You exit the dressing room and wait for the elevator. When it arrives, you step inside and press ten.
The elevator doors open and the lounge is in front of you. With low couches and an enormous TV and international newspapers set out, it’s a miniature version of the lounge on the first floor. But the only person in the lounge is a bartender. He stands before a bar lined with large backlit bottles and oranges in vases.
The bartender greets you in English and in French. You ask for a glass of sparkling water, and sit down on one of the plush sofas and wait. You worry you look too desperate, sitting there facing the elevator doors, as though waiting to pounce the moment they open and the famous actress emerges. You move to another couch.
The bartender brings you a tall narrow glass of sparkling water and it tastes so refreshing you already know you want another one. This is how it is in these countries — the glasses are so small and you are always thirsty. At the home you shared with your husband your cups were bowls, but your thirst was never satisfied.
The elevator doors haven’t opened but now the famous American actress is in the lounge. She must be staying on this floor, you realize. Suddenly she is before you. She is radiant, as though she has swallowed a light, a sun, and is glowing from within. She’s small-boned, tiny. Her eyes are the green of damp moss; her hair darker than it’s been in other films. The fringe of bangs is new — you assume it’s been styled this way for this shoot. Her cheeks are wide and her nose narrow. You have to work to not stare.
“Hi,” she says.
Just like that. Hi.
You stand up, and as you do so, you hit your knee on the glass coffee table. You act as though you didn’t.
You shake her hand and you say your name is Reeves and she says her name, which, momentarily, strikes you as funny. There are few people in the world who don’t know her name.
Her bodyguards are close — one is already standing by the bartender, the other by the elevator. They are so stealthy they appear suddenly, like magicians in a trick. One is Latino and the other pale with red hair. They don’t look at you head-on, but out of the corners of their eyes, they are watching you. The famous American actress doesn’t acknowledge they’re there. You assume they have been with her for years.
She flops down on the couch, elegantly. You have seen her image a million times and still this is new. You understand, instantaneously, what it is to have presence. You can’t keep your eyes off her features — so much smaller than you would have expected — and her skin, so much smoother than any skin you’ve seen. She doesn’t have a single indentation on her face, except for a dimple below her left cheek when she smiles her endearingly lopsided smile. Her dimple is famous. You wonder if she’s had it insured.
“Where are you from?” she asks.
“Florida originally, but then I went to New York, and now I’m in Florida.”
“I love New York,” she says.
“What about you?” you ask, though you know she lives in L.A.
“L.A.,” she says.
You nod as though this is new information you’re taking in.
“I’m so fucking exhausted,” she says.
“Late night of work?” Now you’re talking. The two of you are just talking.
“Yeah, we went until one A.M. And then I come home and this fucking possessive boyfriend of mine wants to argue.”
You know who the boyfriend is, of course. You wonder if she should be telling you this.
“I’m sorry,” you say. “That’s the worst.”
“It is, right? Are you involved with anyone right now?” she asks.
“Um, no,” you say, taken off guard. “I’m the opposite.”
“Bad breakup?” she asks. She pulls her legs up onto the couch and leans into you. She looks like an actress in a movie who’s acting interested. You can’t separate how genuine her interest is, or how much she’s playing the part of someone who’s interested. It occurs to you that maybe she can’t tell the difference either. Maybe for her the line is very thin.
“My husband and I are splitting up,” you tell her. “I decided to leave him.”
“How long ago?” she asks.
“Two months ago. . or so. I’ve lost track.” You know it’s been exactly nine weeks.
“Are you definitely divorcing?”
“Yes,” you say. “I’ve filed the papers. There’s no way we’ll ever. .”—you search for the polite word—“reconcile.”
“Wow,” she says. “That’s so impressive that you’re leaving him.”
“I hadn’t exactly thought of it that way,” you say. “‘Excruciating’ is the word that comes to mind.” Even that word does not come close to describing the intensity of pain you feel.
She crosses her legs in the other direction. She leans in again to ask her next question: “Did you have kids together?”
“Together” is a haunting word. You did little together.
“No,” you say, knowing she’ll say that’s a relief.
“Well, that’s a relief.”
You nod, and think for a moment of your sister’s baby. Reeves.
“You’re getting divorced, you’re surviving. It’s part of your story now,” the famous American actress says.
“I guess so,” you say. You don’t volunteer that on most days you don’t feel like you’re surviving. “I wish I didn’t feel so fucking angry at him. What he did makes me feel like I failed at something enormous. In the minds of people who knew us — and even people who didn’t — I failed. It’s horrific and humiliating on so many levels.”
“Humiliating? No. If I were getting divorced, I’d go around saying, ‘Hey, guess what, I’m only in my twenties but I’m getting divorced! And I’m alive. Take that, motherfuckers.’”
You are reminded that you have read about her filthy mouth.
“Take that, motherfuckers,” you mutter, under your breath.
She laughs. It’s a genuine laugh. And a terrible one. It’s a cackle. You don’t think you’ve ever heard it in her films. You would have noticed.
“Think of it this way, Reeves,” she says. “Everyone’s scared of getting divorced but you’re doing it. You’re getting it out of the way and now you can move on with your life.”
“I can move on with my life,” you repeat.
“I might get married just so I can get divorced and get it over with,” she says.
You laugh, instinctively, genuinely. The famous American actress is much more interesting than you thought she’d be.
“You have a point,” you say.
“If I were you I’d get married again as fast as possible so that I could get divorced a second time.”
She looks over your shoulder, and stares at something. You turn to follow her gaze. She’s staring at the bartender, who’s Moroccan, maybe twenty-five. He’s polishing a glass that already looks polished and is placing it back on the shelf.
“He’s pretty cute,” she says.
“Not bad,” you agree. “You think he’d marry me?”
“Totally,” she says. “Can I throw a lingerie bridal shower for you? I fucking live for lingerie. And cotton grandma panties. Depends on the day.”
The pale practical secretary enters the room, and sees you laughing and the famous American actress cackling. You wonder if the pale practical secretary has grown accustomed to the actress’s terrible laugh. You wonder if it’s ever possible to grow accustomed to it.
“Am I late?” she asks, looking at her watch. She answers her own question. “You two were both early.” She looks distressed.
She sits down on a chair between the two couches where you and the famous American actress are seated.
“Would you like something to drink?” she asks the actress.
“A small coffee,” she says, and the practical secretary waves the bartender over and orders two coffees.