The View Was Exhausting

by Mikaella Clements

  But Leo had been born into fame. He had always lived his life doing whatever he liked and still being adored, whether he was falling drunk out of cars or attending charity launches. He only had a handful of people that he needed to please: his father, his mothers, and his siblings. It would take much more than a nasty breakup to harm their legacy. The press could forgive Leo for things that would have them baying for Win’s blood. Leo courted public opinion as a mark of respect to his family brand, but he had no producers to impress, no directors to charm, no casting managers to convince that he had the right image for a role. His dreams, if he had any, were unlikely to collapse at his feet.

  Patrick had told Win seriously when he signed her that he believed she could make it to the big leagues; in the same breath, he warned her to expect significant pushback. Win didn’t need him to fill in the gaps. It wasn’t like Hollywood was full of Indian movie stars. Almost none had made it past the sidekick computer geek role. If Win messed this up, she wouldn’t get a second chance, and it wasn’t unreasonable to expect that Hollywood wouldn’t take a chance on another Indian heroine for a long time after that.

  It wasn’t enough just to work hard and stay true to herself. People needed to like her. They needed to like the Whitman Tagore act that she performed for them, because that was what made them want to see her movies, and she needed an audience so she could keep doing what she loved. When they saw her and Leo living a fantasy romance, they loved it, and they wished they were her, and they could relate to her at last. Even though she didn’t look like them. Even though she wasn’t white.

  Leo had always thought she should talk about it openly. If Win wanted, she could become the spokesperson for her generation, fight the good fight from inside the ranks. She had tried to explain to him the tightrope act of making vague political statements or tacitly acknowledging the existence of a power imbalance while avoiding anything more specific, anything based on real experience. It would be seen as complaining, playing the victim. White directors would be afraid to work with her, and white audiences would feel alienated by her. Leo could be exhaustingly self-righteous in response, but as part of Marie’s cleanup team, he came in after the crisis. He missed the long, tense weeks when a director was messing Win around or a thousand different people on social media came up with a sly new campaign against her. He was there for the explosion and he wanted to fight fire with fire; he didn’t see that most of the time, it was more like she was drowning and needed to tread water.

  Win kept the focus on her career. She was playing the long game. She developed a skill for ignoring her frustrations.

  Five days after Win and Leo met, screaming groups of fans and paparazzi had become a reliable constant. Leo drove her home after dinner at Via Carota, mostly so that the paparazzi could get photos of him kissing her goodbye in the hotel lobby. Win leaned into him, closer and closer, until the kiss was too much, turning messy, turning hard, turning demanding. She’d had two drinks with dinner and nothing to explain the hot jerk in her belly. Leo ran his fingers through her hair and over the nape of her neck. In her ear, he said, “It looks better if I go upstairs, anyway.”

  They went upstairs.

  In Win’s hotel suite they sat on either side of the dining table. Win folded her hands in her lap. Leo leaned back, legs spread.

  “So,” Leo said. “Let’s discuss.”

  “It might ruin our working relationship,” Win said. “And our working relationship is returning impressive results.”

  “That’s very true,” Leo said. “On the other hand, abstaining might also ruin our working relationship.”

  “Oh?”

  “The curiosity,” Leo explained. “It’ll eat you up inside. You’ll pine away for me.”

  “And if I sleep with you, I’ll be cured of any need for a repeat? Is that your usual guarantee?”

  Leo laughed, pleased with her. Win was pleased, too. The table wasn’t as good a boundary as she had hoped. They were leaning closer and closer over it. She’d caught his hand and was touching his fingers one by one, watching them curl like he wanted to grab her and was just barely holding back.

  “Your publicist will be very cross,” Leo said.

  “Is that a plus or minus for you?”

  “I’m just making sure you have all the information.”

  “We would have to be careful,” Win said.

  “That’s boring,” Leo said. “You be careful for both of us.”

  “Okay,” Win agreed, and crawled over the table.

