Chapter 9 Elle
Elle
Josh does let me go, obviously, but for as little time as possible. Over the next week, we’re attached at the hip.
And several other body parts.
That he’s not here to promote a specific film makes it easier for us to snatch time together.
He’s incredibly sweet. Attentive. Adoring.
He brings me lunch when I get breaks between interviews, and we eat in the hotel room or out on the terrace.
A couple of times we even slip over to the Martinez’s beach club for seared tuna salads. Paps be damned.
The paps are indeed all over us like a rash. We’re the hottest story out of Cannes, even though most of the gossip rags are speculating that our fledgling relationship is actually manufactured to boost Gracie’s publicity.
I get it, I suppose. I mean, Gracie’s a little indie movie that needs all the publicity it can get.
And if I were to put out for the movie (which is an offensive suggestion in itself), Josh Lander’s the biggest and most perfect star I could target.
But no one who sees us together can surely doubt that this is the real deal.
The true story is far more fun, and some of the press have jumped on that: the ‘posh British princess’ (so they’ve dubbed me) and the all-American playboy, who’s basically Hollywood royalty. The NSFW dance floor meet-cute that went viral. And the PDAs that definitely aren’t for effect.
There have even been some photos of Josh rubbing sun cream very attentively on my bum cheeks up on the pier of the Martinez’s beach club.
My bikini was particularly small that day (thanks to pressure from Bad Boy Josh) and there were definite overtones of Ben and J-Lo that I’m not proud of.
But, hey. The experience itself was particularly gratifying.
What can I say? He’s good with his hands.
And all his other body parts.
The press is certainly getting enough of those PDA shots to fuel speculation that we could actually be sincere in our courtship.
When we walk, he has his arm around me the whole time.
When I speak, he gazes at me in rapture and strokes my fringe from my face (or maybe I should say my ‘bangs’. He’s so cute).
My favourite headline so far?
FALLING STARS, courtesy of the Daily Mail. That one gave me goosebumps.
We’ve spent every night together since that first night. I was a bit worried about that, but not for the reasons you might think. It’s really because of my Crohn’s.
If you aren’t familiar with Crohn’s, think of the least sexy, least glamorous, most embarrassing and revolting illness you could have.
My medical team thinks it was triggered by a bout of glandular fever when I was fifteen.
I’ve been dealing with digestive disasters ever since, but being on a strict autoimmune protocol for my diet has really helped, so now most of my flare-ups come from being overwhelmed, stressed, or anxious.
That’s the really rubbish part. I get anxious that I’ll get a flare-up, and guess what? My anxiety brings on a flare-up. I’ve tried everything, believe me. Hypnotherapy and aromatherapy. Meditation and massage. Yoga and reiki. Acupuncture and homeopathy.
Some of it helps. But the best thing I can do is manage my lifestyle, so I’m not overworking and I leave space between big things—like long-haul travel or parties or long shooting days—so my body has time to recalibrate and rest.
Because it’s all so embarrassing and deeply personal, I don’t talk about it.
At all. My family has been amazing, and my closest friends know—my best friend from uni, Nora, and Mara, obviously.
And Tina. I told her out of courtesy (the insurance company for the film needed to know, anyway) but also so we could work together on managing my shooting schedule to avoid overloading me.
If I have a flare-up and end up in hospital, or even just bedridden for a few days, nobody gains.
But otherwise, I don’t talk about it, and I’m definitely not planning on telling Josh.
Not yet, anyway. Imagine being told your brand-new kind-of-girlfriend, who has been pulling out all the stops to impress you with her sexy new underwear and tiny bikinis and who is totally star-struck by you, actually has an illness that makes her involuntarily empty the contents of her bowels into her pants with no control from time to time, and even poos out blood clots straight from the lining of her inflamed intestines. Yeah. I know. It’s a bit heavy.
Annoyingly, my flare-ups are often worst first thing in the morning.
I don’t know why, but it means I’m extremely antsy about doing anything too active first thing.
I never, ever go for early morning runs, for example.
So, the morning I was due to have my hiking date with Josh, I purposely set my alarm for 5am and took it really easy, doing some gentle yoga to test how my body was feeling, and drinking camomile tea to soothe my gut before I went out with him.
But thankfully, my body has been on board all week, and nothing embarrassing has happened.
I was worried Cannes would be so frenetic that it would cause a flare-up, but I’ve been fine.
Maybe all the orgasms Josh Lander is doling out are acting as panaceas to my nervous system and keeping inflammation at bay.
I don’t know.
But I’m grateful.
I’ve met this incredible man, who makes me starry-eyed and gooey whenever I’m with him, and I haven’t pooed my pants. I’ll take that.
Tonight is the Closing Ceremony, when the committee awards the prizes to the best of the competition.
I’ve spent the afternoon getting ready with Astrid and Honor, whose brands are dressing me and making me up for my final red-carpet appearance.
As Lucinda once again works magic with my face, we all chat about Josh. Obviously.
‘I have to say I’m impressed,’ Honor says. ‘I wouldn’t have thought he had it in him, but he’s been positively attentive this week, from what I’ve seen.’
‘Not that you read the tabloids.’ Astrid nudges her.
‘Ahem. Of course not. It’s just nice when they talk about someone else but me and Jackson. But you two look adorable together.’
I sigh in a not very cool schoolgirl-type way. ‘He’s amazing. He’s been so sweet.’
