Chapter Two
Text from Emma Lee Maxwell:
Check out Tara’s latest Instagram post. Does that Proenza patent leather trench she’s wearing look familiar? It should. It’s mine! Would you please, pretty please, tell her to stop stealing my clothes? You’re so much better at dealing with her. Thanks a mill. Kisses.
“Are you seriously telling me a Leo rescued you from falling off a cliff and gave you a ride back to the hotel in a car straight off the set of a James Bond movie and you didn’t get his phone number?” Olivia takes a sip of her Grande Dame, one of Le Majestic’s signature cocktails, made with verbena-infused water, gin, and champagne, and looks at me through her false eyelashes. “And he had serious designer stubble?”
“Yes.”
In Olivia vernacular, a “Leo” is a man who possesses enough charisma and good looks to play the leading man in almost any film. As in, Leonardo DiCaprio. “Designer stubble” is closely-cropped facial hair intended to give the actor a majorly macho appearance. Jake Gyllenhaal, Colin Farrell, and George Clooney are famous for their designer stubble. Harrison Ford worked the stubble in Raiders of the Lost Ark and Leonardo DiCaprio in Blood Diamond. Olivia can deliver a lengthy monologue on the history and success of designer stubble. To her, male supermodel David Gandy is the poster boy for designer stubble, while Brad Pitt and Joaquin Phoenix are quintessential examples of chin bush gone bad.
We are sitting in Le Majestic’s Bar Galerie du Fouquet’s, a sumptuous Art Deco cocktail lounge decorated with black velvet armchairs and gilded fixtures, while we wait for a reporter from Variety to arrive to interview Olivia.
“You should have asked him to join you for cocktails tonight.”
“I couldn’t have done that.”
“Why not?” She grins, her full, red-lacquered lips curling up. “The Festival is over, which means we have a month of men, Moët, and Monte.”
Olivia loves the film To Catch a Thief, starring Cary Grant and Grace Kelly, and wants to visit Monte Carlo so she can find her own debonair jewel thief. She probably will, too. Olivia is a force. Hurricane Olivia doesn’t let anything—or anyone—stand in her way of following the path to happiness. It’s one of the things I admire, and envy, in her.
“I am not as bold as you, Olivia.”
“Bold, schmold,” she says, dismissively waving her manicured hand. “Not all men desire a bold woman, Mandy. You are pretty, loyal, and damned clever. Monsieur X would have probably jumped at the invite.”
“I doubt it.”
“Why?”
An image of Xavier behind the wheel of his convertible flashes in my mind. The strong, leading-man profile, the designer stubble shadowing his jaw, the wind ruffling his dark hair.
“You didn’t see him, Olivia. If this were Gone with the Wind, he would be Rhett Butler and I would be pale-faced, mealy-mouthed Melanie Hamilton.”
The waiter appears bearing a silver tray laden with two Grande Dames. He places one in front of Olivia and the other in front of me.
“There must be some mistake,” I say, sliding the heavy crystal glass away from me. “I didn’t order a drink.”
“C’est bon,” Olivia says, sliding the glass back.
The waiter bows and backs away.
“I don’t drink when I am working.”
“Fiddle-dee-dee, Miss Mellie,” Olivia simpers. “Step out of those stiff petticoats and have a good time. We are in Cannes, for Scarlett’s sake!”
She glares at me until I take a sip of my drink. My daddy was a gin drinker. Hayman’s 1850 Reserve and a splash of tonic every night after dinner. I shudder as the alcohol burns a path down my throat. When it comes to gin, I am not my daddy’s girl. I would rather gargle sea water.
Olivia smiles at me over the rim of her cocktail glass. “Do you know what I think?”
“No, but I have a feeling you are going to tell me.”
“I think you work awfully hard at being plain and unmemorable, but deep down you have an inner sex-kitten, clawing to get out.”
I snort.
“Me-ow,” Olivia purrs, raising her hands like claws. “Let it out, Mandy. Let your inner sex-kitten out.”
I push my glasses up my nose and snort again. “I do not have an inner sex-kitten. I have a fat, boring, dependable calico that hides under furniture because it is frightened of its shadow.”
“Bullshit!” Olivia hisses. “If I were in Monte, I would place all my chips on the bet that you have a fierce, feral, inner sex-kitten. The right catnip will lure it out.”
My cheeks flush with heat.
“Maybe you need a dose of French catnip!”
