Stars in Their Eyes

by Pema Donyo

  He tried to focus on the detail of the fence, etching its outline onto paper, as if that was what occupied his mind. Had she read the story yet? Iris was busy with her filming; the chances were slim. If she had read it, the chances were even slimmer that she’d liked it. He slashed across the page, forming the crisscross pattern in the center of the fence. Yet maybe she had. Maybe she was impressed by what he wrote.

  A clip of heels edged toward him. “Owen?”

  He looked up and his gaze locked with Iris’s. She wore a white shawl around an otherwise dark evening gown. The attire looked more fitting for a ball than a walk. Her hair brushed against her cheeks, flying at odd angles due to the wind. Her cheeks flushed pink from the chill. She was beautiful.

  “Hello,” he said.

  “Hello.”

  “I . . . I wanted to apologize for how I acted the other day. I wasn’t myself.”

  “It’s fine.” She closed the distance between them until she stood by his side. “I read your story.”

  “Oh, that old thing.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “What did you think?”

  She glanced farther down the avenue ahead of them, then back to him. She bit her lip. “Would you . . . would you want to walk with me?”

  “Right now? Well, sure."

  “Good. Let’s walk. I’ll tell you.”

  He folded his sketchpad and placed it under his arm. If a walk was what it took to hear a review, so be it. He stuffed the charcoals back into his pockets. They strolled alongside the Seine, listening to the gentle splash of the waves lapping against the walls.

  “It needs more work,” he said. “It’s a bit too simple. I could use another round of edits.”

  “It’s wonderful.”

  He couldn’t stop the slow smile spreading across his face. “Really?”

  “I loved the way you described each character’s determination. They felt like real people.”

  He could listen to her compliment his work all day. “I’m glad you liked it.”

  “There was one thing, though.”

  “What?”

  “The end. It was a little sad, don’t you think?”

  He kicked a stone ahead of him, sending the pebble skidding across the cobblestones. It bounced twice, then it stopped. “Not every story has a happy ending.”

  “But you’re the writer. This is your story.”

  “And it shapes itself. Fine. What would your ending be?”

  “One where they both get what they want.”

  “Not very realistic.”

  She wrinkled her nose. “The woman holds a shooting star at the end. How realistic is that?”

  He laughed.

  “Fine. Leave the poor man unhappy.”

  “That wasn’t what I intended. The characters do what they want.”

  “I think every person wants to be happy.”

  “No one knows what’s going to make them happy, though.”

  They rounded a bend in the road, leading away from the main avenue and into a narrow street. The river followed them, the wide expanse continuing into what seemed like an endless trail. When they turned the next corner, the river could no longer be seen. An intricate iron gate marked the end of the narrow alley. With both sides flung open, it guarded an arch that led the corridor toward a shopping district. The moonlight cast a bluish coat over the limestone buildings. On one side, signs hung from windowsills that marked galleries, bookstores, and music shops. The other side of the street held tailors, grocers, and attorney offices. It was like the two faced each other down every morning, trying to prove who was more necessary.

  “Enough about my make-believe,” he said. “How’s the filming going?”

  “Done at the end of the week.”

  His chest constricted. So, she would leave soon.

  “I’ll miss it, this city.” She waved toward the closed shops. “But I’m ready to go back.”

  Los Angeles. He could still remember those palm trees swaying slightly in the afternoon sun, still feel the dry heat that surrounded the city. It’d felt like a prison when he left. Right now, it felt like home.

  “Do you ever think about returning?”

  “Sometimes,” he said.

  “Would you?”

  She was full of questions tonight. It would be nice to see his house again. Maybe work for a newspaper while he tried to write. He suppressed a sigh. Christ, he was kidding himself. If he returned to Los Angeles, he wanted to be with her.

  He gazed through the shop windows, hoping she would change the topic. A few storefronts remained lit despite the hour, mainly from boutique galleries the owners lived above. These midnight galleries relied on the drunken purchases of tourists who stumbled through their doors. Most held cheap art, replicas, knockoffs that unwitting visitors believed were a bargain. Even if the stores were open, the majority looked abandoned. The hour was too early for the drunkards.

  A dead end marked the road ahead of them. One had to walk through a building that led to the other side of the street. The building consisted of a small corridor with a vaulted ceiling. Two chandeliers illuminated the otherwise dim passageway lined on both sides with rusted benches and tables topped with chairs. Imposing portraits of nobles glared at anyone who walked past. The other side partitioned stores by paint job: the first store, a bakery, was painted a stark white, and the second store, a gallery, was painted a flaming red.

  He peered inside the gallery. Iris stepped ahead of him, examining the room. The first floor was a massive studio. The gallery owner sat in a corner of the room behind a desk. The old man’s head rested over his folded arms on the desk, his whole body slumped in a leather armchair. He didn’t stir as they walked past him and toward the rows of paintings. The gallery displayed much of its art behind gilded frames. Low-hanging chandeliers illuminated the images, and shadows flickered against the walls. Yet several paintings stood propped up on wooden easels in the center of the room. Flattened objects stretched out in deformed proportions covered most of the canvases. Stools stood before several of them, like the artists had stepped away for only a moment.

