“Cecilia, tu viens?” François motions to me on the rocks, his Hasselblad in hand. He is tan and lovely. Slender, young.
I shake my head.No. I’m not coming. He turns back to shooting his subjects. Bas and Anouk frolic in the water, wading in deeper. Her hair is short, a bob. Present-day Anouk. But Bas is exactly as I remember him on that beach. Twenty-five, glorious.
François turns back to the shore and heads up to where he’s stashed his belongings beneath one of thepalapas. The wind is picking up. I watch him as he changes his film, his camera tucked beneath his T-shirt, protecting it from the light and sand. And then I hear it, a faint scream. Distant, muffled. Anouk is way out in the cove, far beyond Bas. Impossibly far. Her head bobs at the surface, once, twice, before disappearing down below. Bas is swimming toward her but doesn’t seem to be advancing. How did she get so far out?
“François! It’s Anouk! Help Anouk!” I yell. But my voice is lost in the wind, and my husband is far too consumed with loading his film to heed my call.
I stand and begin waving my arms, frantic. “François!!”
He sees me then, cocks his head, holds his hand to his ear.
“Anouk!!! Help Anouk!!”
He shrugs, shakes his head, returns to his camera, his back to the ocean.
“Help her!!” I continue to scream.
Bas isn’t making any headway, and Anouk is no longer surfacing.
“François!!”
He looks up to me then, a scowl across his youthful face. “Youhelp her!! You’rerightthere. Help her!”
His words are chilling. I move to race down the rocks but lose my footing and stumble. Something is wrong with my legs. It’s as if one is longer than the other, and I can’t find my balance. It’s then that I notice my shoes: the wooden platform sandals I bought on Columbus Avenue the summer I met Lorry. Cute, I thought then. But painful to walk in. And it strikes me that they are perhaps two different heights.
“François!” I continue to scream. “Do something! François!!”
He is not there. At the other side of the bed. And even though of late I intermittently despise him, his absence stings. I lie there for a moment, staring at the exposed beams of the ceiling. Listening for movement. But there is just the whir of the pool filter, the trickle of the creek, the frogs. And Fran’s words in my head, “Youhelp her. You’rerightthere.”
As if he knew.
XII.THE ELEPHANT IN THE ROOM.
LOS ANGELES.
APRIL. 2015.
The house is up on North Tigertail. An eleven-thousand-square-foot monstrosity complete with pool and tennis court and detached guesthouse. I imagine somewhere subterranean there’s a home theater, because those seem to be standard in this area of Brentwood.
I am greeted at the gate by a team of valets dressed in black and white, all women. And it’s not until I step out of my SUV, which I probably should have had washed for this occasion, that I catch their kitschy sign:VALET OF THE DOLLS. Ah, LA.
The woman who checks me in, a youngish blond in a formfitting jumpsuit—the kind that I imagine requires awkward removal in public-bathroom stalls—informs me that Anouk has yet to arrive. “She’s not here yet,” she says, consulting her iPad. “But please go in. Make yourself comfortable. Drink, nibble, shop.”
The grandeur of the entrance hall makes me anything but comfortable. It’s Hollywood Regency redux. Marble floors and a mirrored ceiling, an extravagant arrangement of calla lilies and orchids on the center console, a Cy Twombly on the far wall. I am welcomed with a flute of Veuve Clicquot and directed through a series of well-appointed rooms where a dozen artisans are selling their wares at individual boutiques. Handmade jewelry with semiprecious stones, cashmere blankets and throws, exotic-leather clutches, artfullyarranged succulents, to name a few. There’s a catering staff dressed in white button-downs and pressed khakis, offering up trays of lobster bisque and Roquefort crostini with balsamic-roasted grapes. A far cry from theapéro dînatoireI’m used to in Paris, wherelow-keymeant miniquiches and pigs in a blanket from the frozen-food chain Picard. Or at most,fatayerandkibbehcatered from a Lebanese restaurant.
All around me are high-gloss mid-thirties to mid-forties women in flowy dresses, with designer booties and handbags, who have no better place to be at elevenAMon a Wednesday than in the home of the wife of some studio head, buying items that they likely don’t need, and taking pride in the idea that 20 percent of the proceeds will go to save the elephants in Africa. I’m going to need two glasses of champagne to get through this.
“Cecilia!” Anouk finds me in the elegant oval-shaped dining room, with its crystal chandelier and saffron walls. Makes her way over to the corner, kisses both my cheeks. She is wearingthatperfume.
I push last night’s dream to the back of my mind.
“I’m sorry I’m late. Have you been here long? There was a problem with the plane.” She is not self-conscious here. She’s not particularly loud, but she’s not whispering either. And whereas in groups like this I often find I want to make myself smaller, to disappear, if possible, Anouk is delightfully comfortable taking up space. As well she should be.
I notice some of the guests recognize her. Or more accurately, recognize her and then pretend they don’t. Quickly averting their eyes before a subtle glance back. The way people do with celebrities.
“Plane?” I ask her, setting down a navy-blue cashmere wrap after eyeing the price. “Did you just get in from somewhere?”
“No,” she says, and then lowers her voice. “We’re buying a new plane and Frederick is driving me insane with the details. He can’t decide on the carpet.
