Lou
It would have been such bad karma to turn up to Odetta Olson’s party uninvited. I was definitely not going to do that.
After leaving Liza, I went back to my hotel room to unpack, freshen up, and reset my mind.
So what if our celebration had turned short?
What if the studio executives were being dicks?
That was on them. The recognition I’d always dreamed of was less than twenty-four hours away.
Great things were coming for me; it was time to start acting like it.
Even though Odetta Olson had tagged the location of the party in her story, it did not constitute an invitation.
I knew that. Just like I knew—after a quick search—that the venue was centrally located, close to the beach, off the Croisette.
An obvious destination for my first day in Cannes.
So off I went to the town’s famous waterfront.
Along the way, I let myself get tempted by two scoops of pistachio at one of the many ice-cream carts. That would be my dinner, and it was the perfect flavor, creamy and fragrant. My body didn’t know what time of day it was anyway.
I kept walking, going nowhere in particular.
But that’s the funny thing about following your dream: at some point I—randomly, I swear—ended up in the vicinity of the rooftop bar that was the venue for Odetta Olson’s party.
And then I guess my steps took me the rest of the way.
Now that I was there, I had to take a peek inside.
Which is how I found out that there was a guest list. And someone at the door to check against it.
The young woman with the clipboard was about my age. She was friendly but all business. I told her my name—what was the harm in that?—and she kept her face neutral as she informed me that I wasn’t on the list.
It wasn’t a huge shock since, you know, I never got an invitation to this party, but I’d come so far already.
“I promise you I’m definitely in the movie.” I laughed because it was all so funny. The stairs behind her led to the roof where the few guests ahead of me had disappeared. “These are my colleagues, from set. Can you look again? It’s spelled U.T.L.E.Y.”
“I’m sorry,” she said with a sad smile.
No, no, no. No one would ever take pity on me.
“I’m here as a surprise. No one knew I was coming.”
The woman glanced behind me. The line was growing longer. My chin quivered, the fatigue and disappointment crashing into me like an eighteen-wheeler. I muttered a halfhearted apology and stepped away from the crowd.
But I couldn’t bring myself to leave. The party was on the rooftop, but the bar at street level was open to everyone.
I found the bathroom down a hallway painted in navy-blue gloss.
Inside, an overpowering jasmine scent hit me.
Three young women were huddled around the copper sinks, reapplying their lipsticks and checking their hair.
“I can’t believe Fiona Pills is posting photos from her movie set in Scotland,” the one in a red jumpsuit said.
“She’s totally snubbing Cannes,” the one with curly hair added.
The third one was in a metallic green dress so fitted it looked painted on. “Who has the flex to ditch one of the biggest movie events of the year?”
I stood there, drinking in the gossip. They were so deep in it they didn’t notice me.
“Do we think Odetta Olson is such a horrible bitch?” Red Jumpsuit said.
Green Dress grunted. “If only we could get into that damn party.”
“Carly Wolf is bringing her assistant, and they couldn’t let us in?”
Curly Hair shook her head, disgusted. She put the cap back on her lipstick and slid it in her clutch.
“How’d you even know that?” Green Dress asked.
My question exactly.
“Instagram,” Curly Hair said with a shrug. Then, finally, she saw me in the mirror. “You got rejected too?”
I shook my head. As an actor, I had significant experience in the field of rejections. I’d bathed in the humiliating sound of silence way too many times. But I’d always picked myself up and kept going.
That was the only thing I could do.
“I must have gone through the wrong door. Sorry!”
In the hallway, I checked Carly Wolf’s Instagram account.
She’d just posted about being on her way (on their way) to their first Cannes event and had tagged the woman next to her outside their rented villa as they waited for their ride.
I tapped on the tagged account: Ashley Todd, assistant to Carly Wolf, her bio said.
I’d flown all the way over to Cannes to get a front row seat to my big breakout. This was my movie, my party. How could I not be invited? It was a misunderstanding; I needed to find a way to correct it.
I made my way back to the main entrance, silently praying that Carly Wolf and her assistant hadn’t arrived yet.
I refused to let myself think about the poor victim of the crime I was about to commit.
There was a greater purpose here. My brain buzzed with excuses as to why I’d given a different name before, but it turned out I wouldn’t need one.
The universe had heard me. At the top of the line, Marnie—though I didn’t know her name yet or the important role she would come to play in my life—was handing her clipboard to a blond guy in an oversized suit.
When it was my turn, I barely glanced at him as I muttered “Ashley Todd,” my heart racing. He nodded. I was in.
I’d never done anything like this before.
In the last few years, Los Angeles had started to wear off on me.
I’d gotten deep into manifestation. I’d read books on cosmic purpose.
One might be eager to point out that stealing someone’s identity to get into a party was bad juju, but this was where I was meant to be.
As soon as I arrived on the rooftop, all was forgotten. The swirl of sights and sounds swept me up. Most women shone bright in saturated hues and vivid prints. Men wore slim-fitted suits and tie, shiny cuff links on their wrists.
In the background, the last sun rays reflected on sea waves.
A female DJ with a long side braid played, I assumed, French pop hits.
A swimming pool sparkled in the center of the space.
The air was crisp, the servers handsome, presenting their offerings on silver trays and spelling them out with that sexy accent. Plus the drinks were free.
Heading in deeper, I accepted a champagne flute like I did this all the time, but I ignored the oysters.
I couldn’t be my charming self with my mouth full.