  “I think we’re the only ones here,” she said.

  He followed her to the end of the gallery. Toward the back, rows of bookshelves held framed miniature portraits inside them. The back wall held an alcove, a rounded half-dome set inside the cherry wood walls. Against the wall, the owner had propped up a sofa covered in faded velvet. She slowed as she approached it.

  She looked at her clasped hands. “Was the woman in the story based on me?” Her voice was low.

  There it was. He ran a hand over his jaw. She was right, of course. Yet he still had some pride to hold on to. “Not sure what gave you that idea.”

  “Not me right now. Who I used to be. The version of me that you remember.”

  “I wouldn’t say you’ve changed too much.”

  “I could say the same for you.” Her smile was bitter. “Not much has changed at all, has it?”

  The scent of floral perfume filled his nostrils as she stepped closer. It was becoming harder to concentrate. Friends, they were only friends. He’d had his shot; she deserved someone better. But damn, how he wanted to kiss her.

  He tried to change the subject. “When do you leave?”

  “Next week.”

  So soon. If he faked bravery, maybe he would feel it. “That’s good. You’ll get more filming done. It’s better for your career.”

  “My career.” She sighed. “There’s quite a long way to go for me.”

  He missed the starry-eyed gaze that used to shine in her eyes whenever she talked about show business. She had all these grand plans for the types of films she would star in. He could imagine her on his front porch once more, waving her hands with flourish as she acted out a scene in a recent movie. The Iris who stood before him might laugh at the girl he remembered. Yet she had completed more movies than he could recall. Every time he saw her on another poster or screen, a sense of pride filled him.

  �
��There’s not much else I can do. Last year I auditioned for a role for an Asian lead, and it went to an Austrian actress.”

  “That doesn’t make any sense.”

  “But it’s the business.”

  He couldn’t stand to see her look so upset. “When you go home, at least you’ll see your family again.”

  “And you’ll be here.”

  His heart raced. “I’ll still be here if you return.”

  Paris may not have provided all the opportunities it had promised, but it was where all his contacts lived. Outside of Paris, no one knew him in the publishing world. She would leave, and he would stay. He had been given a taste of time with Iris, and it would leave him all the worse for it once she went back to America. She had existed as a series of fond memories before, almost his own creation. But given the last few days, she had become as real as anyone around him. The idea of saying good-bye made his stomach tighten.

  For the briefest moment, he allowed himself the pleasure of imagining what would happen if she stayed. There was enough room in his flat for both of them. They could attend Gertrude’s parties and make fun of his friends. He would introduce Iris to his favorite spots in the city. The vision grew hazier after that. His imagination deflated. She wouldn’t be satisfied in Paris, not when so much of her life was in California. Not every story could have a happy ending.

  “I don’t know if I will,” she said. “Six months away was too long. My family misses me.”

  “Of course.” He forced a hardened edge to his voice. “You should be back home.”

  “Then we might never see each other again.”

  “We will.” The words rolled off his tongue before he could consider them. He didn’t know if he believed them, but they might reassure her.

  She took a deep breath. “I still think about that night.”

  He froze. She had to be talking about the night he mentioned Paris. He could stop her before she brought it up. It would save him from reliving any more heartache.

  “It wasn’t perfect, you know,” she said. “I didn’t like the looks people gave us or the way your father talked to me. Then you brought up Paris, and I was scared. If I held on to you, I would be holding on to a fantasy. I didn’t want to commit to something so far away. I thought you wouldn’t come back.”

  In the weeks afterward, all the time he used to spend with her suddenly became vacant. She had said they would stay friends and yet never reached out to him. That was when he had missed her the most. And what had he done to distract himself? Bought a ticket on a steamer headed straight for Europe. It was an impulsive decision. By the time the weight of missing her hit him in full force, he found his feet planted on French soil. Even when he wanted to make it up to her, he was an ocean away.

  “We were both to blame,” he said.

  “Don’t say that.” She paused. “I used to think about life in Paris, sometimes.”

  Her words stung. It was almost easier to imagine that she grew tired of him or wanted more independence and drifted away. Nothing was worse than imagining what could have been and knowing that she envisioned it too. Which of them regretted that night more?

  “Do you ever think . . . if I had joined you, we might still be together?”

  He hesitated. “We might have.”

  “So I ruined it.”

  “No, no. You didn’t ruin anything.”

  “Then why do I feel like I did?”

  “You didn’t. It was a long time ago.”

  “What would you do if you were in my position?”

  “I would go back home.”

  “But what do you want?” She looked up with wide eyes. “Would you like me to stay?”

  She reached forward and interlocked her fingers with his. Their palms pressed together. The shock of her smooth skin on his felt foreign, almost surreal. He searched her expression for an explanation. It had been a long time since they’d last held hands. They fit well together; they always had.

  He wanted to leap with joy. There was a chance for him even among the Pierres of the world. The warmth of her touch spread through his arms and filled his chest. He brought her toward him and wrapped his arms tightly around her. Could she hear how fast his heart was beating? How he’d missed this. Her soft skin pressed against his made his heart race. He inhaled the flowery scent of her hair as he buried his nose into it.

