Marnie Redd:Have you ever broken up with somebody? I mean, are breakups ever that friendly? Even the people who say they’re on great terms with their exes… Do we believe them? I think they just say that to make themselves feel better.
Officer Truchaud:Ms. Redd, can we please get back to the topic?
Marnie Redd:Of course, officer. I’m terribly sorry for wasting your time.
Cannes Film FestivalDay Six
Lou
I guess I can skip through this part. You already know that I didn’t get on the plane. I couldn’t really describe my state of mind as I pushed my flighthome to the day after the end of the festival—everything until then was sold out—and extended my stay at the hotel. All on credit card, thousands of dollars on top of all the money I’d already spent. Money I didn’t, and wouldn’t, have.
But how could I leave when I was killing it in Cannes?
If you were watching me on your phone, that was the consensus: I waskillingit in Cannes.
There had been a fabulous party celebratingmymovie. You saw that gorgeous rooftop, the endless stream of champagne. And then the red carpet that I walkedwithDorian Fisher, a fact that no one seemed to dispute. They didn’t seem to notice that I’d fled the premiere as soon as the screening was over or that I wasn’t at the after-party. They were all too busy talking about the movie, which by now many believed might really win the Palme d’Or. Oh, and you heard how Dorian and I met, right? I was in the movie, that’s how.
The story held up. My follower count blew up. My direct messages filled up. The number of people calling themselves a fan (a fan ofme)went from zero to, well, up.
Everyone had thoughts and feelings, and no one cared about the truth. So I too lost sight of it. I forgot that it wasn’t real. Total strangers on the internet had created my dream life, and I grabbed it by the handfuls. I felt like I was in a heist movie, when we finally cracked the bank safe open. I was elbows deep in dollar bills. It was exhilarating.
People asked me questions, obviously. About the movie, about Dorian Fisher, about Cannes. I responded to everyone and confirmed nothing. It was easy enough. Deflect, deflect, deflect.
Soon after my conversation with Liza outside the restaurant, an event organizer had slid into my DMs. She wanted to invite me to a “delicious” event for a liquor brand. Vodka, if I remember correctly. She knew it was last minute but really hoped the new Cannes It Girl could make it. She meant me. Until then, I felt like I’d been hit by Cannes, and pretty hard at that. Now I was a Cannes It Girl. How could I have gone home after this?
I said yes to the party and wore the red strapless dress I’d worn at my sister’s wedding almost ten years ago, which I needed to yank up every five minutes. I filmed myself entering the venue, past the black rope and the handsome French men, straight to a tray of cocktails adorned with rose petals. I took a mirror selfie in the bathroom, where the lighting made me feel good about myself.
I gave my new followers what they wanted, and they rewarded me with likes. It was a pretty good deal.
On my way out of the bathroom, I made eye contact with a guy who smiled at me openly.
“Hi,” I said, smiling and upbeat, like a Cannes It Girl.
He wore a shirt so thin I could guess the shape of his nipples through the fabric. Around his neck was a seashell tied with a thin black rope, a cheap accessory compared to the gold Rolex on his wrist. His black curlyhair was mussed up from the wind, creating a mane around his face.
“Bonsoir,” he responded, taking my hand and pressing his lips against it, like we were in a Keira Knightley movie.
Men flirting with me wasn’t exactly new. You’ve seen my legs. But he was French and he was kind of sexy, and I had suddenly pulled my head out of the water after nearly drowning.
His name was Samuel and he was a model. His underwear campaign was currently splashed all over the Paris metro. He showed me pictures, though I can’t remember if I asked to see them.
I pointed at his six-pack.
“How much of this is real versus airbrushing?”
“You’re funny,” Samuel said.
He was in Cannes because he knew someone who knew someone who had an apartment in town. He and his pretty face had sweet-talked their way into a few parties already. When he asked where I was staying, I said that the Carlton was a really nice place. (Itisa really nice place.)
“What about you, Lucy? What are you doing in Cannes?”
He’d finished his drink and was standing closer to me.
I leaned over and felt my warm breath against his tan skin.
“It’s Lou, actually.”
His face took on that bland demeanor of someone who hadn’t heard me over the loud music but didn’t care enough to ask me to repeat myself. It didn’t put me off as much as you might think.