Before this trip, I’d done my research on the people associated with the movie that I might meet or see again in Cannes.
Now I had a hard time recognizing anyone.
Another server offered me a flute. I glanced down at mine, surprised to see I’d already finished it. I wasn’t a big drinker because I couldn’t afford to be (and alcohol is not good for your skin), but I swapped my glass for a full one anyway.
As I did, a man grabbed a drink as well and smiled at me. He was in his forties, with brown skin and a thick mop of black hair. His face looked familiar, though it took me a minute to place him.
“You’re Marshall Wild,” I said, as he was walking away.
He looked back at me.
“I’m Lou Ocean Utley. I mean Lou.”
I held out a hand and he shook it.
“You’re one of the producers,” I added, eager to make a good impression.
“Hi,” he said warmly.
“You’ve worked on some of my favorite movies of the last few years. Running Wild? Oh my god, I bawled my eyes out. Saw it three times.”
“We like to hear that.”
“And Extinguished? So heartfelt. It was robbed of the Oscar, if you ask me. Robbed!”
I was gushing now, like a groupie. And I was determined to keep holding his attention.
He looked back to the group he’d been with.
Odetta Olson—brown hair tied in an elaborate bun, arms no doubt chiseled by hours of weight lifting—was holding court in a shimmery turquoise dress.
I should really go over and thank her again for this most incredible role.
The last time I’d seen her, on set, was almost a year ago.
But Marshall focused on me again. “I’m sorry, who are you again?”
“Lou Ocean Utley,” I said, then immediately wanted to slap my face with a hard pack of ice for mentioning my middle name again, as if I was being interrogated by passport control at the airport.
Though, of course, that wasn’t the name I would give at passport control.
That would be Ophelia Louise Utley. Growing up, I loved to play around with different stage names, filling pages and pages of my cute notebooks with them.
By age fourteen, I’d settled on Lou, L.O.U.
It would be a cool interview tidbit, when that time came.
Because the time would come when the world would want to know every last detail about me. That was a fact.
Marshall motioned to the space around us. “Well, this is another winner. From the moment I started working on this movie, I knew it would be special. It took hard work, but now we have our masterpiece.”
I couldn’t contain my joy at hearing this. “You saw the movie?”
“We held early screenings.” Noticing the look on my face, he added, “For a select few.”
“Right,” I said with a giggle.
Like the heavy cloak of FOMO hadn’t already descended on me. I straightened up, turned slightly to my left, showing him my better angle, and resisted the urge to flick my hair back.
“Everyone involved is so talented. I’m really happy I get to be a part of this,” I said.
“So I’ll see you at the premiere tomorrow?” Marshall said.
“Obviously.”
I was dying to ask what he thought of my performance, but even a few champagnes in, that felt a little desperate. I’d been in period clothing and makeup, fifties-style, with platinum blond hair. It made sense that he didn’t recognize me.
A server carrying a tray of mini tuna tartare cups waltzed by. Marshall accepted one and ate it in one bite. I finished my drink and placed it too hard on the food tray, not realizing it didn’t belong there. The server almost lost his balance and grunted as he went on his way.
I was already embarrassing myself. And then I went right ahead and made it ten times worse.
“I’m an ignorant housewife,” I blurted out. I was referring to my character in the movie, hoping to jog his memory. “I’m on antidepressants, but they’re not working.”
“Oh.” Marshall delicately wiped the corners of his mouth.
“My husband doesn’t see how beautiful I am.”
His smile disappeared. “Hmm…”
This was not going how I’d hoped. Sometimes I wished I had a screenwriter next to me at all times, someone good with words to feed me the right line at the right time. And then I realized I had the next best thing.
“I always knew you were an idiot! I wish I’d never even laid eyes on you.”
I’d rehearsed these lines many times, wagging a finger in front of my mirror. They came back to me so naturally. People started to glance our way, a sign that they recognized my work in the film. I had to go on.
“Excuse me?” Marshall said.
“Don’t you act all innocent! I know where you were. I know everything!”
“I don’t know what you think—”
The producer looked panicked. How perfect! He was reacting like my movie husband. It wasn’t the exact line, but close enough.
I perked up. With more eyes on me, I stepped it up on the body language, chest forward, arms wide. I inadvertently hit a lady who was scooting past, but I couldn’t worry about her.
“You were never good enough for me! My mother warned me about you.”
My voice projected well; I should talk to Liza about doing Broadway.
Marshall’s face reddened. He scanned the crowd, swallowing hard. I was going to remark on what a good actor he was, but I was distracted by some commotion behind him. Two men in black suits and earpieces approached.
“Miss,” one of them said in a thick French accent. “Come with us.”
Crap. They’d found out I wasn’t Carly Wolf’s assistant.
“I should have been on the list,” I said.
He grabbed on to my arm. “Please follow us.”
“You’re hurting me,” I said, trying to wiggle free. “I’m in the movie!”
“Miss, please.”
There had to be a gracious way out of this. There definitely, probably, was a gracious way out of this. But right then, in my champagne daze, it whizzed by and disappeared into the starry night.
So there I was, gawked at by dozens of fancy movie people (my people), manhandled away from the party, down the stairs, and out onto the street, where I stood for a few minutes.
My first day in Cannes had been a little underwhelming, but it would be all uphill from here.
I’d spent every last penny I had coming here.
This movie meant everything to me. Now was not the time to wonder if I should have listened to Liza and stayed home.
And it was definitely not the time to ask myself why everything felt off.
But it should have been.
It really should have been.