by Stacy Travis
“Sounds like nice work if you can get it. Right?” I asked.
He looked at me quizzically, like he was evaluating whether it was a trick question. Maybe it was inappropriate to ask. Maybe he was in the CIA, and I just hadn’t picked up on the signs. I studied his face again. He’d taken off his sunglasses, and I noticed he had long lashes shielding the brown-grey almost protectively.
But there was no hiding the fire in those eyes. The color was mesmerizing, so much so that I had to force myself to look away. I knew my eyes weren’t mesmerizing. They couldn’t be more ordinary and pale brown. Until that moment, I’d never thought of eye color as an asset. For him, it definitely was.
“I mean, yeah. It’s all good. Of course, not all the travel takes me to Europe. Depends on the project. The next one shoots in Georgia, which doesn’t thrill me only because it’ll still be hot as hell, but most of the work’ll be done on a set,” he said like it was an addendum to a conversation we’d already had.
My brain was churning through the new information. Shooting, sets… He clearly worked in entertainment. As he continued to talk, I started to get the feeling I should know who he was. Director, model, actor… living in LA had made everyone with good looks seem similar to me, and I’d long since stopped wondering if someone was in the entertainment business, because so many of them were or wanted to be. It didn’t impress me one way or the other.
I started to sweat as I realized Chris was still talking, answering a question I couldn’t remember asking. “But I’ve been lucky. France… it’s kind of become a home away from home for me over the past few years. I actually bought a little place here.”
I stole a glance down the row of other tables. Maybe it was my imagination, but I thought I saw a couple of people trying to furtively get a look at him as if even here, away from the American film industry, people might know who he was, which made me realize I’d better figure it out pretty damn quickly.
“So how did you get into it? What made you go into the field?” I asked, being as vaguely specific as I could. I knew that if he really did have some kind of notoriety, people probably asked him this all the time, and he might not want to talk about it.
But he leaned back and took a sip of his wine, seemingly unbothered. “Drama class. When I was eight. I went to this Catholic school, and we did this winter sing every year at school, and one year, the teacher needed a few kids to act out little parts with lines. I got picked, and I was terrified. But my mom forced me to do it. ‘You don’t say no to the nuns.’ So I did it, and it was really fun. So I signed up for the play the next year and every year after that.”
So he was an actor. Of course, he’d assume I knew that. Actors had big egos. I felt a little dumb for not recognizing him, but I wasn’t a big moviegoer, and there were a lot of actors out there. Half of them didn’t really do much acting other than going to auditions and booking tiny television roles or commercials. I had no idea where he fell on the spectrum. Plus, we were nowhere near LA, where actors were a dime a dozen. I needed context clues if I was expected to draw the right conclusions.
“That’s a great story. I wish I’d known what I wanted to do when I was eight. I’m not sure I know now.”
I told him about my job at the public-relations firm and how I’d had to write press releases on a daily basis for companies that wanted to gin up news stories about things that didn’t always seem like big news. “I had to learn what news reporters were looking for. It’s not enough to write a press release saying, ‘Gap has a new line of jeans.’ Saying something’s new isn’t a story, at least not for a big news outlet. Reporters don’t want to work that hard to figure out how to turn my press release into a story. If I can do that for them, I have a better chance of them running a news piece.” I realized I’d been going on and on. “Is this boring?”
“Not at all. Tell me more. What would you do to sell a story on jeans?”
“Well, it’s about making the jeans part of a larger trend—like teenagers bringing back the preppy look. Or about a company making a big financial bet on these jeans to turn things around after a mistake.”
“So you’re giving the reporter the headline and then making sure the company you work for gets a good mention in the story.”
“Exactly.”
“Smart,” he said. “Sounds like you’re good at your job.”
The waiter returned and poured the last from our bottle of wine. I couldn’t believe we’d almost finished the bottle. I barely felt its effects. He lingered a moment longer, asking Chris a couple of questions. Chris shook his head in answer to each one and gave a polite, “Non, merci.” Then finally, he said “Oui, d’accord.”
