Lou
The problem with getting your fifteen minutes of fame was that it went by really fast. The comments about my being Dorian Fisher’s new flame were already dwindling down.
I’d posted a lot on social media, thinking I was giving people what they wanted: access to me, the Cannes It Girl.
But now some were speculating that I might not be romantically linked to Dorian Fisher after all.
We hadn’t walked the red carpet together.
I hadn’t even sat next to him at the premiere.
And we didn’t seem to ever be in the same place at the same time.
And If I was with Dorian, would I be attending all these C-rated parties alone?
In just a few days, the world would find out for sure that I was a nobody, that there was no trace of me in Don’t Be Sad!
. Luckily, the renowned casting director Michelle Danvier—émilie’s aunt—didn’t know that yet.
I needed to make a great impression, but when I looked at the clothes I’d brought to Cannes, they didn’t seem like anything the breakout star from the Palme d’Or contender would wear.
I had the sudden urge to grab all the pieces hanging inside this tiny closet and open the window.
In the movies, they never showed how the woman managed to open it with her arms full and throw everything out.
The clothes would spread their wings and fly like seagulls into the horizon.
(That part was always cinematic.) Except my room didn’t have a sea view.
Also, it was really uncool to litter. You were supposed to care about waste and sustainability.
That was why some stars rewore their red-carpet looks; Cate Blanchett always got amazing press when she did that.
So that’s where my mind went. I’m just trying to say that my idea came from a logical place.
The sequined dress I’d worn to the premiere was how people had identified me as the girl in Dorian Fisher’s arms. That dress had done so much for my image. It had been my lucky charm.
It was the only viable option, really. I still felt that way when I got down to the lobby wearing it.
I expected people would start recognizing me.
I was almost out the door when a woman I’d seen before came through.
Olive skin, pared-down style, not a hair out of place.
Once again, she was carrying bags and bags of clothes.
“Looks like someone has a shopping problem,” I said jokingly.
I was jealous. It hadn’t occurred to me that I could have gone into town and bought a new outfit. Perhaps it was my subconscious’s way of minimizing my financial ruin.
Her smile was tight. “I’m a stylist, so having too many clothes is more like a champagne problem.”
Before I could respond, her gaze traveled down my body, taking in my dress. “You’re…”
She’d paused for a little too long, and I finished her sentence. “Lou Ocean Utley.”
“In that picture with Dorian Fisher.”
“That’s me.”
She winced under the weight of the bags she was carrying.
“His new girlfriend.”
“Are you okay?”
“I’m fine!” She didn’t sound like it. “That’s the dress you wore to the premiere.”
I nodded.
“And you’re wearing it again?”
“Yes. It’s like when Cate Blanchett rewears past red-carpet looks?”
“I’m familiar with the concept.”
I waited for her to continue, but we just looked at each other awkwardly.
“You think this is a bad idea?” I asked, feeling a lot less confident. “I mean, you know this stuff.”
Her bottom jaw dropped slightly, but she kept her composure. “I do. In fact, I’m Dorian Fisher’s stylist.”
I wasn’t sure what kind of reaction she was expecting from me. Best to avoid blurting out that those stories about Dorian Fisher and me were completely fake.
“I wish I had a stylist. The studio’s budget all went to the lead cast,” I said, echoing Liza’s words to me. I could admit that part. I was a rising actor; nobody expected me to have everything already.
I looked down at my dress, then checked the time.
“I’m on my way to meet a very important casting director to talk about my next role. Do you think I should wear something different?”
She plastered on a smile, though her gaze was ice cold.
“You look great. Don’t change a thing.”
***
By the time I arrived at the bar of the Martinez, I felt like the dress had gotten even shorter.
People were looking, and not in the way I’d been hoping for.
This wasn’t a dress, only a few scraps of fabric that covered my most private parts.
I noticed a few sequins coming apart, loose threads hanging over my stomach.
I found Michelle Danvier, who got up to greet me with two air kisses.
“You are just as gorgeous as émilie said!”
I clapped my hand against my chest, touched.
“And you are as fabulous as she said you were.”
“I like you already. Sit, please.”
She had that unplaceable accent of people who have traveled all over the world.
Her hair was silver and straight and she wore a black silk shirt with wide pants.
So chic. So much more fabric than was on my own body.
Soon, the whole Don’t Be Sad! experience would be far behind me, a dead bird flattened on the asphalt in my rearview mirror.
I couldn’t wait to never think about that movie again.
Michelle asked what I wanted to drink. I deferred to her since she was (fingers crossed) picking up the tab. She ordered us Chardonnay.
