10

“Hope you’re decent in there, Julian,” I say, tapping on his bedroom door. “I know you’re exhausted, but we need to go over a few things before I head out for the lattes. And I’m going to get you a special treat because you’ve been working so hard. I tracked down a patisserie that does vegan croissants and mille-feuilles.”

Silence. The poor dear. He must be completely worn out; I could hear the sewing machine whirring late into the night. I tap again. “Julian? Julian?” I’ll just sneak inside and make sure he didn’t fall asleep on top of any of the wedding gowns, like he did the night before. I ease the door open.

Julian is standing there in a blindingly bright gold swimsuit, tucking copies of Voici, Closer, and Choc into a bamboo tote.

“Julian, what are you doing? Why are you wearing a Speedo?! You can’t go to the beach—we have so much work to do!”

“Honey, it’s a Tomas Maier and in case you haven’t noticed, we’re on the French Riviera. And I’m gay,” he says. “Besides, I was up until four undoing all the so-called work Chili did on the gowns back in New York and I need a break. You don’t want me to develop carpal tunnel syndrome again, do you? Come on, Princess, we both need a break. Go put on your Missoni bikini and come join me Med-side. We’ll order Bellinis and check out the French tabs. Which are sublimely filthy. One of them has a shot of the most gorgeous man having sex with a scorpion. And wait till I show you the topless shots of Kate Moss—goodness, how our little waif has grown!”

“No, Julian,” I say. “Did you forget that the Martinez charges fifty euros just to step on the sand? And no Bellinis before eight a.m. Actually, at thirty euros a pop, no Bellinis at all!”

“I’m still trying to digest the Vain news,” he says. “And a Bellini and Jacques, the très adorable bartender on the beach, are going to help me do that. Princess, you just have no idea how stressed out I am.”

“Fine, but only one. Aria’s plane should be landing in a couple of hours, and I scheduled a fitting with her at noon and I’d very much like it if at least you were sober since I’m sure Aria’s going to be completely Klonopined out from the flight.”

He lets out a vexed sigh. “I still can’t believe you convinced me to debut her shoe line on my runway. Why is it that people who merely wear fashion suddenly think they can design fashion? And remember that dreadful line from what’s-her-name, that Hills-billy? And you know I adore Giselle, I really do, but did the world really need her Gazelle jeans? Who has mile-long legs like her, and who pays three hundred fifty dollars for jeans anymore? And god, Dina Lohan’s Shoe-hans? Horrible. Although next to Aria’s shoes, they’ll probably look like Choos.”

“Julian, no one’s going to focus on the shoes; don’t worry,” I say. “Let me just do a quick food run for us. Then I’ve got to get back to the room and keep calling everybody. It’s the strangest thing. It doesn’t even seem as if half these people even got our invitation.”

“It’s that damn Chili,” Julian says. “I don’t know how I’m going to be able to keep working with him. I thought we were rid of him for good when we left for Cannes.”

“In a few days, we will be,” I say. “Just keep reminding yourself that your dress is going to be on the cover of Vain.”

“Only if Cricket and Saffron actually agree to the cover,” Julian says despairingly. “Any word from Cricket?”

“No. Cricket’s phone keeps going straight to voice mail. But they’re flying in tonight and I’ll handle it then,” I say.

“What if they say no?” Julian asks, his voice tinged with panic.

“They won’t,” I say. “Cricket’s the most supportive friend in the world, and she’d do anything for us. And you know she’ll convince Saffron.”

“But what if she can’t convince Saffron? She could totally say no, Lola.” Julian’s voice is getting an octave higher with every word.

“Stop being so negative. You’re totally stressing me out and so is that bathing suit,” I say. “I’ve got to go. And remember: only one Bellini,” I say, trying to shake off the image of Julian’s gold-clad backside.

Five minutes later I’m walking along La Croisette, Cannes’s main palm tree-dotted drag. The famous promenade that hugs Cannes’s coastline is already crowded with gawkers and tourists who are lining up, presumably hoping for a celebrity sighting, of which there promises to be plenty during the festival. I feel a hand on my arm and turn. A young man eagerly pushes a pamphlet into my hand. “Require financing for my film. Can you help me?” The requisite mimes are imitating the tourists snapping photos and jostling for autographs. Oblivious to it all are the grande dames walking their tiny pooches swathed in tiny Hermès coats, twin noses pointed high at the sky.

