The View Was Exhausting

by Mikaella Clements

  Win let Leo kiss her until her mouth felt bruised and swollen and she’d caught herself digging her nails into his shoulders three times. She said, voice gone rough, “That should be enough.”

  Leo’s fingers brushed against her jawline when they broke apart, and they eyed each other, careful. Win didn’t know what her face looked like. It felt hot.

  She asked for the boat to move on to the secluded cove, where they could have some genuine privacy. The moment the engines went off, she climbed up on the railing, looking at the blue below, leaving Leo’s shirt in a neat heap behind her. Then she dove.

  The water closed up over her as though she belonged to it, and for the first time that day, there was quiet. She took two long strokes through the dark and surfaced, shaking her head like a dog and preening, stroking her fingers through her damp hair, waiting for Leo to come lean over the side and laugh down at her, which he did.

  “Are you coming in?” she called up.

  “I’m right behind you,” Leo said.

  Chapter Five

  Leo wanted to take the jet across to the racecourse at Cagnes-sur-Mer, but Win vetoed it as unnecessary. She was feeling more sure of herself. The heat had broken last night and a heavy Mediterranean rain had fallen, blurring the bright lights of Saint-Tropez and bending palm trees gently backward under its weight. Win had listened to it drum against the French windows and mingle with the crash of the waves below. Leo slept through the entire storm dreaming, he told Win confidentially, that he was being chased through the woods around Lake Tahoe by a man with tiny hands and huge teeth. When they stepped out of La Réserve, he glanced around at the wet pavement and umbrella-laden paparazzi and said, “Oh, did it rain?”

  Marie eyed him incredulously.

  Win had woken up feeling cleansed, leaning out of her windows in the early morning and drinking in that electric-blue smell of damp paving stones, pearly sunlight, and the ocean. Their yacht trip yesterday had worked as intended. Shots of Win and Leo had done the rounds overnight, and in light of them Nathan looked like a bitter has-been, sulking because he’d lost out to Whitman Tagore’s one true love. (Win had once seen T-shirts circulating with a picture of herself and Leo on the front and the words TRUE LOVE WINS. She wasn’t sure what their love had supposedly won, besides the pun, but Leo bought twenty and spent the next six months shipping them to her one by one, wherever she was in the world, with a hastily scribbled note. Just in case you lost yours! said one, and another, For your next red carpet?? The last one came with a note that read I’m all out of jokes because Gum has been explaining his investment portfolio to me for 45 mins and I’m actively losing brain cells with every second. Come rescue me again soon. She’d thrown out the shirt immediately but kept the note, for a while.) Fan speculation was moving back to whether she and Leo were endgame, and this morning Marie had sent her a wink-face emoji with a forwarded tweet that read: She’s so much more real when she’s with Leo. He really humanizes her.

  They had rented a private box at the racecourse for the day, high up and secluded enough in the stands that they might not have been noticed, if Marie hadn’t already queued up a series of carefully scheduled tweets from various dummy accounts. Win stood at the front railing watching ripples go through the crowd. As people started to turn and point, she went back to her seat, where Leo was already reciting a complicated cocktail recipe to their waiter.

  Marie had two windows open on her laptop; one was Twitter, and the other a list of horses and their odds and best times. She had once told Win quite offhandedly that she would probably be a gambling addict if she had the time for it. It made a lot of sense. The only thing Marie liked more than a surefire win was a well-calculated risk.

  Emil appeared with an attendant by his side. Win touched Marie’s arm.

  “Care to place a bet, mesdames? Monsieur?”

  “Ah yes,” Marie said, still frowning at her screen. “Let me put fifty on Crown of Thorns.”

  “Adventurous,” Leo said, without looking up from his phone.

  Marie glanced at Leo with vague annoyance. “And the bald monsieur will put a grand on Jean Paul II.”

  Leo huffed an appreciative laugh and waved his hand at the attendant’s questioning look. “Sure, yeah, why not.” He flashed his teeth at Marie. “I’ll give you a cut when I win.”