The waiter seemed elated and practically skipped away. Chris didn’t explain, but he seemed a little perturbed.
“Everything okay?” I asked.
“Oh, yeah. It’s fine. He was saying the wine is on the house, but he wants me to take a photo with him before I leave.”
“Do you not like the whole photo thing?” I was starting to realize this guy might be a bigger celebrity than I’d realized. Not too many people got their checks comped in exchange for a photo. I was desperate to pull out my phone and do a Google search to figure it out, but I wouldn’t even know where to begin. Actors named Chris would yield a few too many results to casually page through under the table.
“I’m fine with the photo—it’s not that. I just feel like I should pay for my own wine.”
“Well, if it makes you feel better, some religions believe that taking a photo steals your soul, so if you think about it that way, you’re paying a lot more than the price of the wine.”
He laughed. “That’s the best thing I’ve heard in a year. Okay, well, let’s enjoy it, then, because it sounds like I’ve made a deal with the devil.”
“Only according to certain religions. You’ll have to ask the nuns how they feel about it.”
He picked up his glass, clinked it against mine, and took a healthy sip. I could barely focus on anything except the urgent need to find out his last name. If I’d been back at home, I’d never have accepted a dinner invitation from someone without knowing his full name. Then again, maybe that was part of my problem. I was trying on something new, going with the flow. Right now, it didn’t seem to fit too well.
The discomfort wasn’t going to go away until I solved the puzzle of who was sitting across from me. I couldn’t come out and ask. And if he wasn’t going to pull out a credit card, I couldn’t casually glance down at his name.
“So what’s the name of your next project?” I asked casually, like I was just making conversation. Bad conversation. But at least knowing that would allow me to hunt down his identity once and for all so I’d feel like I was on even footing.
“It’s the next White Serpent. Part four.”
“Cool. Well, I guess you’ve got the part down by the fourth one, right? That’s gotta be nice,” I said, my voice sounding about an octave higher than usual. I was already getting up from the table because I’d heard of White Serpent. It was a multi-billion dollar franchise. On the scale of my moronic questions, asking about his next film had ranked right up there. “Sit tight a sec. I’m gonna run to the restroom.”
“It’s downstairs,” he said, pointing.
Of course he knew where it was. He’d been here before. If my hunch was correct, he was a huge actor and probably went jet-setting all over the world, making movies and having dinner at fancy restaurants. I hadn’t seen any of the White Serpent movies, but I’d seen the billboards. Everywhere.
On my way downstairs, I was looking up the movie on my phone to double-check that the guy who’d been nonchalantly sitting across from me for the past hour and a half was the guy behind the mask on those billboards. There’d been signs—him wanting to sit facing inward, away from potential gawkers, and just the fact that he was so comfortable with himself, worldly, like he’d been at a hundred restaurants in a hundred fabulous cities. Or maybe he was just pretending to be th
at way because he was an actor and was playing the role of pleasant companion.
But confusion aside, I’d liked him so far, and I was looking forward to checking out whatever no-reservations dinner place he had in mind. Nothing about him seemed arrogant or pretentious, and nothing needed to change if he was an actor, especially since I wasn’t particularly worshipful of celebrities. I’d never seen him act, so I couldn’t pretend to be a fangirl.
He’d have to take me as I was—clueless.
I pulled up Annie’s number, knowing full well she was probably in the middle of a business lunch. She’d just have to deal with it, because I had a feeling my text was something she’d want to see: I think I’m about to have dinner with Chris Conley.
Chapter Ten
La Toilette à la Fontaine de Mars
The FaceTime on my phone rang immediately. “What?” she said. In the background, I could see a conference room full of people she was clearly leaving in the lurch in order to talk to me.
Wedged into the tiniest bathroom I’d ever seen, I held up the phone close to my face because there wasn’t room to extend my arm. There was only one square tile where I could stand without leaning on the toilet or injuring myself on the sink.
