He’s definitely having fun. Which party did he tell you about?I asked, feeling queasy.
When Jessie didn’t reply right away, my palms grew clammy around my phone. Maybe hehadtold her. She wouldn’t know the whole story, obviously. I couldn’t imagine Ben admitting he’d realized he was such a bad writer that the only way he could succeed was by stealing my work.
Something with Fiona Pills?Jessie replied at last.I’m not NOT jealous. He said Dorian Fisher was there too, but I won’t believe it without photographic evidence.
This was bad. Much worse than I’d imagined. Had Ben shared my screenplay with Dorian Fisher? Was he really going to keep claiming itwas his? A few months ago, Carmen and I had worked on a high-profile movie for which the screenwriter alone had been paid a seven-figure sum. I knew what could happen when you worked with the big guys.
I had to stop Ben or risk regretting it forever.
That was where Lou and Constance came in. Lou was a rising star whose new movie was about to win the Palme d’Or at Cannes. Constance was a talented stylist who clearly hadsomebaggage with Dorian Fisher, but she was still his stylist—I’d checked the paparazzi shots of them talking in the lobby of the Martinez. One way or another, the girls would lead me to Dorian Fisher. So what if Odetta Olson had shot me down? I’d try again with him and do whatever it took to make him listen. Once I explained my side of things, Dorian Fisher would be too spooked to even be seen in public with my stupid ex-boyfriend.
See, the girls thoughtIwas helping them, but I needed them a lot more than they needed me.
There was one thing I didn’t think about. They never asked what I wanted out of this. They never wondered what was in it for me. But that’s the problem when you’re desperate, when the people you trusted betray you in the most hideous way.
You can no longer see the danger until it smacks you in the face.
Cannes Film FestivalDay Nine
Lou
Having two new people in my corner was a long way up from zero. I was somebody now. Somebody with friends. Somebody with hope.Somebody whose future might not be demolished like a house of cards by the end of the festival.
Constance wanted to meet; she had to style me for the events Marnie had put on my calendar. (I had a calendar now, apparently, and someone who was managing it for me.) But I couldn’t return to the scene of the crime or even face the (slightly insane) reason I’d taken that diamond necklace, which was now tucked away in my toiletry bag. It had to be fake. Of course it was fake. But did that absolve me from stealing it in the first place? Maybe not. It taunted me every time I brushed my teeth or washed my face. I could never wear it, obviously. No matter how beautiful and sparkly it was. How neatly it fit on my collarbone. And yet, I had no real plan to put it back in Constance’s room.
And I couldn’t anyway, since she was working out of a boutique called Les Merveilles de Marielle. The shop owner was a total delight, the kind of quirky, dry-witted woman I wish would adopt me, especially now that Liza had frozen me out. I hadn’t heard from her once since ourconversation.
Constance and I took pictures—Come with me to get dressed for my next Cannes event!—and I bragged about my new stylist. People were gushing in the comments. They’d even gone back to calling me a Cannes It Girl. I was such a fraud.
At least the outfit was great. I’d tried on half a dozen options, each more dazzling than the last. This was all so new, so exciting. It made it easy to forget my disastrous meeting with the casting director. In the end, Constance and I settled on an ice-blue sheath dress in satin so shiny it looked wet (in a cool, modern way). The dress was slashed open across the chest, with embellishments on both sides of the cut, like a pageant sash made of bare skin. It was the clear favorite for both of us. A good omen.
Marnie had texted us the schedule for the day, and the first party was at someone’s house. Well, technically, someone’s villa. Who it belonged to, I had no idea.
I was itching to ask Marnie if I reallywason the guest list, but she talked like it was a done deal.Here’s the time and location. Take lots of pictures and tag the hell out of everyone. We need all of the exposure.She was now officially the boss of me, and I kind of loved her for it.
But I was on my own as a car dropped me off at the door, half-excited, half-terrified. Butterflies flew around my stomach as I gave my name to the bouncer. He responded with a nod so faint I wondered if I’d imagined it.
“We’re with her!” came a voice behind me.
It was Samuel and Émilie, stepping out of the car behind mine. I turned back to the bouncer, ready to enter panic mode.
“Bonsoir, bonsoir,” Samuel said, wrapping an arm around me as he kissed me on both cheeks. He smelled of cigarettes and red wine. Émilie was wearing a black blazer minidress and bright red lipstick, the kind ofsexy chic that made me rethink everything about myself.
“So good to see you!” she said.
They stood on either side of me, smiles bright, and we went in. Just like that.
“I know the owner’s best friend,” Émilie explained as we made our way to the bar area out on the expansive terrace, where we each grabbed glasses of prosecco.
It was early in the evening, and the crowd was still sparse.
At my puzzled look, she added, “The prince?”
“Is he a prince though?” Samuel asked.
Émilie raised an eyebrow. “A tsar maybe? He’s royalty, from… somewhere.” She shrugged, like who cared anyway. “He just bought this house. I think that’s villa number three in the French Riviera. My friend said he’d get our names on the list, but can you ever really trust your friends?”
She stared at me seriously, like I was supposed to answer.