  “So kind,” Marie said, and turned back to her laptop. She was already bitter at Leo today. She had been irritated by the early morning runs he insisted on taking out in the hills, where she couldn’t keep an eye on him. Then Leo refused to talk to the press, and declined one interview in particular that had been scheduled for tomorrow morning.

  Marie wanted him to pretend to be caught out, cornered on camera by a persistent (and scripted) host, who would ask questions about Win that Leo could palm off with wry, enigmatic answers. Win had already warned her not to bother. Leo hadn’t agreed to an interview in a long time. He didn’t like being questioned by strangers, and he was so used to people apparently knowing his business that he struggled to filter out things that were better left unsaid. He had cursed on daytime television, leaked the album titles of friends on the radio, and once, taken by surprise and quite high at Coachella, had appeared on a livestream weeping at the beauty of the sunset. The first time Win and Leo spoke after their fling in New York was a direct result of Leo’s disastrous interview technique. It was seven months after the Josip scandal, and she had been busy: her first Golden Globes nomination, a spate of exciting new roles. She had become used to exchanging only occasional texts with Leo, until he called her early one morning. Her heart felt a little unsteady, but she kept her voice cheerful and agreeable when she picked up.

  “Whitman,” Leo said. His voice was hoarse, like it had been scratched up by the satellites connecting them. “I need a favor.”

  Some months before, Leo had been asked to appear on a popular late-night talk show as part of their Father’s Day special, and agreed because he had nothing better to do. He’d then forgotten about it until the day before the interview, when his father found out and gave him a lecture about Leo’s “responsibility to the family brand.” Leo had gone out drinking with his brother and turned up to film the segment hungover and still furious. He told the presenter and a host of cameras, slouching in his chair and scowling, that it was hard to tell funny Father’s Day stories when your dad was such an asshole, and that any scraps he’d learned about being a good person were all from his mothers. His father took no interest in any of his children, Leo explained, running a dismissive hand through his hair; Leo was simply the only one who’d noticed.

  “Shit,” Win said.

  Leo swallowed; she heard the dry click of his throat over the phone. “Listen, it’s— Obviously my father will be furious, but it’s really going to upset my brother. Gum idolizes our dad. The producers are refusing to reshoot the segment, let alone pull it. They said that unless I can give them something more interesting, they’re airing it.”

  “You need a favor,” Win echoed.

  “I know this is so shit,” Leo said, “but I wondered if maybe I could give them something about us. If we could do the fake relationship again. Everyone ate it up, and I know it’s crazy, but maybe if we announced that we’d been dating secretly ever since or—or even, well, an engagement would probably work—”

  “Jesus,” Win said.

  “I know,” Leo said. He sounded miserable. “I didn’t want to ask, but I can’t think of anyone else who can help.”

  “Look.” She drew in a breath. “It’s not public yet, but I’m…I’m seeing someone, actually.”

  “Oh, hey,” Leo said, startled.

  “So I can’t really— I mean, it wouldn’t be fair to Dermott,” Win said. “And I think it would come out pretty soon, or it would look like I was cheating on you, or…”

  “Right, yeah,” Leo said, with a bright, false tone to his voice. “No, obviously that won’t work. Okay, well, forget I asked. Thanks anyway, Whitman. Tell Dermott I’m jea
lous of him.”

  He was obviously trying to be cheery, trying to let her escape without making her feel bad, and perhaps that was what made Win make her decision so suddenly. There was certainly no sensible reason for it, except that Leo needed her. Leo had helped her back in New York, even though there hadn’t been much in it for him. She could help him now.

  “Wait,” she said. “I could give them something else. You said it’s a Father’s Day special? I could talk about…my dad. My memories of him.”

  “Win,” Leo said. She felt it like a touch, low and gentle at the nape of her neck. She shook her head and plowed on.

  “People always want to talk about him and I haven’t seen any reason to before now. I didn’t want to be…” A sob story, she thought, but Leo didn’t need to hear that. She cleared her throat and moved on. “It’s not important, but I haven’t spoken much about him before. I know it’s not the same pull as a story about you and me, but do you think they’d take it as a replacement?”