“He’s sitting at a table, waiting for me to come back. I just wanted to tell you because I know you’re into that stuff.”
“Hang on. I’m still processing that you’re not messing with me. What do you mean, you’re having dinner with Chris Conley?”
I told her the whole story about forgetting to weigh the peaches and running out of the store and looking up to find a guy named Chris who’d taken pity on me. And then I’d agreed to have dinner and our waiter wanted a selfie and I put two and two together, eventually. It sounded unbelievable as I said it.
“I can’t believe you don’t know what Chris Conley looks like. Haven’t you seen his movies?”
“You know I haven’t.”
“Right. You only go to art-house movies, where you sob for three hours because of the beautiful tracking shot or the beautiful lighting.”
“Ha ha. Superhero stuff just isn’t my thing. It just seems kind of stupid to me,” I said.
“Um, I wouldn’t tell him that.”
I couldn’t search the internet while I was on the phone, but I knew that Annie was way ahead of me. I could hear her tapping away on her laptop. “Okay, this is what I could find.” She started reading, “‘Chris Conley just wrapped sci-fi thriller Last Moment Before Death, which was shot on location in Ireland and France.’ So I guess you’re the beneficiary of his time in France. I could kill you right now.”
“Don’t do that. It’s one dinner, one night. He leaves tomorrow for whatever he’s doing next.”
“Is he amazing, though? Seriously, those eyes are just crazy gorgeous.”
Yes, we had consensus on that. But I was also controlled by my pragmatic ruling planet. This was one dinner. I saw it for what it was and couldn’t get too worked up about Chris, actor or not. He’d be gone in a matter of hours.
“He’s… he’s quite pretty to look at.” I felt like I was talking about a painting.
“Nothing wrong with looking. Or… what happens in Paris…”
“Oh, please. It’s just dinner.”
“Doesn’t have to be,” she said in a sing-song voice. “I mean, you’re on vacation, he’s only there one night? Kind of the definition of a one-night stand.”
“Stop it. This is me. I’m not having a one-night stand. I’ve never done that.”
“Again, the very reason to have a one night stand… And don’t hate me, but I’ve got a conference call with Japan in five minutes, and I’ve gotta prepare. Can I call you later?”
“Oh, of course. So sorry I disrupted your meeting. I was just… I had to tell you.”
“Damn straight, you had to tell me. Live your best life. Love you.” And she was gone.
I knew I’d better get out of the bathroom before Chris started to think I’d come down with some intestinal virus, but I still had to satisfy one lingering question. Fortunately, there was Wi-Fi in this basement bathroom, so I was able to pull up the People magazine story I’d read on the plane. It took a few seconds to load, but sure enough, my eyes seized on the detail I’d remembered and forgotten in equal measure—the actor in the story mentioned that his new villa was much closer to Spain, where his mother’s side of the family still had relatives.
Chris had mentioned his mother and Spain just a half hour earlier, and somehow, my brain had only vaguely connected the dots. I could continue to blame jet lag, but I needed to up my game right now.
I needed all brain cells firing if I had any hope of making it through dinner with a superhero.
Chapter Eleven
A Bridge in Paris
Later
When I got back to the table, I saw that Chris was posing for a photo with the waiter and a man who I presumed was the restaurant owner. They were smiling and taking selfies, but when I got close enough, the phone was handed to me so they could back up for proper photos, all three men smiling. The two Frenchmen thanked Chris profusely and kissed him on both cheeks. They shook my hand and kissed me as well, then fanned the commotion they’d created by escorting us past the onlookers and out the back door of the restaurant.
“Thanks for going along with that,” Chris said when we’d rounded the corner onto a quiet street.
“No problem. Does that happen a lot?”
He grimaced. “Sort of. Not so much here though, which is why I like it.” He grabbed my hand and pulled me through a crowded pedestrian area toward a quieter street where we could walk without bumping into other humans. He let my hand go and I felt a small twinge of disappointment.
