Elliott’s wide eyes and vigorously nodding head were like a silent um YEAH of incredulity. “I know this is probably your usual MO, to be out partyin’ and frolicking about the night before filming starts, but it isn’t really mine.”
“It isn’t mine either! I mean, not anymore . . . I mean, I can see how it might look that way seeing as we are in fact out at one a.m. the night before shooting buuuut in all fairness, I’m still on West Coast time. It’s only like what? Four in the afternoon? Almost a whole day before shooting! I mean, for me, it’s still yesterday.”
Elliott stared at me for a solid ten seconds, probably trying to figure out if I was being serious or not. But after his rather long pause, he shook his head and barked, “I don’t even know what the hell you just said. But for everyone else here, it’s today . . . and it’s really effin’ late. So can we just go now?”
Bastien, now back from his call and having heard the tail end of the conversation, slid into the booth, wrapped his arm around my shoulders, pulled me in close, and said, “You cannot be serious? We need to live it up, especially if you will not be staying in Maubec for long, n’est-ce pas? Isn’t that what you Americans say? Leeeeve eeet up!” he teased, all of his i’s sounding more like long e’s. “C’mon, ma chérie, let’s go back and dance!” His hands reached for my waist, and the warmth of his fingertips sliding over my hips sent goose bumps across my skin.
I groaned, enticed by the insanely good-looking gent who kept sneaking in small touches and was begging me to rejoin him on the dance floor. “Can I take a rain check? I hate to say it, but I think Elliott’s right and we should probably both get some sleep before we begin shooting tomorrow.”
“Of course, of course. No problem.” He grabbed for my jacket that had been folded on the booth’s seat. He held it open for me, and I slung it over my shoulders before following in the wake Elliott was creating with his body through the sea of dancers. Once on the other side of the dance floor, Bastien took my hand and scooted ahead of Elliott. “Come this way, I know a different way out. Much quicker.”
This time, Bastien led us through a few dark hallways to a back staircase that took us up and out to the street. But as Bastien opened the heavy door, flashes of cameras and shouts of my name startled the hell out of me and instinctively, I threw my hands up in front of my face.
“Plum! Plum! Over here!” a voice yelled.
Snap! Click! Snap!
“Is that your new boy toy?”
Flash! Flash!
“Can we expect a new tape from you two later this week? A foreign film with English subtitles perhaps?” another taunted.
Click! Flash! Snap!
“Or by tomorrow, by the looks of it.”
Snap! Flash! Click!
In addition to the small pack of paps, an interested gaggle of clubgoers hovered close with their phones raised in my direction, illuminating the night sky like a spotlight center stage. Sure, I was used to this to a certain degree, but not here. Not when so few people knew where I was. The paparazzi finding me without being tipped off was one in a million. Who could have told them? One of the servers? The taxi driver? The bouncer? It could have been literally anyone. And it was so naive of me to have thought I could be anonymous for even a moment.
Bastien was still leading the way through the crowd as best as he could, frantically searching for a cab amid the chaos. From behind, Elliott shielded me from sight thanks to his mammoth frame and incredibly close proximity.
With his imposing body pinned against mine, my stomach did a little flip. His right arm was raised defensively between me and the photographers, while the other was warm, pressed against the small of my back. The gesture caught me somewhat off guard.
Between my family vying for sponsorships throughout our show’s run and fighting to stay in the top spot on primetime TV, we were never ones to shy away from a photo op. Then as my sisters’ brands began to grow, every flash of the camera meant more exposure for their products and their upcoming launches. Even Rhys. Even my Rhys, who’d been so removed from all of that in the beginning, suddenly was no longer immune to the allure of the attention and fame. By the end of our relationship, I grew almost used to Rhys reveling in the attention and sometimes even orchestrating run-ins with paparazzi and adoring fans. The idea of being protected from all of it struck me as so foreign, and so unbelievably appreciated.
Bastien ran to the street and frantically waved his arms to try to hail a taxi. One finally pulled over to the curb. He gestured to Elliott, who bulldozed through the gathering crowd, using his arms to force them to part like the Red Sea so that we could pass through safely.
“Plum, dépêchez-vous. Hurry. Please,” Bastien cried as he motioned us to the waiting car where he flung open the door and waved us in.
