14

My ringing cell phone startles me awake, and for a suspended moment I’ve forgotten everything: that Lev’s not here, that Aria’s nose is broken—it’s a miracle that no footage has appeared yet on YouTube—that we have no venue for the show, that Saffron has called off the Vain shoot, and that I’m probably going to lose my job.

“Hello,” I say, jolted back into my bleak reality as I sit up in bed.

“Have you ever seen a Vain cover with no one on it?” demands a frosty female voice I don’t recognize.

“Huh?” I say, confused.

“Have you ever seen a Vain cover with no one on it?” The British accent has taken on an even more arctic tinge. I’m surprised my ear doesn’t have instantaneous frostbite.

“Um, uh, no,” I mutter.

“Neither have I and I don’t plan on it,” the voice pronounces. And then it hits me. Oh god. Oh no. It’s Grace Frost herself. Holy editor-in-chief.

“Ms. Frost,” I choke out, “I—”

“What’s going on with the Saffron Sykes and Markus Livingston cover? Are they in or are they out?”

My voice catches in my throat. Fear courses through my veins.

“Hello?” Grace Frost says in a tone so cutting that I’m not certain I’ll ever be able to hear the word again without shuddering. “You do understand that we have a contract, correct? And the advertisers took ad space based on Saffron Sykes and Markus Livingston being on the cover. And what this will mean to Julian Tennant Inc., and most especially your career if Saffron Sykes and Markus Livingston aren’t on the cover as planned.”

“I understand.”

“Do you?” she asks as though I’m mentally handicapped.

Cricket’s old mantra to me, Act As If, surges through my mind. Act As If everything is fine. Act As If I will figure out a way to get Saffron and Markus back on that cover. Act As If I’m not utterly and completely screwed.

“I don’t know what Coz said to you, but everything is fine, and we realize what a tremendous honor it is to be on the cover of Vain and how valuable it is to our company. I apologize that you even had to make this call,” I say, hoping that I can somehow will it to be true.

“Good. Marc Jacobs is holding on the other line, I have to go,” she says, and the line goes dead just as the cell is about to slip through my hands from the slick of flop sweat.

I stare at my cell in my glistening palm. The career that I’ve worked so hard for, the career that I so dearly love, is hanging in the balance, and I don’t know how to save it. But I’m going to try. I’ve got to figure out a way to convince Saffron that she has to do the Vain cover, but first I have to find a new venue for our show tomorrow. I furiously start dialing.

*   *   *

“I think we land it here,” Sergei Crimini says to the pilot as he points down to the flight deck of the aircraft carrier he’s converted into a floating mansion for the duration of Cannes. From the caramel calfskin seats of Crimini’s custom McDonnell Douglas helicopter high above the Mediterranean, his vessel looks like a whale among the guppies floating at the old port next to the Palais des Festivals. It makes David Geffen’s mega yacht look like a dinghy.

“Sergei, I can’t thank you enough for this,” I tell the Russian financier. “First you bailed out Chris’s movie, and now you’ve just saved our show. If anything, Julian’s show is going to make even more of a splash on your ship than on the LVMH yacht! What would we have done without you?” I’ve already made all of the arrangements to have everything moved here. Chili’s calling everyone to tell them about the new venue now.

“It is my pleasure, Lola,” says Sergei. “After all, it is thanks to you that I am now a Hollywood producer. And thanks to your brother that my daughter is going to be a big movie star.”

“Well, I know that Chris was absolutely thrilled to cast her.” Who wouldn’t be? Alexandra Crimini, age fourteen, is already six feet tall and stunning. Chris would have been happy to give her that small but pivotal role in Forgetting Petunia Holt even if her father hadn’t shelled out several million dollars to underwrite the movie. “And of course, Julian was more than happy to make Alexandra a special gown for the premiere, weren’t you, Julian?”

“Oh, absolutely,” pants Julian, “I hope she was pleased with it!” Julian releases his death grip around my thigh only long enough to swipe the sweat dripping down the side of his face. “Just tell me when we land,” he whispers, sinking into his seat and clenching his eyes closed.

