Beneath a Starlet Sky Read online

  “Who would have ever dreamed that our little Cricket would be headline news?” I say.

  “I know,” Kate says.

  We continue to spin around and around in silence.

  “What am I going to do without you in New York?” I ask.

  “It’s going to be hard,” Kate says so softly I can barely make out the words.

  “You know, maybe it will be good for us. We are oddly codependent,” I joke—kind of. “I mean, you’re not my mother; I can’t depend on you for everything.”

  “No, I’m not your mother, Lo. And yes, you can always depend on me for every last thing. Because I’m not your mother,” she says, looking me deeply in the eyes, then looking out at the water. “I’m going to miss you,” Kate says.

  “I’m going to miss you too,” I say. I look into her eyes. “Are you crying?” I ask in shock. I mean, I haven’t seen Kate cry since she got that B-minus in Physics at Harvard her freshman year.

  “It’s these damn hormones. I’m a pathetic pregnancy cliché straight out of Knocked Up.”

  I grab Kate’s hand, we look at each other, our eyes pooling with tears, and then out into the distance—it has nothing to do with pregnancy hormones—we both cry, long and hard. We spin around for a few minutes like that, long enough for me to summon the courage to ask what’s been weighing on my mind since Kate first told me she was pregnant. “Have you reconsidered keeping the baby?”

  “No.”

  “Don’t you think Christopher should have some say in that?”

  “What for? Isn’t it the woman’s right to choose?”

  “Kat—”

  “Look Lo, I don’t do babies. When my sister forced me to play Barbies with her when we were growing up I was always Ken. I never understood why they made a Dream House but not a Dream Office.”

  “You know, Kate, you can have the dream house and the dream office.”

  “But not the dream man because he’s found another dream girl. No one gets to have it all.”

  “That’s not true,” I say, unsure whether I’m trying to convince Kate or myself.

  Then Kate pulls an envelope out of her bucket bag. “Christopher gave me this last night,” she says. “I think I’m ready to open it. Will you do it?” She passes me the envelope.

  “Kate, Christopher gave this to you. You should really be the one to open it,” I say.

  “Please, Lola, just open it.”

  “Okay,” I say, tearing open the envelope. There’s a DVD inside along with a note.

  I shot two endings to my movie, and this is the one I prefer.

  —Christopher

  “Kate, we have to go watch this immediately.”

  A half hour later, Kate and I are huddled together over her laptop on her tiny bed in the annex of the Du Cap. She gingerly puts the DVD in and presses PLAY.

  The camera pans through a grove of bougainvillea and lands on the two actors in Forgetting Petunia Holt exchanging vows in a simple wedding ceremony. It’s the most romantic thing I’ve ever seen. I can’t believe my brother never told me about this. Tears well in my eyes and as I steal a glance at Kate, I see them pooling in hers too. It’s as though I’m watching Kate and my brother up there. Kate and Christopher belong together. They just do.

  Of course, I really believed that Lev and I belonged together too. That was supposed to be us up there. An unbelievable ache washes over my entire body. I push the pain away and turn to Kate, who’s sitting as straight as a rod.

  “Kate,” I say tentatively. But she doesn’t move. “Kate,” I say again. She’s looking out as if to an imagined horizon, her hands turned up on her lap and tears pouring out of her eyes like a busted open pipe.

  “It’s like quicksand,” she says softly, “a thick, heavy blanket over me. I can’t move. I can’t breathe.” Then she looks at me finally. “That’s how much I miss him, Lola. I’m good, I’m really good at my job, but relationships, I don’t know how to do relationships.”

  “Oh, Kate. No one does,” I say. “Everyone is just trying to figure it out as they go. Stop shutting Christopher out. He loves you. You guys belong together.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “Kate, I’ve known since we were sixteen,” I say.

  Kate starts crying again. “Geezus, what’s the matter with me? I don’t think I’ve ever cried this much in my life.” She says it just as I’m thinking it. I’ve never seen Kate like this. “Fucking hormones. Fucking baby.” She looks down at her stomach and takes her hand and rubs it across her belly. I put my hand on top of hers and let it linger there for a few moments. Before I can say anything, she says,

  “I’m scared, Lo.”