Up ahead are bleary-eyed partygoers staggering back to their hotels, stumbling past journos gearing up for the first screenings of the day. And there’s Rihanna, a drink in one hand, flipping off a photog with the other and wearing a sheer black dress sans panties. And here I thought the Moonie Noonie was so fifteenminutesago.com.

As I continue walking, I’m bombarded with gigantic movie posters of all the films in competition as well as the ones premiering here. I spot a huge promo banner for my brother’s movie ten feet away from one for my father’s film. I didn’t realize they were remaking Shampoo until I see the poster with Taylor Lautner and Emma Stone. And who cast Zac Efron as Ben-Hur?

I spot Miley Cyrus, who’s playing a young Meryl Streep in the Out of Africa prequel opposite Joe Jonas, being escorted out of the uber-luxe Carlton Hotel by a slew of bodyguards. And is that the real Kate Winslet, or merely her sosie? (Some of the stars or their agents pay for a look-alike to throw the paps off the scent.) It looked like the Carlton beefed up their security ever since Madonna reportedly refused to pay her ninety-thousand-dollar bill because a French TV crew managed to get footage of her suite while she was staying there. I simply had no idea kabbalah water was that expensive, but if that’s what it takes to support the Malawi orphans and keep your complexion that dewy, I’m all for it.

I do a double take at a newsstand when I pass it and backtrack. The same photo is plastered across practically every magazine and newspaper on the rack.

I pick up one of the papers to get a closer look. It’s a shot of my BAF and Saffron Sykes. They’re in a lip lock—an outtake from the very scene I saw them filming in Australia! “Saffron Sykes Est Gai!” screams the headline.

Someone must have leaked a picture from the set or rehearsal or something. I look for a mention of Four Weddings and a Bris or that Saffron Sykes is playing a gay woman in the film, but don’t find any. I wonder if Cricket has any idea that she’s international front-page news. I try her cell but it goes straight to voice mail again. So does Kate’s BlackBerry. Kate must know though, right? Oh my god, what if she’s the one who leaked the photos to create more buzz around the premiere? No, no, no, no, no. She wouldn’t do that. Or would she?

I grab a stack of papers and head back to my hotel. It isn’t until I’m back in my room that I realize I never even got my morning latte. But these headlines are way more jolting than coffee. I pick up one of the papers and attempt to read the accompanying article. With my rudimentary French I’m only able to decode the following words: vacation, boat, Crete, Cricket, Saffron, Markus, and après filmer. Wait, that can’t be right. After filming? Are they implying that this photo was taken after filming, or is it saying that they took a vacation together after filming, which they did? I’m so confused. I flip open my laptop and decide to search the Web.

“If She Were a Gay Man We’d Say: ‘The Queen of the Screen Really Is a Queen’,” blares TMZ. “Saffron Sykes Kissed a Girl and Liked It,” DListed declares. “WTF?! Saffron Sykes Is Gay?!” XI7 exclaims. “Markus Livingston nowhere in sight. Seems the real love affair is between Saffron Sykes and Cricket Curtis,” claims JustJared. “Markus Livingston Is Hollywood’s Hottest Beard,” Defamer insists.

Is this some kind of nutty marketing campaign for the movie? So what’s the deal with Saffron and Markus, not to mention all those other Hollywood hotties she’s been with? But wasn’t Kevin Spacey on that list? I’m so confused. Cricket would have told me if any of this was true. Wouldn’t she?! She’s my BAF, for crying out loud. I force myself to keep reading.

