“It already is,” I told the porter.
Through the revolving doors and back out into the spring sun, I was directed to the black car waiting for me. Lots of people were standing behind barriers to catch a glimpse of the celebrities headed to the red carpet. To catch a glimpse ofme.
A burly driver held the door as I scooted in as gracefully as I could, strategically placing my clutch so that I wouldn’t flash anyone. I couldn’t afford a wardrobe malfunction at this stage of my career.
“On attend une autre personne,” he said, leaving the door open.
The crowd suddenly got agitated. People screamed. I leaned over to see what was happening just as Dorian Fisher glided in next to me.
My jaw hung slack, my eyelids twitching. Dorian Fisher, one of the most famous men on earth, was inches away from me. He wore a classic black tuxedo with wide lapels, his salt-and-pepper hair combed to the side, and smelled of a woodsy cologne and makeup powder. I tried not to stare, but it wastheDorian Fisher.
The driver took his seat and looked at me (at us, Dorian Fisher and me, like we were a unit) in the rearview mirror.
“Welcome to Cannes,” he said, enunciating every syllable. “There is water in the pockets.” He pointed behind him. “Are you comfortable?”
I nodded, still speechless. I’d only learned recently that Dorian Fisher was a producer onDon’t Be Sad!I hadn’t seen him on set or ever been in such close quarters with a living fantasy, someone I’d watched on-screen since I was a little girl.
“Thanks, buddy,” Dorian said.
He turned to me and pointed his chin, silently acknowledging my presence.
“Hello,” I said, my voice croaky. I sounded like a robot. “Hi,” I added, like that would make it better.
“Hey,” he said.
“Hey,” I responded in the least casual way anyone has ever saidHey.
He pulled out his phone and became absorbed in it.
My mind did zoomies around my skull. This couldn’t be it. I couldn’t meet Dorian Fisher and utter only three versions of the most banal word in the English language.
I texted Liza to the rescue, making sure to angle my phone away.
In the car with Dorian Fisher!!!!!!
I wondered if I could take a sneaky picture, but I was no fan girl. I mean I was, but I wasn’t. You know what I mean? If I wanted him to see me as anything, it was as a potential costar. Oooh, a love interest, maybe. Dorian Fisher was in his late forties now, making us twenty years apart. Wasn’t that the ideal age gap for a Hollywood romance?
You’ll be fine, Liza wrote.Act normal.
Of course, I responded.I’m not going to embarrass myself.
My thoughts drifted to last night. I hadn’t seen Liza at the party, butmaybe she’d heard about the “incident” with the producer.
Best to move on.
Would LOVE to work with him one day, I typed now.I mean, obviously. Do I say something?
Absolutely not, came her instant reply.
More crowds gathered behind barriers erected on each side of the boulevard, growing thicker as we approached. We were going at a snail’s pace and people craned forward, trying to see who was coming through. Beyond them were palm trees, a hint of the sea in the distance. It was the perfect backdrop to become an overnight success, ten years in the making.
I’d also love to film something here, I continued.
Cannes is beautiful!
It doesn’t have to be in Cannes, though
Anywhere in the South of France would be great
