He’d made it.
I was starting to resent him.
“We… still have this American sense of superiority, entitlement, and consumption, François.Westill have the ‘live to work’ mentality, as opposed to ‘work to live.’Westill have no universal healthcare.”
He sighs at that. The studio was able to get some coverage for my car accident, but we were obligated to pay six thousand dollars out of pocket. An amount that would be unheard of in France.
“Westill have structural racism,” I continue.
“We have a Black president.…”
“Not for much longer.”
“And then we’ll have a woman.”
“If we’re lucky. Nothing is guaranteed. We still have guns. We have school shootings.”
“Not at a place like Bancroft we don’t. We would save so much on taxes, Cile. We restructure everything. Keep the apartment but make Los Angeles our primary residence. I spoke to a tax lawyer.”
I sit up then, successfully. “You’re serious? You really want to stay?”
He’s quiet for a second, his eyes penetrating. “I’m thinking about it, yes.”
“Fuck, François.”
“I’m just thinking about it. Are you crying? Don’t cry, Cile.”
“I’m not crying,” I say, my voice quaking. “I just… LA is a nice vacation, Fran, but I don’t want to live there. I don’t belong there. I can’t create. I mean, I can, but something is missing. I’m biding time. I’m not living my life.”
“You still have your life.”
“Fran.”
“Okay,” he says. “Okay. It was just an idea. We don’t have to decide anything right away.”
“That was never the plan.”
“Okay, Cecilia,” he repeats. “Okay.”
But I can’t help but think that for him, it likely was.
XXV.BEFORE THE FALL.
LOS ANGELES.
SEPTEMBER. 2015.
September comes quickly.
When production forAzimuth Risingmoves to the Sony lot in Culver City, we settle into a new pattern around François’s schedule. Julien and Lucie return to Bancroft and their regular activities. Soccer for him, ballet for her—including the highly anticipatedNutcrackerauditions. I find a sizable studio to let, in the Palms area, not far from Sony, containing a small office, makeshift dressing room, and kitchenette. I spend a few weeks filling it with the necessary equipment and a few amenities: a desk, a sofa, an espresso machine. The kids and I have dinner together most nights, with Fran joining us on the rare occasions he wraps shooting early. And on the days when I’m not working on any projects—when the kids are in school and Fran on the Sony soundstage for twelve-hour stretches—I indulge in time with Anouk. Hikes in Temescal Canyon, guided tours at LACMA, bike rides on the beach. A trampoline class, a course in aerial silks, yoga. Activities that pass the smell test with my husband. We pick up where we left off at the beginning of the summer—I don’t bring up the thing with Minnie, she doesn’t bring up class with Lorry—and our connection is again intimate and easy. For the most part.
Anouk had returned from France with her seventeen-year-old son in tow. He was completing his senior year at Windwood, where he’d been since middle school. According to Anouk, the transition had been near seamless. He had fallen in with his old friends, warmed to his empathetic American teachers, and the house was once again filled with the sounds of his piano playing. She talked about him often, thrilled to have her “petit chouchou” back. But I hadn’t met him until that Wednesday in mid-September.
Following a trampoline class in Playa del Rey, Anouk and I returned to her place to luxuriate in the sauna and lie out by the pool. Ames bringing us platters of fruit, crudités, and freshly baked kale chips, courtesy of Freja, the Longmores’ personal chef from Copenhagen. Apparently, Danish chefs were having a moment.
“Tell Freja ‘Mange tak,’ Ames,” Anouk requested upon their arrival, before turning to me. “She is magnificent. She was a sous-chef at Noma, you know. I can never go back to eating store-bought kale chips.”
I’d never given much thought to kale chips, store-bought or otherwise.