  He could ask her to stay. Yet regardless of how he felt, he couldn’t forgive himself if she made a decision because of him. If he asked her to remain in Paris, he’d be holding her back. Hollywood deserved to know her. The world deserved to know her.

  She pulled away. “It’s too late.”

  “We still have time.” It was limited, but she hadn’t left yet. He would take what he could get.

  “Days. That’s hardly anything.”

  “It’s enough.”

  It dawned on him that the night might be one of the last times he ever saw her, independent of a screen or poster. He tried to memorize her image. She looked so fine standing before him in the alcove, staring at him beneath her full lashes.

  His kiss was soft at first, then more insistent. His hands settled over her hips, pulling her close as he deepened the kiss. She leaned into it and his shoulders relaxed. The gallery faded away as their focus narrowed on each other. He would deal with the future later. In that moment, he wanted to stay with her for as long as he could.

  He drew away. “Would you like to go somewhere else?”

  “Yes,” she said.

  They walked out of the gallery, her steps quicker to match his pace. After a while, the streets and buildings looked unfamiliar. Sweat gathered at the base of her palms. They were headed back to his apartment; they had to be. A knot formed in her stomach, but she kept her strides in time with his. She wanted this. She wanted him.

  When he closed the door behind them and kissed her once more, she gave in. They’d wasted enough time already. Her body molded against his as they stumbled toward his bedroom between frantic kisses. She unbuttoned his shirt in seconds while he peeled off the straps of her gown.

  Chapter Six

  Iris stretched her arms out over the sheets. The haze of sleep covered her brain in a fog as her eyelids flickered open. Sunlight streamed through a small window above her, casting diagonal rays of light on the blankets.

  She opened her eyes fully as the sleepiness subsided. The brightness betrayed the late hour. Yet the room had poor lighting, which fell on a certain space of his bed and left the rest of the room dim. Paintings covered most of the walls, though some hung at odd angles and a few looked like simple sketches someone might have doodled on a napkin. No other furniture stood in the bedroom, aside from an oak wardrobe with a simple door. The bed she slept on was smaller than the one in her hotel. The box springs on the mattress poked into her back. Then again, a comfortable sleep hadn’t been her primary concern.

  It was tempting to stay here, to quit struggling. All dreams of being a leading actress seemed far away as she lay in the bed. Her goals were ten-foot walls to scale barehanded, while the alternative was sleeping in. Yet how many others gave up their dreams in laziness?

  Iris’s stomach rumbled, interrupting the reverie. She had a lunch meeting with Pierre to discuss the final scene. She could pretend to still be ill. But that wouldn’t do. Filming was scheduled for the next day, and she couldn’t miss it. Another lunch with him was fine.

  Furious tapping rapped against a typewriter. The noise drifted from the living room. She walked to the doorway and leaned against it. To the far side of the parlor, a desk stood against a window. It blocked a significant portion of light from entering the room and yet focused brilliant sunshine onto the desk’s surface. Owen sat hunched over behind it.

  She loved watching him work. Each key made a punching sound as he pressed it, striking the ribbon to place words on the page. When he neared the finish of a line, a small bell chimed and he pushed the return lever into position for the new row of text. His fingers worked wi
th a steady rhythm. He never paused to take a break but never allowed his hands to fly over the keys either.

  She placed a hand on his shoulder. He finished the sentence before taking her hand and kissing the top of it. It was as if they had stepped back in time for a morning. How long would it last?

  “Good morning,” he said.

  “Mmm, yes, it is,” she replied. “What are you writing?”

  He turned to look at the paper, as if surprised it was there. “Not sure yet. Just an introduction for now. I wanted to bang something out.”

  “If you ever need a reader, I’m willing.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  He stood up from his hard-backed chair and kissed her forehead. The sweetness of it caught her off guard. She wrinkled her nose. He wrinkled his own in response, and she laughed. She pecked a kiss on his cheek, and he made a contented sound from the back of his throat. Somewhere, in the back of her mind, she recognized it.

  “How did you sleep?”

  “Terribly. Someone kept waking me up. I don’t know who it was.”

  “I don’t remember you complaining.”

  “I’m not. Being woken up was quite enjoyable, I’d say.”

  His smile reached his eyes. It made her feel light.

  “And what would you like to do today?”

  “I’m supposed to meet Pierre for lunch.” As soon as the words left her mouth, she wanted to take them back.

  His shoulders stiffened.

  “We have a meeting. He wants to talk about business.” The words didn’t even sound innocent to her. Oh, why had she brought it up? She could have left without telling him where she was going.

  “All right.”

  “It’s only lunch.” The room felt cold. She wished for her shawl again.

  A lump formed in her throat. She wanted to stay in Owen’s flat and allow him to kiss her as much he wanted. She wanted to sit on his sofa and catch up on all the years they had missed. But she didn’t live in a bubble. No one could have everything they wanted. Declining the lunch risked offending Pierre. And offending him risked losing any connections or roles he could offer her.