David Lasalle:It’s a two-million-dollar necklace! What could be more urgent than this?
Officer Truchaud:A dead body.
David Lasalle:Excuse me?
Officer Truchaud:I’m afraid I can’t discuss this in any more detail, but given your repeated attempts at getting our attention over the last few days, we have to consider every possible option.
David Lasalle:You’re joking, right?
Officer Truchaud:When two crimes, or possible crimes, occur, we have to look for potential connections. Where were you last night?
David Lasalle:Oh, sonowit’s serious. I see.
Officer Truchaud:Between approximately 8:00 p.m. and 3:00 a.m. this morning?
David Lasalle:I’m Clapard’s vice president of marketing for all of North America!
Officer Truchaud:Maybe we should take a break.
Cannes Film FestivalDay One
Lou
I sat at the bar of the Carlton because I could. Because Ishould. I was Lou Ocean Utley—L.O.U., get it?—and soon that name would meansomething. So soon. My movie was premiering at the Cannes Film Festival tomorrow.Mymovie. Premiering. At the Cannes Film Festival. These words had often floated in my mind like exquisite little bubbles made of dreams. Now, they were as tangible as the counter’s cool marble under my palms. Ten years of struggling to make it as an actor, and the stars had finally aligned.
I glanced around the luxurious bar; its arched windows were letting in beautiful, soft lighting, the type that made everyone look ten times better. Not that any person here needed it. They all beamed elegance. They wereit. Successful, rich, accomplished. The men wore crisp shirts, top buttons undone to reveal more of their sun-kissed skin. The women had perfect posture, shiny hair, and glowed from within. Everyone here wassomebodyin the movie industry, in town for the festival, which started today. They belonged.
And I was here, belonging with them. I felt so moved by this memory in the making, a moment I would remember forever.
The bartender approached. She, too, dripped with chic in her formal uniform. Compared to her, I felt crummy, sagging from the nine-hour time difference from Los Angeles.
“What may I get for you, madame?”
Her formal tone lifted me right back up, the reminder thatIwas the customer here. I had flown over to Cannes on an impulse, feeling maybe just a tiny bit like an impostor. But only until the premiere, tomorrow. Then the world would know Lou Ocean Utley. Me, I mean.
“I’ll have a glass of champagne. The best you have.”
Whoops.Had I just blurted out a line from a script I’d read? I should have ordered rosé, or perhaps a sparkling water with a slice of lime, which was all I could afford. Maybe not even the lime. I couldn’treallyafford to be in Cannes at all. My bank balance—which I’d checked when I landed a few hours earlier—was the stuff of horror movies. The poor thing had been brutally slaughtered. But I shooed it away with a smile, as if somebody was watching. When all you ever wanted was a life spent in front of the cameras, you had to cross your fingers thatsomebodywas watching.
And tomorrow they would be. At long last.
I glanced at my phone, but there was no new message from my agent, Liza Blick.
There in ten!the last one said.
Ten was right. Because ten had become my lucky number. Ten whole years of lining benches outside casting calls with hundreds of other girls, desire drumming loudly in our ears. Ten years of filming reels in the tiny bedroom of my shared apartment, no rest until it was absolutely perfect, double chins and twitchy eyes begone. Ten years of casting directors and filmmakers swearing up and down that I was incredibly talented.But.Ten years of praying they would take the “but” back. And, in the meantime, ten years of calling out strangers’ names to come collect their orders atcoffee shops around Los Angeles, because if acting wasn’t going to pay the bills yet, then grinding coffee beans in an unflattering apron would.
Now, at the age of twenty-nine (ancient by Hollywood standards but still young enough to have a thriving career, right?) I was about to become an overnight success. I needed Liza here to celebrate with me.
“Here you are, madame.”
The bartender placed the champagne flute on top of a thick paper coaster stamped with the hotel logo.
“Merci,” I said in my best accent.
I would be coming to Cannes all the time now. Promoting movies and being a star and affording champagne. No trouble. Better start learning French.
“Lou!” came a voice behind me.