Moments later, the helicopter alights gracefully on Crimini’s flight deck. Julian stumbles out, his tan Gucci cigarette pants shaking vigorously. He grabs my arm to steady himself. “Don’t make me get back on that thing ever again,” Julian hisses. “I’d rather swim back to the hotel.”

I pinch his hand to shut him up and throw him a warning glare. “Behave!” I hiss back.

“Welcome to my home away from home,” Sergei says. “Of course my personal chef will take care of all the food and drinks.”

“Mr. Crimini, again, I don’t know how to thank you enough,” Julian says. That’s more like it.

“Of course, it is nothing,” Crimini says. “Lola tells me that you’re a huge fan of Hermès. I modeled the boat after the Hermès store in Tokyo. She is called Magic Lantern after Renzo Piano’s design. She glows—like a floating lighthouse. See,” he says, gesturing toward the undulating walls of glass that are catching the light off the ocean. “The walls of hand-blown cubes of glass are inspired by a Japanese lantern. The reflection of the blue of the ocean mixed with the interior colors creates an aura of light.”

“It’s like an impeccably designed piece of jewelry,” I say in awe.

“May I give you a tour?” Crimini asks.

The doors in front of us seem to magically slide open, as if on cue.

“This is the great room,” Crimini says.

“I’d say,” Julian says breathlessly at the expansive room before us that’s probably twice the size of Julian’s loft in New York.

“When do I move in?” I say, sliding a hand along the wood wall. Its dark grain is so intricate it looks like an abstract painting “Is this…?”

“Cashmere,” Julian finishes my sentence in awe as we both kneel and caress the flawless, creamy floor.

“My god, no red wine in here,” I say, our feet sinking into the plush cashmere carpeting as we make our way through the room. I have to resist the urge to curl up in one of the orange cashmere blankets strewn on the soft, navy couches lining the walls.

“Champagne? Pellegrino?” A deck hand appears with a tray of drinks.

“Thank you,” Julian says taking a glass of champagne as I grab a Pellegrino in a wine glass.

“Please, follow me,” Crimini says, guiding us toward a staircase.

“I’m pretty sure that’s not a poster,” Julian whispers to me as we pass a Rothko painting.

“Oh my god,” I say, clutching the beige, woven banister as we make our way down the steps, “it’s gorgeous, it’s like a Bottega handbag.”

“These are the guest rooms,” Crimini says, gesturing down the long hallway of wood doors. “All of the wood used on the boat is from old wine vats from our winery in Tuscany. That’s how we get the deep, rich, red tones in the wood. All of that gorgeous color comes from soaking in wine over years.”

“I’ve always wanted to float in a glass of cabernet,” Julian says, whispering, “de-lish!” as he runs a hand along the wall.

“Each of the guest quarters is designed after a jewel. This is the sapphire room,” Crimini says, pushing open the gorgeous cherry-colored wood door to reveal a blue jewel of a room, with a sumptuous bed made up in Frette linens, a giant flat-screen television, and a marble bathroom beyond. The pieces of Italian blown glass on the desk facing out to the Mediterranean are all a sapphire blue, and even the collection of books lining the bookshelf have all been chosen for their blue book jackets. Clearly the only thing of Crimini’s affected by the recession is his lighting.

“This is the most outrageous spot for our show, Lola,” Julian says, grabbing my arm and pulling me toward him. “If we can pull it off, this is going to be gorgeous. Our guests will be blown away.”

“And this is my daughter,” Crimini says as he guides us into the emerald room. Sitting on the bed is Alexandra, her endless legs stretched out beneath a computer, sun-kissed hair down her back looking like she’s just stepped off the beach. That we’re in the emerald room isn’t lost on me as I look into those green, almond-shaped eyes as startling as the Mediterranean peeking through the window behind her.

“Hi Alex,” I say, reaching out my hand to her, to which she stretches long, graceful fingers in my direction. “You’re really good in my brother’s movie.” It was a small part but she made an impression. And even more stunning in person, I think to myself.

“Oh, I was so happy to get the part. It was fun,” she says shyly.

