The theater filled slowly. Close to showtime, the main cast arrived, along with Odetta Olson in a black and gold fitted dress with raised shoulders, looking as stunning as ever, like a goddess. The first three rows had been reserved for them, and I watched from a jealous distance as the cast waved at people in the audience. I had claimed a spot on the balcony, where seats were unassigned. The injustice at not being with them simmered inside me, but this was the last time that would happen. My daysas a nobody ended now.
Dorian Fisher sat next to Fiona Pills, and the two chatted animatedly. So she did come. No one missed Cannes on purpose.
The lights went off. I tingled with excitement, sinking into my seat with a delight I could never describe. I would remember this night forever.
In two hours, my life would never be the same again.
And so it was.
In the worst possible way.
Constance
I was in Cannes for work. I was here because, in the lead-up to the festival, I had nabbed not one buttwoclients. Not too shabby for someone whothought she’d never work again after Carly Wolf practically ran me out of Tinseltown.
I had to keep telling myself that. And to do what I was meant to do.
Because this job never ceased to surprise me, I now had a new best friend in Cannes, a sixty-something French woman with skin so tanned it had the consistency of rubber. A lifetime of sun damage on display, like war medals. She wore emerald green eyeliner and vintage Pucci caftans, no bra. We were in the birthplace of “less is more,” which gave Marielle’s devotion to peacock dressing a certain gusto. I liked her instantly. I’d met her online after finding her store on Instagram. Her boutique was just as eclectic and colorfully loud. She sold flashy costume jewelry, cushions with embroidered slogans, vintage tableware, and swimsuits. Randomly fabulous.
“You are so petite!” Marielle said in her thick accent, as I walked through the door.
The space smelled like lavender, layered with her rich fragrance. Guerlain, I guessed when she leaned in to kiss me on both cheeks, theFrench way. She wore so many bangles on each arm I could barely hear my darkest thoughts over the sound of them.
According to Laila, Dorian posted on his account multiple times a day, but there hadn’t been a peep from him since he’d accepted my request to follow him. That couldn’t be a coincidence. No way. But what did it mean? What did itmean? I was spinning again. I had to stop.
“Tiny but mighty.” I forced the joke out, but even as I pretended to laugh, Marielle looked at me, puzzled. In our direct messages I’d used Google Translate liberally, but everything was always harder in real life.
“Your things,” she said, pointing to the back of the boutique. “Many, many of them.”
Marielle led me there, speaking a mix of French and what she probably thought was English, arms gesturing wildly, her bracelets in concert. In the closet-sized stockroom at the back, there were, indeed, a pile of packages with my name and the boutique’s address on them. My plan had worked.
You don’t need to tell a Hollywood stylist that appearances areeverything. After Tyler had agreed to hire me, going to Cannes had become an obsession. I needed to make a splash, to show Carly Wolf and anyone else watching that I wasn’t as messed up as they made me out to be. I couldn’t let them find out I was staying at a sad chain hotel with bad lighting and lime-green carpeting.
Which meant I needed a different address, where fashion labels could mail me clothes and accessories throughout the festival. Online, I’d stumbled upon Villa Beach, a design boutique hotel that was so chic it had been featured inVogue Living. There was a quirky little shop attached to it, Les Merveilles de Marielle.
Since you miss 100 percent of the shots you don’t take, I had presented Marielle with a business proposal. My newest client, Julie Lillie, had alarge following on social media. I’d bring her to the boutique for fittings, ensuring she’d post and tag away, getting it tons of publicity. In exchange, I’d use the place as my delivery address in Cannes. As soon as Marielle said “pourquoi pas,” I connected with a number of emerging European labels I’d had my eye on. Now I had an hour to unpack their shipments before Julie arrived.
“Julie Lillie is huge on TikTok,” I reiterated to Marielle as I started ripping open the first box. “She was onThe Bachelora few seasons ago.”
Marielle raised a questioning eyebrow.
“The Bachelor?” I insisted. “It’s a reality TV show.”
Marielle pursed her thin lips. “TV? Why she in Cannes then? We only care about the movies here.”
The woman had a point. I would have loved to tell her that dressing a wannabe reality star wasn’t my idea of Cannes either, but desperate times had called for foolish choices.
“To be seen,” I answered.
At the end of the day, that’s what it was all about. That’s all any of us ever wanted. The desire—theneed—to be seen could justifysomany things. Ask me how I know.
I worked through each package, pulling out dresses, suits, shoes, bags, jewelry. I made a record of every piece on the spreadsheet I kept accessible on my phone. I ran my fingers over silky fabrics, inhaled the scent of leather, of newness. I admired metallics and intricate prints. My heartbeat slowed down, my fears melted away, however briefly. I didn’t even think about Dorian then. I didn’t wonder where he was, what he thought. If he knew I was in Cannes. If he guessed—
The door chime resonated.
“She’s here!” Marielle called out enthusiastically. She came to find me in the dressing room, putting outfits on hangers. “Pretty girl. With herphone…” Marielle mimicked taking pictures with her hands, looking mighty pleased.
Once aBachelorhopeful, Julie Lillie (not her real name) had reinvented herself on social media, where she was known for ranking everything in her life on-screen, along with quippy commentary. Moments of her day, kisses from her boyfriend, outfits her best friend wore, wildest story she heard that week—you get the picture.
