Four Blondes

I just stare at him, realizing that is probably some kind of JOKE that I don’t get and never will, and I say, “I think I’ll just go and buy some.”

“There are photographers outside.”

“Paul,” I say wearily. “There are always photographers outside.”

I walk down the gangplank clutching my Prada wallet, still barefoot and wearing the negligee and the Gucci jacket, which, in the bright sunlight, I see is stained with large patches of what might be wine or raspberry puree or even vomit. I suddenly remember that I have no money because I’m in France and foreign money confuses me, so I stop and ask one of the photographers, all of whom have huge telephoto lenses in hopes of getting a topless shot of Dianna Moon (and maybe me, but I’m not as famous as Dianna is in France), for beaucoup d’argent.

I smile fakely, and the photographers are so surprised they don’t take any pictures.

“Comment?” says one, who is short with floppy gray hair and bad teeth.

“Pour fume,” I say badly.

“Ah, pour fume,” they say, and nudge one another jocularly. One of them hands me twenty francs and winks at me and I wink back and then I set off, walking down the red carpet that lines the sidewalk of the harbor in honor of the festival, thinking: Every day this carpet gets dirtier and dirtier and I get more and more polluted, and why is Hubert coming, he’s doing it on purpose. Again.

I wander into the narrow streets of Cannes, which are filled, predictably, with French people, all of whom seem to be smoking. I pass a small café filled with gay men, who, unlike gay men in New York, have long hair and are trying desperately to be women. One of them looks at me and says, “Bonjour.”

And that’s when I realize I may or may not be being followed.

I turn around.

A small girl with long blond hair, clutching three red roses wrapped in cellophane, stops and stares back at me.

I glare at her and move on.

I find a tabac and go in. More French people smoking and laughing. Near the entrance, a Frenchwoman says something to me which I automatically tune out, although I believe she’s asking me if I want a croissant or maybe a ham sandwich, so I snap, ”fe ne parle pas Francais.” Then I ask the man behind the counter for Marlboro Lights, and once outside, I light up a cigarette, fumbling with the awkward French matches and I look up and there’s the little girl.

Again.

“Madame . . .,” she says.

“Vous etes un enfant terrible,” I say. Which is basically all the French I can remember that has anything to do with children. She says, ”Vous êtes tres jolie.”

I begin walking quickly back to the boat. “Madame, madame,” she calls after me.

“What?” I say.

“You would like to buy a rose? A lovely red rose?”

“Non,” I say. “fe n’aime pas les fleurs. Got it? Get it, kid?” And I can’t believe I am being so mean to a small street urchin, but I am.

“Madame. You come with me,” the child says.

“No,” I say.

She tries to take my hand. “You come with me, Madame. You must come with me.”

I shake my head, holding the cigarette up to my lips.

“Come, Madame. Come. Follow me.”

“Non,” I say weakly. And then for some reason, standing on the crowded street in the middle of Cannes during the film festival in the terrible heat, I begin crying, shaking my head, and the small child looks at me and runs away.

Another evening, on the—what?—third or fourth day in the south of France, and Dianna Moon and I are riding in the back of an air-conditioned Mercedes limousine with The Verve blaring as we crawl along the crowded streets of Cannes toward the Hotel du Cap, where we have been invited to have dinner with prominent movie people. Dianna won’t stop talking, and I keep thinking about how, when Hubert and I first started secretly seeing each other, my phone was tapped.

“The thing about it,” Dianna says, once again oblivious to anything but herself, “I mean the thing about this whole movie star business which no one gets is that you have to work so hard. You’re my best friend, Cecelia, so you know I’m not being an asshole about this, because God knows, Jesus knows actually, that I was always going to be a star and I think I make a fucking good star, but it’s never-ending. So, you know, people ought to understand why I get fucked up. Getting fucked up . . . it’s like a minivacation. It’s the only way I can ever get any fucking relaxation.” And she takes a swig out of a bottle of champagne and I want to tell her to stop talking because I’m still so hungover I’m going to get sick or kill someone.

“What did you think of Fabien?” she says.