Lou #2
It was a star-studded movie, backed by a big studio.
The directing debut of renowned actor Odetta Olson—one of my childhood heroines—and sure to get great buzz.
And now it was in the official selection at Cannes, a contender for the Palme d’Or.
Tomorrow was the world premiere. My role was small but significant.
I had to be here. This was me meeting the life of my dreams. Smiling at my future self and saying, “We’re in for a ride, baby! ”
I suppressed another yawn. Damn that jet lag.
Liza took a measured sip. “How’s your hotel?”
I was (it’s probably obvious by now) not staying at the Carlton. “Really charming, and it’s not that far from the action. I love a walkable town. I discovered so many pretty little streets on the way here.”
Until the very last minute, I had hoped the movie studio would stop their idiotic nonsense and put me up somewhere nice.
I’d already be “in the neighborhood.” All they had to do was book me a room.
By the time I’d accepted that they weren’t going to spend a single dollar on me, there was nothing left but a crappy chain hotel far away from everything.
I’d checked in a couple of hours ago, pretended not to notice the scratchy sheets and the paper-thin walls, and skipped out of there as fast as I could.
To the Carlton. Where I belonged. Theoretically.
“And my pass to the premiere?” I asked, casually.
The neutral look in Liza’s eyes gave nothing away. “I’m working on it.”
I clenched my teeth. “I cannot wait for tomorrow.”
I could handle not being invited to tonight’s opening ceremony. I knew to be reasonable, sometimes. You can’t ask for everything.
Liza’s phone rang, the upbeat ringtone clashing with the jazz background music. Surely, she wasn’t going to interrupt our celebration.
Apparently, I couldn’t be sure of anything.
“Honey! Yes, I’m here. Drinking champagne with a client in the middle of the afternoon. I’d say I’m in Cannes, all right.”
She winked at me. Five years ago, I’d been over the moon to sign with Liza Blick, Hollywood agent of the shiny shark variety.
She had gotten me work. Not a lot, and not a lot of it well paid, but she had made me an actor.
A professional. Liza had plucked me out of obscurity and placed me in shadowy parts of the industry, where I awaited my big break.
Thanks to her, I was someone on the verge of something, which was a lot better than being on the edge of nothing.
But right then, I might have contemplated punching her just a little bit.
She continued her conversation, oblivious. “But of course, darling! You know I’m always here for you.”
Another wink at me. I thought I recognized an Oscar-winning actor across the room and was halfway up from my stool, ready to go introduce myself.
“Don’t stare,” Liza mouthed.
“I wasn’t,” I said, glancing at the actor again.
Liza pressed her hand over her phone and whispered, “Everyone is famous here. Get used to it.”
Liza droned on about contracts to be negotiated and deals to lock in while here “across the pond.” I downed my champagne.
This wasn’t exactly how I pictured my introduction to glamorous Cannes.
I picked up my phone and checked my Instagram account, where I had built up to a decent following over the last few years.
I shared behind the scenes of movie lots, script pages, costume fittings, that sort of thing.
I spread my content as thinly as I could, like the last scoop of peanut butter, making one rehearsal session look like five different ones.
Busy, busy me, manifesting my bright future.
Showing my family how hard I worked at it.
To my modest but growing audience, it was the selfies that did the heavy lifting.
I was a blue-eyed blond with slim features and sharp cheekbones.
One day, I’d get compliments for my range of accents or how my face seamlessly contorted to convey pretty much any emotion.
But for now, look at me doing yoga on the beach at sunset or lying poolside in a little bikini!
Enter my big Cannes moment.
I’d already shared a picture of the beautiful bar to kick things off, and the likes were filling up my notifications.
A story by Odetta Olson caught my attention.
She’d arrived in Cannes that morning and had posted the view (sailboats, lush palm trees, you get the picture) from her hotel suite, probably a few floors above me right now.
On the next slide: a rack of couture dresses brought over to her suite by her stylist, the sought-after Carly Wolf.
Then, minutes ago: a rooftop bar called Le Bain with the caption, Checking out the venue for tonight’s pre-premiere party!
Liza must have noticed the look on my face because she stopped gabbing and questioned me with a perched eyebrow.
“Honey, I’ll see you in a bit, okay?” Liza said, hanging up.
I’d read up a lot on what happened in Cannes and expected there would be a party after the premiere tomorrow.
If Odetta Olson was also hosting one tonight, why didn’t I know about it?
I would have asked that out loud if a fifty-something man hadn’t approached us at the same moment. Liza got up to greet him.
“Patrick!” she said, as they kissed on each cheek.
Liza didn’t even introduce me.
I kept scrolling on my phone while they chatted. There had to be an explanation. Maybe it was a last-minute thing. Maybe Liza was going to tell me about it before we were interrupted.
That Patrick guy kissed her goodbye. Immediately after, Liza spotted someone else across the room.
“Sweetie, I gotta go,” Liza said, already slipping her arm through the handle of her bag.
“I’ll wait for you!”
Liza flinched. It had sounded less whiny in my head. But she wasn’t going to leave me here, on the eve of my big night? We had to celebrate.
“My schedule is packed with meetings that have been planned for weeks. If I don’t see you again, remember, we’re playing the long game.”
It was my fault then. I hadn’t told her I was coming until two days ago because I knew she’d try to talk me out of it. There I was disappointing her by turning up pretty much unannounced.
The check materialized in front of us. I looked at Liza. Liza looked at me. And then I had an idea. Maybe not the best idea in retrospect. But also not the worst I would end up having in Cannes.
“I’ll get this.”
Liza made a move for her wallet. “You don’t have to…”
I whipped out my credit card and handed it to the bartender.
“You’ll get the next one. I’m here for another four days. I really want to see you again.”
She was already waving goodbye and speed walking toward the other side of the bar to someone more important.
So I guess what I’m trying to say is that I’ve always believed in signs.
But there are the signs you yearn to see and the ones your subconscious forces you to ignore.
Liza liked to say that I was the perfect client.
I was a hard worker, a total delight. I was following my path, enjoying the stupid journey, calling any bump in the road an “opportunity.” She loved me for it.
I slid my credit card back into my wallet, glad that I hadn’t bothered to look at the amount on the check.
What I didn’t know couldn’t hurt me. And what Liza didn’t know couldn’t hurt her, either.
Like I said, the universe had offered me a most fabulous role in this career-making movie, just as I was about to give up on acting.
I had made it. I was in the process of making it.
No one and nothing could take this away from me now.
At least it was nice to believe that, for the short while it lasted.