Chapter 2
Elle
Irouse myself early the following morning and take breakfast on a teak lounger on my delightful south-facing terrace.
I have a lovely junior suite at the Hotel Martinez, bang in the middle of Cannes’ iconic La Croisette, and I’m damned if I’m not going to make use of the terrace, even if I’ve been warned about long-lens photographers.
I’m wrapped up in a fluffy white robe—I’ve nothing to hide.
Alfresco breakfasts are one of my biggest pleasures when I’m on holiday, and although my schedule here is more labour-camp than holiday, I can take some time for self-care before the craziness starts again for another day.
And so I tuck in happily to the spread in front of me as I watch staff rake the sand and lay out the mattresses for the day at the Martinez’s beach club across the road.
The sights and sounds and smells of Cannes on this calm May morning are sublime. Oh, to start every day this way!
Breakfast consists of a pot of black tea (I love French tea in its posh little muslin bags), a herb omelette which is utter perfection, and the prettiest fruit platter garnished with mint.
No gluten.
No grains.
No dairy.
I have Crohn’s disease, an autoimmune disorder that inflames my gastrointestinal tract, and while it’s landed me in hospital more than once, I’ve had success in managing it over the past couple of years through an anti-inflammatory diet.
The occasional cocktail excepted. I keep it very quiet.
There’s nothing glamorous about Crohn’s, so it’s my little secret.
I’m pondering why watermelon and mint is such a heaven-sent combination when Mara bursts into my room.
She has a key card; she’s on a mission to usher me through these frenetic days of interviews and screenings and galas and little else.
She needn’t bother; I’m perfectly capable of setting my own alarm and getting myself out of bed.
I have excellent self-discipline, but I like that she takes her job so seriously.
Gracie is a big deal for everyone involved, and this press junket needs to run smoothly, and I’m a major part of its success (the junket and the film). I get all that.
Mara’s in major mother-hen mode this week, and so I let her order me around as much as she wants.
It’s her way of caring. I have at least an hour before the interviews start, and I’m not doing any shoots in Cannes, so I don’t need much time to get myself looking presentable.
I have full hair-and-makeup treatment for all the evening events, so I’d rather keep it simple during the day and let my skin breathe.
Therefore, I’m fully prepared to push back if Mara has plans to bully me into the shower. But her face is twitching, and she looks moderately excited for her.
‘You seen Twitter?’
‘No.’
I haven’t turned my phone off Airplane Mode yet. I’ve been enjoying ignoring the existence of the outside world beyond this breakfast, and this view, and the heavenly breaths of still-fresh air on my bare legs.
Her perfect eyebrows shoot up. ‘Well, let me tell you, young lady. You’ve caused quite a stir.’
Huh? ‘What kind of stir?’
‘A viral one. Look.’ She holds out her phone, which is a far more expensive model than mine and clad in a black Valentino Rockstud case. I take it. The Twitter app is open and as I scroll, I see the same video reposted again and again and again.
It’s one of me and Josh Lander dancing.
Oops.
I look up at her, and she nods tersely. ‘Check out the hashtag. JELLERY. You and Josh are trending. Watch it.’
I don’t really do Twitter. I mean, I post links about Gracie and I dutifully retweet any press about it, but that’s really it. I don’t engage much. I have an undeservedly decent following, but I’m still an unknown in the Twittersphere and in the world more broadly.
I click on one of the videos, whose caption is #JELLERY followed by lots of flame emojis, and watch. Oh, holy cow.
Someone with a great view of us has captured everything.
They were clearly filming me dancing before Josh Lander even shimmied up behind me.
I’m going for it. I’m not ashamed—I’ve been told often enough I’m a great (if dirty) dancer—but I’m a bit shocked it’s all over Twitter.
And my dress looks fab. I am indeed a human disco ball.
Oh.
There he is.
He sidles up, a huge grin visible on his face, and tucks in behind me. I clock him and look back, and there’s the hint of a smile on my face, but thank God I don’t fangirl too hard. And we go for it in sync.
‘Watch his face,’ Mara says unnecessarily, because I can’t focus on anything else. It’s not always visible as he matches me squat for squat, but once he stands up and allows me to continue my hooker moves, I get a perfect view. I and the rest of the world.
He’s transfixed. His eyes are on me as I gyrate and shimmy up and down the length of his body. He’s definitely checking out my bum, and at one point he clenches and unclenches his fist before he slides his hand over my waist and begins to move with me again.
And his face. I wasn’t wrong about that glimpse I caught when I looked back at the end of our dance.
He runs his free hand through his dirty blonde hair and seems to bite his lip.
His jaw—that gorgeous, angular jaw—clenches.
If I was an objective viewer, I’d say the expression on his face was priceless.
