“Are you kidding me with this?” Elliott exclaimed, without realizing he’d committed the biggest reality TV gaffe of all: crossing the fourth wall. “Shit!” Elliott cried. “I just ruined the take. Plum, Bastien, can you two do that bit over again?”
I stood up from the ground and brushed off my knees. “What bit?”
Elliott waved his hand in the air. “You know, that bit where you pretend to be interested in the history of the house to get Bastien’s attention?”
My jaw clenched. “I am interested in the history of the house.”
“Yeah, and I took this gig because I thought we’d be making high art,” Elliott barked sarcastically, before ripping the paper from my hand.
I thrust my hands on my hips. “What is your problem?”
“Nothing. Can we just finish the scene and get this wrapped up and in the can?”
I’d had just about enough of his passive-aggressive jabs and insults. “No, really? What did I do to offend your delicate sensibilities this time?”
Elliott set his camera down on the ground. “You see these tunnels? These passageways? I care about them. I care about the Resistance fighters who hid in them, and the brave people who helped them hide. I want to know their story, not yours—and certainly not Pepé Le Pew’s over there. But nobody’s about to pay me for that!”
“And what exactly makes you so sure that I don’t?” I was going to let it go, but blood was pounding in my ears, and I was finding it difficult to stay calm. “You know what”—I reeled around on him and jabbed a finger into his chest—“you’re just like the rest of them, aren’t you? You think you know everything there is to know about me because you saw a few episodes of EVERLYday or some other show, because you read a few gossip sites? You haven’t even bothered to get to know the real me. If you had, you’d see I am not that girl.”
He lifted his camera to his shoulder, pointed it toward me, and gestured to the boom mic overhead. “Aren’t you, though?”
I stared him down through the lens. How dare he? Judgmental, grumpy, pain in my—
“It is very warm down here, non?” Bastien—calm, cool, and collected as ever—stepped forward to break the tension. “Shall we head back upstairs, Plum?”
“What about the rest of the scene?” I asked.
“I am sure Elliott has more than enough without it,” Bastien answered. “Besides, isn’t that what editing is for?”
Elliott nodded and switched off the camera’s light. “He’s right, I’ve seen more than enough.”
“Yeah, me too.”
Chapter Nineteen
Bastien and I came out from the cellar and stopped by the craft service table. A spread of cured meats and crumbly blue cheeses; a crudité board of brightly colored bell peppers, carrots, and red cherry tomatoes; and loaves and loaves of French bread were set out for the cast and crew. We filled our plates and took them over to a dining hall–like area set up beside the vineyard. After we finished eating, Bastien arranged large-scale sketches of the restored château across the wooden table.
“It is important to me that the château retain all of its original detailing, including the hand-carved boiserie, limestone, tile, and parquet floors,” Bastien said, pointing to what looked to be the home’s original library.
I leaned in closer to him and the drawing. “What’s that material in the tile inlay? It’s gorgeous.”
“Good eye. Silver. It was very fashionable during the reign of Louis XIV. You’ll find it in all the great châteaus from this era.” Bastien stood up. “I’m positively parched. Can I get you anything?”
I tapped on my water bottle. “I’m all set.” I pushed my lunch to the side and picked up the rendering to get a closer look. The library, restored to all its original glory. I could almost imagine Luc and Imène Adélaïse curled up together reading novels beside the large fireplace.
“What have you got there?” René asked, approaching the table.
“A rendering of the finished library.” I passed the drawing to him.
He slipped on his readers and studied the paper. “Who chose the floor inlay?”
“Bastien. He said silver was very fashionable in homes of this era.”
“Did he? That’s interesting, because beginning in 1689, Louis XIV issued a series of edicts that called for the confiscation of silver to pay for his armies and replenish a depleted treasury. He even ordered his eight-foot-high silver throne to be melted down and replaced by a more modest throne of gilded wood. Gilded wood, Mademoiselle Everly, that is what became fashionable in homes built during this era. Gilded wood, not silver!” René thrust the rendering back at me and continued on his way.
A few minutes later, Bastien reappeared at our table carrying two water bottles. “Production radioed me. They need us both over in video village after we finish our lunch. Hey, what was that all about?” he asked, glancing over at a still-fuming René. I wasn’t sure if the cloud of smoke around him was coming from his cigarette or out of his ears.
“Nothing, he wanted to take a look at the renderings for the library, that’s all. I see what you mean about being grumpy, though. I’m not sure the two of you share the same vision for the project.”
Bastien agreed with a nod and took a swig of water. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and set the bottle down on the table. “Speaking of prickly, I hope I am not overstepping, but may I ask what happened between you and Elliott in the cellar earlier?”
“Elliott, all he sees is my TV persona. It’s hard to understand unless you’ve experienced it, but once you let the fame monster out of the box, it’s nearly impossible to put it back in. It taints everything, and most people can’t see past it. Elliott’s apparently one of those people.”
Bastien’s eyes softened. “You know there is a saying in home restoration. You can honor a home by restoring it to its original state, or you can honor it by restoring it to its original intention. I don’t believe people are that different.” Bastien took my hands in his. “Plum, you are thousands of miles from home. Think of Provence as your clean slate. It is high time you honor yourself, and be exactly who you intended to be.”
Without thinking twice, I leaned over and kissed Bastien hard on the mouth. He was so caught off guard by my forcefulness that he had to steady himself before falling off the bench we shared. He pulled away first, his eyes darting around the vineyard to see if anyone spotted us.
“Whoa, Plum, I thought you didn’t think this was a good idea?” Bastien said, repeating the concern I shared at Château du Val d’Été.
The irony of reality TV was that there was really nothing real about it. Storylines were fabricated, feelings exaggerated, and relationships coerced. For the first time in my life, I wanted to experience spontaneity and genuine human emotion. “I’m still not sure it is, but let’s not decide all that right now? I like you. I think you like me. Let’s live in the moment, whatever happens?” He reached over, cupped my chin in his hands, and guided my face so that we were centimeters apart. “Okay?” I asked.
“D’accord,” he breathed, then kissed me again, this time with greater urgency. His hand moved from my chin and slid to cup the back of my head, his fingers gently playing with the small tendrils at the nape of my neck. The sensation of the kiss was familiar, yet wholly new. His body pressed close to mine. He smelled sweet like the ripe mirabelles all around Provence. I breathed him in, all of him, and allowed myself to be swept away by the fantasy of a fresh start.
I pulled back, my lips swollen and humming with electricity. He pushed a strand of hair from my face and tucked it behind my ear and then ran his thumb across my pulsing bottom lip.
“C’mon, we better go before someone spots us,” I said.
We packed up the renderings and made our way to video village where the show’s director, Claudine Renard, and producer, Jack Lyon, were crowded around a small monitor. I readied myself for the feedback and critique people in their positions usually had to offer. Be funnier, no, be more serious. Act more engaged, no, act more aloof. Steal the scene, no, fade into the background.
