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“Cut!”

The cameramen, lighting technicians, boom operator, grips, and cast stood at attention, awaiting the director’s next order.

David Navarre took his eyes off Simone when he heard muttering in a corner of the soundstage. The actor searched for the unruly crew member and found him, just as he was leaning into another technician and opening his mouth again.

“Would the pudgy little martinet get on with it!” The crew member’s voice was hushed but loud enough to draw snickers from the handful of people nearby.

David held his breath, hoping Max Armond hadn’t heard. The atmosphere was strained already.

He hadn’t. Armond rose from his chair and approached Simone, who, holding a rumpled silk sheet over her bare breasts, had pulled herself upright on the daybed. “Finally, you gave me something worth a hard-on,” he said, running his stubby fingers through his greasy thinning hair. “I was beginning to wonder whether you had it in you.” He grunted and started walking away. “Break for lunch!”

Simone, still clutching the sheet, reached for a robe and wrapped it around herself. Only her shaking hands and pursed lips betrayed her. She locked eyes with David as she got up. Then she turned on her heel and left the soundstage.

The scene had been grueling. Armond’s demands were fanatical. The director, true to his reputation, had bullied Simone mercilessly. “Get your panties out of their little knot and loosen up! I need a bitch, not a priss! Can you do it or not?”

David had been sorely tempted to intervene. But Simone, his twenty-two-year-old lover, would have to make her own way if she wanted to get to the top and stay there.

David gave the head camera operator a nod and escaped to his trailer. His status had secured him a haven the size of small home, with a full bathroom, spacious bedroom, paneled wardrobe area, lounge with leather seating, multiple flat screens, fully-stocked bar, and fresh flowers daily. The producer had taken pains to rent it after receiving the actor’s list of demands.

A cinematic giant, David Navarre was an indulged man. But he was also affable and approachable. He always had a pleasant word for the makeup artist, a pat on the back for the technicians, a complicit wink for the lighting designer, and a generosity of spirit for novice actors who were nervous about going face-to-face with him.

He stretched out on his leather sofa and closed his eyes, his cell phone on his chest. As he had expected, the phone pinged.

It was Simone, texting from her trailer: “What a prick.”

“Yeah, baby,” he tapped back. “But you nailed it.”

“Think so?”

“Yeah, I do.”

“What about that last line? Did I sound too sultry?”

“How could you sound too sultry? It was perfect, just like Armond said. Now get some rest. We’ve got to go back out there.”

David put the phone back on his chest and closed his eyes again. Simone was handling herself admirably, despite Armond’s tirades. The famed director was a man who pushed his stars to their limit. He also enjoyed feeling up the young women who were eager to work with him. That would get him in trouble someday. The Time’s Up and Me Too movements were grabbing the headlines in the United States, and now they were in the news in France, as well. A sexual-harassment hotline had been set up at the Cannes Film Festival. The festival’s tote bags contained fliers warning that such misconduct could lead to fines and even imprisonment. There had even been a rally on the red carpet.

Armond’s hour of reckoning would come. But not today. David got up and poured himself a drink. Later, he’d promise Simone a trip to Dior when filming was wrapped up.

Some gossips claimed that his lover owed her first major roles to the art of selective sex. Her previous boyfriends included a fifty-year-old Italian producer, a former Brazilian Formula One racer, a Golden-Globe-winning Hollywood director, and the vice president of a television network.

Her relatively recent romance with David had provided the celebrity websites and tabloids with multiple photographs, while their twenty-eight-year age difference had added fuel to speculation that Simone was a user.

Most certainly, she was drawn to mature, powerful, and wealthy men who offered security and experience. No one, however, knew her the way he did. Despite Simone’s proud and vivacious exterior, she questioned her looks and talent and seemed compulsive about proving herself.

It was this uncertainty that brought out David’s protective instincts and gnawed at him at the same time. He pretended to ignore her penchant for flirting—an attempt to show she could captivate any man of her choosing, even as she bristled at being taken for just another hot starlet. But he hated it. David, who had seduced and left more women than he cared to count, was smitten. And for the first time in his life, he himself was feeling insecure. Did Simone love him, or would she drop him as soon as she didn’t need him anymore?

He was ruminating on this when his cell phone rang. He looked at the screen and answered.

“Well, well! What a surprise! Mr. Cooker, the master winemaker himself! And to what do I owe this unexpected call? I had given up hope. I’ve been waiting for ages for you to come to Touraine… I know. I won’t hold it against you. You’re very busy, I know… I know… An American production company wants to do a documentary on you? Ah, I suspected you wouldn’t be coming just to see me. Be careful, though. Don’t give away too much about how you work. Remember Mondovino—that fucking movie, clever, very clever, realistic and misleading at the same time, very negative… The camera can screw you. I know what I’m talking about. Not that I need to tell you this, but watch out with the Americans. They can be cagey.”

The actor reached for his bottle of whiskey but thought better of it. He had to be back on set soon.

“Of course!” he said, nodding. “Uh-huh… Listen, it’s simple. While they’re filming this documentary, you’ll have a little free time, correct? If you could look at the parcel I told you about, I’d be in your debt. I want to get that land back in shape. They tell me it hasn’t been plowed for decades. Can you believe it? And then I’d like you to help me with my wine. I’ll never be able to launch my vintage without your advice and support. When exactly do you get here? Saturday? Perfect. I’m giving a little party for some friends at the château. Will you come?”

Another silence. David changed his mind and poured himself a drink. He had to face Armond again.

“Listen, Benjamin, I know it’s not your thing, but I insist. It will be very nice, you’ll see. Of course, you can bring a guest. Bring more than one. I insist!”