Lou
In my decade of struggles and soul searching, I came to believe that tomorrow is always the best day of the year.
The past is just memory; it doesn’t really exist. Had last night’s mishap in front of everyone at the Don’t Be Sad!
party even really happened? It was easy enough to ignore it, along with the passive-aggressive texts from my actor friends back in LA.
Technically they were happy for me but had a hard time swallowing the fact that the studio had flown me over to attend the Cannes Film Festival for my first real role.
(It was their assumption, one that I happily left uncorrected.)
Another thing I deleted from my mind: I was on my own, getting ready for the most important event of my life.
When I told my family about my movie premiering at Cannes, their response had been lukewarm.
Was I financially stable now? Had I quit the coffee shop already?
I would have liked to tell them that I’d booked other great roles since filming had wrapped up on Don’t Be Sad!
but it was only a matter of time now. They wouldn’t believe my success until it was right there in their faces.
And that’s when tomorrow turned into today. Premiere day.
After the somewhat “spontaneous” purchase of my last-minute flight to Cannes—the most money I’d ever spent in five minutes—I couldn’t afford to splurge on a fancy gown.
I was used to the artist life. I pinched pennies, made my own lunch, and enjoyed the benefit of my own hot yoga studio (also known as not turning on the air conditioning in my bedroom).
My spare income went to acting classes, coaches, and the occasional tarot reader.
I’d spent the days before my flight going through racks at discount outlets in addition to my usual thrift stores.
Eventually, I’d gone with the first thing that had caught my eye, a silver sequined dress with cutouts at the waist. It was edgy, modern.
But when I’d tried it on again as I packed my suitcase, it looked a little like a bra with a microskirt attached.
The skin coverage was minimal. At least the dress wasn’t boring.
And my legs had always been my best feature.
If I couldn’t afford a designer gown, I might as well show off my assets.
So, yes, I wore what would come to be referred to as the naked dress. I chose it for the premiere. That part’s all on me.
When I stepped out of the elevator in the hotel lobby, a woman about my age was waiting to get in.
She was dark haired with a dewy olive skin I immediately envied, and she wore a simple navy maxi dress.
Her arms were loaded with garment bags that looked heavy, but she was composed as she eyed me up and down. Her gaze lingered on my wet hair.
“I’m on my way to the hair salon,” I explained quickly, as if I needed to justify myself to a complete stranger. The hair appointment would be my last indulgence for a very long time. Pinky swear.
“Okay.”
She looked like she wanted to smile, maybe even laugh, but stopped herself.
“I’m walking the red carpet,” I added as we swapped places, me heading out, her walking in. If I said it out loud, it made it more real.
The elevator door was about to close.
“Leave that hem alone,” she said. “Damn those legs.”
I had been fiddling with the bottom of my dress and removed my hand immediately. A stylish girl had (I think?) validated my appearance. Another sign that I was on my way to big, beautiful things.
I was poofy haired and mildly sweaty when I arrived at the Majestic, possibly the most aptly named hotel.
It was a huge all-white building with red awnings over every window.
Inside, the curved staircase dominated the expansive marble lobby, which was as packed as a Taylor Swift concert. (Not that I’d gone.)
The air hummed with fame. Celebrities in couture paused midway down the stairs, one spray-tanned arm on the balustrade and megawatt smiles out to play for the photographers.
Each star was surrounded by a team of people lifting the train of her gown or making sure she didn’t have a hair out of place.
There was a litany of flashlights. I was mesmerized.
Liza had texted earlier: she’d finally received my film pass and made a joke about cutting it close to showtime.
I’d never doubted I’d get it eventually.
(Gosh I was a naive little cow.) The pass came with instructions on how to get to the Palais des Festivals, the convention center that was the heartbeat of all things Cannes.
There was a protocol: anyone with an invitation to an evening premiere was driven from the Majestic in an official car at a predetermined time. For all the glamour and glitz, an event like the Cannes Film Festival operated with military precision. I was more than happy to get my marching orders.
“Bienvenue, madame,” a uniformed porter said, bowing slightly as I walked past.
Bowing to me. This was my life now.
“May I help you?” he continued.
I showed him the accreditation on my phone. “I’m going to my movie’s premiere. Don’t Be Sad!” He raised an eyebrow, and this time I caught the confusion as it happened. “That’s the title. I’m only telling you what it’s called, in case that’s relevant information.”
He pointed to the other side of the hotel. I could make out the line of black cars through the crowd and the large windows. “This way, madame.”
“Merci!” I felt like Audrey Hepburn, who (did you know?) spoke six languages. I wasn’t sure Audrey Hepburn would have worn a sequined bra to Cannes, but these were different times.
“Have a magnifique soirée,” he said.
A camerawoman panned over me (on her way to filming someone else, but still), and I caught a few glances my way.
“It already is,” I told the porter.
Through the revolving doors and back out into the spring sun, I was directed to the black car waiting for me. Lots of people were standing behind barriers to catch a glimpse of the celebrities headed to the red carpet. To catch a glimpse of me.
A burly driver held the door as I scooted in as gracefully as I could, strategically placing my clutch so that I wouldn’t flash anyone. I couldn’t afford a wardrobe malfunction at this stage of my career.
“On attend une autre personne,” he said, leaving the door open.
The crowd suddenly got agitated. People screamed. I leaned over to see what was happening just as Dorian Fisher glided in next to me.
My jaw hung slack, my eyelids twitching.
Dorian Fisher, one of the most famous men on earth, was inches away from me.
He wore a classic black tuxedo with wide lapels, his salt-and-pepper hair combed to the side, and smelled of a woodsy cologne and makeup powder.
I tried not to stare, but it was the Dorian Fisher.
The driver took his seat and looked at me (at us, Dorian Fisher and me, like we were a unit) in the rearview mirror.
