Chapter XLIV. Azimuth Rising.
XLIV.
AZIMUTH RISING.
LOS ANGELES.
Sylvie was right. In the days following the On Beauty vernissage, a floodgate opens.
Calls from Cherry and Martin, and Keely, and Khalil with offers and interviews and interested buyers.
Not to mention stellar reviews. The Los Angeles Times, Artnet, ArtReview.
Suddenly, it seems, my art matters. My voice matters.
And with the threat of an incoming administration where voices like mine might be diminished and dismissed, the media is determined to celebrate it.
Khalil wants to bring the show to Paris, either as a gallery solo exhibit or an installation at the Palais de Tokyo.
Cherry and Martin are making a pitch to the Whitney.
Things I have spent well over two decades working toward are beginning to come to fruition.
And yet I cannot seem to move beyond the sobriety of feeling lost, untethered. Something essential is missing.
On the second Thursday of December, Sony Pictures premiers Azimuth Rising: Before the Fall at the Westwood Village Theatre.
It is a star-studded affair, with the entire A-list ensemble cast and numerous celebrity guests in attendance.
The red carpet—actually silver, to match the space theme—stretches out before the landmark 1930s Spanish Revival theater.
They’ve closed down all of Broxton Avenue for the step-and-repeat with no fewer than forty press crews and photographers on the scene.
It is not the level of Cannes, but it makes most Paris avant-premières look like child’s play.
The film has not only garnered serious buzz, but it’s tested through the roof, and Sony has put millions into its P&A and marketing.
The release feels like an event the likes of which we have never experienced.
In an attempt to make the rollout feel more international, the studio has invited the stars from Fran’s past projects, specifically Victoire de Fleury and élodie Cloutier.
With everything that is happening, I don’t have the energy to work myself up over my husband’s former mistress being in attendance. Which, for me, is progress.
I make a (very brief) appearance on the carpet to be photographed with Francois, and then go inside to find my seat and avoid all the hoopla.
The waiting around while Fran works the carpet, the exchanging of pleasantries with those involved whom I do not know.
There’ll be enough time for that at the after-party.
But there is something absolutely thrilling about seeing my other half being lauded and appreciated on such a grand scale.
And while the world is discovering Francois Charlot as a visionary filmmaker, to me he is still the twenty-six-year-old boy who showed up at Philippe LeRoi’s studio.
The one in the thrift-store sports jacket, with his grandfather’s Hasselblad slung across his narrow frame.
And that is the image I hold on to as the lights go down.
After, when we are reveling at the reception at the W Hotel, and Fran is basking in the glow of so much adulation and top-shelf tequila, I drink in the eccentricities of Hollywood.
Pretty young girls in pretty small dresses.
Male models as caterers. Self-important studio execs.
The effortfully thin. Too many looking drawn and snatched and plumped and taxidermied.
There are numerous food stations and endless trays of champagne and silver-and-white décor that is supposed to evoke an extragalactic planet.
“Enjoying yourself, Cecilia?”
I am marveling at the celestial ice sculpture near the dessert buffet when Fran’s entertainment lawyer, Noah Feldman, and his wife, Amy, approach.
They’re a lovely couple we’ve dined with on a few occasions.
He is warm and sincere in a business where warmth and sincerity are scarce.
She is a brilliant and witty television writer.
But to Fran, the icing on the proverbial cake is that Noah grew up in Montreal, is fluent in French, and is able to explain contractual minutiae in two languages.
Three, if you count his ability to switch to Québécois.
“I am, thank you.”
“Your husband seems to be happy.”
“Very happy,” I say, glancing over to Fran at the far side of the room, where he is holding court. A swarm of sycophants in suits surrounding him.
“CAA’s new darling.”
“How long can that last?”
Noah laughs at that. “As long as he keeps making them money.”
I am taken by the sight of my husband. How comfortable he is in this environment.
How at ease in his skin. How smoothly he was able to pivot in this new world, in this space.
It isn’t even his language, and he has no problem fitting in.
He didn’t just acclimate, he transcended. Of that, I am a little envious.
“Let’s grab a dinner when this all dies down,” Amy says.
“It’s going to be a while. He’s got a world tour with this thing.”
