At least there's one consolation. She hasn't woken up in a five-star hotel next to a man telling her to put her clothes on and leave because he has important business to deal with, like buying or selling films.
She gets up and looks around to see if any of her friends are still in the apartment. Needless to say they're not. They've long since left for the Boulevard de la Croisette, for the swimming pools, hotel bars, yachts, possible lunch dates, and chance meetings on the beach. There are five fold-out mattresses on the floor of the small shared apartment, hired for the duration at an exorbitant rent. The mattresses are surrounded by a tangle of clothes, discarded shoes, and hangers that no one has taken the trouble to put back in the wardrobe.
"The clothes take up more room here than the people," she thinks.
Not that any of them could even dream of wearing clothes designed by Elie Saab, Karl Lagerfeld, Versace, or Galliano, but what they have nevertheless takes up most of the apartment: bikinis, miniskirts, T-shirts, platform shoes, and a vast amount of makeup.
"One day I'll wear what I like, but right now, I just need to be given a chance," she thinks.
And why does she want that chance?
Quite simple. Because she knows she's the best, despite her experience at school--when she so disappointed her parents--and despite the challenges she's faced since in order to prove to herself that she can overcome difficulties, frustrations, and defeats. She was born to win and to shine, of that she has no doubt.
"And when I get what I always wanted, I know I'll have to ask myself: do they love and admire me because I'm me or because I'm famous?"
She knows people who have achieved stardom on the stage and, contrary to her expectations, they're not at peace with themselves; they're insecure, full of doubts, unhappy as soon as they come offstage. They want to be actors so as not to have to be themselves, and they live in fear of making the one false step that could end their career.
"I'm different, though. I've always been me."
Is that true? Or does everyone in her position think the same?
SHE GETS UP AND MAKES herself some coffee. The kitchen is a mess, and none of her friends has bothered to wash the dishes. She doesn't know why she's woken up in such a bad mood and with so many doubts. She knows her job, she's devoted herself to it heart and soul, and yet it's as if people refuse to recognize her talent. She knows what human beings are like, too, especially men--future allies in a battle she needs to win soon, because she's twenty-five already and nearly too old for the dream factory. She knows three things:
(a) that men are less treacherous than women;
(b) that they never notice what a woman is wearing because they're always mentally undressing her;
(c) that as long as you've got breasts, thighs, buttocks, and belly in good trim, you can conquer the world.
Because of those three things, and because she knows that all the other women she's competing with try to emphasize their attributes, she pays attention only to item (c) on her list. She exercises and tries to keep fit, avoids diets, and, illogical though it may seem, dresses very discreetly. This has worked well so far, and she can usually pass for younger than her age. She's hoping that it'll do the trick in Cannes too.
Breasts, buttocks, thighs. They c
an focus on those things now if they want to, but the day will come when they'll see what she can really do.
She drinks her coffee and begins to understand her bad mood. She's surrounded by some of the most beautiful women on the planet! She certainly doesn't consider herself ugly, but there's no way she can compete with them. She needs to decide what to do. She had thought long and hard before making this trip, money is tight, and she doesn't have much time in which to land a contract. She went to various places during the first two days, giving people a copy of her CV and her photos, but all she achieved was an invitation to last night's party at a cheap restaurant, with the music at full blast, and where she met no one from the Superclass. In order to lose her inhibitions, she drank more than she should and ended up not knowing where she was or what she was doing there. Everything seemed strange to her--Europe, the way people dress, the different languages, the phony jollity--when the truth was everyone was wishing they could have been invited to some more important event, instead of being in that utterly insignificant place, listening to the same old music, and having to hold shouted conversations about other people's lives and the injustices committed by the powerful on the powerless.
Gabriela is tired of talking about these so-called injustices. That's simply the way it is. They choose the people they want to choose and don't have to explain themselves to anyone, which is why she needs a plan. A lot of other young women with the same dream (but not, of course, with as much talent as she) will be doing the rounds with their CVs and their photos; the producers who come to the Festival must be inundated with portfolios, DVDs, business cards.
What would make her stand out?
She needs to think. She won't get another chance like this, largely because she's spent all her savings on this trip. And--horror of horrors--she's getting old. She's twenty-five. This is her last chance.
While she drinks her coffee, she looks through the small kitchen window at the dead-end street down below. All she can see is a tobacconist's and a little girl eating chocolate. Yes, this is her last chance. She hopes it will turn out quite differently from the first one.
She thinks back to when she was eleven years old and performing in her first school play at one of the most expensive schools in Chicago. Her subsequent desire to succeed was not born of the unanimous acclaim she received from the audience, composed of fathers, mothers, relatives, and teachers. Far from it. She was playing the Mad Hatter in Alice in Wonderland. She had got the part--one of the best roles in the play--after auditioning along with a lot of other girls and boys.
Her first line was: "Your hair wants cutting." Then Alice would reply: "You should learn not to make personal remarks, it's very rude."
When the long-awaited moment came, a moment she had rehearsed and rehearsed, she was so nervous that she got the line wrong and said instead: "Your hair wants washing." The girl playing Alice said her next line anyway, and the audience would never have noticed anything was wrong if Gabriela, who knew she had made a mistake, hadn't promptly lost the power of speech. Since the Mad Hatter was an essential character if the scene was to continue, and since children are not good at improvising on stage (although they improvise happily enough in real life), no one knew what to do. Then, after several long minutes, during which the actors simply looked at each other, the teacher started applauding, announced it was time for an interval, and ordered everyone offstage.
Gabriela not only left the stage, she left the school in tears. The following day, she found out that the scene with the Mad Hatter had been cut, and the actors would instead move straight on to the game of croquet with the Queen. The teacher said this didn't matter in the least because the story of Alice in Wonderland is a lot of nonsense anyway, but during playtime, the other girls and boys ganged up on Gabriela and started beating her.
This wasn't so very unusual--it was a fairly regular occurrence--and she had learned to defend herself as energetically as when she, in turn, attacked the weaker children. On this occasion, however, she took the beating without uttering a word and without shedding a tear. Her reaction was so surprising that the fight lasted almost no time at all; her schoolmates expected her to scream and shout, and, when she didn't, rapidly lost interest. For with each blow, Gabriela was thinking:
"I'll be a great actress one day and then you'll be sorry."
Who says that children aren't capable of deciding what they want to do in life?