“In that picture with Dorian Fisher.”
“That’s me.”
She winced under the weight of the bags she was carrying.
“His new girlfriend.”
“Are you okay?”
“I’m fine!” She didn’t sound like it. “That’s the dress you wore to the premiere.”
I nodded.
“And you’re wearing it again?”
“Yes. It’s like when Cate Blanchett rewears past red-carpet looks?”
“I’m familiar with the concept.”
I waited for her to continue, but we just looked at each other awkwardly.
“You think this is a bad idea?” I asked, feeling a lot less confident. “I mean, you know this stuff.”
Her bottom jaw dropped slightly, but she kept her composure. “I do. In fact, I’m Dorian Fisher’s stylist.”
I wasn’t sure what kind of reaction she was expecting from me. Best to avoid blurting out that those stories about Dorian Fisher and me were completely fake.
“I wish I had a stylist. The studio’s budget all went to the lead cast,” I said, echoing Liza’s words to me. I could admit that part. I was a rising actor; nobody expected me to haveeverythingalready.
I looked down at my dress, then checked the time.
“I’m on my way to meet a very important casting director to talk about my next role. Do you think I should wear something different?”
She plastered on a smile, though her gaze was ice cold.
“You lookgreat. Don’t change a thing.”
***
By the time I arrived at the bar of the Martinez, I felt like the dress had gotten even shorter. People were looking, and not in the way I’d been hoping for. This wasn’t a dress, only a few scraps of fabric that covered my most private parts. I noticed a few sequins coming apart, loose threadshanging over my stomach.
I found Michelle Danvier, who got up to greet me with two air kisses.
“You are just as gorgeous as Émilie said!”
I clapped my hand against my chest, touched.
“And you are as fabulous as she said you were.”
“I like you already. Sit, please.”
She had that unplaceable accent of people who have traveled all over the world. Her hair was silver and straight and she wore a black silk shirt with wide pants. So chic. So much more fabric than was on my own body. Soon, the wholeDon’t Be Sad!experience would be far behind me, a dead bird flattened on the asphalt in my rearview mirror. I couldn’t wait to never think about that movie again.
Michelle asked what I wanted to drink. I deferred to her since she was (fingers crossed) picking up the tab. She ordered us Chardonnay.
“So, honey, tell me about yourself,” she said as we waited.
I straightened up on my stool. This part was easy.
