I shook my head. “No boyfriend.”
Michelle turned serious. “But you like men? I have to ask these days. You never know. You young people and your ‘fluidity.’”
I held my breath. “I like men. And, um, I’m comfortable doingsomenudity. As long as it’s tasteful.”
She hadn’t outright asked, but it felt like the question was coming. Michelle frowned. I moved the conversation along.
“Is there a script for me to look at? I’d love to read some lines for you.”
“A script? You areadorable.”
The funny feeling I was getting only intensified.
“Look,” I said. “Émilie didn’t share all the specifics. So I have to ask: Is it porn?”
Michelle threw her head back in laughter.
“Porn! I don’t do porn. Erotic projects, sometimes, but this one is very above the belt. You could watch it with your grandmother.”
Oh no. I’d read the situation all wrong and now I’d offended her.
“I’m so sorry. I don’t know why I said that. I wasn’t getting that vibe at all,” I lied. “I just—Can you please forget I said that? I’m very,veryinterested, but I’d like to hear about the project in your words if that’s okay.”
Michelle smiled, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes.
“It’s quite revolutionary, I have to say. It’s likeThe Bachelorbut without a bachelor. You girls will live in a house together for a few months and you have to choose between yourselves which one of you is more… Well, marriage material is how you would say it. We still have to refine the language. I wanted to add an American because I know how desperate you all are to get married over there. That’s all you talk about, right? Poofy dresses and those gigantic cakes. And you’re so pretty, like a little Barbie. I think you’ll test very well.”
“I thought you were a real casting director?”
The words came out unvarnished.
“Oh, sweetie, thisisreal.” She eyed my dress, lips turned down. “And trust me, for a girl like you, this is as good as it’s ever going to get.”
Constance
Things took a turn then.
After my tense exchange with Tyler, just when we’d parted ways,Dorian’s security informed me that he would be occupied for the rest of the evening.
You were supposed to take me upstairs, I’d protested, weakly.
He’ll find you when he’s ready, Omar had said flatly from his towering height.
So I was back at Hotel de Gloom, surrounded by every snack the vending machine had to offer. I liked to pretend I was the kind of sophisticated, independent woman who wouldn’t think twice about taking herself out to lunch—table for one, phone face down, feminist bravery plastered on—but I couldn’t do it.
I ignored everything: Julie Lillie’s increasingly snide comments about the cheap-looking accessories I’d suggested for her and how we really needed to have a serious conversation about her vision for the rest of her Cannes outfits, the look on Tyler’s face when he’d mentioned that story, the emails from the designers who were badgering me about when they were going to see their wares in the media and on whom.
I was too busy checking my phone every five seconds, looking for signs of Dorian.
Dorian, who hadn’t felt the need to “find me” yet.
I was angry. There, I said it. Why is it so shameful, as a woman, to admit that you’re so absolutely fucking enraged? That you shouldn’t have to feel bad for wanting what you want and for going after it. That it’s okay—more than okay—to believe a man like Dorian Fisher might want to be with you for real. But I’d never admit to myself that he might be doing something wrong.
I did what I always did when I was mad at the world. I put on a fresh outfit, loose navy pants in a flowy fabric and a white tank top. I added my hoop earrings and slid into my new leather sneakers, the only purchase I’d allowed myself during my months of unemployment. I put on a full face of makeup. I told myself that this didn’t count as waiting for Dorian.
And now, I wanted to eat. There was nothing left of interest in the vending machine; I’d already singlehandedly pillaged the thing. I headed down to the lobby anyway, if only to pass time.
I was about to exit the elevator when a couple staggered toward me.