“Who Likes Vagina?” Perez Hilton asks. “OMG, you guys! OMG!! Can you believe it? Are you hyperventilating yet?? Saffron Sykes is GAY!!” Perez says. “Perez Hilton has discovered the big plot twist in Saffron Sykes’s new movie—and her life. We all thought that Saffron’s character was marrying Markus Livingston’s character in Four Weddings, but sources close to Saffron confirm exclusively to Perez that she’s—gasp—marrying her maid of honor, newcomer Cricket Curtis. And Saffron Sykes, who’s been linked to everyone from George Clooney to Bradley Cooper to Chace Crawford and we thought was dating Markus in real life is actually playing tonsil hockey with—gasp—Cricket Curtis. Art really is imitating life. The queen of the screen is getting a new crown: Queen of the Va-Jay-Jay!”

I’m frozen in front of the computer screen. Could any of this nonsense actually be good for Cricket? They say any publicity is good publicity. Maybe it’ll just get her on a bazillion talk shows to deny the rumor, and they’ll play clips from the movie and she’ll get even more offers! On the other hand, I have no idea how Saffron or Cricket will take all this attention. What if they’re incredibly embarrassed or furious about it? How am I supposed to ask Cricket and Saffron to pose together for the cover of Vain now?

There’s a knock on the door. I toss the newspapers into a drawer and slam my MacBook shut. When I open the door I’m surprised to see my brother standing in front of me.

“Mom doesn’t actually expect us to follow this script, does she?!” Christopher says, barreling through the door and throwing a sheaf of papers down on the couch. “Have you read this shit?”

“I buried my copy in the bottom drawer of that dresser the second I got it,” I confess, gesturing toward the 1930s’ dresser the plasma TV is resting on. “I was scared it would throw me over the edge.”

“Mom’s the one who’s gone over the edge,” Christopher says, sitting down on the couch in a pair of beat-up jeans, a gray T-shirt, a black linen blazer, and his red Converse high-tops. “There’s actually a scene in there where Mom has a heart-to-heart with Gigi and,” Christopher makes air quotes, “welcomes her into our family.”

“What?! Please tell me that you’re kidding,” I say, instantly thinking of Kate.

“I wish I was. She sent Gigi her own copy of the script,” Christopher says. He rests his head in his hands and looks up at me with worry in his eyes. “She’s gone too far this time, La-La. What are we going to do?”

“I don’t know, Chris, but I’m scared to even ask what she wrote in there for me.”

“It seems that Gigi is the sister you never had. You two are very close. Which is surprising, given that I think you met for about fifteen seconds last night,” Chris says. What is my mother thinking? Other than about her ratings. “Mom needs to be stopped.”

“Yes she does. It’s like she wants to be the next Caroline Manzo. Don’t worry, we’ll find a way to rein her in,” I say. Poor Christopher. He looks so distraught. “How are things with you and Gigi?” I ask with trepidation.

“Good, I guess,” he says. “She’s good for me. She … supports me.”

“Kate supported you. She was your biggest fan.” I can’t help but interject in my best friend’s defense.

“It’s different with Gigi. Kate was always pushing me to do more. She thought I was wasting my time on all the commercials.”

“No, she thought you were wasting your talent. She thought you were better than all those commercials. Which you are,” I say.

“Gigi doesn’t push me. She lets me be me and she’s not always rushing off to make a million phone calls or scream at her assistant. That’s new for me.” I can’t tell if Christopher’s trying to convince me or himself.

“Do you love her?” I ask.

“It’s still so new, I don’t know,” he says. “Have you talked to Kate? Do you think she’ll ever forgive me? I’ve left her a bunch of messages but haven’t heard back. Did she hate the movie?”

“Everyone loved the movie, including Kate. Look, Chris, your film is really, really good. This is just the beginning for you. I’d hate to see you not able to soak in all of this because of Kate. Because you really deserve it. You’ve worked hard,” I say, stopping myself there. But I could go on. Because it’s true. Chris has worked hard. His whole life, not just at work, but at being a good person. And that’s why he’s not letting all this buzz around his movie affect him. My brother may be exceptionally cool looking on the outside, but he doesn’t care about any of it—he knows it’s all just a passing show. He’s my brother, so I’m biased, but there’s a thing or two I know about men since I’ve been around so many doozies. He’s one of the rare ones. So I start making excuses for Kate because I’m holding out hope. “I think Kate’s just got a lot going on with Nic Knight and Saffron and Cricket,” I say, unable to bring myself to show my brother the story on Perez Hilton. I’m not ready to talk about it out loud yet.