“I know. It’s a beast,” Noah says. “And I mean that in the best of ways. Enjoy it. Filmmakers dream of this their entire lives. And for ninety-nine percent of them it never happens.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” I say.
Even if the VIP section wasn’t demarcated with reserved tables on an elevated level, I would have found it immediately by the recognizable circular swarms. I’ve now attended enough star-studded events to identify this fascinating phenomenon, the way people are attracted to celebrities and coalesce around them.
Like worker bees surrounding their queen.
Not just the celeb’s inner circle, but sycophants, hangers-on, tenuous acquaintances, all hoping to get some face time.
The more famous the celebrity, the larger the swarm.
I have to pass Idris Elba’s swarm and Cate Blanchett’s swarm and Tom Hardy’s swarm to find Tamsin. She’s in a fuchsia minidress that looks fabulous against her complexion. Her swarm is smaller, a handful of other beautiful twentysomethings. I catch her eye, and she lights up.
“Cecilia!! So great to see you! Oh my God, I’ve heard such wonderful things about your show.
This is Cecilia, everyone. She’s Francois’s wife and she’s an ahmaaazing photographer!
You have to see her show! And not just because I’m in it.
” She introduces me to her bright young things, and I feel like a middle-aged interloper.
There’s a tall boy in the group whose attention she clearly has.
Dark curls, wide mouth, great jawline, a posh British accent.
Something about him strikes me as familiar, but I can’t quite put my finger on it.
He stands across from her, his legs spread wide, one hand dwarfing the mouth of his glass (Scotch?), the other tugging at his lower lip.
“Would you like some champagne? Have you had champagne?” Tamsin asks me, swiping two flutes from a passing tray.
“I’ve had plenty, thanks.”
“Did you like the movie?”
“I did. It was great. You were great.”
“Thank you!”
The boy leans into her then, says something I can’t hear, and she laughs, loud, tossing back her head. He smiles. Perfect teeth. Dimples. Ah, youth.
I’m about to excuse myself when I spot élodie approaching the group. I’d seen her from a distance in the theater but managed to avoid contact then. However, in this intimate space, I don’t have that option. She nods politely and greets me with a demure “salut.”
I “salut” her back.
One of the twentysomethings, a redhead, throws her arms around élodie’s neck for an enthusiastic “Hello!” and I use it as an opportunity to bow out.
“Let’s catch up later,” I say to Tamsin. “Congrats!”
I spend the remainder of the evening wandering aimlessly through the party, chatting briefly with Victoire de Fleury, and Arturo Ferri, and Claire Ammer, one of Fran’s kick-ass female producers.
But all of it feels forced and fake and foreign.
I am still not versed in Hollywood culture.
The references, the schmoozing, the self-congratulation.
Film people are a different species than art people.
And I just want to be home, in my bed, in Paris. With my cat curled up at my feet.
Near the end of the night, as I am heading down a narrow corridor in the direction of the ladies’ room, I hear my name being called.
Soft, French. I recognize the voice immediately. élodie. Making her way toward me.
My skin bristles.
“C’était super, le film. Vous devez être si fière de votre mari.”
She says it in the vous form, which is … something. Is she suddenly full of respect? The woman who’d fucked my husband?
“Yes,” I say, stiffening. “I am very proud of him.”
“Alors,” she says, closing the space between us. So close to me, I can smell the oud in her perfume. “I know we haven’t really spoken, but … I wanted to say sorry. I know you know what happened … with me and Francois, and I know there’s no excuse but…”
“Don’t,” I say, my chest tightening. “I don’t need to hear it.”
“I’m sorry. It was horrible of me.” She trails off then, her eyes avoiding mine.
“The entire time we were shooting, on the ?le de Ré, he talked about you. He talked about you and the kids. How much he loved you … The shoot was intense and stressful, and he hated that you were so far away. He hated it.”
I stand there, my heart racing. My throat, dry. I am not certain what to say. I’m not sure why she’s telling me this. I attempt to focus on being in my body. My feet in my shoes. But I’ve had too much champagne. And I don’t want to think about Anouk and her mindfulness techniques.
?le de Ré. It was the location for L’Amour est le Miel. They spent six weeks shooting there in the fall of 2011. The kids were in school, naturally, and with the exception of a brief visit during the Toussaint holiday break, I did not go to the set.
Francois did not come home once.