“And you? How crazy has it been this week?”
“A little crazy. But the good thing about this happening later in life is that I’m more grounded. I can’t imagine what it must be to have this kind of attention in your twenties or your teens.
“Also, the Hollywood glamour thing. It’s soooo much. Dress fittings and teeth whitener and Botox under the arms. And everything has to be perfect. More so than in France. Maybe because it’s a larger stage?”
Victoire stills for a moment, while the makeup artist, Jenna, thirtysomething, Italian American, applies mascara.
“But no one has any expectations of me here, so I can’t really let them down.” She smiles. “This is my face, and they are seeing it like this for the first time, wrinkles and all. I think about actresses who have been in the limelight for twenty, thirty, forty years—and my heart aches for them, a little. Because they’re constantly being compared to their younger selves.”
She pauses, while I contemplate her take on beauty and aging under a spotlight. I want to tell her all about theEllearticle I read two years prior that prompted this project. The study they cited about the differences between male and female actors in age and earning potential in the US. How actresses reached their earning peak at thirty-four, before it rapidly declined, while their male counterparts reached theirs at fifty-one, where it typically remained stable. How their explanation was thatattractivenessfor both men and women decreased with age, but the decline was greater for women.
It touched a nerve. Who makes the decisions about perceived levels of attraction and beauty in the media and entertainment? Who makes the assumption that older women as a class are more unattractive than older men? And how does that affect what they market to us, and how we see ourselves? How much is earning potential tied to beauty and not skill or talent? Who controls the conversation?
But I don’t say any of that. My goal is to make art, and let it speak for itself.
“Please remember all of this for our interview later this week,” I say to her then.
“Bien sûr.” She smiles.
Later, when Victoire is taking a call from her agent, Clément steps outside for a cigarette, and I join him to soak up some sun.
“I appreciate you calling me to do this,” he says. He’s wearing a magenta silk scarf that billows in the breeze.
“Well, it’s awards season, I knew there was a chance you’d be in town. And it’s not like I’m paying your rack rate.”
He laughs. “It’s no problem. It’s a beauty shot. A handful of tops. You could have done it yourself.”
I watch him take a long drag, exhale, roll the cigarette between his thumb and forefinger.
“Have you spoken to Anouk lately?” he asks eventually.
“Earlier this week.”
“Really?” His head pivots in my direction, one eyebrow raised. “I haven’t heard from her. I reached out right after the attacks, and she still hasn’t responded. Vivienne and Alain haven’t heard from her either.”
“I thought you guys were close.”
“Ouais. Moi aussi. That’s just how she is. One day you’re one of her favorite people and the next you’re not. She finds some bright, shinier object and moves on. Like a”—his hand flutters in the air—“papillon de nuit.”
“Moth.”
“Yes, like a moth.”
He looks up toward the hills. Multimillion-dollar homes dotting the skyline. LA in all her beautiful glory. Land of dreams. “Ah, Hollywood,” he says, fully extending his arms. “So many moths.”
One unseasonably warm morning in early February, François finds me in the dining room, sprawled over the table with a loupe and photos from my shoot with Victoire. He has recently returned from threeweeks in Bolivia, where they finally wrapped shooting theAzimuth Risingtrilogy—Before the Fall,Wintertide, andAwakening. He has only two weeks off before going into postproduction. This far into the project, with principal photography done, my husband is walking around in a constant state of flux between the anxiety of what lies before him and elation about what he already has in the bag. They came in on budget. The cast and crew are on good terms. The footage is beautiful. Sony is thrilled.
And so, when he sidles up beside me, with a cryptic smile and two cups of coffee in hand, I don’t know what to expect. He does not typically bring me coffee unsolicited.
“I have something I want to share with you.”
“A latte?”
“That. And…”
I lower my loupe and raise my gaze to meet his. He pauses for a moment, stalling.
“They asked me to present an award at the César this year.”