“So what? She’s always got a lot going on with work,” Chris says.

“Chris, you know Kate; she can’t talk about her feelings,” I say.

“Stupidly, I guess I thought it was different with me.” My brother’s voice is tinged with sadness.

“I know she still loves you,” I say. And as I look into my brother’s eyes I am certain that he’s still in love with her.

“Don’t start, La-La, please. She ended it with me, remember? Listen, let me know if you talk to her. And read Mom’s script but make sure all the windows are closed first. You’re gonna want to throw yourself out of one. I’ve got to run, I’m meeting a reporter from the International Herald Tribune.”

“Wow. The Tribune. I’m so impressed,” I say. “You know, I really think you have a chance to win the Palme d’Or, Chris.”

“No way,” says Christopher. “My money’s on Papa, unanimous first-round vote from the judges. I’ll see you at his screening tonight, right?”

“Yep. I’ll be there,” I say, walking my brother to the door.

“Bye, La-La,” he says, planting a kiss on my cheek before heading out.

“See you later, Chris.”

I close the door behind Christopher and walk back over to my laptop. When I refresh the Perez Hilton homepage a new story pops up. It’s a picture of Nic Knight with the caption: “What’s that up his nose??”

Perez has drawn his trademark squiggly circle around a damning close-up of Nic’s face. I continue reading.

“A very happy Nic Knight—with what appears to be white powder in his nostril—stepping off a yacht party in Cannes at 4:00 A.M. Maybe it’s just snot? Or perhaps ‘frosting from his most recent tart’? When will the pAArty stop? What a waste of his talent!”

Where the heck was Nic’s AA sponsor? Or NA sponsor? Or parole officer? Or Kate? I grab my cell and speed-dial Kate. Not surprisingly, her voice mail picks up. I wouldn’t be answering my phone, either, if I were her. Heck, if I were her, I’d be on the first plane out of here.

I continue scrolling down, trying to get back to the story on Saffron and Cricket.

“Meet the new McDreamy—McSexy!” catches my attention.

I feel like I’ve just been punched in the gut by Chuck Liddell. There’s a picture of Patrick Dempsey and—Lev, my Lev—together, and Perez has scrawled one of his infamous hearts around Lev’s face.

I make myself read the accompanying text.

“Patrick Dempsey had hearts swooning outside of the U2 concert at the Rose Bowl in El Lay where he was spotted with Luke Levin, the sexy new doc on Para-Medic. Ya, Luke may not have McDreamy’s lovely locks, but he’s a doctor in real life, which makes him even sexier!”

I slam my laptop closed and make a solemn vow never to look at Perez Hilton ever again.

Compartmentalize, Lola, compartmentalize, I tell myself. Be the CEO of JT Inc. now, not the daughter of crazy narcissists, friend of beleaguered starlets, or fiancée of The Next McDreamy. I check the desk clock. Aria should be here by now. I phone the front desk to see if she’s checked in yet, but she hasn’t. I try her cell; there’s no answer. I call the car service I arranged to pick her up at the airport, and the driver tells me that he hasn’t seen her yet. Too early to call Ivan in NYC. I finally decide to call the concierge and ask him to call the airport to see if Aria’s plane landed on time and to make sure she was on said plane.

It feels like forever before the concierge finally calls me back.

“Mademoiselle Santisi,” he says with his très adorable French accent.

“Oui,” I say. “Have you located Mademoiselle Fraser yet?”

“I’m afraid she’s being taken to prison,” he says.

“Prison?” I wail.

“Oui, prison,” he says. Even with a French accent there is nothing pleasant about the word “prison.”

“I don’t understand, what happened!?”

“I’m not entirely certain, but it seems Mademoiselle Fraser punched a passenger when they were trying to take a photo of her in the middle of the flight. They wouldn’t tell me anything else,” he says.

This officially could be one of the worst days of my life. And it’s not even noon.

“Can you take me to the prison? This has to be some miserable misunderstanding. We need to get Aria out immediately and make sure that the press doesn’t know about it,” I say, my mind racing at the potential damning press.

“Let me talk to my boss and see what can be done,” he says.

