Three Women in a Mirror (11 page)

After a minute or so he shook his head and called out to his crew in a lugubrious voice, “Long sleeves.”

Looking sternly at Anny, he could not help but say, “But I don't like it one bit.”

“I'm sorry.”

“My whole concept is out the window.”

Annoyed, Anny replied, “I feel your pain. Look, I'll get a bit of morphine to you if I have a dose left. And I'll lend you my nurse.”

The designer looked at her hesitantly; he was so used to using hyperbole that irony tended to be lost on him. Was she feeling sorry for him, or making fun of him? Only the actress's tone made it clear: it was the sort of tone you would use to say, “Get the hell out of here before I smash your face in.”

He turned on his heels and murmured, like a condemned man walking to the electric chair, “I'll be back with long sleeves.”

Anny swiveled around on her chair and in the mirror she saw the blond man who reminded her of Ethan walking away.

I wonder how he's doing
, she thought.
Who is he looking after now? Does he miss me? I didn't thank him when I left the clinic. Why not? Oh yes, it was his day off. Hey, I should send him some flowers. Or invite him on the set, he would enjoy that.

She was incapable of describing exactly what she felt, but she was aware of a vague need for his presence.

Johanna Fisher came up the steps to the trailer and entered without knocking.

“Whenever you're ready, darling.”

In fact, this was an order. Anny smiled and told herself she should try that out in a role: saying something polite in a murderous tone.

“Wait, Johanna, I have to put on some long sleeves.”

The makeup artists, like some therapists sharing a terrible medical secret, rushed over to help her hide her forearms.

In the meantime, Johanna went out to tell the paparazzi that they would soon be able to come in.

“What?” exclaimed Anny. “Here, in the trailer?”

“Yes, with the flowers.”

Now Anny understood why her dressing room was swamped with bouquets. Perhaps the senders had been informed, while their card was being stapled to the wrapping, that their gift would be filmed . . .

A horde invaded the vehicle. All the photographers were calling out, “Anny!” in order to get her to look at them. They pushed and shoved, there were so many of them, their shutters clicking with the spluttering of frying oil, and there were moments when the flash bulbs, gone wild, erased all color. Amid such tumult, it was like being in the eye of the hurricane. Even though she was already powdered and made-up, Anny sat back down in the chair and pretended to submit herself to her makeup people; then the director came in and she mimed an artistic discussion about the script; then she breathed in the roses and orchids with a blissful smile on her face; finally, she pretended to read the messages that had come with the bouquets, or at any rate the ones Johanna handed to her, according to her own priority.

At a nod from the agent, the cameramen hurried away as quickly as they had come. An oppressive silence followed the uproar.

Anny lay down, exhausted. Sessions like this drained her as though each click of the shutter had siphoned off a drop of blood; an attack of the vampires would have left her feeling similarly afflicted. Populations who refuse to have their photograph taken shared her unease: to take one's picture is to steal a part of one's soul. Anny felt she had just been abducted. Not only had these men dispossessed and diminished her, they had cut her up, fragmented her, shattered her into a thousand pieces. Now she would have to shut herself away to put herself back together.

“Have a rest,” concluded Johanna, “you've got plenty of margin. Your lighting stand-in will be there to prepare the set and your stunt double can take care of the chase shots for you.”

Johanna and the makeup people left the trailer. Anny sighed.
Lighting stand-in, stunt stand-in. Why can't I have a life stand-in?

Lying on her comforter with a cushion under her neck, she opened her script and began to memorize her dialogues for the day's scene. When she knew all the lines by heart with an almost mechanical precision, she pictured the décor, saw herself standing opposite her co-stars, and tried to imagine what her character would feel; she worked out how she would play the scene, what the rhythm would be. When she had a clear vision of the ensemble, glued motionless to her goose feathers she ventured to act out the situation and say the words. She would only add her body once she was on set; there was no point wearing herself out ahead of time. She would keep a few surprises for the moment the camera was actually filming her.

Someone scratched at the door. Anny let out a groan that might equally mean yes or no.

David came in, swaying from one foot to the other.

“How are you doing?”

His hands shoved halfway into his pockets, wriggling slightly, he gave a frown above his hangdog look and bit his lip.

Anny very nearly told him that he looked like a cocker spaniel; she held herself back at the last minute when she realized that his pose was inspired by James Dean pretending to be shy.

“Are you filming today, David?”

“No. I came to see you.”

“That's nice of you.”

If he wasn't being filmed, why was he wearing all those new clothes?

“I just want to be sure my little darling doesn't freak out.”

“Freak out? I've been doing this for fifteen years.”

The closer he came, the better she could see that with his slicked down hair, his made-up eyes, lengthened lashes, and brushed eyebrows, he must have spent at least an hour in makeup.

Anny frowned.

“You've gone to a hell of a bother! Why today?”

“Do I look ridiculous?”

“Not at all. I'm just surprised.”

“Johanna hinted there might be a photo op.”

He did not go any further. He could tell from the dark look in Anny's eyes that she knew what was going on.

Johanna, because she wanted the papers to start gushing about the new couple, was trying to make the most of the photographers' presence.

“She didn't tell you about it?” said David.

“No. She didn't dare. And I'll tell you why: she suspects the answer would be no. It's too early.”

“But we've been together for ages—”

“Yes, for fifteen days.”

“And we're living under the same roof! All above board.”

To herself she amended,
You're living at
my
place
, but she said nothing. It would have been petty to advertise the fact that she was having David stay with her because she preferred her big villa with swimming pool to his bachelor studio.

He could sense she was getting annoyed, so he came closer and, facing the mirror, put his arms around her shoulders.

“Never mind. Whatever you think. You're the one who matters.”

He kissed her at the base of her neck.