“Julian? What are you doing?” I whisper, waving him in from the doorway where he’s cowering like a five-year-old on the first day of kindergarten.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” he recovers, reaching a hand out to introduce himself. Now I’ve seen Julian in many incarnations, but blushing? This is a first. “I have to say, you just took my breath away. I’m not sure I’ve ever met anyone so beautiful.” Which is saying a lot, given that Julian has spent most of his adult life surrounded by models, Turlington, Moss, Crawford, Evangelista among them. I look to Julian and if I know my BGF at all, we’re both thinking the same thing: This girl is going to be huge. And we’re going to be the ones to introduce her to the world.

“Alex, I’d like you to meet Julian Tennant,” I say.

“Oh, Mr. Tennant,” Alex breathes, “thank you so much for the incredibly gorgeous dress you made me. I felt like a model wearing it!” Julian made Alex the most romantic, flouncy chiffon dress with itsy bitsy strawberries embroidered all over it. Style.com called it “magical” and WWD said it looked like Alex walked straight out of a fairy tale. Of course, no one other than Crimini could afford that dress right now. The embroidery alone was over a thousand dollars.

“That’s wonderful,” I tell her. “Because we have a great favor to ask you. Would you consider modeling in Julian’s show?”

“Modeling? Me? In a real show?” Alex blinks in shock and looks at her father.

“That’s exactly what we mean. Do you know Aria Fraser?” Julian asks her.

“Of course,” she and her father answer in unison.

“Well, she’s had an … unfortunate accident”—if you can call getting completely blotto and skinny dipping in the most visible lobby in Cannes and smashing up the world’s most perfect Roman nose an “accident”—“and Julian and I think you’d be an absolutely smashing”—that word again—“replacement for her. That is, if you’re ready,” I say, looking her square in the eye. And she doesn’t have to say anything for me to know it. Those piercing green eyes say it all.

*   *   *

Julian doesn’t even threaten to swim back from Crimini’s boat, he’s so excited about our new venue and our new model. In fact, not only does he get onto the helicopter without a fight—or a Xanax—but he giddily whips out his sketchbook the moment we take off and starts sketching the new touches he’s planning on making to the dresses for Alex. “Now I know what having a muse feels like,” he says without looking up from his Moleskine notebook.

“Oh my gosh, Julian, it’s already seven o’clock,” I say, looking at my watch. “Once we get back to the hotel, we have to get ready and go. I told my mom I wouldn’t be late for her party.”

“I’m sorry, Princess, but I’m not going. I’m way too inspired. I have to get these dresses done for Alex,” Julian says.

I wish I could argue with him that he has to come with me, but he’s right. I only wish I could do the same.

“You’re right Julian, get your work done. We don’t have a lot of time to get ready for the show. Chili’s around so he can help you with whatever you need—and will you please make sure that he triple-checks that all the arrangements have been made for the change of venue?”

But Julian’s too deep in his sketches to even answer me.

*   *   *

“We Are Family,” by Sister Sledge is blaring through the windows of the massive chateau my mother rented for “Fête-ing Santisi.” Old home movies of me, Christopher, Mom, and Papa are playing on giant screens throughout the massive gardens, as well as specially cut-together trailers for San Quentin Cartel and Forgetting Petunia Holt.

As I make my way through the candlelit courtyard hemmed by hundred-year-old towering limes trees and fairy-tale turrets, I hear a loud whooshing sound coming from above my head. I turn to find flame-throwers on eight-foot-tall stilts bounding toward me. I don’t know who’s more likely to topple over: me in my six-inch Louboutin stilettos, or the men now circling us in this surreal circus. It seems my mother took me literally when I suggested that the party should be called “Cirque du Santisi” instead of “Fête-ing Santisi.” She clearly didn’t get the joke. Judging by the number of contortionists, fire-eaters, clowns, and trapeze artists, I’m wondering if she actually got Cirque du Soleil to come to Cannes. My mother is obviously trying to outdo the annual Chopard party, the D&G bash, the AmFar Gala—and every other lavish soiree in Cannes—with this party. And of course she’s called in extra camera crews to capture it all for her show. I think I even spot a camera in the hands of one of the clowns.

