XXXV.YOUNG WOMAN WITH PEONIES, UPDATED.
LOS ANGELES.
JUNE–JULY. 2016.
On a Wednesday afternoon in early June, while picking up crudités for Lucie’s sixth-grade end-of-the-year pool party, I find myself face-to-face with Cressida James in the express line at the Brentwood Whole Foods. Not that I’ve previously given it much thought, but I would not have guessed that A-listers shopped in supermarkets like the rest of us. Surely they have personal chefs or house managers to handle such banal tasks. Or maybe they do it every so often to break out of their bubble. The thought of Anouk beheading broccoli comes to mind.
Cressida is buying two cartons of organic raspberries and what looks like thirty peonies at roughly six dollars a head. A price tag I have difficulty accepting knowing they’d grown abundantly in our yard in Westchester.
She recognizes me, which I find impressive. But then, I realize, there is no one else here in the Brentwood Whole Foods who looks even vaguely like me. Possibly no one else in Brentwood at all.
“I must tell you, your son is the sweetest, most polite of all of Eryx’s friends. Which I imagine he owes to his impeccable upbringing.”
“Thank you. That’s lovely to hear.”
“You should know. I’d want to know if it were my child. Always ‘may I, please, thank you, you’re welcome.’ It’s very endearing.”
“Glad to hear that some of it stuck.” I laugh, knowing that it was as much Olive Chen’s training as it was mine.
“How are things going with François’s movie?” she asks.
“Good. They’re doing a couple of minor pickup shots, otherwise he’s just editing around the clock.”
“There’s quite a bit of buzz. They’re still scheduled for a December release, right? To be eligible for awards season?”
“Yes,” I say, suddenly aware that we are being watched. That shoppers behind us, before us, two rows over are all sneaking peeks in our direction. They can’t stop themselves. It’s a sickness.
She is California casual in blue jeans and a black button-down. Her signature blond hair piled high in a bun. Minimal makeup, no sunglasses. She could be any beautiful Westside mom, I think. But she isn’t. And I find the public’s reaction equal parts fascinating and unsettling.
“Are you heading back to France for the summer?”
“Ideally, in August, but our plans are still kind of up in the air. Fran’s schedule keeps shifting and I’m working on a big project.”
“What kind of project? I don’t even know what it is you do, I’m sorry.” She laughs.
I tell her. AboutOn Beauty. About the Hammer. About my work in general. It feels good to give it voice. The majority of people I run into in LA haven’t asked. The assumption that I don’t work outside of the home. That I don’t have a career of my own.
She’s attentive while I speak. Even as the cashier rings up her exorbitant peonies.
It’s not until I’m paying for my prepackaged crudités that I notice the wall of photographers lining up outside the windows on San Vicente Boulevard. How brazen they are, a dozen or so swarming the front entrance, peeping through the glass above the organic laundry detergents. But also not entering the facility. I imagine there are laws in place.
“That sounds absolutely brilliant,” she says, her body angling in toward mine, her back squared to the window.
“Thank you.”
“No, really. That’s an installation I would love to see. Please send me an invitation when it opens.”
I nod, still disturbed by the mass of paparazzi. And amused thatshe is able to tune them out. And it is then, as I am sticking the tray of veggies in my Merci Paris tote, that I realize that Cressida James’s singular attention might be more a calculated effort to keep her face from the cameras than a genuine interest in my art. Not that I hold that against her.
“Are you looking for more subjects?” she asks. “Because if you are, I’d love to be considered. I have a lot to say on the expectations of beauty after thirty years in this industry.”
Her proposition floors me. Up until now our interactions have been polite and cursory. Planning sleepovers and playdates, brief exchanges in her wraparound driveway. Commentary on the weather. “Really?” I say now.
“Absolutely.” She smiles. “I’m swamped through the end of the month, and in August, we’re in Italy—Puglia is having a moment now—but if the beginning of July works for you, I’d love to do it.”
“I would love that! I’d be honored. Yes, early July works.”
“Perfect. I’ll connect you with my assistant and she’ll get it all sorted.”
