But also, I was relieved. I didn’t have to pretend anymore.
It wasn’t about what I needed to do anymore. Who I needed to be. There was no act to put on.
All bets were off.
The Girls
Extenuating circumstances, that’s what they call them.
When you did something bad but you had good reasons for it.
A logical explanation. A rationale that sounded extremely coherent…after the fact.
Clearly there weresomecalculations to it. It didn’t just happen. But calling it a premeditated murder sounds so serious. So jail-timey. Soviolent.
Do we strike you as violent people?
The problem was, we were there.Everybodysaw us.
We are entirely devoid of alibis.
What we do have, in spades, is motive.
Lots and lots of motives.
The headlines practically wrote themselves in our heads:Cold-Blooded Attack Leaves One Dead on the Eve of the Cannes Film Festival’s Closing Ceremony.
It sounded bad.
And exactly like the truth.
The cold-blooded truth.
Cannes Film FestivalDay Eight
Lou
The problem with getting your fifteen minutes of fame was that it went by really fast. The comments about my being Dorian Fisher’s new flamewere already dwindling down. I’d posted a lot on social media, thinking I was giving people what they wanted: access to me, the Cannes It Girl. But now some were speculating that I might not be romantically linked to Dorian Fisher after all. We hadn’t walked the red carpet together. I hadn’t even sat next to him at the premiere. And we didn’t seem to ever be in the same place at the same time. And If Iwaswith Dorian, would I be attending all these C-rated parties alone?
In just a few days, the world would find out for sure that I was a nobody, that there was no trace of me inDon’t Be Sad!. Luckily, the renowned casting director Michelle Danvier—Émilie’s aunt—didn’t know that yet. I needed to make a great impression, but when I looked at the clothes I’d brought to Cannes, they didn’t seem like anything the breakout star from the Palme d’Or contender would wear.
I had the sudden urge to grab all the pieces hanging inside this tiny closet and open the window. In the movies, they never showed how the woman managed to open it with her arms full and throw everything out.The clothes would spread their wings and fly like seagulls into the horizon. (That part was always cinematic.) Except my room didn’t have a sea view. Also, it was really uncool to litter. You were supposed to care about waste and sustainability. That was why some stars rewore their red-carpet looks; Cate Blanchett always got amazing press when she did that.
So that’s where my mind went. I’m just trying to say that my idea came from a logical place.
The sequined dress I’d worn to the premiere was how people had identified me as the girl in Dorian Fisher’s arms. That dress had done so much for my image. It had been my lucky charm.
It was the only viable option, really. I still felt that way when I got down to the lobby wearing it. I expected people would start recognizing me. I was almost out the door when a woman I’d seen before came through. Olive skin, pared-down style, not a hair out of place. Once again, she was carrying bags and bags of clothes.
“Looks like someone has a shopping problem,” I said jokingly.
I was jealous. It hadn’t occurred to me that I could have gone into town and bought a new outfit. Perhaps it was my subconscious’s way of minimizing my financial ruin.
Her smile was tight. “I’m a stylist, so having too many clothes is more like a champagne problem.”
Before I could respond, her gaze traveled down my body, taking in my dress. “You’re…”
She’d paused for a little too long, and I finished her sentence. “Lou Ocean Utley.”