I make a quick beeline for the mosaic marble entryway of the chateau, quickly pinning up my hair as I go. This rat’s nest is a fire hazard. I didn’t have the time to wash it, let alone do anything with it. And I’m feeling pretty dismal as I pass by Gwyneth, looking perfection as usual in a shimmering silver micro-minidress, with those sculpted legs that go on for days. I overhear her telling Kylie Minogue about Tracy Anderson’s new baby food cleanse. Baby food? Really? I’m sure I’ll read about it on GOOP next week.

There’s no baby food on the buffet, thankfully. On long, ornate tables there are tray upon tray of iced oysters, lobsters, and crab legs interspersed between flickering candelabras that are casting a glow on the honey-colored, thirteenth-century stone walls and exposed timber beams. The chateau’s heavy, wooded windows offer views of the Mediterranean beyond, the smell of lavender and rosemary float up from the immense garden stretching out to the sea, and the cobblestone floors are dotted with more stars than there are in the sky.

I pass by Al Pacino, Jack Nicholson, and Mick Jagger huddled in conversation on one of the sumptuous crimson velvet couches. I wonder what it would have been like if one of them had been my father—my mother dated them all at one time or another. On another sofa Russell Brand and Salman Rushdie are seated beside one another. Only my mother could bring those two together. What could they possibly be talking about? Across the room is another odd coupling: Woody Allen and Kid Rock.

I spot my father and Christopher posing for photographs against an ornamental wall hanging by the fireplace. My father looks as angry as the wild boar goring the deer in the tapestry; he’s clearly miffed that he’s being forced to share his moment and the spotlight with Christopher, who looks no more pleased than the deer breathing its last. Gigi, on the other hand, seems to love the spotlight. I must say she’s looking ravishing in a long, slinky, white silk column dress with a daring slit up to her hip, canting her legs this way and that, wrapping and rewrapping her willowy arms around Christopher’s waist. I overhear one of the photogs saying, “Can someone get this girl out of the two-shot please?” Mom’s Wristwatch Wives camera crew, with Alex at its helm, pivots around the herd of lensmen. Cameras taking pictures of cameras. When will the snake stop biting its own tail?

I feel awfully alone at what’s supposed to be at least in part a quote-unquote “Santisi family celebration.” I look at my BlackBerry. Lev texted me two hours ago that his plane had landed in Nice. He should be here anytime.

“Sweetheart,” my mother calls out with outstretched arms as she makes her way across the party looking like a blond Cleopatra by way of Karl Lagerfeld. She seems to float across the antique Persian carpets in her swooping ivory chiffon gown with intricate Egyptian-style gold embroidery across the bodice. Thank god she’s not being trailed by her crew. “What’s the matter?” she says, hugging me. “You look so sad. Where’s Lev?”

“He’s on his way, but I’ll be surprised if he even makes it.”

“Oh sweetie, I’m so sorry,” my mother says, continuing to hold me, and I don’t want her to let go. “Darling, is there something else the matter?”

“Can I talk to you off camera?” I ask.

“Of course, darling, just as long as you promise me that you’ll also talk to me on camera as well. Did you bring the script I sent you? I had cue cards made up in case you didn’t have time to memorize your lines,” she says.

“Mom, I really need for you to be my mother for one second and not a Wristwatch Wife, okay?”

“Of course, darling,” she says.

“I’m really scared that I’m not going to be able to save JT Inc. this time. I finally found a new venue for the show, but with the RSVPs so dismal I’m not sure it even matters. And I don’t know how on earth I’m going to convince Saffron to pose on the cover of Vain. She was on board with doing the cover with Markus, and then all the tabloid nonsense started and she backed out. Kate says that she’s tired of lying to the world and pretending that she’s straight.” All of it comes gushing out of me like a BP oil spill. And at the word “straight” I suddenly notice a very strange glint in my mother’s eye and wonder why she seems to be inching closer and closer to me, practically stabbing me with the giant white tulle Chanel camellia pin on her left shoulder. “Mom?!”

“So Saffron Sykes is really a lesbian,” she says.

