“Are you enjoying it? What am I asking you? I don’t wanna know this stuff. I mean, I want you to be happy in your life, so that’s important. But like… is this just some kind of exploratory phase for you, or—?”
“I don’t know.”
“Because it can be hard out here. It’s not all Halloween and Pride parades or whatever you think it is.”
“I’m well aware of that, Andrew. Thank you. And I’m not saying I’ve undergone this drastic change or anything, I’m just saying I likeher.”
He was quiet for a moment, and then, “You like her enough to blow up your marriage? Because those kids, man. Those kids are great. And any big decisions you make affects them. Profoundly.”
“Iknow, Drew.”
“Just saying. And François is an awesome guy.”
“He’s not that awesome.”
He stops then, looks at me. A lifetime of reading each other’s secrets. “Oh, CeCe, I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. It happens. Men, right?”
“Is this some kind of retaliation?”
“I don’t know. Maybe at first, but… I don’t know.”
“Fuck,” he says.
“Do not say anything to our parents.”
“Never.”
“And stop cursing. You are not too old for them to disown you.”
In Paris, I have my people, Salima and Camille, whom I met when our firstborns were all inla crèchetogether. Aurélie and Geneviève from art school. Postcollege, I’d had my New York crew, a collectionof my closest friends from high school, college, work, and junior year abroad. We’ve since dispersed to various corners of the world, but those women are definitely my people. In Los Angeles, I have Anouk.
And only Anouk.
XXXI.LIVING WITH MINDFULNESS.
LOS ANGELES/PARIS.
JANUARY–FEBRUARY. 2016.
In January, when Victoire de Fleury is in town for the Golden Globes and a flurry of events, I shoot her forOn Beauty. For convenience, I’ve rented a small studio near her hotel in West Hollywood, and with a hair-and-makeup person and Clément, the stylist Anouk had introduced me to at Allard, we knock out a few portraits. This time on film, as opposed to the digital we used forVogue.
“Thank you so much for agreeing to do this. I so appreciate the honor,” I convey, popping my head into the dressing room, watching as she goes through the works.
“Mais, bien sûr.” She smiles over at me, her square jaw set off by a crown of small heated rollers. “The photos forVoguewereextraordinaire. Clean and simple but strong. And completely recognizable as me, which is always refreshing. My mother wanted me to tell you that they were her absolute favorites.”
“Tell her thank you.”
“How are you adjusting to LA?” She switches to French. “Are you settling in? Trying new things?”
“I am.”
An image of Anouk comes to mind. A couple of days earlier, in the guest room at our tree house. François newly departed to the salt flats of Bolivia for the fourth and final leg of shooting. The kids in school,the housekeeper off. My head between her legs. Her thighs clamping my ears. Her hips arching to meet my face. Leelou on the desk chair, watching us. Leelou, keeper of secrets.
“Good,” Victoire says, returning me to the here and now.
I am blushing.