  She’d thought she would be measured; she felt very grown-up, after the slow anticipation of a week’s foreplay and their conversation. But Leo caught her up in his arms hard enough that Win realized he had been holding himself back, that his performance had been just that, a performance, and now he was offering her something real. She wanted it with a fierceness that surprised her. She wanted to fight him, to push him, to see what else he’d been hiding from her.

  The first time, they barely made it to the next room and gave the bed up as a lost cause entirely. Leo kissed her messily against a wall, and that seemed good enough, her fingers digging into his shoulders and her legs up around his waist. The second time they made it to the couch, where Leo pulled her into his lap and settled her with her mouth against his shoulder, writhing against his fingers, cursing him out and finally saying, broken, like she was annoyed about it, “Please.”

  “There we go,” Leo said, and lifted her up.

  The third time was some hours later, deep in the heart of the night, the window flung open for air and traffic blaring far below. Win’s wrists, pulled above her head, were caught unthinkingly in Leo’s hand as though he just wanted to keep her safe. Leo moved slow. Breathing felt strange and hot, like each deep drag of air lit up every part of her body.

  In the morning they reached for each other before their phones, elated with their own good idea, pleased with themselves and laughing breathlessly as Leo toppled her underneath him again. The day was busy, packed with a fashion show downtown and a nightclub uptown. Win was high on success the whole way through it, playing two games, one for the public and one for her and Leo. They overlapped, but they weren’t the same. When she danced with him at the club, he murmured, “Still curious?” in her ear, and they left earlier than they should have. It didn’t matter. The next day there were photos of them splashed across the New York Post, tumbling still kissing into a waiting cab. CAN’T GET ENOUGH, the headline said. Win read it in bed with her coffee, smiling as she flipped through the photos and listened to Leo in the shower.

  Then Patrick called. She hadn’t spoken to him for a few days, and she was panicking as she picked up. “Is everything okay?”

  “Over and Over starts shooting on Monday,” he said, meaning Warner Bros.’ next big rom-com, already tipped to be a blockbuster. “They want you.”

  Win made a face, turning the page of her paper. “I don’t know, Patrick. I’ve had enough of being the sidekick. I think this stuff with Leo Milanowski is working. Something better might turn up soon.”

  “Whitman,” Patrick said, “are you watching any news besides your own? Katie Berger dropped out. They want you for the lead.”

  By the time Leo was out of the shower, Win’s flights to LA were already booked. She flung herself across the room and into his arms and said, “You’re gold dust, I swear to god,” while he swung her around.

  “So they tell me,” Leo said. “I think your ascending star was probably just a matter of time, though.”

  Win looked down into his smiling face and heard him say again, You’ll pine away for me. She saw then that in Leo’s lazy arrogance and good humor there was real danger; that if she allowed herself to tumble like this into his arms, that if she shared her confidences and her bed, a very productive working relationship would crumble. Leo had accelerated her career like nothing else, and she liked him, very much. She did not want to ruin everything by loving him.

  * * *

  It was the right thing
to do. That morning, after Nathan Spencer’s on-screen rant, Win was grateful all over again that Leo was still around, dipping in and out of her life when she needed him. If they had fallen into the messy trap of costars slash lovers, it probably would have ended in disaster years ago. It was better for both of them if the relationship stayed professional. The idea of something real was a lacuna of hesitation and desire; unpredictable, unplottable, never something Win could depend on or be sure of. Leo was too important to risk losing. Everything was safer this way. When Leo held the car door open for her at Saint-Tropez harbor, his hand was thrown out like an invitation.

  Chapter Four

  The yacht was already full when they arrived: cabin staff and a captain, and then the group of pretty young things Marie had arranged. They were led by Riva, fresh from headlining Lollapalooza. She was in Saint-Tropez for the Zacharias Chavanne party, too, and she had brought her new boyfriend and a group of hangers-on to join her for the week. Win slipped into the motions, clutched their hands, cooed over them, and returned their compliments.

  Win liked Riva. She saw her every couple of months because they were often thrown together at events, and every so often they met in the same high-rise hotels and read fashion magazines together by the rooftop pools. Like two brown Carrie Bradshaws, Riva had said. It was easy to be friends, and Win didn’t mind the company of Riva’s entourage.