“Mom, why do you keep shoving that flower in my face?” I say. And then I get it. “Oh my god, Mom, no, no, no, no, no … Mom is there a—” I can’t even get the words out. I’m scared if I say it aloud it will make it all too real. That I just confirmed on camera that Saffron is gay. “Mom, is there a hidden camera in your camellia?”

“Oh, Lola, sweetheart, come on,” she whispers.

“Mom, you cannot use that footage! You have to promise me! You told me you weren’t filming.”

“Darling, it’s all going to come out anyway, why shouldn’t it come out on my show? Can you imagine the ratings? This is just what I need now!” she crows. “Christine’s been lording her footage of her dermatologist’s biopsy over me. She’s been telling everyone it was cancer, and it was just a measly basal cell—”

“Are you freaking kidding me right now, Mom? This is not happening!” I can feel hot tears burning at the corners of my eyes.

And as though it’s been timed, Lev walks into the room. Finally. Lev is here. The man who is going to take me away from all of this. The man who is going to save me from Hollyweird. The man who is going to be my husband. My new family. I want to run to him and fling my arms around him. But something’s different, something’s not right. No, not right at all. I barely recognize him in his ultra slim-fit black linen suit. I mean, it’s a gorgeous suit. And he looks gorgeous. But it’s the kind of suit I’d expect to see on Brad Pitt, not my Lev. My Lev who wears jeans and T-shirts and thinks Hanes is a designer brand.

“Lev darling!” my mother calls out.

And that’s when a bribe comes to me. I put a restraining hand on her arm. “Mother, if you even think you’re coming to our wedding, you will make a solemn vow this very second that you will not use any of that footage.”

“You would really do that?” my mother asks in shock.

“The same way you would use that footage. Yes, you better believe it.”

There is the very briefest of stare-downs. “Oh, fine, Lola,” she says, shrugging her slender shoulders in surrender. But I know better.

“I want you to promise on your life.”

“Stop being so dramatic,” Mom says. “I said I wouldn’t use it but I really don’t see what the big deal is.”

“Promise me,” I demand. “This very minute.”

Mom rolls her eyes. “Fine, yes, I promise. But you’ve got to let me—”

I turn to my fiancé, but he’s already been enveloped in a swarm of photogs snapping away. And I feel a jolt to my system, because he looks awfully comfortable there in front of those cameras. It’s not until I get closer that I realize that it’s not just the flashes that make his complexion look odd. He has a Mystic Tan.

“Yeah, thanks, man, I just flew in on Dempsey’s G4,” I hear him telling one of the photographers.

This is when the room starts spinning.

Fortunately, Lev picks that moment to cross the room and wrap me in his arms. “Hi honey,” he says, kissing me. Okay, now that feels like home, I think to myself with relief when I’m folded into him. That’s my Lev. But then when I pull back to look at his face, something’s not right.

“Lev, what’s with the Mystic Tan? And what happened to your eyebrows?” I ask in shock.

“Oh I forgot about that! Yeah, the makeup artist did that,” he says, rubbing his fingers along his newly waxed brows.

“Makeup artist?”

“Yeah, for the show.”

“Oh,” I say, trying to get used to his new brows. “Did I hear you say something about Dempsey’s G4?”

“Oh yeah, I ended up getting a ride on Dempsey’s plane, because shooting ran over and I missed my other flight,” he says before I can fully digest that Lev is calling Patrick Dempsey “Dempsey.”

“Oh, that’s so great,” I force myself to say. “Is that a new suit?”

“Yeah, it’s a gift from Dempsey,” he says.

“That’s quite a gift,” I say. “Should I be jealous? Is there a bromance brewing?”

“No, no, Hugo Boss sent him a bunch of suits and he didn’t want them all so he gave this one to me. Did you know they’re, like, a thousand bucks? I could never afford one of these.” He brushes the lapel admiringly.

“Oh,” I say and as I look into his green eyes it hits me how much I’ve missed him. Even though he’s standing right in front of me the feeling of missing him hasn’t gone away. It’s like a gaping hole that I could just crawl into and get buried in.

“And guess what?” Lev says. “I have the most amazing news!”

“What?” I say.