  “I can’t ask you to do that,” Leo said.

  “You’re not asking,” Win said. “I’m offering.”

  The talk show accepted it. Win filmed a twenty-minute segment where the host asked her grave, probing questions, and Win forced her shoulders to relax and spoke about her dad. She told the host, and all the people watching later, about her dad’s quiet, happy life, about his small family and his teaching and the students who adored him. She told them how he had lifted Win onto his shoulders and whooped when she’d gotten the starring role in a theatrical adaptation of The Secret Garden, running in circles round the car park. She answered questions about his illness, his death. They talked about the funeral. She was impatient with the way her throat closed in on itself, the prickling spring of tears to her eyes, but she also knew how it looked. Her obvious emotion would make for excellent TV, and Leo would be safe.

  The segment clocked up millions of views on YouTube. It wasn’t bad press for Win, though it wasn’t the press she would have chosen. Her Golden Globes nomination had been complicated—a nod to her talent, which set her aside from the pack but also triggered a new wave of suspicion about her ambition, her ruthlessness. But in the TV interview, she came across as honest, authentic in her sentiment and her memories. She allowed herself to be an object of pity so others could coo over her bravery and hold their hands out in comfort as if they knew her. She won over a lot of new fans. Her mother had disapproved.

  She got a signed confirmation from the producers that Leo’s footage had been deleted, and she had it express mailed to him before she left the studio. She got his text before she went to bed: Thank you. Whatever you want, whenever you want it, I’m all yours.

  It still took her some time to realize he’d actually meant it.

  * * *

  By late afternoon the heat had returned, making their wineglasses sweat and the soles of Win’s wedges stick to her feet.

  Leo suggested they go to the balcony, for the breeze. Marie waved her hand no before Win could reply. Win knew she wanted to limit the amount of free shots they gave away, especially to the public, who could take pictures on their phones and have them online in seconds. There was no relief to be had.

  Between Marie’s incessant typing on her MacBook and Leo’s arm thrown loosely around her shoulders, Win felt dazed, as if she were floating over the crowd in a sheer, shimmering bubble, drifting through the clouds of dust beneath the hooves of the horses, and out over the open sea. The thrum of the crowd and the races began to echo and catch high up in her temple. When they finally returned to the cars, Emil had security clear the area of photographers so that Win wouldn’t have to smile for them under her sunglasses. She settled gratefully into the air-conditioned back seat.

  It was only when they pulled up to La Réserve that Win realized she’d fallen asleep with her head resting against the tinted window. Leo squeezed her shoulder, helping her out of the car, his face close and concerned for a flashing second. The sun seemed very bright. It was hard work not to tip against him.

  Coming through the gold-plated doors, Marie caught up with Win, Emil hurrying behind her.

  “Patrick called,” she said.

  “She needs to rest,” Leo said, commanding enough to make Emil jump, but Win cut over him.

  “No, I don’t. What did he say?”

  “Paramount wants to talk.”

  Win’s shoulders straightened; she pulled herself upright, ran a hand through her hair, and smiled at Emil, who was already offering up her phone. “I’ll need you with me.”

  “Of course,” Marie said.

  “Win,” Leo said, “why don’t we get dinner first?”

  “They’ve already been waiting for half an hour,” Marie said. Win let go of Leo’s hand with an apologetic shrug of her shoulders. He would forgive her. She had a cold brew brought up with them, which woke her up, though the coffee curdled in her stomach.

  The news from Paramount was positive. They had not given Patrick their word yet, but their people had started pulling the paperwork together. The majority of the discussion was between Patrick and two of Paramount’s lawyers, who were hammering out the terms of Win’s contract. By the end of the hour-long call, it was implied that they could expect an offer in a matter of days. Win knew she should be careful with her expectations, but she couldn’t help texting Shift a celebratory string of exclamation marks and will you hate me now I’m gonna be a Hemingway heroine??

  “The Spencer issue is unfortunate, of course,” the producer said as they were wrapping up.