‘It’s priceless,’ Mara says. ‘He looks so fucking turned on.’
‘Oh my gosh.’ I put my hand over my eyes. ‘Don’t say that.’
‘What? It’s true. And you can’t be surprised—you basically gave the guy a fucking lap dance. I’m surprised he didn’t stick a fifty between your tits.’
I cringe. ‘I can’t imagine that makes much of a change from his usual nights out, then.’
It’s true. Josh Lander has a reputation for partying hard.
Drinks. Drugs. Women. God knows what else.
‘It’s probably a turn-on for him when he doesn’t have to pay for it.’ Mara grabs her phone back.
‘I’m sure he never has to pay for it.’
She ignores me. ‘The press are loving it. Typical. Your beautiful film premiers with the performance of a lifetime, and all the papers want to talk about is whether you and Josh Lander went home and had sex.’
‘Oh my God.’ I sit up straight. ‘They inferred that from a dance?’
‘The Post called you a “mystery starlet.” Mystery starlet my arse. These people are such fucking philistines. Well, that’ll come back to bite them on the arse. You’re about to become one of the biggest faces in the industry.’
‘What should I do? About…’ I gesture ineffectually.
‘Lap dance-gate? Ride it out. It’s amazing publicity—once the tabloids figure out who the fuck you are. Fuck’s sake. But no, babe, this is fantastic. I couldn’t have plotted it better myself.’
‘Please tell me you didn’t set this up.’ I wouldn’t put anything past Mara.
Her lips curve into a smile, and once again I wish I was as sexy and streetwise as her. Not in this lifetime.
‘I’m not that smart. Wish I was. Oh, holy fucking shit.’
‘What now?’ My stomach sinks.
‘Oh, it’s good.’ She holds out her phone screen for me to see. ‘Josh Lander just retweeted the video.’
I lean in and squint to read the tweet in the glare of the morning light.
Josh (I’m calling him Josh in the same way that I would refer to Brad Pitt as Brad, because he’s so obscenely famous that he’s the only Josh that matters, not because I dare to presume to have any claim on him, despite lap dance-gate) has retweeted a tweet from gossip king Perez Hilton.
Perez’s tasteful caption is @joshlander is having a good evening . How rude!
But it’s Josh’s response that gets me. He’s captioned the retweet with two words.
Busted, dude.
‘He must have been hammered when he wrote it.’ Honor Chapman brandishes a glass of champagne as she perches on my sofa. ‘Hammered or high as a kite. You know what they say about him.’
Honor runs a cosmetics brand called, intuitively enough, Honor Chapman Cosmetics. She took a chance on me after my first film, in which I had a tiny part, and I’m now formally an ambassador for the brand. More specifically, I’m her newest ‘face’.
She also happens to be one half of a couple so famous that I’m completely in awe.
Her husband, Jackson James, is a massive British action movie star, so Honor’s at the Film Festival with a variety of hats on.
She’s in my suite this evening ostensibly to oversee the work of her talented Head Makeup Artist, Lucinda, but I suspect she’s come mainly for the gossip.
I’m fine with that. It’s comforting to have her here; she’s so kind and so well-versed in the machinations of this weird world I’m entering. She and Astrid Carmichael, her great friend, have taken me under their wing.
Astrid is a high-end fashion designer with a brand that epitomises upper-class British living.
Like her brand, she’s classy and elegant.
And, like Honor, she’s warm and generous with her time and advice.
She started dressing me for events as soon as Honor introduced us, and this week I’m proudly flying the flag for the British fashion industry in not one but three Astrid Carmichael dresses.
One for my premiere last night, one for the amfAR Gala tonight and one for the Closing Ceremony next Saturday, when I’ll know my fate.
‘Do you know Josh Lander personally?’ I speak through the side of my mouth, trying not to move my head as Lucinda ministers to my brows.
‘I think you’re probably on first-name terms with him now, darling, seeing as you gave the guy an erection,’ Astrid quips.
I let out a groan. ‘Please. Don’t even. I can’t believe he wrote Busted. Do you really think he’s a druggie?’
‘To answer your questions in order, yes, I’ve met him a few times with Jackson, and yes, I’ve heard some chatter about substance abuse. But honestly, that’s equally true for most people in Hollywood. Everyone’s either permanently high or in NA, as far as I can tell.’
‘NA?’
‘God, you’re innocent. Bless you. Narcotics Anonymous.’
‘Oh.’ I make a mental note never, ever to live in Hollywood.
It sounds like quite a messed-up place. And I’m not about to make any assumptions about a guy I don’t know beyond what I’ve gleaned as a lifelong Daily Mail reader, but Honor’s comments are another reminder that I’m out of my depth here.
I should just chalk this tabloid coverage of last night’s antics with Josh Lander up to some fun memories of a very Cannes night.