“The Coen brothers were on the flight here with us, and I guess they’ve been trying to cast this role of a doctor in their next movie. They seemed to be interested in me. It’s a small part, but I think it could be fun,” he says with a big smile. I didn’t think he even knew who the Coen brothers were. “It’s about a Jewish Orthodox gynecologist who has a midlife crisis after falling in love with his nurse. He decides to leave his wife and family and converts to Catholicism because that’s the only way his shiksa nurse will be with him. I’d be playing the brother he shares a practice with who tries to talk some sense into him.”

“A gynecologist in a Coen brothers movie?” I ask in shock, shaking my head in disbelief. With as much calm as I can muster, I ask, “What about Lenox Hill Hospital? Have you heard back from them yet?”

“Not yet,” he says as Kate comes up to us.

“Hey, guys,” she says, giving me a quick peck on the cheek. She glows in a simple white dress that traces the outline of her perfect body. “Lola, you’ll be happy to know that Nic Knight is on a plane to Clean and Sober Detox in California. I’m making Adam fly him there. I told Nic the only way I was going to bail his sorry ass out of jail was if he agreed to go. Thanks again for not telling your father or calling the cops on him last night for violating his parole.”

“No problem,” I say. “I’m just glad he’s getting some help.”

“He needed it. He was actually hallucinating. He kept telling me about his new baby! He even said he’d bought actual clothes for it, can you imagine? I almost feel sorry for Adam having to drag him all the way to detox, but I told him that was his penance for blabbing everything to you. I’m just so relieved he’s gone. I don’t have to worry about him crashing the party tonight and pulling some stunt.” Kate looks around the room appreciatively. “Your mom’s in rare form, Lo. I almost got impaled by one of her sword swallowers coming in. And I don’t think your dad’s so happy about those Lipizzaner stallions crapping in the courtyard. Amanda Seyfried just stepped in a big pile of—”

“Kate—” I blurt. “Lev was on the plane with the Coen brothers. They want him to audition for a part in their next film.”

“Oh yeah, that’s a great part,” Kate says, turning to Lev. “You’re going to need a good agent. Why don’t you call my office so we can get you set up with the paperwork?”

I don’t give Lev a chance to respond. “Sweetheart, would you mind getting me a glass of champagne,” I say to him. Once he’s out of sight, I turn to my best friend. “Are you fucking kidding me right now, Kate?” I say. “I already told you you had my blessing to agent him. I just asked you to leave me out of it. Do you really have to throw this in my face tonight of all nights?”

“Why are you being so touchy about this? Wouldn’t you rather he be with me than someone else? I’ll get him the best deal.”

“You’re my best friend!” I say between teeth clenched so hard my jaw is aching. “Don’t you understand what’s happening?! I’m losing him—to Hollywood. He’s a doctor, not an actor.”

“Are you sure about that?” Kate asks.

Everything seems to come to a screeching halt, as if the pause button on life has been pushed: the fire outside being thrown up in the air by the flamethrowers, my mother with her cameras holding court with Demi and Ashton, my father puffing away on a cigar while holed up in a corner with Julian Schnabel, my brother, giving an interview as Gigi drapes a long arm over his knee. As the voices and music drone in the back of my head, I realize we’re all just putting on the show and hoping the pieces fall together. The room sways back into focus and so do I.

“Kate, look, what’s it going to take to get Saffron on the cover of Vain in Julian Tennant? Just get me in a room with her. I’m drowning here and I have to do something or this ship is going to sink.”

“Lo, I wish I could help you. I really do. But with everything that’s happening, Saffron just doesn’t want to do it. I’m sorry. It’s a no,” Kate says simply.

But I know I can’t take no for an answer. “Kate, no, wait! You can’t just say … I mean, if you want to represent Lev … I mean…” I trail off miserably. When did Fête-ing Santisi become Extortion Night?

All of a sudden Kate looks worse than I feel. “Kate, you okay?” I ask. Her face has turned pale, and I wonder if she might vomit again right here in the middle of this party. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to … I mean, I understand your position completely. It’s just that—” I trace her eye line to land on my brother and Gigi, still stapled to Chris’s side. Kate’s dark eyes are like lasers trained on my brother.