Anny smiled. David was perfect. He never went against her, he always thought about her—her comfort, her well-being—before he said or did anything, and he knew how to be self-effacing.

She simpered: “Today, David, it's my comeback: that's enough for the press. We'll give them our love story before long.”

“I don't want to pollute your comeback on the set.”

An inner voice whispered to Anny,
What he really means is, it's mainly polluting his arrival.

In a smooth voice, David said, “We have time. Believe me, I'm not going to stop loving you in one week.”

And the inner voice said,
Watch out: he may be playing Mr. Nice Guy, but he's only giving you one week.

Anny cursed the voice for being so cynical and felt guilty that she was having these thoughts, so, to forgive herself, she abandoned herself to David's caresses.

They rubbed gently against each other making little whimpering puppy sounds, suggestively, tenderly, careful not to spoil their makeup.

When they stood apart, Anny could not prevent a new comment from the insolent voice entering her thoughts:
It's amazing how the thought of a photo op has affected him: he's invested one thousand percent of his charm capital.

Convinced it must be relevant, Anny paraphrased the thought out loud: “David, I've never seen you looking so gorgeous.”

David replied right off the bat: “Me neither, I've never seen you looking so sexy.”

“Oh, really? Ordinarily, I'm not good enough for you?”

Why was she mocking him? Why was she heading toward a domestic quarrel? She was wallowing in ridicule, and there was no point! Yet a rage inside was driving her on.

“What are you talking about, Anny? I dig you way more without the face paint and powder. Believe me, I know just how lucky I am: to see you the way no viewer will ever see you.”

She swallowed her saliva. Without a doubt, he was near perfect: he knew how to defuse every single bomb.

Could that be the cause of the dull irritation she was feeling? David behaved so well that she often felt diminished around him. She sensed an overzealousness in his attitude: he had thought it all through. Everything he said, every gesture, only came out once he had finished calculating. Anny was so spontaneous that this was unexpected, at times admirable, at times worrying.
He's like the devil—lucid, manipulative,
she thought indignantly. Only a minute later, she was frightened:
If God exists, he also masters everything.
Who was David? God or the devil? Angel or demon?

With a movement of her index finger, she indicated she had to go over her scene. David vanished as if she had sent him away with exquisite courtesy.

In the brief moment where he held the door open, she again saw Ethan in the distance. She was about to call out to him when the man turned around: another unfamiliar face.

It's incredible, this place is swarming with Ethan look-alikes.

She re-immersed herself in her script, and realized she knew it down to her fingertips. Reassured, she allowed her mind to wander.

David was just too much. With his cajoling and affectionate phrases, he was forcing her to be all over him, like a woman in love; but she really wasn't sure she was in love, she was simply obeying the logic of the situation.

After David had suddenly shown up at the clinic, that day when she hadn't recognized him and had shouted out, she had burned with shame: Ethan and David had every right to think she was a junkie whose brain was fried. In order to erase the misunderstanding, she had slept with David. It had not been unpleasant for either of them; consequently, like actors continuing a successful improvisation, they got the hots for each other. No sooner had Anny left the clinic than David showed up at her place with four boxfuls of things and moved in. Johanna Fisher went along with their affair in principle, then their respective parents were invited for brunch on Sunday morning.

And presto! From the outside it looked like an idyll. From the inside . . . from one minute to the next Anny could be sincere, or Anny could be playing a part. Sometimes convincing, sometimes hesitant, she got the impression she was weighed down by obligation; she kept moving ahead like a high-speed train, glued to the rails. But where would she end up? Was there a station at the end of the adventure? Or would she derail as usual?

And since, from time to time, she obliged herself to flirt, she suspected David was doing likewise. Except that he managed his performance much better than she did—she couldn't catch him at it red-handed. What should she conclude: was he a real admirer or simply a better liar?

“Miss Lee is wanted on the set! Miss Lee, please!”

Drumming on the door of her trailer, the fourth director's assistant came to relieve her from her dilemma.

Full of surprising energy, Anny went to the set, greeted her co-stars with a glance and then, after exchanging a few words with Zac, the director, immersed herself in the scene.

Acting. At last. Now she could breathe easy. Now she was happy. Now she could stop asking questions.

Undeniably, she had a gift for becoming another person.

She subjugated her colleagues and the technical crew. They could all feel the hairs on their arms standing on end. Anny Lee was not just some media phenomenon or an audience craze: she had it in her to be a great actress.

 

That evening a limousine drove her home. David had gone ahead with all the bouquets of flowers to start his workout.

Even though the trip across Los Angeles lasted over two hours and she was dead tired, she was pleased with herself, and spent the time thinking about the most intense moments of her acting.

Her driver dropped her off outside the villa just as it got dark.

By the entrance, sitting curled up on the ground with a book on his lap, was Ethan, passionately immersed in his reading.

The slender nurse didn't look like anyone else. The curiosity that made him pore over the pages seemed powerful enough to bend a bow. Even his book was not your usual bestseller marketed and sold in huge piles: no, it was a paperback, with a cover that had neither lurid colors nor spectacular letters, and it gave off a perfume of elitism.

She stood right in front of him and stared at his blond head buried in the pages.

She was afraid she was about to be mistaken, the way she had been all day, but suddenly Ethan lifted his head, gave her a smile, and she recognized his lean, peaceful, radiant face.

She murmured, “I've been thinking about you all day long.”

He closed his book. Like a snake curling up out of a basket he unfolded his long elastic body. His head brushed against her as he drew level, then passed her, then stopped, over six feet from the pavement. He looked at her intensely and said, “I've been waiting for you all day long.”

To everyone's surprise—because ordinarily she was more indulgent than authoritarian—Aunt Godeliève was inflexible: Anne must stay at home.