Beneath a Starlet Sky Read online

  I gaze past the concierge and out onto the sparkling Mediterranean. Sure, we’re in the South of France, but don’t let the idyllic setting fool you into believing that this is a vacation spot for most of us. There’s not going to be any lounging on cushioned recliners Med-side with young bronzed French garçons offering up Bellinis and salad Nicoises. Not unless there’s a deal memo on the platter. This is the biggest twelve days of the year for international cinema.

  If you thought Oscar Week was over the top, in Cannes there are no tops. Not even on the starlets running around outside on the white sand beach in front of the hotel. Think the Vanity Fair Oscar party—on a yacht—for twelve straight nights. And unlike the VF party, you don’t want to get there until 2:00 A.M. Every year umpteen thousand agents, managers, studio execs, publicists, producers, directors, and actors (and the hordes of international media who cover them) armed with iPhones, Ray-Bans, Missoni bathing suits, and plenty of attitude descend upon this upscale French Riviera city along with jet-set veterans, fashion icons, music moguls, and lookie-loos. They’re all here to discover, sign, screw, or become The Next Brad Pitt. And a three-picture deal would be nice. Of course the official reason why everyone’s here is for the films—whether you’re premiering one, promoting one, selling one, buying one, or you’re one of the lucky twenty flicks that’s in the competition, with a shot to win Cannes’s most coveted award, the Palme d’Or. Or, like me, staging a full-blown couture show on a yacht—in the middle of the Mediterranean. And hoping to use the worldwide press coverage off the costumes in one of the hottest movies of the festival with the hottest star in the world to launch a wedding dress line for a designer in desperate need of another big break.

  I can’t believe what I’m about to ask the concierge. I force out the words. “Mademoiselle Fraser is checking in tomorrow, and I just wanted to confirm that you were able to move the bed in her suite so that it’s facing east and remove the television and any plants from the bedroom and also have the lavender sheets that her feng shui master Fed Ex’d put onto her bed.”

  “It’s all been taken care of, Mademoiselle. Is there anything else we can do for Mademoiselle Fraser or you?” the concierge asks with a straight face. Then I remember that everyone from Naomi Campbell to Andre Leon Talley has stayed here. God only knows what they asked for. I contemplate asking the kind concierge if he can get Grace Frost to actually call me back before Julian’s show and before Stefano and LVMH yank our financing since it seems he can do anything. But why should she? I mean, she’s Grace Frost. And I’m me. I wouldn’t have even dreamed of calling her except that Coz sent me a dozen Big Macs and a note that said, “My deepest condolences for losing Om and Nano and the cover of Vain.” She left me no choice. I had to call Grace myself!

  “That’s all. Merci beaucoup,” I say and then head across the lobby to meet Julian, who’s my date for Christopher’s big premiere since Lev is still in L.A. Even though the place costs a fortune, the Art Deco furnishing is a little bit shabby when you look closely. I really, really wanted to stay at the Hôtel du Cap (Heaven on the Côte d’Azur) but there was no way we could afford it. Especially not after all that money we lost on Om’s gowns. We can barely afford this hotel, but since le tout of the fashion world are staying here, it’s unquestionably our best bet at drumming up publicity.

  I’d longed for a room overlooking the French Riviera—but the concierge informed me unblinkingly that that would be double the rate. And forget the mountain view—same deal. And there will be no swimming at the hotel’s pool because of the twenty-five-euros-a-day surcharge. I’m certain that these steep prices have garnered us the shabbiest room of the four hundred available here—the only view we have is of the hotel’s loud, thrumming air conditioners, unless you count the Lamborghinis, Maybachs, Mazzeratis, and Aston Martins in the parking lot. And I’m terrified that if Julian’s bridal collection doesn’t work we may have to swim back to NYC—this is, if we could afford the fifty-euro surcharge from the Hotel Martinez merely to step onto the beach.