She laughs and the heat spreads from my cheeks down my neck, fanning out over my chest. I reach for my cocktail, and that’s when I see Xavier striding through the bar, dressed in an impeccably tailored black suit and crisp white shirt, open at the neck to reveal a tantalizing V of tanned skin. My hand bumps my glass, tipping it over. The cocktail spills onto the table, my lap, and the floor.
“Mandy? Are you . . .” Olivia follows my gaze and gasps. “Yowza! That wouldn’t happen to be your—”
Xavier stops at our table and pulls a monogrammed hankie from his pocket.
“Mademoiselle Maxwell,” he says, handing me the hankie. “I believe Emanuele intended for you to drink his cocktails, not bathe in them.”
“Emanuele?”
“Emanuele Balestra. Le Majestic’s Chef Barman.”
“Oh, yes. Of course.”
Of course he would know the Chef Barman.
I use the hankie to dab gin from my skirt and hand it back to Xavier.
“Keep it,” he says, smiling. “It would appear you have more need of it today.”
He bows slightly, nods his head at Olivia, and strides away, joining an older, paunchy man in a private booth at the back of the bar.
“Well done, Mandy!” Olivia stares at me through wide eyes. “I think you found your catnip.”
I am spared from responding as a waifish blonde holding a slender notebook, an iPhone, and a small pocket recorder, approaches our table. I recognize her as the Variety reporter.
“Good Evening, Miss Tate,” she says, thrusting her hand at Olivia. “I believe we have an interview. I am Lana Legend with Variety.”
“That is not your name!”
The reporter frowns and looks at me. I properly vetted Lana Legend before approaching Olivia with the interview request. I read her clips to make sure she hadn’t penned any hack pieces.
“This is definitely Lana Legend,” I say.
“What a fab name!” Olivia claps her hands. “Is it your real name or a pen name?”
“Real.”
The reporter takes a seat in the empty armchair between us. Olivia introduces me as her best friend and assistant extraordinaire, orders another round of Grande Dames, and the interview gets underway.
I listen to the first few questions—softballs about Olivia’s childhood—but am too acutely aware of Xavier’s presence in the bar, and his hankie lying in my lap, to focus on anything as mundane as a Hollywood interview. I try not to stare, but my gaze keeps drifting from Lana Legend to Xavier.
About an hour into the interview, Xavier stands and shakes hands with his companion. I watch him leave the bar out of the corner of my eye.
“This might be a good place for us to stop,” Lana says. “Our photographer is waiting on the upper deck so he can get a few pictures of you for the piece. You don’t have to worry about a thing though, we have a stylist and a makeup artist.”
“Just give me a minute,” Olivia says. “I will be up after I have a word with Manderley.”
“Sure,” Lana says, gathering her notebook and recorder. “Take your time.”
Lana hurries out of the bar.
“You don’t have to stick around for the photo shoot if you don’t want to,” Olivia says.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. I know how much you hate photo shoots. I hate them, too.”
“No, you don’t.”
“No, I don’t,” she says, laughing. “Go, have some fun. I will meet you in the room later. Maybe we can go for a swim and plan our adventures in Monte.”
Olivia drains the last of her cocktail, swipes a slash of red lipstick over her lips, and blows me an air kiss.
I stand to leave when I notice Reed Harrington headed my way. Several other personal assistants trail behind her. Reed is a personal assistant to three-time Academy Award–winning actor Alec Elkins, star of A Quaint Mileu. She gives the impression of being quiet and demure, but don’t let her purring fool you. She is a panther. If you cross her, she will rip your heart out with her claws, feast on your carcass, and use your bones as toothpicks. I sit back down, whip out my iPhone, and pretend to be absorbed in a text. If I am lucky, they will walk right by me.
“Manderley!” Reed purrs. “Is that you?”
I guess I am not lucky.
“Yes.” I say, standing quickly. “Hello, Reed. How are you?”
“I am fab, just fab. Sit back down,” she commands, claiming the seat beside me. “You’re not going anywhere.”
“I’m not?”
She shakes her head and her long, glossy red hair spills like molten copper over her shoulders and down her back. The other assistants situate themselves around Reed, like sycophants paying court to a monarch.
“I know for a fact that Olivia is having her picture taken by a photog from Variety, which means you are free to join us for a drink.”
