At that I smile. “Just messy enough.”
Later that night, I am sprawled on the floor of our bedroom in flannel pajama pants and a faded Yale T-shirt, poring over contact sheets. Images I’d taken on the Sunset Strip before the accident. The light is crap in here, and I’ve left my loupe in the office, but I can’t be bothered to get it. And so I’m squinting over shots of billboards, fragrance campaigns, underwear ads. Beauty, and our consumption of it.
“So how long did it take? For our kid to be invited to a Beverly Hills party?” François asks, exiting the bathroom. He is delicately patting the crown of his head, a telltale sign that he’s just applied his hair-growth treatment. He doesn’t need it. Yet. “Forty days?”
“Not even.”
“Wasn’t this the thing you feared?”
“One of many.”
“Them becoming Hollywood. Entitled. Privileged. Superficial. Name-dropping.Qu’est-ce que j’ai oublié?”
I look over to him. “Rude. American. Killed.”
“Tu exagères,” he says, throwing back the duvet and climbing in.
“Am I?”
“Come to bed.”
I stare at him for a moment. Smug in his new position, in his new life. Despite having lost the Best Director prize, because there would now almost certainly be a next time. Aware that he’s asking me to step away from my work, and everything that entails. But it’s been a long day, and my head hurts, so I give in.
“What did the house look like?” he asks, moments later, in the dark, his arm wrapped around my torso, his body cocooning mine.
“Big. Contemporary. California. Lots of light and retractable walls of glass. Our entire first apartment could have fit into her master suite. And they have a butler, for God’s—”
“You were in her bedroom?”
“Briefly. Mostly in her dressing room.”
“What were you doing there?”
“Watching her put on her makeup. She was heading out.”
He’s quiet for a second, his breath palpable on my neck. He smells like spearmint and soap. “Did you tell her you were enamored with her?”
I laugh at that. “I think it was pretty obvious.”
“You really should shoot her. For your project. She is perfect for it.”
When I don’t respond he repeats it. And then adds, in French, “I think you would like that. I think you would like that a lot.”
For a moment, I’m quiet. There’s more there. Details that, even as I struggle to recall now, I know I have never shared with François. I have never shared them with anyone.
A stillness falls over the room, illuminating the sounds of night. The pool filter whirring in the courtyard. The frogs chirping in the creek. Somewhere a coyote bays. I feel for Leelou at the foot of the bed. We are so very far from home.
“There are things that happened in Cabo that I’m sure she wants to forget,” I say, my voice hollow in the dark. “And I might just be an inconvenient reminder.”
“Things like what?”
“Like… like I think she may have been assaulted on that shoot.”
“Assaulted? Like…? Like by someone on the shoot…?” He trails off. “Did you report it?”
He can’t see the absurd face I make. And I realize then that whatever Ihadtold him about that trip all those years ago was likely insignificant. Barely scratching the surface. “Report it to whom?”
“J’sais pas.” He sighs and is quiet again.