“So we hear there’s a bidding war going here at the festival for your movie,” the reporter says to Christopher. “Where do you think it will land?”

“I can’t speculate at the moment,” he answers, then adds, “but stay tuned. I’m anxiously awaiting the outcome myself.”

“Are you two an item?” another reporter asks. Christopher demurs, but Gigi bats her eyes like a lovesick doe and coos, “I’m crazy about this guy.”

“I can’t listen to another second of this,” Kate says, pulling her BlackBerry out of her clutch.

“Kate, would you just go talk to him, for crying out loud?” I beg. But she just continues to ignore me, pounding so furiously on her BlackBerry I think her thumbs may go into a spasm. I’m going to have to take matters into my own hands. I make a beeline for Gigi.

“Gigi,” I say with a big fake smile as I unwrap her arm from my brother. She has a surprisingly strong grip, like Jill Zarin at a J Mendel sample sale. “Can I steal you?” I ask. “Come, come, Patrick has been trying to find you to get a photo,” I say, pulling her toward a Vanity Fair photographer and urgently mouthing to Chris as I do, “Kate wants to talk to you.”

Just as soon as I deposit Gigi right where she wants to be, in front of the camera, I run into Lev, who hands me my flute of champagne and pulls me toward a private corner beneath a very large, dark painting of a rather stern-looking woman who I have the creepy impression is staring at me

“I have a confession,” he says. “It wasn’t my work at the hospital that made me late for Cannes yesterday. It was Para-Medic.”

“Why didn’t you simply tell me that?”

“I’m not even sure myself,” he says, looking down at his shoes, a pair of John Lobbs whose uppers are so shiny I can practically see the chandeliers reflected in them. Another gift from Dempsey? “I think I knew that it would upset you and that you have so much work to do here. I didn’t want it to distract you from your job. I’m so sorry about everything that’s going on. The Para-Medic thing has been a total fluke,” he says, taking my hand and then dropping it. He starts pacing back and forth in that damn Hugo Boss suit.

“I wish you could take that thing off,” I say, waving in the general direction of his ensemble. “You just don’t look like you.”

“That’ll probably have to wait until we get back to the hotel,” he jokes, but I’m not feeling very amused at the moment. “You really don’t like it?” he asks, moving toward an antique gold mirror hanging on the wall and smoothing back his hair before he turns back toward me. Lev is checking himself out in the mirror. I don’t think I’ve ever in the entirety of our relationship seen him do that. “I know, this trip is about you and your work,” he says, coming over to me and resting his hand on my back. “Don’t freak out about this Coen brothers movie. It’s not like they’ve even offered me the part, although it would be so cool if they did,” he says. “I mean, No Country for Old Men was incredible.”

“I thought you never went to the movies before you met me,” I say.

“Oh no, I saw it last week with Dempsey. He’s giving me a little lesson in Hollywood 101,” Lev says, taking a sip from the tumbler in his hand.

“Well, has he given you a lesson in what it’s like to shoot a movie?” I say, wishing we were anywhere but here at this damn party having this conversation. “Twelve-hour shoot days—in Vancouver—or Albania—or Timbuktu. Who’s going to do your surgeries then?”

“I know, I know, you’re right, it’s totally unrealistic. I’m a doctor first. Forget it. Let’s talk about this when you’ve gotten through with this week. This week is about you,” he says for the second time in this discussion. And for the second time I can’t help but feel that that isn’t close to being true. “I love you and everything’s going to be just fine. Let’s get back to the hotel and get a good night’s rest. You’ve got a big couple of days ahead of you.”

And as he pulls me into him, I try to feel like everything’s going to be fine. Only three more days and we’ll be back on the plane and this week will be over. And I’ll figure out how to get the Vain cover shoot back on track, even if I have to bend over as far backwards as those gymnasts doing a tableau vivant near Mom’s oyster buffet. And as the din of the party fades away, my old mantra repeats itself in my ear, Act As If, Act As If, Act As If …

But when I reluctantly release myself from Lev’s arms, I find that he suddenly doesn’t have eyes for me anymore. Once again, his gaze is fixed on the mirror as he studies his own reflection. He seems to really, really like what he sees there.