“Oh. Was that his name?” I say. I look out the window at the white tents of the festival as the Mercedes crawls to a stop.
“I thought he was adorable. I’ve always wanted to sleep with a Frenchman,” she says. And I do not point out that she must have already slept with four or five. Not counting the one in the bathroom at Jimmy’z in Monte Carlo.
Through the window, I see that the small girl with the flowers is standing by the side of the car.
“I wonder if I should import him. To L.A.,” Dianna says, laughing loudly as the girl taps on the window with the flowers.
“Madame,” she mouths. “Madame, you must come with me.”
The Mercedes lurches forward. I turn to stare out the back window at the little girl, who waves sadly.
“Ohmigod,” I say.
Dianna takes a moment to focus on me, and I find, sadly, that I am grateful. “I can’t believe Hubert is coming,” she says. “I told you my plan would work. As soon as you left, he realized he was a complete fuckwad, and now he’s crawling back. Aren’t you happy?”
She takes my hand and kisses it as I open the window a crack to let out some of the smoke.
In the bar of the Hotel du Cap, it’s the same scene as it was the night before and the night before that and lunch the day before and lunch the day before that. Everyone is drunk on champagne and raspberry cocktails. There’s the same group of twenty-five-year-old women, all tall, all good-looking, dressed in evening clothes, who spend half their time in the bathroom and half their time trying to pick up anyone famous. There are the badly dressed up-and-coming English movie directors. The perfectly dressed German distributors. Kate Moss. Elizabeth Hurley, whom I hate more than any of them because she’s “overexposed.” And Comstock Dibble, the five-foot-tall mega-movie producer who, even though he must be at least forty-five, still has acne. Out on the balcony, he’s mopping his face with a napkin and shouting at the waiters to put two tables together and to take chairs away from other patrons. Dianna is dressed in Goth. We sweep through the lobby the same as we always do. We are someone and we will always be someone, especially when we come to places like this.
“Comstock! Caro! Darling!” Dianna screams, in case anyone hasn’t noticed her. She’s already too drunk, tottering on black strappy sandals, steadying herself on a stranger’s shoulder who pats her arm and rolls his eyes.
“Hello, Dianna,” Comstock says. “You were in the papers today.”
“I’m in the papers every day. If I’m not in the papers, it’s not a good
day.”
“You were in the papers too,” Comstock says to me, sweating inexplicably, since the temperature has cooled down to about seventy. “But I know you hate being in the papers.” He leans in intimately, as if we are the only two people in the place. “That’s the difference between you and Dianna.”
“Is it?” I say, lighting what is probably my fiftieth cigarette of the day.
Suddenly there are other people at the table, but no one introduces anyone.
“They say you’re here without your husband.”
“He has to work.”
“You should have an affair. While you’re here. In France. Everybody
else is.”
“Hey Comstock. I hear you’ve been looking for a mistress,” Dianna says loudly. “I hear you’ve propositioned every French actress under the age of twenty-five.”
“I’m casting. What can I say?” Comstock says, and I put my napkin on my lap and wonder what the hell I’m doing here.
But where else is there?
“Tanner is the one who’s fighting off the girls,” Comstock says.
I look up and see that it is indeed Tanner Hart, my Tanner, who is older but thanks to the wonders of plastic surgery doesn’t look much different than he did five years ago when he was selected as one of People magazine’s Fifty Most Beautiful People, and he sits down and puts his hands up and says, “Don’t hassle me, baby,” as I stare at him in a sort of alcoholic shock.
“Have a bellini,” he says, pushing one toward me.
“When this festival is over, Tanner is going to come out the big winner. We sold Gagged all over the world today,” Comstock says. “I’m thinking nominations. Best Actor. Best Picture.”
“Hey Comstock,” Dianna says. “How come you never propositioned me?”
“Because you’re a Jesus freak and I’m a nice Polish boy?” Comstock says.