The View Was Exhausting

by Mikaella Clements

  Leo groaned. “She’s going to dress me up in leather, I know it.”

  “You can say no, if you want to,” Win reminded him.

  “To you I can,” Leo said. “But Anya will not be refused. And my mums would never forgive me.”

  “Done deal, then,” Win said, and forwarded Anya’s phone number to Marie. Leo would get over it by tomorrow. For all his grumbling, he liked photo shoots. They appealed to his love of showing off. She watched him lean back on her bed with almost absentminded interest, the way his T-shirt rode up and bared a dark trail of hair over his stomach.

  “So you’ve been raising hell in LA? It didn’t come up in Marie’s Google alerts.”

  “Oh no,” Leo said. “I was just in California for a few months.”

  “That’s longer than you usually stay anywhere.” She handed him a glass. “What was it, the art? The company?”

  “What? No,” Leo said. He frowned. “Oh, the art, sure.”

  “Leo,” Win said. She stifled a giggle. Toward the end of brunch Anya had ordered them a round of Bloody Marys, the effects of which were still setting in. “Why are you being so—”

  Her phone started ringing.

  “Oh,” she said, looking at the screen. “It’s Patrick.”

  When she picked up, Leo sighed and flopped backward on the bed, narrowly avoiding spilling his mimosa all over it. “I don’t care for Patrick,” he said.

  “Hello,” Win said, ignoring him. “Shit, did Paramount see Spencer’s breakdown?”

  “No, no, it’s the opposite. I just got word from their people. They’re sending me their offer as we speak.”

  “Patrick,” Win exclaimed, falling back onto her armchair. “That’s incredible.” She glanced over at the bed. Leo had put his glass on her bedside table and curled on his side, eyes closed. She wondered if he was actually asleep or just trying to give her the illusion of privacy. It was sweet but unnecessary: Win was used to having all of her conversations with an audience of at least two people.

  “I’ll read over the summary this afternoon, but it looks like they’re going to meet your quote,” Patrick said. “They suggested we all talk at eight a.m. Pacific—that’s five p.m. in France.”

  He hung up without much fanfare. Patrick was averse to premature celebrations. It would be months before they’d know if their instincts had paid off. The Sun Also Rises might turn out to be a flop. Win didn’t think so, though.

  She set her phone and her drink down, rubbing her hands across her face. It had worked. Everything was working.

  “God,” she said.

  Leo hadn’t stirred. He’d kicked his shoes off without her noticing, but aside from that he was fully dressed. His chest was rising and falling evenly, and his head was tucked in, chin curling downward.

  Win felt like she was cradling the good news in her hands, a warm ball of light. She felt validated for the first time since the breakup. It was proof that every accusation Nathan Spencer had leveled at her in front of a host of delighted cameras—control freak, workaholic, narcissist—had been worth it. It was worth being called all of those things, if she got to feel triumph like this. She had a sudden impulse to call Nathan up and tell him. But Leo was right in front of her. He had never needed convincing.

  She lay down on the bed next to him, with a good gap of space between them. The dip of the mattress made Leo’s eyes squint open.

  “Everything okay?” he murmured.

  “Good,” she said. “Really good.”

  “Mmm.” Leo sighed, eyes closing again, and Win thought he was asleep until he said, “I wish we had known each other as kids. I was lonely sometimes. It would have been good to have you.”

  Win didn’t respond, and Leo drifted off again. She’d rest for a little while, let the mimosas wear off, take a shower and prep for the call. The room was filled with a sultry afternoon heat, and the familiar sound of Leo’s breathing. Win closed her eyes.

  It was sweet that he meant it, that he thought the connection between them would have snapped as taut and immediate as ever. That if they’d met at sixteen when Leo was a rich white boy at a Swiss boarding school and Win was a British Asian girl from the suburbs of London with one weirdo friend and a dead dad, they would still have recognized one another as allies, as partners.

  It was a nice image, but it was so divorced from the reality of their lives and the differences between them that it made Win wonder what else about her he’d resolved into such a nice, tidy image. Leo saw their lives so simply, he understood his own privilege so simply. He saw racism or money or power as monsters that you only had to name in order to banish, and once you had, your core remained unaffected, your heart still true. He saw their backgrounds as backdrops they could walk away from, rather than stakes in the ground that they had grown up around, that twisted them into the shapes they were today.

  Talking to Leo was sometimes like shouting over a giant gulf that gaped between them that Leo thought was just a crack in the pavement. He thought he could lean forward and offer his hand and guide Win lightly across. But Win wasn’t even sure she wanted to be on the other side.

