“How long can that last?”
Noah laughs at that. “As long as he keeps making them money.”
I am taken by the sight of my husband. How comfortable he is in this environment. How at ease in his skin. How smoothly he was able to pivot in this new world, in this space. It isn’t even his language, and he has no problem fitting in. He didn’t just acclimate, he transcended. Of that, I am a little envious.
“Let’s grab a dinner when this all dies down,” Amy says.
“It’s going to be a while. He’s got a world tour with this thing.”
“I know. It’s a beast,” Noah says. “And I mean that in the best of ways. Enjoy it. Filmmakers dream of this their entire lives. And for ninety-nine percent of them it never happens.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” I say.
Even if the VIP section wasn’t demarcated with reserved tables on an elevated level, I would have found it immediately by the recognizable circular swarms. I’ve now attended enough star-studded events to identify this fascinating phenomenon, the way people are attracted to celebrities and coalesce around them. Like worker bees surrounding their queen. Not just the celeb’s inner circle, but sycophants, hangers-on, tenuous acquaintances, all hoping to get some face time. The more famous the celebrity, the larger the swarm.
I have to pass Idris Elba’s swarm and Cate Blanchett’s swarmand Tom Hardy’s swarm to find Tamsin. She’s in a fuchsia minidress that looks fabulous against her complexion. Her swarm is smaller, a handful of other beautiful twentysomethings. I catch her eye, and she lights up.
“Cecilia!! So great to see you! Oh my God, I’ve heard such wonderful things about your show. This is Cecilia, everyone. She’s François’s wife and she’s an ahmaaazing photographer! You have to see her show! And not just because I’m in it.” She introduces me to her bright young things, and I feel like a middle-aged interloper.
There’s a tall boy in the group whose attention she clearly has. Dark curls, wide mouth, great jawline, a posh British accent. Something about him strikes me as familiar, but I can’t quite put my finger on it. He stands across from her, his legs spread wide, one hand dwarfing the mouth of his glass (Scotch?), the other tugging at his lower lip.
“Would you like some champagne? Have you had champagne?” Tamsin asks me, swiping two flutes from a passing tray.
“I’ve had plenty, thanks.”
“Did you like the movie?”
“I did. It was great.Youwere great.”
“Thank you!”
The boy leans into her then, says something I can’t hear, and she laughs, loud, tossing back her head. He smiles. Perfect teeth. Dimples. Ah, youth.
I’m about to excuse myself when I spot Élodie approaching the group. I’d seen her from a distance in the theater but managed to avoid contact then. However, in this intimate space, I don’t have that option. She nods politely and greets me with a demure “salut.”
I “salut” her back.
One of the twentysomethings, a redhead, throws her arms around Élodie’s neck for an enthusiastic “Hello!” and I use it as an opportunity to bow out.
“Let’s catch up later,” I say to Tamsin. “Congrats!”
I spend the remainder of the evening wandering aimlessly through the party, chatting briefly with Victoire de Fleury, and Arturo Ferri, and Claire Ammer, one of Fran’s kick-ass female producers. But all of it feels forced and fake and foreign. I am still not versed in Hollywood culture. The references, the schmoozing, the self-congratulation. Filmpeople are a different species than art people. And I just want to be home, in my bed, in Paris. With my cat curled up at my feet.
Near the end of the night, as I am heading down a narrow corridor in the direction of the ladies’ room, I hear my name being called.
Soft, French. I recognize the voice immediately. Élodie. Making her way toward me.
My skin bristles.
“C’était super, le film. Vous devez être si fière de votre mari.”
She says it in thevousform, which is…something. Is she suddenly full of respect? The woman who’d fucked my husband?
“Yes,” I say, stiffening. “Iamvery proud of him.”
“Alors,” she says, closing the space between us. So close to me, I can smell the oud in her perfume. “I know we haven’t really spoken, but… I wanted to say sorry. I know you know what happened… with me and François, and I know there’s no excuse but…”
“Don’t,” I say, my chest tightening. “I don’t need to hear it.”