The sun had dropped, but there was still plenty of daylight left at nine in the evening.
“So this restaurant you have in mind, can we get to it by way of the river?”
“Sure. You want to catch the sunset?”
I nodded. “It was pretty last night, but with the high clouds right now, I bet it’ll be even better.”
“Perfect. A couple of the places I thought about checking out for dinner are on the other side, so we can watch the sunset from one of the bridges and then head across and pick out a place.”
“Works for me,” I said. I couldn’t help comparing him to Johnny, who was my most recent frame of reference for how a guy should act. Chris acted like a grown-up. That wasn’t to say he was dull, but as I reflected on Johnny, I fixed on his desperation to be happy and fun-loving all the time. I wondered if Johnny really was as carefree as he seemed. Maybe he had demons he’d never shared with me. Maybe he didn’t even know he had them. With a little distance from the relationship, I saw more clearly that I’d been chasing something Johnny represented: freedom from myself, freedom from my planning. Then I realized how wrong it was to be thinking about Johnny at all when I was standing next to another guy.
“Where’d you just go?” Chris asked, looking at me instead of the sun setting over the water. We’d been standing there for a few minutes in silence.
“Sorry. Lost in thought,” I said.
Stop doing that. Be in the present.
“You did that earlier. Outside the grocery store.”
“Yeah. I was just working some stuff out in my head, and sometimes I forget that I’m doing that in front of another person.”
“Everything okay?” He looked concerned. It was sweet. He didn’t know me at all, yet from the first words he said to me, I’d felt like he was looking out for me like a family friend, someone he’d grown up with and thought of as a sister.
“Yes. All good. Sorry.”
We looked out at the sun, which was just dipping into the horizon, and I thought about how many times I’d seen this same sun hit the horizon in California. It felt different here but I couldn’t articulate why.
“Where do you actually live when you’re not on location filming?” I asked. I realized I knew nothing about him despite Annie’s quic
k download of information in the bathroom.
“New York. You?”
“LA.”
“Ah, been there. Many times. Never caught the bug.”
“Which bug is that?” I asked.
“The beach, the surfing, the whole Hollywood thing.”
“But you are the Hollywood thing, aren’t you?”
“Not if I can help it.”
He’d taken out his cell phone just as the sun hit the halfway point and sat in a half circle on the horizon line. He snapped a photo. “The light’s perfect right now. You want a picture?”
That embarrassed me. I started to protest because I didn’t want him to think I was like the waiter and the other gaping fans who just wanted a selfie with a movie star. Then I realized he was offering to take a picture of just me with the river behind me and the sun on my face.
“Oh, okay. Sure,” I said, handing him my phone. He moved around to different angles and I felt suddenly self-conscious, having never mastered the art of looking social media cool in photos.
“I’ve spent a lot of time around directors. I know good lighting when I see it.” He backed away and held the phone up. “You have really beautiful features, do you know that? High cheekbones… your face is like a porcelain doll.” He said the words like he was admiring a piece of art.
“Thank you.” The compliment made me uncomfortable because I felt his eyes on me, so I quickly changed the subject. “Want me to snap one of you?”
I took his phone, and we switched spots. Just as I snapped the photo, a Frenchman in grey slacks and a white button-up short-sleeved shirt asked us, in accented English, “You’d like me to take one of you together?”
Adding to the awkwardness of posing in front of someone who knew camera angles and lighting, now we were being mistaken for a couple. I felt like I needed to explain the error to the kind Frenchman so Chris would know that I knew we were not a couple.
I started to protest. “Oh, thank you. But no, it’s okay.” It didn’t matter what I thought. The man was swept up in the kindness of his gesture, and before I knew it, he was taking my phone, and I was standing next to Chris on the bridge, with the perfect pink evening light on our faces and the Seine and its boats behind us.