  The dry, awful taste in her mouth woke her up, and she opened her eyes, closed them again, opened them, squinting, each movement painful and sluggish. Her eyelashes felt heavy with grit, her eyelids glazed with sleep.

  Leo lay closer, turned toward her now. He’d gotten slightly sunburned, the bridge of his nose pink. Win stared at him, too tired to move her head, sure that she shouldn’t close her eyes again. They’d curled in close, though they weren’t touching, their knees brought up, their bodies forming a loose horseshoe.

  Everything felt golden and preserved, like they’d been dipped in amber while they slept. It would be easy to forget the time or day or year, easier still to roll over and move into the circle of Leo’s arms, let him throw his leg over her hip and pull her in close. They’d shared a bed before: when they were in the same suite, dozing off in front of bad Mafia movies and Elvis films, waking up to a blue screen and a busy schedule; or staying at a holiday villa with a bunch of other industry people, where they lay awake analyzing everyone else in whispers that got meaner and funnier as the night went on. And, of course, that first week in New York, poured on top of each other, her nose stuck in his armpit, or his cheek against her stomach, working themselves into new shapes and molds so that even the moment of reaching when they woke up could be avoided.

  There was a quiet knock at the door, and then another, accompanied by Emil calling, “Whitman?”

  “Mrgh,” Leo said. “Whassit.”

  Win gave a huge, bone-cracking yawn. She could feel a headache threatening, looming like humidity.

  Leo blinked open his eyes. “We fell asleep,” he said, sounding confused.

  Win ignored him. She pushed up onto her elbows.

  “Whitman, it’s five o’clock,” Emil said through the door.

  “Shit.” Win touched her hand, very lightly, to her forehead.

  “Come back,” Leo said. He stretched out an arm. She looked down at him, the light muscle along his upper arm, the soft drape of his shirt over his chest. She thought about falling back onto him and turning her face into the line of his throat. His eyes were half-closed like a snake’s. He mumbled, “I need to talk to you.”

  “Shit, I’m late,” Win said. Her brain had started to catch up with her now. She said again, louder this time, “I’m late. Emil, I’ll be out in two seconds. Can you tell Patrick I’m almost there?”

  “On it,” Emil called back.

  Win half crawled off the bed and stopped, when Leo took hold of her arm. He’d closed his eyes as though he’d fallen back to sleep, but his grip on her wrist was firm and sure.

  “What,” Win said.

  “What,” he repeated, opening his eyes properly and frowning up at her. He shook his head and let go of her wrist. “Sorry. I wanted to— I need to tell you something.”

  “I need to take this call,” Win said.

  L
eo had pulled himself up now and was leaning toward her. There was something incongruous in his expression.

  “Meet me for dinner after, then.”

  Win shook her head. “I’ll probably be busy until late. I got that role we wanted.”

  “That’s…” Leo rubbed at his forehead. They were both hungover. “That’s great, Win, I’m really happy for you. Can you meet me when you’re done? We could grab drinks somewhere.”

  “We’re not going out today,” Win reminded him. “We can talk tomorrow, we’ll both be at the photo shoot all day.”

  “But so will everyone else,” Leo said.

  “Whitman,” Emil called again.

  Win stared at Leo a moment longer, then went and opened the door.

  Chapter Seven

  Hey!” Shift said when she answered Win’s call the next morning. “This is a surprise. I thought you were wrapped up in L’Opera Leonardo.”

  Win was in the bathroom of a new hotel room, sitting in the wide green-tiled window seat above an enormous freestanding tub with high sloping porcelain sides. There were flowers everywhere, the air heavy with heat and the cloying scent of peonies.

  “It’s the intermission,” she said. “I thought I’d check in on the wedding planning.”

  “God,” Shift said. “Don’t.”

  “What,” Win said, as a flicker of hope sprang unbidden into her chest. “Is it a disaster? You could always postpone.”

  “No, it’s actually going quite well,” Shift said. “Charlie’s already booked a venue, this fuckin’ beautiful greenhouse, and my mum’s visiting. We went out dress shopping. Win, I’m enjoying myself.”

  Win laughed. It was hard to imagine Shift in a wedding dress, though she’d worn one once, when they were seventeen and she’d dressed up as Miss Havisham for a Halloween party; filthy white from a charity store, combined with bright pink hair and combat boots. Win had gone as the messenger from Romeo and Juliet who died halfway to Mantua. They’d left the party early, taken a bottle of Sprite mixed with vodka onto the night bus, and rolled around and around the city, planning their magnificent futures.