‘Good in bed?’ Astrid asks nonchalantly, and they all laugh when I blush.
‘Come on!’ Lucinda blows some excess powder off my under-eye area. ‘Throw us a bone, love.’
‘Let’s just say,’—I consider my words—‘there’s a reason I’ve spent every night this week with him, and it’s not because I’m cold.’
They whoop, and Honor high-fives me, causing Lucinda to glare at her.
‘Good girl, Elle!’ Astrid says. ‘Who would have thought it—Josh Lander, head over heels. But I get it. You’re so gorgeous and smart. You must be like a breath of fresh air to him. I’m a little envious, I have to say.’
Astrid, for the record, is stunning. She’s a (natural, Swedish) platinum blonde who always looks like a silver screen film star.
She’s married to an extremely successful hedge fund manager, Mark, and they have a little girl, Tabby, who’s four and just as gorgeous as her mother.
(I don’t like Mark. I’m sure he was hitting on me when I met him at Astrid’s fashion show in February, and I’m usually really clueless about that kind of thing.
But he made it quite obvious. She could do better; that’s all I’m saying.)
‘Can I address the elephant in the room?’ Honor asks. ‘Have you guys talked about what’s going to happen after Cannes?’
It is indeed the elephant in the room, because tomorrow evening I’ll be on my flight back to Heathrow, and Josh will be on a private jet back to LA with his A-list buddies.
‘I was obviously a little nervous about bringing it up,’ I tell them, ‘because, you know, I didn’t want to seem too keen.
But it was all Josh. He mentioned it quite a few days ago, asked me if we could keep seeing each other once we got back home.
He said he thought we had something special together, and I agree. ’
Honor and Astrid exchange an impressed look.
‘What have you done with the real Josh Lander?’ Honor asks. ‘That’s amazing, sweetie. I’m so pleased for you. Our boy has fallen. Hook, line and sinker. I gather you feel the same?’
I consider how I feel when I’m with Josh.
How secure and adored he makes me feel. And how he’s never made any issue of the fact that he’s mega-famous and I’m just a newbie.
And obviously, I consider the ridiculous amount of lust and idolisation I have for him.
I’m in pretty deep. I think about him every waking minute. I crave him.
‘I’ve also fallen, big time. God help me.’
JOSH
I’m sitting with Brad and Davide at the Closing Ceremony, further forward than I would have managed on my own because a movie they co-financed is a part of the competition.
Elle and I arrived separately. She had to turn up with her Gracie crew so they could all have their red-carpet walkabout together.
To say I’m excited for her, and nervous for her, and proud of her, would be a huge fucking understatement.
Ellery Hart has blown me away, on screen and in person, more than I could ever have thought possible.
She’s one in a million, and the best part is she has no fucking clue how brightly her star is shining right now. Will shine.
Those offers will come flooding in after this, even if she doesn’t get Best Actress. She’s on everyone’s radar now, and not just for art-house movies. Those looks are gold dust. She is commercial gold, and she’s going to hit the big-time. I hope her agent’s ready.
Gracie wins the Palme d’Or, as expected, and the crowd goes fucking wild.
We’re all on our feet, cheering and clapping and stamping as the entire team goes up on stage to receive the award.
This is a big deal. Tina Winston is only the second female director after Jane Campion to be awarded this honor by the committee.
Elle’s up there with the rest of them, beaming from ear to ear and hugging Tina, and that douche who plays her boss, and some others I don’t know.
She is a total queen in a platinum sheath, her golden hair up and fuck-off diamonds on her ears.
I can’t wait to take that dress off later.
I can’t wait to move inside her while I tell her how fucking amazing she is, how much she blows my mind.
And I’m so goddamn happy she’s had this recognition for her movie, because there’s no doubt in my mind that her performance closed the deal. Even if she doesn’t get Best Actress.
She gets Best Actress.
And I am over the fucking moon. I’m unleashed.
I stick my fingers in my mouth and whistle; I stomp and punch the air.
My girl. My amazing girl, whom I’ve only just met and can barely lay claim to, is the queen of fucking Cannes, smashing it with a performance so nuanced and raw and enticing that everyone’s fallen for her.
This time, when she takes her place on the stage, it’s just her and Léa Seydoux, who’s presenting the award.
Léa’s a beautiful, seductive woman, a Cannes veteran, but in my mind there’s no contest. My girl shines.
She literally shines, and she’s the most adorable mix of being genuinely ecstatic and impressively poised.
She thanks the committee in what sounds to my dumb ears like perfect French, which is very, very sexy.
Maybe I’ll get her to speak French to me later.
In bed.
When she’s naked and wrapped around me.
The English part of her speech is short and self-deprecating and perfect. Deflecting the praise, and telling the audience Tina deserves most of this award for her incredible, sensitive direction and for coaxing out of Elle a performance she didn’t know she had in her.
My girl’s a class act. Tonight’s the starkest possible reminder of that. And so it’s no surprise that tonight, of all the nights since I saw her and went in for the kill, my freaking inner monster decides to goad me.
You’re a fucking joke, dude.
This woman’s the real deal.
She’s going stratospheric.
You’re a fucked-up dick who can’t get through an evening without half a bottle of scotch and a few lines.
Not until you met her, anyway.
She’s gonna figure it out—figure out you’re an empty shell dressed up like a pretty boy, and she’s going to leave you for fucking dust.