Reed knows everything. She is a major authority on the industry, with contacts stretching from Hollywood to Bollywood. She arrived in Los Angeles when she was sixteen with her best friend, popular teen singer/actress Jessie Lee. When Disney Darling Jessie was caught by the paparazzi snorting cocaine in a club, Reed ditched her BFF and took a job as one of a legion of assistants to a major director of action-adventure flicks. Alec Elkins starred in one of the director’s films and was so impressed with Reed he lured her away.
Apparently, loyalty isn’t Reed’s thing.
“What are you drinking?” she asks, gesturing to my cocktail glass.
“Grande Dame,” I mumble.
A waiter appears. Reed orders champagne for everyone and introduces me to her friends. There’s Josh Harrell, personal assistant to an A-list actress famous for her toothy grin and long legs; Loren Knight, executive assistant to the president of a major production company; Gillian Davis, personal assistant and tour coordinator to a pop diva/actress; Reilly Altmann, personal assistant to a network chairman, and Sköda, a personal assistant who tells me she is “contractually forbidden from mentioning her employer by name.”
I sit quietly, listening as Josh talks about his desire to one day direct movies. Gillian shares her ten-year plan for “conquering Hollywood.” Loren confesses working as an executive assistant is merely the first rung in her climb up the production company ladder. Reed wants to be an actress—a “serious” actress.
Hollywood should be renamed Wannabe, because it is filled with people who wannabe something more than they are. Waitresses who wannabe actresses. Secondary actors who wannabe leading actors. Celeb husbands who wannabe producers. Second directors who wannabe lead directors. Visual effects editors who wannabe visual effects supervisors. Stunt performers who wannabe stunt coordinators.
Personal assistants? They are the queens and kings of Wannabe. They wannabe close to power players. They wannabe famous. They wannabe rich. They wannabe married to a celeb.
Most people don’t know it, but a celebrity’s personal assistant wields a lot of power. They are the gatekeepers to the Golden Ones. Nobody gets to Angelina Jolie or Brad Pitt without first speaking to one of their assistants.
Sure, it is an exhausting, oftentimes demeaning job. Hollywood personal assistants must be willing to sacrifice their personal lives because they are required to be available 24/7. George Clooney’s assistant even lives in a house on his property! They spend their days catering to the whims of A-listers and power players. They charge cell phones, make Starbucks runs, administer enemas (true story), arrange childcare, book meetings, deal with bat-shit crazy agents, hustle to get tables at the hottest new restaurants, procure prostitutes . . . the list is endless.
But every once in a while, a PA gets a big payoff. Scooter Braun, the music mogul who discovered Justin Bieber and Carly Rae Jepsen, promoted his assistant to a supervisory role within his record company. Sarah Jessica Parker gave her assistant an associate producer credit on Sex and the City. Jessica Simpson’s assistant, CaCee Cobb, became a popular Hollywood party girl before settling down with an actor.
After listening to Reed talk (and talk), it is obvious she believes her big payoff is imminent.
“Don’t tell anyone,” she says, raising her voice an octave. “But, last week I read for a part in the new Stephane Goldberg movie.”
“The World War II picture?” Loren asks.
Reed nods her head.
“I heard Tom Cruise is the lead,” Josh says.
“It’s definitely not Tom Cruise”—she smiles smugly—“but the lead star is major!”
She pronounces it may-jah.
“Did you read with him?”
Reed nods her head. “Halfway through my third call-back, I suddenly realized I was living most of the world’s wish fulfillment. It was surreal—even by Hollywood standards. I know he has a reputation for being douchetastic, but—”
“If it is who I think it is, he has unprecedented levels of douchebaggery,” Josh interrupts. “I’ve heard he has a fifteen-page rider that includes things like Cuban cigars, special bath oil made in the Yucatán Peninsula, and a separate trailer for his bullmastiff.”
“I’ve heard he insists that everyone working in craft service must wear a uniform made of natural fibers,” Loren adds. “He hates manmade fibers.”
“I’ve heard he has a thing for bald-headed, toothless male prostitutes,” Reilly adds.
“Me too,” Gillian agrees.
Sköda remains tight-lipped.
The conversation turns to Cannes nightlife.
“Bâoli is the spot,” Reed sniffs. “A-listers and Saudi princes hang out there—people with enough money to afford magnums of Krug Private Cuvée and Moët et Chandon Dom Pérignon.”
“I went to Le For You last night,” Loren says. “Gigi was there and she looked fierce. She had on Gucci leather leggings and thigh-high suede boots. That girl can dance.”
