spent in five minutes—I couldn’t afford to splurge on a fancy gown. I was used to the artist life. I pinched pennies, made my own lunch, and enjoyed the benefit of my own hot yoga studio (also known as not turning on the air conditioning in my bedroom). My spare income went to acting classes, coaches, and the occasional tarot reader.
I’d spent the days before my flight going through racks at discount outlets in addition to my usual thrift stores. Eventually, I’d gone with the first thing that had caught my eye, a silver sequined dress with cutouts at the waist. It was edgy, modern. But when I’d tried it on again as I packed my suitcase, it looked a little like a bra with a microskirt attached. The skin coverage was minimal. At least the dress wasn’t boring. And my legs had always been my best feature. If I couldn’t afford a designer gown, I might as well show off my assets.
So, yes, I wore what would come to be referred to as the naked dress. I chose it for the premiere. That part’s all on me.
When I stepped out of the elevator in the hotel lobby, a woman about my age was waiting to get in. She was dark haired with a dewy olive skin I immediately envied, and she wore a simple navy maxi dress. Her arms were loaded with garment bags that looked heavy, but she was composed as she eyed me up and down. Her gaze lingered on my wet hair.
“I’m on my way to the hair salon,” I explained quickly, as if I needed to justify myself to a complete stranger. The hair appointment would be my last indulgence for a very long time. Pinky swear.
“Okay.”
She looked like she wanted to smile, maybe even laugh, but stopped herself.
“I’m walking the red carpet,” I added as we swapped places, me heading out, her walking in. If I said it out loud, it made it more real.
The elevator door was about to close.
“Leave that hem alone,” she said. “Damn those legs.”
I had been fiddling with the bottom of my dress and removed my hand immediately. A stylish girl had (I think?) validated my appearance. Another sign that I was on my way to big, beautiful things.
I was poofy haired and mildly sweaty when I arrived at the Majestic, possibly the most aptly named hotel. It was a huge all-white building with red awnings over every window. Inside, the curved staircase dominated the expansive marble lobby, which was as packed as a Taylor Swift concert. (Not that I’d gone.)
The air hummed with fame. Celebrities in couture paused midway down the stairs, one spray-tanned arm on the balustrade and megawatt smiles out to play for the photographers. Each star was surrounded by a team of people lifting the train of her gown or making sure she didn’t have a hair out of place. There was a litany of flashlights. I was mesmerized.
Liza had texted earlier: she’d finally received my film pass and made a joke about cutting it close to showtime. I’d never doubted I’d get it eventually. (Gosh I was a naive little cow.) The pass came with instructions on how to get to the Palais des Festivals, the convention center that was the heartbeat of all things Cannes.
There was a protocol: anyone with an invitation to an evening premiere was driven from the Majestic in an official car at a predetermined time. For all the glamour and glitz, an event like the Cannes Film Festival operated with military precision. I was more than happy to get my marching orders.
“Bienvenue, madame,” a uniformed porter said, bowing slightly as I walked past.
Bowingto me. This was my life now.
“May I help you?” he continued.
I showed him the accreditation on my phone. “I’m going to my movie’spremiere.Don’t Be Sad!” He raised an eyebrow, and this time I caught the confusion as it happened. “That’s the title. I’m only telling you what it’s called, in case that’s relevant information.”
He pointed to the other side of the hotel. I could make out the line of black cars through the crowd and the large windows. “This way, madame.”
“Merci!” I felt like Audrey Hepburn, who (did you know?) spoke six languages. I wasn’t sure Audrey Hepburn would have worn a sequined bra to Cannes, but these were different times.
“Have a magnifique soirée,” he said.
A camerawoman panned over me (on her way to filming someone else, but still), and I caught a few glances my way.