  Riva shrieked and hugged Win while her boyfriend Bart stood looking bland and handsome. Margaritas were handed around, fresh and sour, salt stinging at their lips, silver buckets filled with bottles and ice, heeled sandals scattered across the deck where Riva’s friends had slipped them off. One of the girls had brought a little Yorkshire terrier on board that came to yap gleefully around their ankles. Win’s mood was clearing. Out here she felt untouchable. Nathan’s barbs couldn’t land. The heat settled close and sinuous over her, twining around her shoulders, and the hollow of Leo’s throat gleamed with sweat.

  Riva tripped back to them, holding her hand out to Leo. “We’ve met before, I think.”

  “Have we?”

  “In LA last summer?” Riva said. “I think you might have known some friends of mine.”

  Leo put two knuckles up to his eyebrow, as if to soothe a headache. “Are you sure?”

  “I think it was you. Some outdoor party?”

  “I feel like I would have remembered that,” Leo said. It came out like a compliment, and Win wasn’t sure why Leo seemed so uncomfortable. Riva clicked her fingers.

  “No! It was at South by Southwest. You were at one of the after-parties. I think you let me paint your face.”

  “Oh.” Leo relaxed. “Well, that sounds like me.”

  “We’ve never met, but I think we have friends in common,” Bart said, joining his girlfriend and attempting to give Leo a sturdy handshake. Leo’s eyebrows went up; he let go as quickly as he could, and Win coughed so she didn’t laugh. Bart was making a fatal error. Leo liked nearly everybody, as long as they didn’t try too hard. “I just spent a weekend in Belize with Robbie Hayes.”

  “Oh, how is he?” Leo said, and explained to Win, “Rob and I met in London, he’s one of the crew there.”

  Marie leaned forward with studied nonchalance.

  “The Radio 1 DJ? I’m surprised he hasn’t made you a guest on the show.”

  “I don’t know him that well,” Leo said, and gave Marie a very innocent look. “I’m sure he’s got more than enough people to talk to.”

  Marie scowled. It wasn’t worth anyone’s life, trying to talk Leo into an interview. She strode away, probably to book Leo in for a surprise chest wax back at the hotel.

  “Rob said you were in Berlin,” Bart continued. “Looking at studio spaces?”

  Riva looked interested. “You’re setting up a recording studio?”

  “No, it’s for, uh, visual art,” Leo said, twitchy as though he’d been caught out. Win shifted closer so she could lean her shoulder against his. “It’s just this idea I’ve been tossing around, like, a collective studio. People could come in and out, and we would cover materials, and there’d be fellowships for people who couldn’t afford their own space, and we’d do a quarterly showcase or something.”

  “That’s cool,” Riva said, impressed. “You’re doing it in Berlin?”

  “Oh, I’m not really sure,” Leo said. “I haven’t worked out the logistics yet.”

  Leo had been working out the logistics on his studio for about as long as Win had known him. She suspected that the project was just too solid for him to start, too much of a commitment of time and energy. Leo liked to throw himself into something for a few weeks at a time, devote all his attention to one thing and then move on, whether it was starring in a music video for some indie band or pretending to be Win’s lovelorn boyfriend. It was part of why they worked so well: Win needed him to give his all for very distinct periods of time, and Leo enjoyed a campaign.

  “I have a friend who runs an artists’ collective in Austin,” Riva said. “It’s small but they’ve put out some really cool stuff. I could hook you up, if you want.”

  “Sure, that sounds good,” Leo said, but he didn’t mean it. If Riva gave him a number, he would never call. Win had long since given up encouraging him to pursue the studio idea. Being reminded that there were people eager to see Leo succeed only seemed to make him more wary of starting. Leo was used to being a golden boy. The potential for failure troubled him.

  The sun didn’t let up, and every empty glass was replaced with a full one. Win didn’t know where the boat was going; down the coast, she thought. There were Jet Skis ready for later, and a couple of the girls were already climbing on them, passing a champagne bottle between them as they took turns standing up on the seats. Riva controlled the music, and every new song was met with an elated whoop, sun-soaked voices crowing along with each chorus.