“So, honey, tell me about yourself,” she said as we waited.
I straightened up on my stool. This part was easy.
“Well, I’ve been acting professionally for ten years now. I’ll send you a reel so you can see the range of my work. I’ve done everything from TV commercials to independent short films and, of course, a few mainstream features.”
It sounded so good when I said it like that. Our wines arrived; she clinked mine with hers. I raised my hand to drink, and my dress rode even farther up.
“Excellent, excellent,” she said, before taking a sip. “You are a darling. I can see it.”
“Thank you.”
She put her glass down and scrutinized me intently: my face, my hair, my neck, my cleavage even.
“Mmm,” she said. “Sweetie, would you mind…”
She motioned for me to get up.
I glanced around the bar. Everybody was sitting down, and no one was wearing naked sequins. (You know what I mean.)
But she kept lifting her hand up, encouraging me to do as told. So I did. I wasn’t going to blow this most important shot.
I stood up, trying to keep all the pieces of my dress in place. Michelle brought her glass to her lips and sipped on her wine as she studied me.
“The legs!” she said loudly. “Those legs.”
I forced a smile. Casting directors were usually too afraid of a lawsuit to fixate on a specific part of my body. She circled the air with her index finger, an order to spin.
“Here?”
She couldn’t be serious.
Two older men were having drinks at the counter next to us, and they looked at me with rapacious grins.
Michelle’s smile vanished. “Are you shy?”
“No!” I said, too harshly. “Not at all.”
If Liza had set up this meeting, she would have prepped me beforehand about the person I was meeting. I’d have arrived equipped with tips about their personality and their pet peeves. But Liza wasn’t on my side anymore. I had to do this on my own.
So I spun. I smiled. I flicked my hair. I pouted. I placed my hands on my hips and leaned forward. I tried to ignore the people looking at me, the amused glances I caught despite my best efforts, as I took yet another spin. I felt like a show pony, but I had to do what I had to do.
“We love it,” Michelle said.
We?
I sat back down, even though she didn’t invite me to.
“I know émilie told you all about the project so tell me what you think. Not everyone wants to do this.”
I gulped. I should have grilled émilie before coming here. But I didn’t know the girl, and I’d been so grateful for the opportunity. She’d been a sign that there was a next great role waiting for me. Maybe the Don’t Be Sad! fiasco didn’t have to be the end of my career.
I drank the rest of my wine while Michelle watched.
“It’s brilliant, obviously,” I said. “I’m thrilled to be meeting you.”
“And moving to Paris for six months works for you? No boyfriend keeping you back home?”
Six months? That was a long filming schedule. Maybe it was one of those limited TV series, something highbrow and expensively produced. That would be the jackpot.
“Of course.”
Michelle frowned. “No boyfriend? Someone like you? Obviously, it could be an issue, but you can tell me.”
I shook my head. “No boyfriend.”
Michelle turned serious. “But you like men? I have to ask these days. You never know. You young people and your ‘fluidity.’”
I held my breath. “I like men. And, um, I’m comfortable doing some nudity. As long as it’s tasteful.”
She hadn’t outright asked, but it felt like the question was coming. Michelle frowned. I moved the conversation along.
“Is there a script for me to look at? I’d love to read some lines for you.”
“A script? You are adorable.”
The funny feeling I was getting only intensified.
“Look,” I said. “émilie didn’t share all the specifics. So I have to ask: Is it porn?”
Michelle threw her head back in laughter.
“Porn! I don’t do porn. Erotic projects, sometimes, but this one is very above the belt. You could watch it with your grandmother.”
Oh no. I’d read the situation all wrong and now I’d offended her.
“I’m so sorry. I don’t know why I said that. I wasn’t getting that vibe at all,” I lied. “I just—Can you please forget I said that? I’m very, very interested, but I’d like to hear about the project in your words if that’s okay.”
Michelle smiled, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes.
“It’s quite revolutionary, I have to say.
It’s like The Bachelor but without a bachelor.
You girls will live in a house together for a few months and you have to choose between yourselves which one of you is more…
Well, marriage material is how you would say it.
We still have to refine the language. I wanted to add an American because I know how desperate you all are to get married over there.
That’s all you talk about, right? Poofy dresses and those gigantic cakes.
And you’re so pretty, like a little Barbie. I think you’ll test very well.”
“I thought you were a real casting director?”
The words came out unvarnished.
“Oh, sweetie, this is real.” She eyed my dress, lips turned down. “And trust me, for a girl like you, this is as good as it’s ever going to get.”