  “It’s okay to be scared, Kate. Love is scary but it’s also the greatest thing on the planet. And Christopher loves you. He really loves you,” I say.

  “I love him too,” Kate says.

  “Then tell him.”

  * * *

  Winding my way in a taxi toward Juan des Pain from the Du Cap, I don’t need to practice what I want to say because I feel it in my bones.

  When I finally find Saffron’s rented cottage tucked away into the olive trees like a small bird’s nest, I’m surprised by its humbleness. But I also understand it. No one would expect to find the biggest female movie star in the world hiding away here. The only tiny tipoff is the large bodyguards standing at the small front gate.

  “Hi, I’m Lola Santisi,” I say to the one standing closest to the gate.

  “May I see some identification please,” he says somberly. I show him my passport.

  “Go ahead.” He waves me in.

  And as I make my way down the small path and open the front door of what seems like a hobbit hole, I understand completely why this is where Saffron wants to be. It’s a tiny gem of a place. The light cascading through the windows is throwing beams off the crystal candlesticks that are lit throughout the place on antique tables. The air is subtly perfumed with the wildflowers and roses scattered in vases throughout. All around are soft couches to be curled into.

  This is where I find Saffron with a cashmere throw wrapped around her, lost in a profusion of pillows on an oversized white couch. My first instinct is to turn away; she seems so fragile. I also think she could be sleeping. But then she surprises me by readjusting herself on the couch. It seems like the weight of sitting up is too much for her, and this is when I go to her and wrap her in my arms.

  I take in the scent of her unwashed hair wafting toward me in all of its humanness, the semicircles of her unpolished fingernails, the purple veins peeking through the soft skin of her forearms. Once her shaking sobs subside, she pulls her head up from the crook of my arm, her usually porcelain skin blotchy from crying. And I realize that despite how loved she is by the world, she is utterly alone.

  “Lola, I feel like such a fraud.” She finally gets the words out, her voice hoarse and cracking as she does. “I pretend to be someone else for a living, but I’m tired of doing it in my real life,” she says, seeming to sink even farther into that couch. “It wasn’t fair to Markus, it wasn’t fair to Cricket. And it wasn’t fair to me. I’ve been scared. I’ve been a coward. I forgot who I was.”

  “Saffron,” I say gently, not letting go of her hands. “We all get lost in our different ways. All of us,” I say, thinking about myself, Saffron, Cricket, Kate, my mother, Lev, Nic, all of us. “We all get caught up in searching for what’s out there and lose what’s in here,” I say, touching my hand over my heart. “It’s hard and it hurts like crazy, but we have to find a way back to ourselves,” I say, looking into her magnificent blue eyes. I want to save the Vain cover and my job more than anything I’ve ever wanted, but sitting here across from Saffron, staring into those eyes, I want to try and help her save herself most of all. “I think you should still do the Vain cover, but without Markus. On your own.”

  “What?” she says, bewildered.

  “Marriage is about a commitment to your partner. You vow to love, cherish, and
honor your partner till death do you part, right?”

  “Yeah,” she says tentatively.

  “But how can you vow to do all of those things with another person before you do them to yourself? We all need to vow to love, honor, and cherish ourselves first. So I think you should do the Vain cover in the gorgeous gown that Julian made for you, but instead of a wedding story it should be about you committing to yourself,” I say squarely. “We’re all programmed to believe that another person can save us or complete us, but the truth is, it’s an inside job,” I tell her. “You have this amazing opportunity to send a message to the world. We don’t have to act as if anymore. It’s time to be.” I lift my head. I repeat the words softly but strongly, “A commitment ceremony to yourself.” This time both of our eyes are filled with tears and it’s my turn to sob in Saffron’s arms.

  When I finally lift my head up, “Okay,” is all that she says.

  “Okay,” I repeat. “Okay.”

  * * *

  Back at the Martinez, I feel eerily calm as I dial the number.

  “Grace Frost’s office,” her assistant picks up.

  “Yes, hi, it’s Lola Santisi.”

  “I’m sorry, she’s not available,” she says coldly and without hesitation.

