“I’ll wait for you!”
Liza flinched. It had sounded less whiny in my head. But she wasn’t going to leave me here, on the eve of my big night? We had to celebrate.
“My schedule is packed with meetings that have been planned forweeks. If I don’t see you again, remember, we’re playing the long game.”
It was my fault then. I hadn’t told her I was coming until two days ago because I knew she’d try to talk me out of it. There I was disappointing her by turning up pretty much unannounced.
The check materialized in front of us. I looked at Liza. Liza looked at me. And then I had an idea. Maybe not the best idea in retrospect. Butalso not the worst I would end up having in Cannes.
“I’ll get this.”
Liza made a move for her wallet. “You don’t have to…”
I whipped out my credit card and handed it to the bartender.
“You’ll get the next one. I’m here for another four days. I really want to see you again.”
She was already waving goodbye and speed walking toward the other side of the bar to someone more important.
So I guess what I’m trying to say is that I’ve always believed in signs. But there are the signs you yearn to see and the ones your subconscious forces you to ignore. Liza liked to say that I was the perfect client. I was a hard worker, a total delight. I was following my path, enjoying the stupid journey, calling any bump in the road an “opportunity.” She loved me for it.
I slid my credit card back into my wallet, glad that I hadn’t bothered to look at the amount on the check. What I didn’t know couldn’t hurt me. And what Liza didn’t know couldn’t hurt her, either. Like I said, the universe had offered me a most fabulous role in this career-making movie, just as I was about to give up on acting.
I had made it. I wasin the processof making it.
No one and nothing could take this away from me now.
At least it was nice to believe that, for the short while it lasted.
Constance
If the point is to be honest, then I’ll admit this now: I had one good reason for coming to Cannes and oneverybad one. Of course, I didn’t see it likethat at the time. I was so certain I had everything under control.
Because officially, I was in Cannes for Tyler Charles, who I was on my way to meet at a villa outside of town.
The ride there was idyllic, the stuff of fairy tales. The beaten-up Uber drove through a medieval village resting atop a hill. I opened the car window, eager to smell the pine trees lining the road. I’ve always loved a full sensory experience. Feeling all of the feelings, life in Technicolor. The root of my demise, but more on that later. The afternoon sun cast a stunning glow on the tiled roofs. Shutters in various shades of pastels framed every window of the sweet little stone houses.
The scenery was dreamy, but it wasn’t enough to drown the nightmarish thoughts in my head. I was a pervert, a sex maniac, no more mature than a lovelorn teenager having a psychotic breakdown and camping outside her crush’s home. On my darkest days, I even wondered if I’d chosen this career to satisfy vices I didn’t even know I had. Part of my job as a stylist consisted of spending time in close quarters with quasi-nakedstrangers. I would crawl under a woman’s dress to help remove her underwear because it might show in certain lights. Or I’d ask a man to bend forward and stick his butt out at me, ensuring the line of his pants was undisturbed. At first I’d felt weird about that kind of proximity. Apologized even.I’m so sorry, I’m going to smooth this fabric over your stomach.But over time, being surrounded by nipples showing through sheer fabric and tight crotches leaving nothing to the imagination had become second nature. Like I was in my element. See? That’s what a pervert would think.
In fact, being a stylist came with all sorts of dubious assets, like the fact that I knew the routes and schedules of every delivery company well enough to execute the perfect gang robbery. This job had turned me into a pathological liar, too. Or maybe I’d always been one.
But then, how to explain that Tyler Charles had chosenme? At twenty-four, Tyler had built a solid reputation as an indie darling, earning him SAG Award and Golden Globe nominations. No wins yet, but at his age, losing was fine. Expected even. Men could get back in the saddle so quickly. Next he shot a much-anticipated biopic, and now, among other exciting projects, there were rumors he was being considered for a Marvel movie. A new stratosphere awaited. And he was taking me with him. This had the potential to be the best revenge arcever. If only I really felt that way.
I stood outside the villa where Tyler was staying, my eyes trying to adjust to its grandeur. The Uber had driven to the outskirts of the village, then down a private paved road, before dropping me off here. The house was flat roofed, all-white columns and glass walls. Modern. Blindingly so. It wouldn’t have looked out of place in the Hollywood Hills, down to the cacti lining the path to the front door.
The bell sounded French at least. Melodic, birdlike.
I took a deep breath.
“My favorite person!” Tyler said as he opened the door.
He was skinny but broad, not very tall and with a sparkling smile. He wore a white tank top, a black cap, and loose gray pants that hung off his hips. Tyler had just come back from filming in Turkey, and his brown skin—inherited from his Moroccan-born parents—was glowing.
I made a mental note to seek out warmer tones for him, perhaps rust or ocher, as I let him hug me. I regretted it immediately; I should have gone for a much more professional handshake. Tyler was five years younger; I should know better.
“What a wild coincidence: My favorite person is here too!”
It was supposed to be witty, but my voice sounded all croaky. Even deeper and huskier than usual. I wasn’t the best at jokes anyway, especially after months of blackhearted depression.
