I don’t feel comfortable crying here because I don’t know these people. And this is what my therapist is for, after all. Although, unfortunately six thousand miles away.
The blond woman to the right of Tonya wraps her arm around her, while Jonas hands down a box of Kleenex. “I feel this profoundly,” she says in a deep voice. Her diction is perfect, her accent British. She is fair and barefaced, sporting a ponytail and a pair of geeky, oversized, black-rimmed glasses.
“Lilah is still quite young, but her big sister is so popular and confident, and I just want to shelter her from everything bad.”
She doesn’t give us any grade levels or context, but everyone in the group’s eyes are on her, and they are nodding in support. A little too earnestly, I think.
And then it hits me: Cressida James. The movie star.
She and Derrick had had two golden-blond children before adopting a third. A little girl from Ethiopia. The fact that I had spent the last thirty minutes in a sobfest, sitting three seats away from an A-list, two-time Academy Award winner and had been completely oblivious to it was comical to me. Only in LA.
When the sobbing is over, we file out of the community room, through the halls of the arts building, and out into the California light. There are couplets of parents stalling, talking amongst themselves. Chummy, familiar. And as I wind between the Spanish-styled buildings, down the shaded path, toward the parking lot, I find myselfwalking alongside Cressida. The only other parent, it seems, not making small talk. I don’t know what the protocol is on introducing oneself to übercelebrities in Los Angeles, but not saying anything to a person you’re walking beside for a long stretch feels like a manufactured silence, and so I break it.
“Well, that was an unexpectedly emotional start to my day.”
“Par for the course, I think,” she says, looking over to me. She’s tall, about five eight, thin (of course), with gray-green eyes, a dignified nose, and a sumptuous mouth. It’s a good face. One that I am very familiar with. And I am struck by how bizarre it is to meet someone you feel you already know.
Celebrity is a singular beast.
“Is this your first time at one of these?” she asks, cocking her head.
“Yes. My kids started in January. I believe our sons are friends.…”
“Who’s your son?”
“Julien. Julien Charlot.”
It takes a second. And then, “Ohhhhh, you’re François Charlot’s wife!” It’s not the response I was expecting. I keep forgetting that Fran is somewhat known here now. That his work is celebrated, even if mine is not.
“Julien is lovely. He and Eryx get on famously.”
“I’m glad to hear that.”
After the initial sleepover at Derrick’s in Malibu, I’d had little direct contact with the family. Julien had spent a couple of Sunday afternoons at their house in Carbon Beach, but it had all been coordinated through their male nanny, whose name was, in fact, Manny.
“How are you liking Bancroft?” she asks, as we approach the parking lot and head toward the visitor spots.
“I like it, so far. Although, it’s much more touchy-feely than what we’re used to at home.”
She laughs. It’s her big Cressida James laugh, almost a snort, completely antithetical to her English-rose appearance and a huge part of her appeal. “Oh, don’t I know it! I was shipped off to boarding school at the age of nine, where a teacher once stood watch for an hour straight while I cried over a bowl of congealed rice pudding. She would not let me leave the dining hall until I finished it. This place is like Euro Disney in comparison.
“Anyway,” she continues, “it’s still far more traditional than some of the progressive schools out here. What you just experienced was council lite. At Windwood, I’m told, they light a candle, sit on the floor, and pass a talking stick.
“Well, this is me,” she says, as we near a black-on-black Range Rover. “Nice chatting with you. I’m Cressida, by the way.”
“Cecilia.”
“Lovely to meet you, Cecilia. Welcome to Bancroft.”
“We haven’t prepared Julien for living here. I’ve failed him.” It’s later that evening, and I’ve managed to pin down Fran at his hotel for a quick FaceTime before he heads off to dinner.
“Why do you say that?”
“I haven’t taught him the code. I don’t know the code. How you should act around police. How to avoid being killed.”
“Qu’est-ce qu’il y a?”
“Nothing. Nothing happened. I just… I’m worried he doesn’t know how to behave to stay safe in this country.”