  Julian Tenant Inc. isn’t the only one hemorrhaging money around here. The Oscars are all about picking up fabulous free swag; nothing in Cannes is gratis. Certainly not your room at the Riviera’s most outrageously expensive hotel, the Hôtel du Cap—which you can only get if you’re a Jeffrey Katzenberg, a Kate Winslet, a Jonas Brother, a Gossip Girl, or Oprah. And yes, the hotel has a strict twelve-night minimum, nonrefundable, payable up-front—provided that Monsieur Perd, the hotel’s uber-manager, deems you Worthy of a room. And forget the free limos during Oscar season. At Cannes it’ll set you back 125 euro to limo to Dolce & Gabbana’s dangerously lavish annual fete. But, really, what’s 160 bucks compared to the soiree’s budget of one million? You’ll get to dance with practically every star alive, watch a hundred-thousand-dollar fireworks display, munch on hors d’œuvres off human platters (naked supermodels “wearing” food), and see Lady Gaga perform in the flesh—hopefully something fresh from the butcher block this time. A diet Coke costs twelve dollars for crying out loud. And a ticket to AmFar’s black-tie dinner at Moulin de Mougins will cost you more than six months’ rent. Everything in Cannes costs—and some places only take cash.

  I pass by the L’Amiral Bar off the lobby. It’s jam-packed. Keanu Reeves is leaning up against the grand piano as the jazz pianist nimbly races his fingers around the keyboard. I’m so nervous for my brother that I wish I could just grab that Manhattan out of Keanu’s hand and down it; L’Amiral’s championship bar team serves up some of the best cocktails in Cannes—cocktails I have expressly forbidden Julian to order because we can’t afford the thirty euros.

  “Darling,” Julian yells across the lobby, striding toward me in his tux.

  “Hi Julian,” I say, kissing him hello.

  “Does my hair look okay?” Julian says, patting his slicked-back raven locks. “I’m freaking out without my flatiron.”

  “Julian, you’re lucky you didn’t burn down the entire hotel. I don’t know what you were thinking trying to splice the wires of your flatiron with the hair dryer in the room.”

  “The concierge was out of adapters and I was desperate. Does it look okay? I was channeling Christian Bale in American Psycho,” Julian says.

  “It looks great,” I say as we walk through the buzzing lobby.

  “That dress is what looks great. No offense, Lo, but I wish you were Beyoncé. That dress deserves to be photographed. And it would look so good with her skin tone,” Julian says of my cobalt blue, one-shoulder minidress Julian made especially for tonight.

  “No offense taken,” I say. “I wish I was Beyoncé, too.”

  “You seem eerily calm. Are you okay?” Julian asks. “Your calmness is making me nervous. It’s been three minutes and you haven’t said anything about the show or Vain or Saffron’s movie premiere.”

  “The next two hours are about my brother. I just want to spend two hours being happy for Christopher and not worrying about anything other than reveling in his moment,” I say as the doorman swings open the hotel door and we step out onto La Croisette.

  * * *

  Inside the Palais, I lean back in my plush red velvet seat and clutch Julian’s hand. Please let Christopher get a positive reception. Please. I’m unbelievably nervous for my brother as his premiere is about to begin.

  The theater goes dark and “Forgetting Petunia Holt” appears in simple Courier font against a black screen. “All These Things That I’ve Done,” by The Killers plays over the opening credits. Brandon Flowers’s slick, sultry voice croons, “Another head aches, another heart breaks; I’m so much older than I can take.” The camera pans across framed photographs of a young man and a woman who seem to be very much in love. There are pictures of them kissing in front of the Grauman’s Chinese Theatre, smiling at the top of Runyon Canyon, a black-and-white shot of them laughing at what can only be an inside joke, a solo shot of the woman peeking out from under the bedsheets, and finally a solo shot of the man holding a homemade sign that
reads, I LOVE YOU PETUNIA HOLT.

  My eyes immediately get moist as I’m reminded of the time Christopher held out that same sign in front of Kate’s apartment before they’d moved in together. He’d been planning to take her to the Hollywood Bowl to see Radiohead for their three-month anniversary. Kate had a signing meeting with Zoe Saldana and ended up being two and a half hours later than planned. Christopher stood there with that sign for three hours. I take a deep breath and wonder how I’m going to make it through the entire movie and can’t help but wish they were still together. I really thought they were going to make it.

