“Maybe.”
“Have you shot any other subjects yet?” His hand begins playing in my hair again and I feel myself relax.
“No other subjects. But still lifes, reportage. The portraits of Camille and Salima I did before we left,” I say, referencing shots I’d taken of two close friends in Paris. The former an African American expat, the latter French Moroccan. Both striking, unique. “I’m still assembling my list of subjects.”
“What about Tamsin Desai?”
“FromAzimuth?”
“Tamsin would be great.”
Tamsin was a young British actress, of South Asian ethnicity. She was new to the business, but at twenty-six, she’d landed a plum part in François’s trilogy, and consequently her star was on the rise.
“She’s an interesting girl, superintelligent, and as a woman of color, I’m sure she’d have a lot to say about beauty—especially the traditional ideas of beauty in this industry—and where she sees herself fitting in… or not.”
I mull it over. Reflecting on the shift in scale and what I am attempting to do.
“I think I’m going to need a studio, Fran. For as intricate as I want to make this. I need a space to shoot, to construct my images, to work on the recordings. To spread out and create and breathe.”
“You mean the bedroom floor isn’t enough?” He laughs. “Let’s look into renting one when we get back. It’s not like we can’t afford it.”
A breeze stirs above, and seemingly from nowhere a flock of parakeets materialize overhead. Vibrant green and vocal. Dipping and darting and rising in unison. Our eyes track them on their whimsical dance—and I grab my camera to capture their capricious choreography—until they sail up and over the villa, inland toward the hills.
“Wow.C’étaitcool! I could get used to this,” he says, after a moment.
“Lying in hammocks in the tropics?”
“No. This American life.”
“Ha,” I say. “It’s a ruse. Don’t believe the lies.”
“Is this not real?”
“This is vacation in paradise. This isn’t America.”
He rolls into me then, repositions himself, his hand cradling the side of my face. “Are you not happy here, Cile?”
“I’m very happy here. In Hawaii. But this isn’t real life, Fran.”
“Are you not happy in LA?”
“LA is… different. Extreme. I’m still adjusting.”
He’s quiet for a minute, his eyes prodding mine. Blue, then brown. Then blue again. “I really like it, Cile. I really like this new life.”
I strain to sit upright and fail, outmaneuvered by the hammock. “In LA? You like living in LA?”
He nods, says nothing.
“You’re always away, Fran. In LA, it’s just me and the kids.”
“We have so much more space. We can get a house with a view.”
“You forget all the reasons I left?”
“Yes, but some of that was the struggle. Of being young. Trying to establish yourself. Not having lots of money. The ex-boyfriend. The pressure from your parents. We don’t have any of those issues now.”
I take him in for a second. A week’s worth of razor stubble, sun-kissed cheeks, brown curls overdue for a cut. His faded T-shirt and Vilebrequin trunks. His long, tan feet. Fifteen million dollars in play.