“We have to get her out of jail is what needs to be done,” I say. “Please, you have to help me. Your boss will know what to do, right? I mean, she can’t be the first celebrity that’s stayed at your hotel to be thrown in the slammer, right?”

“We will do everything we can to help you,” he says. “I’ll call you back as soon as I know anything.”

Click.

*   *   *

As the seconds turn to minutes and the minutes turn to hours, I’ve gnawed my fingernails to the nubs and Aria is still behind bars despite everything I’ve done to try and get her out. Apparently the passenger she assaulted was a minor who allegedly required a few (seven) stitches on her face. That means there is nothing, and I mean nothing, that I can do to get her out today. I even tried to bribe the unfriendly police officers with premiere tickets and a private dinner with Saffron Sykes and Nic Knight at La Columbe d’Or, which frankly might have actually worked if we were in L.A.

As we’re driving along the windy road back from the precinct in Nice, I can’t help but fantasize about asking the driver to plunge his Mercedes straight off the seaside cliff and into the Med. I wonder how you even say that in French? Just as I’m thinking about whether my funeral would get more RSVPs than Julian’s show so far, and if my mother would allow her cameras to film my memorial, my cell trills.

“Cricket, finally! How are you?”

“I’m freaking out, Lola,” Cricket’s whispering. “I’m not prepared for any of this.”

“Where are you?”

“We just got to the Du Cap,” she says quietly. “Can you come over?”

“Yeah, of course. I’m supposed to be at my dad’s screening in an hour, but I’ll be right there,” I say.

“Thanks, Lola,” Cricket says. “Oh, and I’m staying under Cameron Streep.”

“You have an alias?” I say.

“Yes, I have to because the press keeps trying to call my room and someone knocked on my door pretending to be room service and it was a paparazzi. Please hurry, Lo, I need you.”

Click.

*   *   *

Minutes later my driver is pulling up to the sprawling, immaculately landscaped palm-shaded grounds of the Hôtel du Cap, the Riviera’s most outrageously expensive hotel, hidden away in a twenty-five-acre pine forest on the rocky coast of the Cap d’Antibes. It feels for a moment as if all my woes are lost among the delicious-smelling pines. And then I spot a paparazzo trying to climb through said pine trees. I look around. There’s a whole phalanx of them, sneaking among the trees, lurking outside the jewel box of a chateau. Each one of them armed with telephoto lenses thick as Louisville Sluggers. I picture all of them aimed at my Cricket and feel a rush of protectiveness.

I’ve barely set foot inside the grand, white-and-black, marble-floored, Grecian-columned reception area when a security guard blocks my path.

“I’ll need to see a room key, Mademoiselle.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t have one.”

“This way, then, please.” He escorts me over to the front desk where another black-suited gentleman greets me.

“I’m here to see Cameron Streep,” I tell him, trying to stifle a grimace at the ridiculous alias. But if the clerk shares my sense of the absurdity of the situation, he is far too well trained to show it. “Your ID, Mademoiselle,” he says before placing a call to the room. He then waves me in the direction of the ultra exclusive Eden-Roc, an all-suite annex of the hotel nestled in a secluded spot by the water’s edge, which is almost like staying on one of the mega-yachts with the three Tom’s (Cruise, Ford, and Hanks) on the world’s most pricey floating parking lot in front of the hotel.

As I make my way through the cavernous lobby it feels like I could be in a Fitzgerald novel or back visiting Sofia Coppola on the set of Marie Antoinette. No sign of a recession here. I just pray that I don’t run into my parents, who are also staying here. I’m sure my mother’s been in hair and makeup since 10:00 A.M. getting ready for my father’s screening tonight. The lobby, with its white marble fireplaces, chandeliers, and canary yellow and robin’s egg blue upholstered furniture, is like the living room of some uber-wealthy aristocrat’s country estate if Michael Smith had decorated it before rushing more fabric samples for Malia and Sasha’s bedrooms and Bo’s new doggie bed to the White House.