  I sit forward uneasily in my chair as the music ends and the screen cuts to a close-up of bubbling water and then smoke encompassing the water. The camera pulls back slowly to reveal that the murky smoke and gurgling water are part of a very tall—bong. The actor playing Justin Cooper, a.k.a. my brother, dressed in forest green Adidas sweats, lifts his mouth from the bong and a huge stream of smoke exhales from his lips. He leans back on a pristine white modular sofa and closes his eyes. As the camera holds on his closed eyes, we hear a woman’s voice.

  “I’m leaving you. Or actually, you’re leaving me … this is my apartment,” says Gigi, the actress playing Petunia Holt. She’s stunning and bears an astonishing resemblance to my BFF, except that the legs emerging from her form-fitting structured black skirt suit aren’t nearly as lovely as Kate’s.

  Justin Cooper’s eyes widen in shock. “What?” he says, struggling to take in the gravity of what Petunia is saying.

  “Look, I’m sorry. We tried, we really did, but I’m just not good at the whole relationship thing,” she says. “I already called the movers to help you pack. I’m really sorry.”

  “You already called the movers?” Justin says, sitting upright. “Please don’t do this. I love you.” He crumples into a ball, slipping off the white sofa.

  I feel angry all over again at Kate for breaking my brother’s heart as I watch his character fall to pieces on screen.

  “Please don’t do this. I love you,” Justin repeats, more softly, which only makes me madder at Kate.

  I watch the movers onscreen pack up all of Justin’s eclectic belongings from around the world—including an African drum, a Moroccan carpet, an Australian didgeridoo—which stick out like a sore thumb against the modern slickness of Petunia’s all-neutral apartment. With all of Justin’s possessions shoved into a friend’s garage, he hops into his beat-up convertible, a chocolate Mercedes he converted to run on grease, and drives to the Mojave Desert to forget Petunia Holt and find himself.

  By the end of the first act, when Justin is in a sweat lodge chanting with some shaman, I’ve somehow forgotten that I’m watching my brother’s story or even that Christopher is the director. I’ve gotten that lost in Justin’s poignant, at times wickedly funny and heartfelt journey. By the halfway point, when Justin’s Mercedes breaks down and he and the shaman he’s now traveling with start hitchhiking, I remember, and take a look around the theater. The packed audience seems just as engrossed as I am. Nobody’s checking their watches or tapping on BlackBerries or shifting in their seats. They’re all crying and laughing and rooting for Justin right along with me. It feels like one of those instant classics that you want to watch over and over, and that people will be quoting for generations to come. My very own brother could be the next John Hughes or Cameron Crowe or Judd Apatow.

  By the end of the movie, as the lights go up, I know that we’re safe, that Christopher’s not going to be booed out of the theater. But what I don’t expect is the entire audience bolting to their feet in a thunderous round of applause. And as I join the room in a standing ovation for my brother, tears of joy are streaming down my face and I’m smiling so wide I can feel my jaw getting sore. I look around the huge theater to take it all in, beaming with pride, and my smile instantly fades when I spot Kate, standing in the back of the theater alone. She must have snuck in when the lights went down. When we lock eyes she’s already bolting for the door.

  “Oh my god, she came,” Julian says, following my eye line.

  “I’ve got to go,” I say, scurrying through my row. “Kate,” I yell once we’re outside. “Kate!” I catch up with her and lay a hand on her shoulder.

  “What?” she says, finally turning to face me in the most beautiful black slip dress, her brown hair sweeping her shoulders in soft waves, and her olive skin glowing.

  “Am I really that bad, Lola? That ambitious? That heartless?” But before I can reply, she says, “On second thought, don’t answer that, I don’t want to know.” Her face is tight, her smile frozen in place.

  Now it’s Christopher I’m suddenly mad at as I look at Kate, trying desperately to mask the pain and heartbreak I know she must be feeling. This is one of those moments where words just aren’t going to do it. Instead I wrap my arms around my best friend. Part of me expects her to push me away. But she doesn’t. She melts into my arms.

  “I love you,” I whisper in her ear.

  “Thank you,” she says, not letting go of our embrace. “What if your brother actually wins the Palme d’Or? Everyone is going to know that movie is about me,” Kate says.

