Page 117

I raise my middle finger to prove to him that, yes, I am.

“Felix, you could work on film sets, under the head of the costume department,” Vadim says.

“Like period costumes? Wigs, frills, and all that kinda crap?”

“No, it would just consist of dressing the actors. Regular clothes, like you and I wear. Well, not necessarily like you wear,” Vadim jokes.

“Are you saying you don’t dig my drip, you fashion-challenged losers?” Felix protests, tugging at his worn-out sweatshirt.

“Let’s just say that, if you want this job, you’re going to have to make a little effort, so people take you seriously.”

“Yeah, yeah…”

Vadim takes a call that lasts less than fifteen seconds, picking up immediately and then hanging up just as quickly.

“The French Kiss cinematographer is waiting for me to go and check out the damage. Are you coming with me, Lancaster?”

I nod.

“You’re really not more upset about this? We’re talking about hundreds of thousands of euros.”

Felix’s eyes widen and he lets out a long whistle.

“There are worse things in life, right?” Vadim shrugs and smiles at me.

Either he’s still thinking about Dimitri Monkov… or having his best friend back is turning everything upside down.

48

Alma

Clémentine hasn’t been herself lately. My best friend has always had her ups and downs, little temporary slumps that come before big, new projects, but for the past week, I’ve had a feeling something is wrong. Really wrong. After canceling three of our plans and coming up with lame excuses, she’s just done it again.

I show up at her place early in the evening, almost expecting to have the door slammed in my face. But when she opens it, her pretty, little face paler than usual, she seems only half surprised to see me standing there. Dressed in a bathrobe and slippers, she invites me in and instructs me to sit on the couch, then returns a minute later with two smoothies.

“Are you alone?”

“Yes. Yann is at a restaurant with his parents, and for once, he agreed to take the girls.”

My best friend looks miserable. She stares at her glass without touching it. Her voice sounds off, and her hands are shaky. I barely recognize her.

“Clem, I’m worried,” I whisper, moving closer to her.

“Why? Everything’s fine. I’m just a little tired.”

She’s lying, and she knows I don’t believe her, but she forces a smile anyway.

“Is it… the baby? Is there a problem, and you don’t want to tell me?”

“No, nothing like that. I’m craving chocolate, aren’t you?”

She gets up, and I watch as her tangled, red mop of hair disappears toward the kitchen. I think about following her, but decide to wait. Her calm, her restraint, and her evasiveness make me anxious. When everything is falling apart, Clem is usually the type to let it all out: too many words, too many emotions, too much noise to mask her distress. I’ve never seen her bottle everything up like this.

She returns, empty-handed, with tears in her eyes.

“I screwed up, Alma. I cheated on Yann.”

“What? You… When? Who with?!”