“An invitation to Olivia Goodman’s bat mitzvah.”
Lucie’s eyes widen. “A girl? You’re going to parties with girls now?” She turns to me. “You’re allowing this?”
“Calme-toi. It’s not a big deal. It’s, like, the whole class is invited. It’s at some fancy restaurant in Beverly Hills.”
François and I exchange a look.
Julien catches it. “What?”
“Nothing. We’ll keep an eye out for it.
“So guess what I did today? I went over to see Anouk Ferrand.”
François looks up from where he’s swilling from his beer. “Vraiment? Over where? Her house? You went to her house? You just showed up at the door?T’es folle!”
I smile. Maybe Iamcrazy. Maybe it’s my concussed brain. “I gave her a gift. She was very nice. We talked.”
François shakes his head in wonder. He does not know me to be this bold.Idon’t know me to be this bold. He was the one, after all, who had to coax me to engage in scheduled rendezvous at various hotels in Paris. Until we both became too recognizable. Things had changed since then.
“Did she remember you? From Mexico?” he asks.
“Not really, no.”
“Did you ask her if you could shoot her for your project?”
“No. She’s an icon, François. That’s like you playing golf with Brad Pitt, accidentally hitting him in the head with your club, and then asking him to star in your movie.”
He smiles, drinks. “Things that would never happen, because I don’t play golf.
“Is Brad Pitt even relevant anymore?”
“Brad Pitt is always relevant.”
“Who’s Brad Pitt?” Lucie asks.
“I think he’s the guy who’s married to Maleficent,” Julien says.
“Your mother’s old crush.…”
My eyes jump from one child to the other. But for the height and size and gender difference, they are a perfect match. Caramel-colored, amber-eyed, full-lipped, thick heads of curls. I envy them their fluid identity. How they move seamlessly between worlds. Assured, accepted. They could be anything, anyone. Once upon a time, they were striking stroller mates. Now one of them squeaked whenhe spoke, and the other prided herself on knowing everything. Well, mostly everything.
“Brad Pitt is one of the great American movie stars of my generation,” I explain to my daughter.
“He was your crush?” she asks.
“One of them,” my husband volunteers.
Lucie gives me a withering side-eye. I don’t think it’s dawned on her that I’ve loved people besides her father. That sometimes I can’t let go.
“Like a little crush, or a serious crush? I mean, would you have married him?”
I laugh at that. “I’ve never met him, Lu. And even so, probably not. Fame makes people messy. Too much drama.”
“You and Papa are kind of famous.”
“Not famous like that.”
“So not so messy?” she asks.