  “What?! You really think he could win? The Palme d’Or? No way. Really? Kate, no one is going to know it’s about you.”

  “Really? How come People and ET have already asked me if I know who Petunia Holt really is since they know Christopher and I just broke up?”

  “They did?” I say, feeling a pit in my stomach. “What’d you tell them?”

  “I told them they’d have to ask Christopher,” Kate says. “I still can’t believe your brother did this to me. The entire time we were together he wasted his time on commercial shoots, and now that we’re broken up his movie is in the fucking dramatic competition at Cannes and ICM is getting to rep him.”

  “Kate, Christopher made the movie for you originally, remember,” I can’t help but remind her. “And he’s not going to breathe a word to anyone. No one is going to know that you’re Petunia Holt,” I say and hesitate before adding, “Christopher said he called you a bunch of times and you never called him back.”

  “Because there’s nothing to talk about. And I thought I was feeling nauseous before the movie.”

  It’s me who’s suddenly violently ill when I spot another of Christopher’s movie posters above Kate’s head, one I haven’t seen before. MY SISTER SAID IT WOULD NEVER LAST, it reads. Kate better not see that poster. How could Christopher approve that? My life feels like it’s become a bad black comedy. As my cell trills, I see that it’s about to get even darker—and less funny.

  “I just left Grace Frost’s office,” Coz says over the phone line. “I simply cannot imagine why you’ve been calling her. I’m returning the call on her behalf.”

  I feel my stomach plummet to the floor along with our chances of being in Vain.

  “I, um, well, I can explain,” I stumble and imagine Coz on the other end of the phone basking in this moment from behind her big black sunglasses.

  “As much as I’d derive immense pleasure from listening to you grovel for the next few hours, I’m actually really busy so I’m going to cut to the chase,” Coz says.

  “We’re going to give you the cover and a twelve-page layout inside to coincide with the release of Four Weddings and a Bris in August.”

  “You’re what?!” I ask, flabbergasted. Could it possibly be that Coz is our miracle worker after all? “Is this a joke?”

  “Does it sound like I’m joking?” Coz says icily. “Just so we’re clear, I’m not doing this for you or Julian,” she says, as if she’s ever done anything for me—or Julian. Except waterboard our careers. “I’m doing it for Chili.”

  “Chili?” I repeat.

  “Grace agreed that it was a complete travesty that Chili’s divine wedding gowns ended up on Baz’s cutting room floor so she thought it was a wonderful idea to let his gowns see the light of day in Vain.”

  I know that Coz is speaking but I can’t com
pute what’s she’s actually saying.

  “What about Julian?” I’m finally able to get out.

  “Saffron and Cricket will do the cover together. Saffron will wear Chili and Cricket can wear Julian,” Coz says. “I’ve already booked Patrick Demarchelier, Gucci Westman, and Orlando Pita and called the Du Cap and arranged to shoot in their gardens. Chili and I are flying out tomorrow. Jusqu’à demain. Bisous. Bisous,” she says and then just as abruptly hangs up.

  I try and recover from the Coz tsunami that just hit me. So what if Julian has to share the cover of Vain with little Chili Lu? At least Julian is going to be on the cover of Vain. This could catapult Julian into becoming the next Vera Wang. He could rule the Hollywood brides. Everything I’ve killed myself for as CEO of Julian Tennant Inc.

  Oh god. Oh no. I still haven’t actually asked Cricket or Saffron if they’d be willing to pose for the cover of Vain. What if they say no?

  My head is spinning. I feel faint. I speed-dial Cricket. It goes straight to voice mail. I leave her a very long rambling, bumbling, begging message.

  I contemplate hurling myself down the Palais steps, the most prestigious red carpet in the world, but decide against it.

  When I finally arrive back at the suite I’m sharing with Julian I flop onto the canary yellow upholstered bed. I’m still reeling from the standing ovation my brother got tonight and Coz’s call telling me that Julian and Chili are going to be on the cover of Vain.

  My eyelids feel like lead weights. I’m practically deep in REM when my laptop trills. It’s Lev calling on Skype.