The Winner Stands Alone

"This party's just perfect, don't you think? Our host must be spending a fortune to be here in Cannes, what with the travel and accommodation expenses of the celebrities who've all been specially selected to be present at this lavish gala supper. But you can be sure that all the free publicity will send his profits soaring: full-page spreads in magazines and newspapers, TV airtime and hours of coverage on the cable channels that have nothing else to show. Women will associate his jewels with glamour; men will wear his watches as proof that they're powerful and wealthy; and young people will flick through the fashion pages and think: 'One day, I want to be there too, wearing exactly that.'"

"Please, let's leave now. I just have a really bad feeling about this party."

This was the last straw. He's put up with his wife's bad mood all day without complaint. She keeps turning on her mobile phone to see if there's another text message, and now he's beginning to think that there really is something strange going on. Another man perhaps? Her ex-husband, who he saw in the hotel bar, and who is perhaps doing everything he can to arrange a meeting? If that's the case, though, why doesn't she just tell him what she's feeling instead of withdrawing into herself?

"Don't talk to me about bad feelings. I'm trying to explain to you why people put on parties like this. If you ever decide to go into fashion as you always dreamed of doing or of once again owning a shop selling haute-couture clothes, you could learn something. By the way, when I told you that I'd seen your ex-husband in the bar last night, you told me that was impossible. Is he the reason you keep checking your mobile phone?"

"Why on earth would he be here?" she says, when what she feels like saying is: "I know who ruined your film project. And I know that he's capable of far worse. We're in danger here; please, let's leave."

"You didn't answer my question."

"The answer is yes. That's why I keep checking my mobile phone because I know him, and I know he's here somewhere, and I'm afraid."

Hamid laughs.

"But I'm here too."

Ewa picks up a glass of champagne and drinks it down in one. He says nothing, feeling that she's simply being provocative.

He looks around him, trying to forget the recent news that flashed up on his phone, and still hoping for a chance to have a few photos taken with Jasmine before they're all called into the room where supper will be served. The death of the actor couldn't have come at a worse moment. Now no one is asking about the big contract he's signed with an unknown model, and yet, half an hour earlier, it was all the press were interested in. Not anymore.

Despite his many years of working in this glamorous world, he still has a lot to learn: the contract he signed has been quickly forgotten, but the host of this party has managed to keep the media interest alive. None of the photographers and journalists present has left the party to go to the police station or the hospital to find out exactly what has happened. They are, admittedly, fashion journalists, but their editors wouldn't have dared order them to leave, for the simple reason that murders don't appear on the same pages as social events.

Makers of expensive jewelry don't get themselves mixed up in cinematographic adventures. Big promoters know that regardless of how much blood is being spilled in the world right now, people will always prefer photos depicting an ideal and inaccessible life of luxury.

Murders can take place next door or out in the street, but parties like this only occur at the very top of society. What could be of more interest to mere mortals than this perfect party, which would have been advertised months before in press releases, confirming that the jeweler would be holding his usual event in Cannes, and that all the invitations had already gone out. Not quite true; at the time, half of the guests would have received a kind of memorandum, politely asking them to keep the date free.

They would, of course, respond at once and reserve the date and buy their plane tickets and book their hotel room for twelve days, even if they're only staying for forty-eight hours. They need to prove to everyone that they're still members of the Superclass, membership of which is invaluable in making business deals, opening doors, and feeding egos.

The lavish invitation card would arrive two months later. The women would start worrying about which dress to wear for the occasion, and the men would contact a few acquaintances to ask if they could meet in the bar to discuss business before supper. This was the male way of saying: "I've been invited to the party. Have you?" Even if the acquaintance claimed he was too busy and wasn't sure he'd be able to travel to Cannes on that date, the message had been sent loud and clear: that "full diary" was just an excuse for not yet having been invited.

Minutes later, that "very busy man" would start mobilizing friends, advisors, and associates to wangle him an invitation. This meant that the host could then choose the second half of his guest list, basing himself on three things: power, money, contacts.

The perfect party.

A professional team of caterers would be signed up. On the day itself, the order will go out to serve as much alcohol as

possible, preferably plenty of France's legendary and unbeatable champagne. Guests from other countries don't realize that they're being served a drink produced in the country itself and which is, therefore, much cheaper than they might think. The women feel--as even does Ewa at that moment--that the golden liquid in the glass is the best possible complement to dress, shoes, and bag. The men are all holding a glass as well, but they drink much less; they've come to make peace with a competitor, to cement relationships with a supplier, or to meet a potential distributor of their products. Hundreds of business cards are exchanged on such nights, most of them among professionals. A few, of course, are given to pretty women, who know they're not worth the paper they're printed on; no one has come here hoping to find the love of their life, but to make deals, to shine, and, possibly, to enjoy themselves a little. Enjoying yourself is optional and not of great importance.

The people here tonight come from three points of an imaginary triangle. At one point are those who have it all and spend their days playing golf or having lunch or hanging out at some exclusive club, and who, when they go into a shop, can buy anything they want without first asking the price. Having reached the top, they have realized something that had never even occurred to them before: they cannot bear to be alone. They can't stand the company of their husband or wife and they need to be on the go all the time, in the belief that they can still make a difference to humanity, although they've discovered, since they retired, that their day-to-day life is as dull as that of any other middle-class person: eat breakfast, read the newspapers, eat lunch, take a nap, eat supper, watch TV. They accept most of the supper invitations they receive. They go to social and sporting events at the weekend. They spend their holidays in fashionable places (even though they no longer work, they still believe in something called "holidays").

At the second point on the triangle are those who haven't yet achieved anything and who are doing their best to row in very choppy waters, to break the resistance of the have-it-alls, to look happy even if one of their parents happens to be in hospital, and they are having to sell off things they don't even own.

Finally, at the apex, is the Superclass.

This is the ideal mixture for a party. Those who have reached the top and yet carry on life as normal may well have enough money stashed away for several generations, but their influence has waned and they have realized, too late, that power is actually more important than wealth. Those who haven't yet reached the top put all their energy and enthusiasm into making the party go with a swing, thinking that they're making a really good impression, only to discover, in the weeks that follow, that no one phones them despite all the business cards they handed out. Finally, there are those who wobble about on the apex, knowing that it's very windy up there and that the slightest gust could blow them off into the abyss below.

PEOPLE KEEP COMING OVER TO talk to him, although no one mentions the murder, either because they don't know about it, since they live in a world where such things don't happen, or out of politeness, which he very much doubts. He looks around him and sees the thing he hates most in the fashion world: middle-aged women who dress as if they were still twenty. Haven't they noticed that it's time they changed their style? He speaks to one person, smiles at another, thanks someone else for a kind remark, introduces Ewa to the few who still don't know her. He has, however, only one thought in his mind: to find Jasmine within the next five minutes and pose for the photographers.

An industrialist and his wife are telling him in detail about the last time they met, a meeting of which Hamid has no recollection, although he nods wisely. They talk about trips they've made, people they've met, and projects they're involved in. No one touches on genuinely interesting topics like "Are you happy?" or "After all we've been through, what does victory actually feel like?" They are part of the Superclass and therefore obliged to behave as if they were contented and fulfilled, even if they're actually asking themselves: "What shall I do with my future, now that I have everything I ever dreamed of?"

A squalid creature in tight trousers and an Indian top approaches, looking like something out of a comic strip.

"Mr. Hussein, I'm terribly sorry..."

"Who are you?"

"I work for you, sir."