Chapter XXXI. Living with Mindfulness. #2
She looks at me as if I’m mentally deficient.
And then returns to her snapping. “I think you should wear jewel tones. You look great in jewel tones. Everyone will be wearing black. Or white. Paris is so predictable. But you show up in marigold or emerald or citrine. A modest cut but in a daring color. All eyes will go to you. You’ll look absolutely exquisite, and not like you tried too hard.
Ooh, is that kohlrabi?” she says, moving on from the beheading of the broccoli. “I so rarely see this.”
It strikes me then, her bizarre produce-selecting behavior.
Perhaps she thought snapping the heads off of broccoli was acceptable because no one had told her it wasn’t.
Whether it was her beauty, celebrity, or wealth—she was in a bubble that was so substantial, few things could penetrate it. The regular rules did not apply.
“You know, during Shavasana the other day—” She pauses for a second.
“—my yoga instructor said this profound thing. He was talking about how important it is to be able to come back into our bodies in times of stress, worry, fear, anxiety. All the things you are feeling right now. The importance of being able to locate ourselves in our bodies.” She plucks a perfect kohlrabi from the shelf and places it in her basket.
“You need to just put on a fabulous dress in which you feel like a goddess and focus on being in your body. Some meditation could really help you.”
For a moment I am thrown off-kilter. The broccoli heads.
The image of Anouk lying on a mat in a room full of other Westside women stretching and sweating in the midmorning light.
Not a nine-to-five among them. A bevy of ladies who lunch, in overpriced Lululemon, filtering their instructor’s words of wisdom.
Condensation forming on the windows from their collective steam. The off-gassing of the elite.
“Anyway, just something to think about.” She smiles at me then. “Wear a jewel tone.”
The forty-first César Awards are held on February 26, at the historic Théatre du Chatelet. I found a gown via Clément’s contact at Valentino. A sleeveless silk column dress in dark jade. It is, as Anouk directed, effortlessly exquisite.
Francois and I arrive at his scheduled time to walk the carpet.
I accompany him for photos, an act for which I never quite feel completely relaxed.
A horde of photographers calling our names.
An attempt to look down the barrel of every lens, altering my expression and position ever so slightly.
And for all the attention I’ve missed since leaving Paris, I am relieved I do not have to make my living on the prey side of the camera.
My husband, on the other hand, is completely at ease.
There is a smooth allure to his countenance.
One hand tucked into the pants pocket of his tuxedo, the other at the small of my back.
His smile cocksure. Almost arrogant. At some point I step aside and let him take solo shots, because he is the one they want, after all.
The director extraordinaire. I am just convenient eye candy.
I remain just out of frame as Fran rushes through the electronic press.
The publicist directing him from one source to another.
Quick sound bites, happy to be here, excited to announce his category, proud to represent France at the helm of Azimuth, blah blah blah.
On either side he is flanked by the crème de la crème of French film.
They make quite an assembly line: Louis Garrel, Cécile de France, Camille Cottin, Juliette Binoche.
And then, just as we are clearing the carpet, I spot her in the lineup.
She’s hard to miss. Undeniably radiant in a strapless white gown.
Her light-brown hair cascading loosely down her back, clean makeup.
She is mid-interview, and when she tucks her hair behind her ear and smiles her sexy gap-toothed smile, I think I might lose it.
It returns to me then, a rush of dark thoughts, shame, and disgrace.
The Vietnamese restaurant in the Asian Quarter that November night.
My tears spilling into the soup and the desire to stab my husband.
The million and one ways I’d imagined it.
Them, in a hotel room in Venice. Her face turned to the wall.
Him, fucking her from behind, because I’d convinced myself he felt too guilty to look her in the eye while he did so.
And because I knew he liked it that way. Her, enjoying it.
And in that moment, I remember Anouk’s advice. To focus on being in my body. The silk against my skin. The borrowed bangles stacked on both wrists, cool and sharp. The weight of my earrings. My feet in my shoes.
Francois sidles up beside me then, his fingers tracing the inside of my upper arm. It’s sensual, deliberate. He burrows his nose in my neck.
“?a va?”
“?a va.”
“Bon,” he says. And then he slides his fingers in between mine, squeezing my hand gently. A gesture of apology, perhaps. Of reaffirmation. “Let’s go find our seats.”
After, at the one AM sit-down dinner for seven hundred at Fouquet’s on the Champs-élysées, I manage to enjoy myself.
The celebration for Fatima, the story of an Arab immigrant family in France, which took home the coveted Best Film prize.
The discovery of the film’s Zita Hanrot, a young French-Jamaican woman, who’d won Most Promising Actress.
The universal appreciation for provocative, occasionally dark, emotional films that did not necessarily offer happy endings.
The endless champagne, the basking in the aura of the iconic celebrity black and whites gracing the paneled walls, the blanquette de veau.
The night is sophisticated and civilized, and I feel surprisingly more at home here than I did flitting through the lobbies of the Beverly Hilton at the Golden Globes. These, I think, these are my people.
Later, much later, when half the crowd has filtered onto the terrace to smoke cigarettes in the cold, I slip down to the restroom. I’m about to exit my stall when I hear it, her voice, soft and girlish. A slight lisp. Unmistakable.
I step out to find her at the far end of the counter with a pretty girl who looks not unsimilar.
Long hair, slender body. But élodie’s eyes are slightly larger, wider set.
Her cheekbones more pronounced. And those tiny details make her pop.
Both are reapplying their lipsticks, checking their phones, and discussing whether they’re going to head to the after-after-party at Le Queen or meet up with friends at the George V bar.
élodie suddenly goes quiet, spotting my reflection in the mirror.
The girlfriend, still buzzing about their options, doesn’t notice.
I go about washing my hands, reapplying my lips, locating myself in my body. Silk dress. Sharp bangles. My now-tired feet in my shoes.
She is painfully uncomfortable on the other side of the room. I can see it in her stiff posture, the tension in her face. I am doing my best to avoid her gaze, but then it happens. Our eyes meet in the mirror and without hesitation I smile.
“You look beautiful tonight,” I say. “That’s a great dress.”
She is dumbfounded for a moment. And likewise, I’m not certain where this kindness is coming from. “Merci.”
I nod, and before she can say anything else, I saunter to the door (aching feet be damned). “Have a good evening.” And with that I turn and head out. And I cannot help but feel that maybe, maybe I have turned a corner. Maybe I am putting the past behind me.