  “Look,” I say. “Tell her that it’s really important. Tell her that she’ll want to hear what I have to say. My job, my life, everything is on the line. Please.”

  After a long pause, the assistant finally says, “Give me a minute.” Which turns into more like fifteen.

  “Yes.” Grace Frost’s voice could cut through butter.

  “I need to talk to you about the Saffron Sykes cover,” I say.

  “I don’t have time for this. You should be dealing with Coz.”

  “Actually, I don’t deal with Coz anymore. In fact, I’m pretty sure that you aren’t going to want to be dealing with Coz anymore either,” I say, “but right now I want to talk about Saffron.”

  “I’m listening,” she says matter-of-factly.

  “Well, it starts with Saffron. But really it’s about all of us,” I say, and I’m surprised by the strength of my own voice as I go on to pitch my lifeline. When I’m done, all she says is, “I like it.”

  “Good. I’ll set everything up. And about Coz? I’m also going to be sending you some footage that I think you’ll be very interested in.”

  “I’ll expect the cover try in two days. No longer.” And the line goes dead.

  * * *

  “I’m so sorry I’m late,” I say to my mother as I sit down beside her in the Palais for the closing ceremony of the festival and the announcement of the Palme d’Or winner.

  “I’m the one who’s sorry, Lola. I feel terrible for what happened at Julian’s show. I should have been there,” she says.

  “It’s okay, Mom,” I say. “What was it like kissing George Clooney?”

  “Some Russian woman outbid me. Can you believe it?” she says. “It’s probably my karmic retribution for missing Julian’s show—and for so much other stuff,” she adds softly, shaking her head remorsefully, then placing her hand on my face before reaching in her clutch for her lipstick.

  “You’re forgiven,” I say. “You’re the one that proved that Chili was able to hack into the server and steal that footage.”

  “Yes, darling. That Chili really is a technical whiz. I still don’t understand how he did it, but we really have Alex to thank for figuring it out. Julian got Chili on the phone, and he said that Coz made him do it. I think we should press charges.”

  “I never liked that little shit,” my father leans over my mother to whisper to me. “I knew he was trouble.”

  “I thought you loved him. Isn’t that why you used his designs in your movie instead of Julian’s?” I ask.

  “I used Julian’s gown for the prison break scene,” he says, looking straight ahead.

  “You did?” And then I remember that the film cut out during the screening of Papa’s movie. I never actually saw the prison break scene. So Papa chose Julian after all. He chose me. “Thanks, Papa,” I whisper, tugging on his arm. “Thanks for pulling through.”

  He gives me a sheepish smile, reaches across my mother’s lap, and kisses me on the forehead.

  “I still think we should press charges,” my mother says.

  “Mom, Chili’s sixteen years old and all he is, is Coz’s puppet. For whatever reason all Coz wants is to see me and Julian fail. Succeeding is going to be the best revenge of all,” I say. Not that a teensy bit of karmic retribution won’t be lovely too.

  “Is there anything I can do to help?” Mom asks.

  “Actually, there is,” I say. “Do you know if you can get Doctor Singh here by tomorrow?”

  “I’ll certainly try,” she says.

  “Thanks,” I say. And as I look at my mother, I realize that something’s missing.

  “Where’s Alex and your camera crew?” I ask.

  “I told them not to come,” she says, which surprises me. “Tonight is about your brother and father, not my show,” she says.

  A tuxedo-clad Sean Penn takes the stage, a small envelope in his hands.

  I clasp my hand in my mother’s. “Good luck, Papa,” I whisper.

  “It is my great honor to announce the winner of this year’s Palme d’Or,” he says, ripping open the envelope. I look past Papa and Mom and scan down the aisle for Christopher, who’s a few seats away. I catch his eye and give him a nervous grin. I’m pleased to see that he’s somehow surgically removed Gigi from his side and that it’s Kate instead who’s seated beside him. I can’t help but smile. And I suddenly realize it doesn’t matter if Christopher wins the Palme d’Or or not because he’s gotten what he wants most of all: Kate.

  Sean Penn pumps his fist. “And the winner is … Christopher Santisi for Forgetting Petunia Holt!”