I pass by Le Bellini bar, with its limestone Corinthian columns and carved crests, and wonder if one of the white-jacketed waiters serving Bellinis by the dozen to everyone from James Cameron to Diane Kruger to Carla Bruni can make me one to go. Hopefully Cricket will have already ordered a giant vat from room service.

I exit the lobby and walk along the palm tree–lined wide, gravel walkway to the Eden Roc. As I go past the pet cemetery that’s been here since the 1930s I can’t help but think that I wouldn’t mind spending the hereafter right here. At one of the clay tennis courts I spot Gavin Rossdale rallying with Roger Federer and wish I could take a seat beside a flawless Gwen Stefani and that darling Mirka to watch.

The scene at the hotel’s saltwater, infinity-edge swimming pool built into a rocky cliff over the Med is straight out of a Helmut Newton photo. I feel like the blond Shrek as I scurry past all the half naked supermodels soaking up the last of the day’s sun and cheering on Chris Pine as he does a Tarzan-like swing into the Med from a jetty down below.

I finally arrive at Cricket’s suite, a contemporary, airy, white-on-white seaside affair that’s a stark contrast to the rooms in the main hotel with their stodgy Louis XV and Louis XVI furniture. Cricket’s curled up on a cheery floral print armchair, looking the opposite of cheery, practically disappearing inside one of the hotel’s plush terry robes. Her porcelain skin is lackluster and her golden locks are in a messy ponytail. I sit down on the edge of the armchair beside her with a million questions swimming around inside my head. I’d be lying if I said that one of them wasn’t: “Is there any chance in hell that you and Saffron will agree to pose on the cover of Vain?” But right now I need to be Cricket’s friend and not the CEO of Julian Tennant Inc.

“How are you doing?” I ask.

“I just didn’t expect any of this, Lo,” Cricket says.

“Are any of the stories true?” I ask my BAF tentatively.

“Well, um, I wouldn’t say that the stories are … um…” Cricket’s fumbling as Kate walks out of the bathroom.

“Hey,” I say to Kate. “I’ve been trying to reach you, too!”

“Are you okay?” Cricket asks Kate, her voice full of concern. “It sounded pretty bad in there.”

“I’m fine,” Kate says, despite the slightly green hue to her skin. “This is ridiculous. I simply cannot afford to be sick right now. Everything’s falling to shit as it is.” She reaches into her clutch and pulls out another motion sickness patch to add to the four she’s already wearing.

“Are you sure it’s okay to put so many of those things on?” I ask.

“These stupid things don’t even work,” Kate says. “I’m wearing one of every brand the drugstore had.”

“That can’t be good for you,” I say, worried.

“Neither is vomiting on your clients,” Kate says. “Or letting them go to a party on a yacht without you, like I let Nic do last night.” I debate asking her if she’s seen PerezHilton or whether she’s aware that it seems Nic’s fallen off the wagon—again. But I decide against it. I’m sure she knows. She must know. And besides, we’re here to focus on Cricket now. “If your father doesn’t kill Nic, I just may,” Kate continues. “God, I hate boats. And of course the afterparty is on another one tonight, but we’re not here to discuss my health or my crap life. We’re here to figure out how to handle the Saffron and Cricket situation.”

I turn to my BAF. “Cricket, you still haven’t answered my question. Are any of the stories true?”

“Well, um, I wouldn’t say that the stories are … um…” she starts bumbling again.

“Oh geezus, Cricket, you pulled a Lohan,” Kate says. “Just say it already. It’s okay. You’re not the first actress to have a fling with a costar.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” I say shaking my head to try and make some sense out of things. “Is Saffron Sykes even gay? Do you think you’re gay? What about Markus?”

Cricket looks down at her candy-apple-red toes.

“Saffron Sykes isn’t gay and neither is Cricket,” Kate says emphatically. “Need I remind you of Yoga Guy, who spent eight months realigning Cricket’s chakras? Or that dude from the freecreditreport.com commercial you did? And why would Cricket constantly be hocking me to set her up with all my male clients if she’s lesbian? Or drooling all over Viggo from the pool house?”

“Cricket?” I say.

“Look, sexuality is more fluid than that,” Cricket announces.

“Oh geezus,” Kate sighs and takes a seat as if readying herself for a lecture.