  “We’re handling it,” Marie said. “Whitman’s name has been trending across Europe and the UK for the past four days continually, and in the US for at least a few hours every day. Nathan Spencer appears in less than 20 percent of the content. Maybe he hasn’t moved on, but Whitman has, and so has the rest of the world. With Leo, people can see what she’s really like.”

  “Yeah, Milanowski is a hit,” the producer said. “And we love to see you looking so glam. It’s always been my favorite side of you, Whitman. Kind of an exotic Sophia Loren.”

  “Thank you,” Win said, forcing herself not to bristle. “In the meantime, we’re expecting the whole Nathan thing to blow over in a few days.”

  “I’m glad to hear it,” he said. “I think we have a better view on your suitability for the role. Don’t let us down, now.”

  Once Paramount hung up, Patrick debriefed her on everything that was to come. The first rehearsals and shoots for The Sun Also Rises would start in mid-September, and were expected to carry on, with occasional breaks, for the following three months. Into those breaks she would have to fit the press tour for All Rivers Run and the Chanel campaign. Chanel wanted a few commercials plus photo shoots and making-of videos, Patrick explained; most of it could be done in one week in October, but she might have to fly back and forth between shoots for a while. Patrick had been in further talks with the director of the spy thriller, too, which he was excited about. He was, however, pessimistic about her chances of making it to Shift’s wedding. He said he would see what he could do.

  They were finally done by ten thirty. The dreamy, heat-sick feeling of the day had faded into a bone-deep exhaustion and mild nausea, like a hangover. Win went straight to the balcony, throwing the windows open and stepping into the dark blue of the night. She wished she’d stolen another cigarette from Leo. She wished she’d reacted to the “exotic” comment. She wished getting what she wanted didn’t so often depend on keeping her mouth shut. Neither Patrick nor Marie had mentioned it in the debrief, and now Win felt tense with a frustration she couldn’t voice.

  The door of the suite opened behind her, and there was a murmur of voices and the sound of the door closing again as Marie left. Win breathed out, then jumped when someone rapped on the window behind her.

  Leo raised his eyebrows through the glass and held up a pizza box.

  “Oh, god,” Win said, almost collapsing into Leo as he stepped outside. “I could kiss you.”

&n
bsp; “You’re just in the habit of it,” Leo said, flipping open the box and offering it up to Win. She reached for it, but the smell of grease and melted cheese hit her first, and before she could help it, she shuddered, a roll of revulsion in her stomach.

  Leo frowned. “Are you sick?”

  “No,” Win said. She put a hand up against her forehead, and realized for the first time that she was damp with sweat. “I think it’s just sunstroke. Give me a second.”

  Leo set down the box and disappeared back inside. She could hear the low murmur of his voice on the phone, his words lost in the crash of waves below her. She checked her phone while she waited; Shift and Charlie had sent her a video of them setting off a dozen party poppers in their living room in excited reaction to the Paramount news. The streamers settled in Charlie’s golden curls.

  When Leo returned, Win asked, a little guiltily, “Can we smoke?”

  Leo laughed. “Yeah,” he said, and pulled his tobacco pouch out from his back pocket. Win watched him, idle and quiet, while he rolled the joint, his long fingers, his quick movements. He ignored her reaching hand when he finished, tucking the joint behind one ear. “I have something better, too.” He picked up the box with one hand and held the other out to her. “Come with me.”

  Win considered him. “I shouldn’t really smoke outside. And we’ll have to tell my security—”

  “It’s taken care of,” Leo said. “Come on.”

  He led her out of the suite and back into the elevator, but instead of heading down, they went up, and the doors opened onto the roof. It was even better than the balcony, with a salty breeze coming in from the coast. Beyond the loungers and folded parasols was a rooftop pool, larimar blue and glowing in the soft underwater lighting. The water rippled in the wind. Saint-Tropez looked almost cozy against the dark hillside, dressed up in dark velvet and sequins of orange light. It was reflected, a second city, on the inky surface of the sea.