“It’s so badass,” she said and spontaneously kissed him.
“Maybe you are badder ass than you thought,” he said, kissing her more.
Badder Ass. No better compliment anyone could give her, ever.
Marlow’s office in Guillaume’s guest wing was a light-filled room with an antique desk, printer, comfy chair, and high-speed internet. But having her brain back in RIFF work was her least favorite time of day. She was under pressure from Oscar to perform.
Office hours were often back-to-back video calls about the industry summit, now called the September Summit because it would take place the first week of September. Oscar had pushed through a day-long event rather than the four days he’d originally hoped for, but it was taking as much prep time as if it were the regular, public-facing, ten-day October festival itself.
She frequently asked when the job interview would be—now deep into credit card debt, she needed it more than ever.
Yet she was distracted. Out the window, she watched Guillaume, sleeves rolled up, working. She wanted to help. Or just be near him? Both.That way of thinking is disastrous,she told herself.Stop thinking of him as a guy. A man. A strong, capable, successful, smart—
“Let’s go over summit panelists, because I still think we’re missing a big fish,” said Oscar. “Who can we get?”
“What about Caroline Smeaton?” Marlow asked.
“Nah. She’s not a very engaging speaker, and I don’t love her work.” Oscar rejected most ideas Marlow floated, especially the female ones. “Who else can we think of?”
Marlow watched Guillaume, shirt off like the other workers. The skies had cleared after the storm. The July sun was beating down. His muscles rippled under a sheen of sweat. He was superb in a different way from Luc, but superb nonetheless. More cerebral, together, even-keeled. And who could resist a guy working in a vineyard? His own vineyard?
“Earth to Marlow. You’re elsewhere. Which you are, of course.”
“I’m just thinking.” She was, but not about filmmakers. “What about Joanne Bélanger?” Marlow would keep pitching women to spite him. “She’s back in Montréal after shooting in Berlin.”
“Joanne’s difficult. I don’t need any challenging personalities tanking a one-day event. Speaking of French-speaking filmmakers, what about Yves Barrat? You’re in France, surely you’ve connected with him. He’d be a big fish. A big French fish.”
This was low. Everyone at Renegade knew Yves was Sabine’s father. Everyone knew he’d disappeared after Marlow had announced her pregnancy, to live his perfect life in France, get films into Cannes, date hot actresses and invite them onto the red carpet, and not, repeat not, stick around to support his wonderful, creative, smart-as-hell kid.
“No idea what Yves is up to,” she said in a neutral voice. “I’m far from Paris. Besides, I thought we wanted to keep the summit budget low—stick to local panelists only.”
“No one you’re pitching is any good. We can spring for one international plane ticket. And we might be programming his new film in October if he finishes in time, so he’d be perfect to cue up in September. Can you look into it?”
She wanted to ask Guillaume if he’d like to take a break, in his bedroom, where she’d take full situationship advantage of him. Or go back and do the same with Luc. Was she a terrible person to imagine herself with two men like that? She didn’t care.
“OK,” she said, planning to do exactly nothing. She’d scour her files for other filmmakers and send them all to Oscar in an email, claiming she’d reached out to Yves, and he wasn’t available. Better yet, that he hadn’t replied, which would be completely on brand.
“Getting Yves would be a victory,” said Oscar. “You could talk about it at your interview and impress Victor. And at yourperformance review—which is tomorrow, isn’t it?” Marlow nodded confidently but crumpled on the inside. She’d forgotten about her evaluation. And given how dissatisfied Oscar seemed with her work, it was clearly not going to go well.
Yves took Sabine and Aubin out for a coffee after the whole outrun-the-cops routine. On the walk home, Sabine caught sight of Notre Dame. The clouds in the sky were moving fast, and the alternating light and shadow played on its façade and towers, so that Sabine felt she could see every detail in its ornate carvings. The cathedral was just so formidable and dramatic, unlike any church or building in Toronto, that she gasped.
Yves saw her reaction. “Once I heard a dinner guest ask my father, if you could live anywhere else, where would you choose? And my father said, nowhere. Because Paris was, to him, a perfect city. It is to me, too.”
Sabine wanted to drink in this city. Her father’s city.
“Careful,” whispered Aubin. “Perhaps this will become yourPoint Zéro,too.”
Marlow ate cake Madame Klein had left on the kitchen counter, and texted Sabine again.
Where are you? When will you be home? Let me know you’re safe.
Oh! She hadn’t told Sabine about the house.
Also! Maison Perdue is SOLD. American woman is buying. Let’s travel. Maybe Paris? All we have to do is finish painting, fix up furniture. xoxoxo
She tried to psych herself up to contact Yves but just couldn’t pull the trigger. If she didn’t produce him for the summit, she would have zero chance at the promotion. Argh. She tried to talk herself off the ledge. Oscar was a mediocre sycophant who delegated everything and enjoyed a good power trip, but those qualities were nothing special. It wasn’t like he was an axe murderer. Too bad. It would make getting his job (and salary and benefits) much easier.
Guillaume walked in, shirt on but unbuttoned, dirty and sweaty.