  After a moment’s consideration Win slipped her dress over her head, discarding it behind them on the red-brown wood of the deck. Today’s bikini was a deep tangerine. Leo stayed quiet while she adjusted the straps and then lay down next to him. He handed back her drink.

  Win was pleased. Leo leaned in and said, “Can I get you some more sunscreen?”

  “Thank you, I’m all set. It’s kind of you to offer.”

  “Anything I can do,” Leo said. “This”—he tucked one finger under the thin strap of her bikini—“doesn’t look like it’s protecting much.”

  “Well, if you’re very worried,” Win said, and turned, holding out her hand. Leo paused and then laughed. He unbuttoned his shirt, handed it over, and Win slipped into it, white linen hanging demure off her shoulders. They watched each other, grinning.

  “Oh, he’s gallant,” Riva said. “You looking at this, Bart?”

  Bart was concentrating so hard he was almost frowning. “Whitman’s an interesting name,” he said, as though trying out some gallantry for himself. “Is it Indian?”

  Leo’s mouth twitched like he was trying not to laugh.

  “No,” Win told Bart, “my dad named me after Walt Whitman. I’m sure it felt like a good idea at the time.”

  “Ah,” Bart said, “an artiste.”

  Win shook her head. “He was an English teacher.” Leo’s fingers brushed against her elbow—the briefest, warmest touch.

  Their conversation was interrupted by Marie, calling Win’s name from the cabin of the boat.

  “Better not keep her waiting,” Leo said. “I’m amazed she’s left me alone with you for this long. Maybe I’m winning her trust.”

  “I wouldn’t count on that,” Win said, draining the last of her champagne and handing him her empty glass. He twirled the stem between his fingers.

  “Oh, come on,” he said. “You know better than anyone how I grow on people, Whitman.” Win ducked inside the cabin, out of range of the sun and Leo’s wry mouth.

  Win’s mother had called six times, Marie said, holding Win’s phone out. Emil was glaring over her shoulder, clearly annoyed that Marie
had hijacked duty of care for Win’s phone. Win could tell from the icy atmosphere that they had been arguing. She wondered how Marie had come out on top; probably threatened to have him ferried back to the mainland in a dinghy if he didn’t comply.

  “You need to contain this,” Marie said. “A messy family situation is the last thing we need right now.”

  She had clearly decided Win didn’t require any more soothing. Marie’s brutality knew no bounds: family, pets, and buried personal history were all fair game. She’d once told Win off for bringing a battered copy of Pride and Prejudice with her on a plane. It made her look basic, Marie said. At the very least, couldn’t she read one of the less popular Austen novels? Mansfield Park would give her more depth.

  “Marie, I need a word,” Emil said, out for revenge for the phone theft. “Your schedule has five major conflicts.” Marie sighed and followed him out, leaving Win alone. Win swallowed. She called her mum.

  “Oh, I’ve got through,” Pritha said when she picked up. “Hello, Whitman.”

  The sound of Pritha’s voice washed through Win, and all at once she was home again, back in their old house in North East London with Pritha peering at her from the armchair. Once, when they were trading war stories, Win had asked Riva if she ever felt isolated, or homesick for her own identity, the parts of herself she had to leave behind in order to fit in at industry parties and awards shows.

  “Girl, yes,” Riva had answered. “It’s why I haven’t given in and moved to LA, you know? It’s important for me to be with my community. Not just other MCs on the scene or whatever, but, like, my parents and my sisters and my school friends and aunts and grandparents. Everyone who knows me, everyone who remembers who I was and where I came from. Then when I go home I can be myself again.”

  Win had nodded along, thinking only of this: her mum’s low voice, her hesitant pauses, the crackle of the phone line, as though Riva had a chorus and Win had an echo. Most of Win’s extended family was in India, and neither Pritha nor Win had visited them since Win’s father died. Sometimes Pritha’s accent was the closest thing she had to an anchor.