“Welcome to Cannes,” he said, enunciating every syllable. “There is water in the pockets.” He pointed behind him. “Are you comfortable?”
I nodded, still speechless. I’d only learned recently that Dorian Fisher was a producer on Don’t Be Sad! I hadn’t seen him on set or ever been in such close quarters with a living fantasy, someone I’d watched on-screen since I was a little girl.
“Thanks, buddy,” Dorian said.
He turned to me and pointed his chin, silently acknowledging my presence.
“Hello,” I said, my voice croaky. I sounded like a robot. “Hi,” I added, like that would make it better.
“Hey,” he said.
“Hey,” I responded in the least casual way anyone has ever said Hey.
He pulled out his phone and became absorbed in it.
My mind did zoomies around my skull. This couldn’t be it. I couldn’t meet Dorian Fisher and utter only three versions of the most banal word in the English language.
I texted Liza to the rescue, making sure to angle my phone away.
In the car with Dorian Fisher!!!!!!
I wondered if I could take a sneaky picture, but I was no fan girl.
I mean I was, but I wasn’t. You know what I mean?
If I wanted him to see me as anything, it was as a potential costar.
Oooh, a love interest, maybe. Dorian Fisher was in his late forties now, making us twenty years apart.
Wasn’t that the ideal age gap for a Hollywood romance?
You’ll be fine, Liza wrote. Act normal.
Of course, I responded. I’m not going to embarrass myself.
My thoughts drifted to last night. I hadn’t seen Liza at the party, but maybe she’d heard about the “incident” with the producer.
Best to move on.
Would LOVE to work with him one day, I typed now. I mean, obviously. Do I say something?
Absolutely not, came her instant reply.
More crowds gathered behind barriers erected on each side of the boulevard, growing thicker as we approached.
We were going at a snail’s pace and people craned forward, trying to see who was coming through.
Beyond them were palm trees, a hint of the sea in the distance.
It was the perfect backdrop to become an overnight success, ten years in the making.
I’d also love to film something here, I continued.
Cannes is beautiful!
It doesn’t have to be in Cannes, though
Anywhere in the South of France would be great
Or France in general. I’m not going to be picky!
The three dots came and went several times. To be fair, I wasn’t really giving Liza a chance to respond.
We’ll talk tomorrow, okay? I’ll call you in the morning. You’re very talented and have a great career ahead of you. Don’t forget that.
Liza always knew what to say. But wait, something didn’t add up.
I was about to respond that I’d see her at the premiere—right?
—when the car came to a stop. We’d arrived.
I’d gotten a few minutes alone with Dorian Fisher, and I hadn’t risen to the moment.
It was fine though because I’d get another chance soon enough.
Dorian Fisher was out of the car before I could think of anything half-smart to say.
Reporters and photographers immediately swarmed him.
I slid over and swung my legs around, but I miscalculated my exit and my pointy heel caught on the edge of the car.
Dorian Fisher heard my squeal and turned back, catching me just as I was about to fall flat on my face.
“You okay there?”
He smiled brightly, like he hadn’t completely ignored me for the whole ride. I exhaled, speechless, as he continued holding me in his arms. The cameras flashed around us, but I could barely make sense of what was happening. I was in Dorian Fisher’s arms. Could the day get any better?
“You saved me,” I said, sounding a smidge like an idiot.
He beamed, his face closer to mine than it needed to be. “Any time.”
His teeth were so straight, his breath minty.
And then he let me go. Ushers in black suits and skinny ties motioned for him to make his way up the steps. Everyone screamed his name.
“Look this way.”
“Dorian, Dorian!”
“Par ici!”
“Yes, merci!”
Another usher thoroughly checked my accreditation and instructed me to go up.
This was my moment, something I’d dreamed about for an entire lifetime (and probably also the one before that).
I focused on remembering what to do. Hold my head high, suck in my stomach.
No white knuckling around my sparkly clutch.
Tongue against the top of my palate. Smiling but not like I was so awed to be there.
Because I belonged. I belonged, I belonged.
And so I climbed.
When I reached the top, Dorian was there, posing for photographs. An usher came to me.
“Miss, move along.”
She indicated the door to the palace.
“I just got here.”
“Please,” she insisted. “Keep going.”
I pointed at Dorian Fisher. “He didn’t have to.”
She made a face like, Come on, then was distracted by the sheer number of people trying to get Dorian Fisher’s attention.
I pulled out my phone and started recording a video of the steps, the red carpet, the photographers, the palm trees, the crowds. No way would I miss out on this most stunning view.
“Miss, you can’t take selfies on the red carpet.”
It was the usher, placing her hand on my lower back, ready to push me along.
“I wasn’t taking a selfie,” I mumbled as I quickly posted the video before shoving my phone back into my clutch.
***
The theater was mostly empty. Dorian Fisher must have been led to some VIP area. It was strange that he’d arrived so early, but he probably had his reasons. A sense of calm descended upon me. My bright, beautiful future was so close I could smell it on the velvet seats.
The theater filled slowly. Close to showtime, the main cast arrived, along with Odetta Olson in a black and gold fitted dress with raised shoulders, looking as stunning as ever, like a goddess.
The first three rows had been reserved for them, and I watched from a jealous distance as the cast waved at people in the audience.
I had claimed a spot on the balcony, where seats were unassigned.
The injustice at not being with them simmered inside me, but this was the last time that would happen. My days as a nobody ended now.
Dorian Fisher sat next to Fiona Pills, and the two chatted animatedly. So she did come. No one missed Cannes on purpose.
The lights went off. I tingled with excitement, sinking into my seat with a delight I could never describe. I would remember this night forever.
In two hours, my life would never be the same again.
And so it was.
In the worst possible way.