“I feel like I’m back in Human Sexuality class at Scripps,” I say.

“Try telling all of those people who can’t get married right now that sexuality is fluid. Call it experimentation if anything. Frankly, it’s insulting,” Kate adds resolutely.

“I’m very aware of that.” Cricket finally snaps up from her prone position and begins pacing. “But what I find insulting is that I’ve finally done some really good work and this is what the world wants to focus on. These freaking tabloids?! It’s disgusting and … disappointing. I’ve worked too hard for this to overshadow what I’ve done here. And that it’s hurting Saffron! Look, she isn’t like anyone I’ve ever known before, and when we were filming our scenes together, I just felt something that I’ve never felt before and—”

“Of course you felt something, Cricket,” Kate says briskly. “You are an actress. If you didn’t feel something, you wouldn’t be a very good actress. Look, you don’t have to convince us that you’re not gay.”

“I think what Kate’s trying to say, Cricket, is that you can be a bit … fickle in this area,” I say. “You do tend to go from … well, it’s been man to man in the past.”

“I know, I know,” Cricket says, placing her hands over her face. “It’s just been such a whirlwind that I haven’t had time to think about things, I’ve just gotten so wrapped up. I really care about Saffron and I know she’s freaking out about all of the publicity.” Cricket looks like she’s wearing the weight of the universe on her slender shoulders.

Kate crows with laughter. “Are you kidding? I couldn’t have timed it better myself. Do you realize how much buzz there is behind the movie now?” she says.

“It’s just that suddenly the whole world is saying that Saffron’s gay and I’m gay and Saffron’s worried about her career and mine … but making this movie and playing a lesbian has really made her think about honoring her true self … and Prop 8 … and she hates all the lying and so do I … but I just wasn’t prepared for all of this,” Cricket says.

“What are you saying, Cricket?” I ask. “That Saffron Sykes is gay?”

“Of course she’s not gay,” Kate says. “She’s my client; don’t you think I would know if she was gay?”

“Cricket? Is Saffron Sykes gay?” I ask.

Cricket looks at me and then over to Kate. Me. Kate. Me.

“Yes,” Cricket finally says.

“Just because you two rubbed vulvas does not mean that she’s gay,” Kate says.

“Jesus, Kate, do you have to be so crass?” I say.

“Oh please,” Kate says. “I thought Saffron was in love with Markus. Isn’t she?”

There’s an eerie silence in the room.

“No, she’s in love with me,” Cricket says.

It’s way too much for my brain to comprehend. I feel like I’m trying to put a thousand-piece jigsaw puzzle together without all the pieces. The only piece that’s clear is playing like a marquee in flashing bright neon: There is no way that Saffron and Cricket are going to agree to pose together for the cover of Vain now.

“Just so we’re clear, you’re telling me that the biggest female movie star in the world—who also happens to be my client—is gay and in love with you?” Kate says.

“Yes,” Cricket says, her voice so soft it’s barely audible.

“That’s just freaking great,” Kate says.

“Oh my god, Cricket,” I gasp. “Are you in love with her?”

“I … I … I don’t know,” Cricket says.

I look over to Kate. Her steely façade seems to be cracking. I guess this is just too much to digest—even for Kate. But just when I think she’s full-throttle Humpty Dumpty, she puts herself back together again. I can practically see the wheels inside her head turning.

“We’ll do what we always do: deny, deny, deny,” Kate says. “Everything will be fine, I promise.” Fine for whom exactly, I wonder. Is it really such a big deal that Saffron’s gay? Now that I’ve had a moment to think about it, I’m wondering why Kate’s having such a major freak-out. Kate claps her hands together briskly. “Now, I’ve got to get to Nic’s premiere and so do you, Lola. Let’s go. Cricket, do not pick up the phone. Do not answer the door. I will handle everything from my end, okay?”

“Okay,” says Cricket, but she’s staring off into space.

“I don’t feel right about leaving you here,” I say to Cricket. “You know we love you no matter what, right?”

“I know,” Cricket says. “I’m fine. I’m just … I’m fine. Go, you have to go, we can talk more after the movie.”

“Are you sure?” I say.

