Chapter XXXI. Living with Mindfulness.
XXXI.
LIVING WITH MINDFULNESS.
LOS ANGELES/PARIS.
In January, when Victoire de Fleury is in town for the Golden Globes and a flurry of events, I shoot her for On 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 for Vogue.
“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 s?r.” She smiles over at me, her square jaw set off by a crown of small heated rollers.
“The photos for Vogue were extraordinaire. 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.
Francois 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.
“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 the Elle article 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 that attractiveness for 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 s?r.” 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, Francois 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 three weeks in Bolivia, where they finally wrapped shooting the Azimuth Rising trilogy—Before the Fall, Wintertide, and Awakening.
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.”
“Really? That’s great, Fran.”
“Yes. So I accepted.”
“Already?”
They only announced the nominees the prior week.
“Yes. It’s not the kind of thing you say, ‘Oh, let me get back to you in a few.’ It would be one thing if we were still shooting, but in post I have more flexibility. Like last year, I fly out on the Wednesday, stay for three nights, and fly back on Sunday.”
“Okay,” I say, returning to the contact sheets. “Just remember to share it in our calendar.”
But he lingers by the wall of glass, staring out into the courtyard. Leelou is circling at his feet, brushing up against his jeans. He bends to stroke her back.
“I want you to come with me, Cile. Parisa can stay with the kids. Or we could fly your parents out.”
And then it clicks, the reason for his tentative approach, for the coffee.
“Is she going to be there?”
“Who?”
I stare at him. He knows exactly who I mean.
“I don’t know, Cile. Maybe.”
“Is she going to be there, Fran?”
“Probably, yes.”
It sits there between us, large and ominous. élodie. Our albatross.
I do not give him a response right away. I’m aware that this is part of the arrangement, us being a team. Me showing up as the supportive wife at his big events. Him showing up for mine. And this time there was no concussion as an excuse. I would go. But for days I simmer.
“I am absolutely dreading this,” I confide in Anouk. We are in the produce aisle of the Whole Foods on Montana.
“Why? It will be a fun night.”
“The attention, the anxiety, I need a dress…”
“She’s going to be there, isn’t she? élodie?”
She reads me so well. “She’s presenting an award.”
“With him?”
“No. Different awards, but still.”
“When last did you see her?”
“Since I’ve known? Never.”
She stops then. The weight of it, I assume, written on my face. “It’s a public outing with lots of people, Cecilia. You don’t have to engage with her more than a quick ‘salut.’”
“What if I crumble? What if I completely fall apart?”
“Why would that happen? He’s going to be with you, right? His brilliant artist wife. The mother of his two children. The fortysomething woman who is ridiculously sexy, and is completely together.…”
“Not always.”
“Mostly.” She smiles. “How old is she?”
“Twenty-seven.”
“Pffft. Twenty-seven isn’t sexy. Twenty-seven is a toddler who can’t run without falling down. Life doesn’t get exciting until thirty-six.”
I laugh.
“Seriously, Cecilia. She might be pretty and in the prime of her youth, but at her age she has little to offer beyond that. Pretty actresses are a dime a dozen. Besides, beauty isn’t paramount.
It consumes you, remember?” She reaches for a cluster of organic broccoli and begins to roughly snap them in half, separating the flowers from the stems. The latter, she places back on the shelves.
“You’re an artist,” she continues. “You have a craft. A skill. You’re a mother.
An exceptional team player, a confidante, a wife.
You’ve built a life with this man, and she doesn’t get to unsettle you because she’s the flavor of the week.
She’s a child. You’re a woman. He needs to remember that.
It’s why I like you. You’re beautiful, yes, but you are so much more than that.
If we didn’t have our board meeting that week, I would fly to Paris just to cheer you on from the sidelines.
Don’t give her the upper hand. She hasn’t earned it.
You’re his number one. Embrace your power. Assume he will follow you. He will.”
“Anouk, what are you doing with the broccoli?”
“Oh, I don’t like the stems.”
I stare at her, incredulous.