“Wonderful. Thank you,” I say, as we head for the side door. And for a moment, I pause. The paparazzi looming. “Are you okay with this? Do you want me to walk you to your car? Or get security to escort you, or something?”
She smiles, that wide, uninhibited Cressida James smile. “That’s very kind of you. No, it’s okay. I’m used to it. It just… comes with the job.” And with that, she withdraws a pair of large sunglasses from her bag, pops them on her unmistakable face, tips her head down, and walks toward one of the four black-on-black Range Rovers in the parking lot.
Less than a week following my Cressida encounter, I have the pleasure of shooting Tamsin Desai, the young actress from theAzimuthtrilogy, when she is in town for meetings. We do it at my studio, accompanied by two photo assistants and one hair-and-makeup person. She is dynamic before my lens. Soulful almond-shaped eyes, a square jaw, generous mouth. Jet-black hair and skin like amber. She talks about her acting journey. How both her parents were doctorsin Hertfordshire, and she the oldest of three. How she was on her way to med school when she accompanied a friend to a commercial audition in London, and the casting director insisted she read for the part. How she booked it. Got an agent. Got into an intense conservatory class. And then booked another and another. And then, after a series of grueling auditions—including the original with the casting associate, two callbacks with the casting director, one callback with François, a work session, and a screen test—she bookedAzimuth Rising.
“I definitely didn’t think I was beautiful growing up,” she confides, when I am interviewing her after the shoot. “I had older cousins who got all the attention. They had lighter eyes and lighter skin. And I learned pretty young that that was valued in my community. I have one cousin who’s been on multiple Indian dating sites, and often they ask you to describe your complexion, and the optimum complexion type is ‘wheat.’ She says every man is looking for someone wheat-colored. I’m rather dusk-like.” She laughs. “So I think I’m going to stay clear of those.”
Later that evening at home, I’m in the dining room, listening to the recording, and marking the parts I want to highlight, when I get a call from Anouk. Distractedly, I answer.
“Have you seen this week’sUsmagazine?” she asks. NoHello. How are you? Am I interrupting something?
“No. Should I have? I’m not in the habit of reading tabloids.”
“I’m not either, but I was at my facialist’s today and happened to pick it up in the waiting room. Imagine how surprised I was to see you on page twelve.”
“What?Me??”
“You. Yes. InUsmagazine. With Cressida James.”
“Oh.” I laugh. “Did they catch me in the background?”
“Background? No. You are very much together. You are standing very close and having some kind of intimate conversation.”
Something about her tone jolts me. It’s slightly brusque, almost accusatory. I get up from the dining table then and slip out into the courtyard, taking care to close the doors behind me.
“We were at Whole Foods, Anouk. I bumped into her on line.”
She pauses for a moment, and then, “There’s more than one photo. And the caption reads, ‘Cressida James shops for flowers with a girlfriend.’”
“Agirlfriend. Like a friend who’s a girl. Nothergirlfriend.Tu comprends la différence, oui?”
“Mais oui, je comprends,” she says, her pitch rising. “But you never mentioned you were close.”
“We’re not. You know that Julien is good friends with her son. We bumped into each other at the supermarket and talked. That’s all.”
I am quiet for a second, anticipating her response. Confounded by her irritation. She can’t possibly be jealous. Can she? Aren’t I just one of a series of obsessive friends? Or did something shift? Do I suddenly mean more? But surely Anouk doesn’t think I’m out here having relationships with other women. Or men, for that matter. And certainly not with A-list celebrities. Between her, Fran, the kids, and my work, I barely have time for myself.
“I amallowedto talk to other women, right?”
“Don’t be silly,” she says. “Of course.”
“Because you haven’t exactly defined what this is. And so if there’s no definition, I assume there are also no rules.”
For a second, she says nothing. I want to ask her about Delphine. About Minnie. But those questions warrant an in-person conversation.
“Are there rules, Anouk?”
She pauses again. And then, “There are no rules, Cecilia. I’m sorry I snapped at you. It just took me by surprise.”
I’m quiet for a bit, staring into the plunge pool. Listening to the whir of the filter, the tree frogs, the night. “There is no one else, Anouk. There’s just you.”
I can hear her breathing, but the line is otherwise silent.
“I have to go,” I say, eventually. “I need to finish organizing these recordings.”
When I reenter the house, François is standing at the kitchen island, pouring himself a glass of Casamigos. I don’t know how long he’s been standing there. I don’t know what he’s seen, heard.
“Hey,” I say, trying to appear casual. Failing.