“Yes, go, please,” Cricket says. The final glimpse I catch of her as I close the door behind me is of her sinking helplessly into the gigantic chair.

*   *   *

My father is basking in the glory of all the bulbs exploding around him, puffing away on his cigar from the red carpet of the Palais steps, trying to ignore my mother scurrying about with her cameras in tow. She’s dressed in a magenta silk chiffon Chanel couture gown that’s displaying a little too much cleavage. Just as I try to duck behind the hordes of journalists waiting for a turn with my father, my mother spots me.

“Sweetheart,” she calls out in that newly acquired stage voice. “Come, come,” she says, waving me over as though she’s Dame Judy Dench and the red carpet is the Old Vic on an opening night.

“Not tonight, Mom,” I whisper as she tugs me toward her, but not before I wriggle free from her grasp.

“Oh, you’re such a poor sport, Lola” she singsongs after me as I make my way over to my father.

“Congratulations, Papa,” I say, giving him a quick kiss on the cheek.

“Thanks, Toots,” he says, distracted by a sudden shift of attention from him to ten feet up ahead of him.

“Nic! Over here! Nic!” the photogs and journalists shout in a mad frenzy as the star of Papa’s movie is lit up by the explosion of flashes going off all around him. Suddenly the scrum around my father evaporates and he’s left without a single camera aimed at him. Even my mother’s cameras are jockeying for a shot of Nic Knight, hidden from view by the throng shrouding him. “Nic! Over here! Nic!” the crowd continues to yell.

“How nice of him to finally show up,” my father says. “Forty-five minutes late. I’m going inside. This is ridiculous.”

“Wait, Paulie,” one of the photogs says, grabbing my father by the arm. “Can we get a shot of you and Nic together?”

“Fine,” my father says as Nic finally breaks free of the frantic swarm and is face-to-face with my father. Papa instantly turns seething red. Nic’s in full drag, wearing a floor-length shimmery silver halter dress that looks like molten metal suspended from a thick crystal choker. His eyelids are painted a pale violet pastel, and his lips are in a matte red pout. His dark chocolate Lauren Bacall soft-waved wig is blowing in the slight night breeze. He actually looks—pretty. And so is that dress. If it weren’t for all the cameras surrounding them, I’m certain my father would knock Nic out.

“That’s enough. No more pictures,” my father says, breaking away. Moments later my mother steps into his place to pose with Nic, pulling in her ex-flame Mick Jagger for a three-shot. My mother could stand here all night posing for the cameras, but I can’t bear to watch her for even one more second. I head inside.

When the lights finally go down forty-five minutes later, my body is in the plush red velvet seat in the Palais but my mind is on Cricket. It isn’t that San Quentin Cartel isn’t brilliant; it’s that I just can’t stop worrying about whether Cricket is strong enough to withstand the waves of prurient publicity rolling her way. It isn’t until somewhere in the middle of the movie when the projector cuts out suddenly and I hear my father yell, “What the fuck is going on?!” that I’m startled back into my body. All the lights in the theater come on, and a thin gentleman in a tux rushes to the front of the theater.

“Mesdames and Messieurs, please forgive this interruption. Our projector just broke but we are trying to get it fixed immediately,” he says in a thick French accent. Oh dear. Poor Papa.

“How could this happen during my movie?” my father rants.

“I’m sure they’ll get it fixed right away, darling.” My mother tries to calm my father, placing her hand on his knee. “Are you still rolling?” she whispers to Alex, who’s seated on her other side with a tiny video camera tucked in his palm. How on earth did she smuggle Alex’s camera inside the theater? If she gets thrown in jail for pirating her own husband’s movie, I’m not bailing her out. As my father gets increasingly upset, and the crowd becomes more restive with every second that passes without the projector being repaired, I watch as my mother’s face fills with a twisted pleasure at the potential ratings windfall this could create.

I pull out my phone to check on Cricket and see the following text message.

JUST LANDED IN CANNES. MEET ME AT NIC’S AFTER-PARTY. ASSUME YOU’VE READ TABS. GRACE REQUIRES IMMEDIATE CONFIRMATION THAT THE SHOOT IS ON. COZ.