Beneath a Starlet Sky by Amanda Goldberg

Author:Amanda Goldberg
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: St. Martin's Press

9

return to cannes-dy land

“Bonjour, Mademoiselle. How may I help you?” the concierge at the ultra chic Art Deco Hotel Martinez asks from his desk anchored within the large marble lobby. Julian and I arrived a couple of days ago. Of course, we had to stay at the Hotel Martinez on the Boulevard de La Croisette since all the fashion folk stay here, all the better to bump accidentally into the writers from Harper’s Bazaar, Elle, Style.com, etc., who might deign to mention Julian’s show in their Twitters or Facebook updates. Or, like Marcy Medina from WWD, tell us that she never received her invitation to the show, which could explain why we have no RSVPs. Chili mailed out the invitations weeks ago and he’s supposed to be calling everyone to follow up. But since he clearly can’t be trusted to do anything, I’ve been making more calls than a Tea Party robocaller to try and remedy yet another epic Chili screwup.

I gaze past the concierge and out onto the sparkling Mediterranean. Sure, we’re in the South of France, but don’t let the idyllic setting fool you into believing that this is a vacation spot for most of us. There’s not going to be any lounging on cushioned recliners Med-side with young bronzed French garçons offering up Bellinis and salad Nicoises. Not unless there’s a deal memo on the platter. This is the biggest twelve days of the year for international cinema.

If you thought Oscar Week was over the top, in Cannes there are no tops. Not even on the starlets running around outside on the white sand beach in front of the hotel. Think the Vanity Fair Oscar party—on a yacht—for twelve straight nights. And unlike the VF party, you don’t want to get there until 2:00 A.M. Every year umpteen thousand agents, managers, studio execs, publicists, producers, directors, and actors (and the hordes of international media who cover them) armed with iPhones, Ray-Bans, Missoni bathing suits, and plenty of attitude descend upon this upscale French Riviera city along with jet-set veterans, fashion icons, music moguls, and lookie-loos. They’re all here to discover, sign, screw, or become The Next Brad Pitt. And a three-picture deal would be nice. Of course the official reason why everyone’s here is for the films—whether you’re premiering one, promoting one, selling one, buying one, or you’re one of the lucky twenty flicks that’s in the competition, with a shot to win Cannes’s most coveted award, the Palme d’Or. Or, like me, staging a full-blown couture show on a yacht—in the middle of the Mediterranean. And hoping to use the worldwide press coverage off the costumes in one of the hottest movies of the festival with the hottest star in the world to launch a wedding dress line for a designer in desperate need of another big break.

I can’t believe what I’m about to ask the concierge. I force out the words. “Mademoiselle Fraser is checking in tomorrow, and I just wanted to confirm that you

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