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“Why aren’t you out celebrating? You should be at the Sunset party.”
“I only wanted to celebrate with you.”
I pulled her closer to me. She kicked off her shoes.
“Nothing means anything without you,” she said. “Everything that isn’t you is a pile of dog shit.”
I tossed my head back and laughed.
“What happened to your tooth?” Celia asked.
“Is it that noticeable?”
Celia shrugged. “I suppose not. I think it’s just that I’ve memorized every inch of you.”
Just a few weeks ago, I had lain naked beside Celia and let her look at me, look at every part of my body. She had told me she wanted to remember every detail. She said it was like studying a Picasso.
“It’s embarrassing,” I told her now.
Celia sat up, intrigued.
“I kissed the television screen,” I said. “When you won. I kissed you on the TV, and I chipped my tooth.”
Celia laughed so hard she cackled. The statuette fell back to the mattress with a thump. And then she rolled over on top of me and put her arms around my neck. “That’s the most lovable thing anyone has ever done since the dawn of man.”
“I suppose I’ll make a dentist appointment first thing tomorrow.”
“I suppose you will.”
I picked up her Oscar. I stared at it. I wanted one myself. And if I had stuck it out with Don a little longer, I could have had one tonight.
She was still in her dress, her heels long gone. Her hair was falling out of the pins. Her lipstick was faded. Her earrings still glistened.
“Have you ever made love to an Oscar winner?” she said.
I’d done something very close with Ari Sullivan, but I didn’t think that was the time to tell her. And anyway, the spirit of the question was if I’d ever experienced a moment like that one. And I absolutely had not.
I kissed her and felt her hands on my face, and then I watched as she stepped out of her dress and into my bed.
* * *
BOTH OF MY movies flopped. A romance Celia did sold out theaters. Don starred in a hit thriller movie. Ruby Reilly’s reviews for Jokers Wild called her “stunningly perfect” and “positively incomparable.”
I taught myself how to make meat loaf and iron my own slacks.
And then I saw Breathless. I left the theater, went straight home, called Harry Cameron, and said, “I have an idea. I’m going to Paris.”
CELIA WAS SHOOTING A MOVIE on location in Big Bear for three weeks. I knew that going with her wasn’t an option, nor was visiting her on the set. She insisted she would come home every weekend, but it felt too risky.
She was a single girl, after all. I was afraid the prevailing wisdom erred too close to the question What do single girls have to go home to?
So I decided it was the right time to go to France.
Harry had some connections to filmmakers in Paris. He made a few calls on the sly for me.
Some of the producers and directors I met with knew who I was. Some of them were clearly seeing me just as a favor to Harry. And then there was Max Girard, an up-and-coming New Wave director, who had never heard of me before.
“You are une bombe,” he said.