Josh sniffs. “I prefer Gotha, at the Cap de la Croisette. The DJs are next level. Naked dancers writhe around on pink velvet chaise lounges and muscular waiters carry flaming bottles of champagne. And, their VIP rooms are the best in Cannes.”
When Reed launches into another high-octane, narcissism-fueled conversation—it’s all about Reed, Reed, Reed—I suddenly feel as if the walls are closing in around me, pressing against my back and chest, squeezing the air from my lungs. I can’t breathe. My neck feels prickly hot, the kind of prickly hot that comes from a rash.
I look down at my iPhone and pretend I have received an important text.
“I have to go,” I mumble, grabbing my purse. “Sorry.”
I practically run out of the bar and I keep running out of the hotel, across the Boulevard de la Croisette, until I am standing on the beach, staring out at the sea. I kick off my shoes, wiggle my toes in the warm sand, close my eyes, and take several deep breaths. When the claustrophobic feeling subsides, I slip my feet back into my shoes and climb the stairs leading to the Promenade de la Croisette, a wide, paved walkway that hugs the coastline from one end of Cannes to the other.
During the Festival, the Promenade was crowded with gawkers, paparazzi, and members of the press, separated from the celebrities by crush barriers. Tonight, it is deserted.
I let my purse dangle from my wrist and stroll the promenade, away from the hotels and luxury shops, in the direction of the marina.
I am leaning against a low stone wall, watching the yachts bobbing in the harbor, their silvery lights reflecting on the water like a thousand diamonds, when someone tries to yank my purse from my wrist. I clutch the strap and turn around. My attacker is a tall, skinny teenager with broken teeth and eyes as black as his long hair. He is bare chested and reeks of urine.
“Let go,” he growls, violently tugging the purse strap from my hand. “Salope.”
I scream.
With his free hand, he shoves me hard right between my breasts, knocking the air from my lungs. I almost fall back over the stone wall and into the water, but another hand grabs my arm and holds me steady.
I hear the teen curse again in French and realize he is now engaged in a tug of war over my purse with the person holding my arm. The strap breaks. The thief curses and runs away. Only then do I have the opportunity to look at my rescuer.
“Xavier!”
“Are you hurt?”
His deep voice wraps around me like a cashmere blanket and I shiver.
I shake my head.
“Are you certain?”
“Yes.”
“Thank God. I am afraid the same cannot be said of your purse.”
He hands me my purse and I wrap the strap around my wrist and tuck it under my arm.
“What are you doing out here, alone, you silly fool? Don’t you know the marina is prime hunting grounds for pickpockets?”
“I am a fool,” I say, my voice wavering. “The valet warned me to be careful around the marina, but . . .”
“But, you have a death wish. Is that it?”
“No.” Heat flushes my cheeks as I realize the picture I must make, an American woman, strolling alone, at night, in an unlit section of the marina. “I wanted to be alone.”
To my humiliation, my legs begin to tremble.
He sighs and runs his hand through his hair. “I understand your desire to be alone,” he says, softening his tone. “Truly, I do. But you have to know you could have been robbed or . . . worse. Much worse.”
Tears spill down my cheeks. He is going to think I am an overwrought woman prone to weeping, but I can’t stop the emotions surging through my body.
“Come along then,” he says, protectively placing his arm around my shoulders. “I will see you safely to the hotel.”
We leave the marina and follow the promenade back to the hotel. We step through the revolving door and into the dimly lit lobby, pausing at the stairs leading to the elevators.
“This is the third time you have come to my rescue, monsieur.”
“Xavier.”
“Xavier,” I say, smiling shyly. “How will I ever thank you?”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
I remember Olivia’s admonition and pluck up the courage to invite him for a drink.
“Can I at least buy you a drink?”
He looks over at a beautiful brunette in towering red-soled heels who has just walked into the lobby and nods his head at her. She narrows her gaze, like a cat eyeing a mouse she plans to eviscerate.
“Perhaps another time,” he says.
“Of course.” I jab the elevator button so he can’t see the color rising in my cheeks. “You have more important things to do than go for drinks with a foolish American. How silly of me.”
His expression alters to something shadowy and unreadable. Anger. Disgust. Boredom. Pity. I cannot tell. He stares into my eyes as if my expression is equally unreadable. The elevator dings and the doors slide open. I hurry inside.
“Another time, then.”
And for the second time in the space of a few hours, elevator doors close, separating me from the most handsome, intriguing, and frightening man I have ever met, leaving me alone with my humiliation and longing.