  Oh my god! He won! He actually won! My brother just won the freaking Palme d’Or! Christopher bounds down the aisle and runs toward the stage. And my father is the first person to jump to his feet to give Chris a standing ovation. And not only is he standing, but he’s actually crying. And suddenly, so am I. Yes, because I’m proud of Christopher, but also for all of us, because I’m proud of all of us. My brother, my father, my mother, Kate, and me. All of us.

  17

  The sun behind Saffron reveals itself as if on cue, backlighting her so that she appears to be surrounded by an aura of soft golden light. Her Julian Tennant gown is magnificent, wafting in ivory billows in the gentle breeze off the French Riviera as she stands at the top of a secluded bluff. I fluff the skirt of her frothy bias-cut chiffon gown with a ruffle-edged, plunging V-back, not as the CEO of Julian Tennant Inc. but as Saffron’s woman of honor at her commitment ceremony to herself.

  There are no trumpeter swans or ostriches or Arabian stallions or imported pink sand from the Sahara Desert. And most important of all, there is no Coz or Chili. There is a simple white linen chuppah decorated with white camellias and a few scattered white rose petals on the floor. I cancelled Patrick Demarchelier’s lavish lighting package, and he doesn’t have any assistants with him as he discreetly snaps photos of Saffron.

  Saffron hugs me before she takes her place in front of Dr. Singh, my mother’s crazy mystic healer-slash-spiritual guide-slash Best Guru Forever (BGF), whose real name is Bernie Freedman from Brooklyn. My mother got him to fly in from L.A. this morning. Dressed in his white kutras and turban, he rings a Tibetan peace bell to commence the ceremony.

  “Saffron, before we begin, I’d like you to take a moment to turn around and look out at the people who came here today with deep love in their hearts to support you,” Dr. Singh says as Saffron spins around to gaze out at me, Julian, Kate, Christopher, my mother, my father, Cricket, and Markus.

  Saffron’s eyes fill with tears as she looks at all of us. In some ways her ceremony is for all of us, not just her. We’re all, each one of us, finding our way back to ourselves. I smile to myself as I realize that somehow, some way
we’ve all survived this insane trip at Cannes. Saffron mouths a quiet “thank you” to us and then turns back around to face Dr. Singh.

  “Do you, Saffron Sykes, vow to love, honor, cherish, and be true to yourself, in sickness and in health, in all of the ups and downs of life, through all of your successes and failures and in all of life’s impermanence?”

  “I do,” and as she says it, I make a vow to myself as well. Lev, I tell myself, Don’t think about Lev. I miss him so much it’s like a thunderbolt through my heart. But it’s not just that I lost Lev; I was losing myself as well. And as I stand here next to Saffron, I vow to never lose myself again.

  “Saffron, in the Jewish tradition the groom breaks a glass at the end of the ceremony as a symbol of the fragility of life,” Dr. Singh says, placing a glass wrapped in cloth at Saffron’s ivory satin Louboutins. “In a gesture of appreciation for each fleeting moment and in recognition of the impermanence of all things, please, Saffron, go ahead,” Dr. Singh says.

  Saffron stamps on the glass with all of her might, looking up to the clear blue sky with her eyes squeezed shut as she does. As we hear the crunch of the glass breaking, we all yell “Mazel tov!” and start cheering, all the while Patrick capturing every moment with his camera.

  I spin around and look over to my brother, Kate, Julian, my parents, and Cricket and I’m suddenly flooded with gratitude for all these people that help hold me together just like that cloth wrapped over the glass that’s holding all those broken shards in one spot.

  Dr. Singh rings his peace bell to close the ceremony, and as the ringing reverberates over and over and over, it feels as though peace among us has finally been restored.

  “Thank you for helping me find the courage to do this,” Saffron says, hugging me.

  “No, thank you for doing this, not just for yourself but for all of the women out there who don’t have the courage that you do,” I say. “Maybe now they will.”

  “I really hope so,” she says.

  “That was a beautiful ceremony,” Cricket says, coming up to us.

  “I had nothing to do with it,” Saffron says. “It was all your friend, Lola.”