Elliott, almost bearlike, shielded me with his body, positioning himself at the back of our party, allowing Odette to follow Bastien and keeping me closely tucked under his wing. As I held tight to Elliott’s chest, I noticed he carried a robust scent of cedarwood, reminiscent of the dense forests and towering trees of a remote wilderness. I registered that smell as markedly different from the rich, exotic spices I had sensed from Bastien earlier in the evening.
My brain started to sound off like the bells on a slot machine, which paired with the continuous flashing of the cameras and made me teeter on my Valentino studded wedges. At the shifting of my weight, Elliott tightened his hold on me and continued pushing us in the direction of the car. Practically catapulting me and Odette inside with one final shove, he ran around to the other side and folded himself into the front seat before telling the driver to step on it, launching us back down the bumpy roads in the direction of Maubec.
Chapter Fourteen
My head was positively pounding, and the tannins from last night’s wine were still thick on my tongue. I swallowed back a few Advil and chugged an entire bottle of Evian in practically one gulp. It sloshed around my empty stomach before threatening to come back up. Swallowing hard, I closed my eyes and prayed for the room to stop spinning. When I opened them, it took a second to refocus, but when they did, they fell to the television, which was inadvertently airing a rerun of EVERLYday.
It was odd to hear my own voice and those of my family dubbed in French voices that hardly matched their own. By the look of Lemon’s bangs (which took her a full two years to grow out) it was one of the later seasons, maybe season eight or nine? I inched back on the bed, feeling for the remote, and flipped on the English subtitles just as Lemon was telling Mom she was going skiing with her boyfriend and wouldn’t be home for Christmas that year. That’s when Rhys, my “perfect” boyfriend, showed up, offering to spend the holidays with my family, winning everyone (including the audience) over with his thoughtful gesture and bold contrast to Lemon’s lemon of a beau.
I couldn’t help but wonder how much of it was real and how much of Rhys’s performance was for the cameras at that point? Could I pinpoint the moment the switch had flipped for him? When the stardom became more important to him than I was? The lines between reality and performance blurred beyond recognition, and I was left to wonder if I truly knew the person I had once been unable to live a day without. I don’t think I ever really did.
A bit hungover and very dehydrated, I begrudgingly fumbled around the room for something to wear until I found my jean shorts from the other day and a clean black tank top. I felt around in my bag for a pair of oversize sunglasses, slipped them on, and hurried downstairs to meet Bastien. Agnès and Pascal, already in the dining room setting up for breakfast, were turning chairs and setting the tables with utensils and sugar caddies.
“Bonjour, Prune, sleep well?” She glanced up, extending her usual greeting, and quickly returned to her laundry list of tasks. She unfolded a white linen tablecloth and spread it across the table, smoothing out any wrinkles with her hand. “Odette showed you a nice time in Avignon, I hope?”
“Yes, she did. We had a lovely time.”
“Merveilleux, I am so pleased when visitors really get to experience Avignon et Maubec and the real experience de Provence,” Agnès said with a flourish. When she was finally satisfied with the placement and wrinkle-free state of the tablecloth, she set down a small cup and saucer. “Croissant? Espresso?”
“Would it be possible to take them to go? I’m already running way behind.”
She nodded. “Coming in une minute.”
Agnès scooted off to fix the small order before I could even say thank you and brought a small paper cup and white wax paper bag back just as quickly. Tucking the pastry into my purse, I said, “Merci beaucoup.”
Pascal said, “Prune, your French is already much improved.”
I pushed my sunglasses onto my head. “Really?”
“No, I tease,” he deadpanned. “But how about we work on it together. I can tutor you. Would you like that?”
I clapped my hands together enthusiastically. “Ooh yes! I am très excitée!”
He lifted an index finger in the air and waved it furiously. “Non, non, non!” He scooted closer, and I couldn’t help but notice a rosy tint creeping up his face. “Mademoiselle, uh . . . excitée doesn’t mean the same thing here as it does where you live, I think.” The blush on his cheeks was even more pronounced as he fumbled through the explanation. “It has more of a connotation sexual, n’est-ce pas? Vous comprenez? Sex-u-al?” He lifted his brows and slowed the word, his embarrassment reaching a fever pitch.
“Oh . . . Ohhhhhhh!” I cupped my hand over my mouth, finally at long last understanding that excited in French means excited. “Oh my gosh, that’s um . . . not what I meant . . . at all. I just meant I can’t wait to start, but in a completely nonsexual and platonic type of way,” I sputtered, already mortified and ready to cancel the lessons altogether.