  She pushed open her shuttered windows to let in more fresh air. Their new hotel was near deserted, an old palace made into a secret luxury resort. They had closed the deal with Paramount. A photo shoot today, the Chavanne yacht party tonight, and soon the summer would be over and she could get back to her real work. Win ran her hand over the back of her neck, catching sight of herself in the mirror. There were bags under her eyes for the makeup artists to cover, and her hair lay limp. The woman reflected looked troubled, unconvinced.

  “If I start calling you to worry about flower arrangements, I need you to come out here and kidnap me,” Shift said. “Take me to a show. Take me to a rave.”

  “I promise,” Win said. “But you’re not worrying, are you?”

  “No,” Shift said, and sighed. “It’s really nice. I’m happy. I’m just embarrassed. You’re going to be there, right?”

  “I think so,” Win lied. There was no point having a fight about it until she knew for sure. “You’ll know when I know.”

  “I hope I already know,” Shift said, but she didn’t linger on it. “How’s the fame monster?”

  “The monster and I are both doing well,” Win said, gaze drawn out the window. The sea was so blue, with patches of darker depths out beyond the break of the waves. She let out a quick breath.

  “What is it?” Shift said, with a sudden thread of concern. “Has something happened? I saw that Nathan was an asshole again, but you guys looked like you had it in hand—”

  “Oh, we do,” Win said.

  “At least he’s mostly just destroying his own life now.”

  “I’m sure he’s okay,” Win said. She hesitated. “I think something’s going on with Leo.” It felt good, articulating that nameless unease that had been growing in her, confirming that there was something new making her spine prickle. But it felt wrong, too. Like saying it aloud made it real.

  “What kind of something?”

  “I don’t know,” Win said. “A friend of his mentioned he’d been in LA earlier this year, and when I asked why, he wouldn’t say. And he’s been…clingy and then distant.”

  She thought of him, reaching toward her in the shadows of their accidentally shared bed. I need to talk to you. She hadn’t been awake enough to pay attention when he said it; now she wondered what he’d wanted to tell her, just risen from a dream.

  “Something’s different. He wanted to talk to me privately yesterday. I think there’s something he’s not telling me.”

  “Did you talk to him?”

  “No,” Win said. “I was working.”

  “What about this morning?”

  Win grimaced. “Well, we had to drive up here…”

  Shift sounded a little amused. “And right now, when you have the time to talk to me?”

  “Well, I’m…hiding in the bathroom,” Win admitted.

  “Okay,” Shift said. “Why are you so worried? Do you think it’s about you?”

  “Yes,” Win said. “He’d tell me anything else.”

  Shift was quiet. She said, “Win,” drew in a breath, and then let it trail off.

  “Come on,” Win said.

  “You’re thinking it, too.”

  “A little.” She thought of the way he’d looked at her in the swimming pool the other night, eyes dark, mouth soft, curving around her in slow circles that began to narrow. “I’m probably just being arrogant.”

  “You guys have spent the last seven years pretending to be in love with each other,” Shift said. “Would it really be so wild if he actually was?”

  Win ran a hand through her hair. “Yes. Yes, it would. Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Because we have an arrangement,” she burst out. “Because this is what works.”

  “Other things can work, too,” Shift said.

  “Shift, come on,” Win said. “Me and Leo are very different people. We argue all the time—”

  “Like me and Charlie are so similar. Like couples never fight.”

  “But it’s more than that,” Win continued, talking over Shift. “Leo is the most important thing that ever happened to my career. If we got together and then messed it up, that would be it. I would lose it—”

  “You’d lose him, not it, Win. He’s a person, not a tool.”

  “I’m not being a bitch,” Win said, frustrated. “If you asked Leo, he’d tell you the same thing. We’re useful to each other. We’re really good friends and obviously I care about him, but we’re much better for each other like this than as a real couple.”

  “You’ve never even tried, though.”

  “It wouldn’t be worth the risk,” Win said. “Look, Leo’s—funny and smart and hot, obviously you can romanticize the idea of us being together, but that’s not what I need. I need—stability. You don’t even like Leo that much, why are you advocating for him?”

  “I want you to be happy,” Shift said. “Do you think you’d be happy with him?”

  “No,” Win said. “I’m happy around him, but that’s because I’m not with him. I don’t have to worry about him getting bored. I don’t have to sacrifice anything for him.”

  Leo got bored quickly. He made Win furious without even trying. Leo was one of her closest friends, but as her boyfriend he would have a power over her that she didn’t trust him with. It wouldn’t be staged dates and photo shoots and schedules: it would be real life, and real life with Leo was unpredictable. He thought he understood everything, or that everything was easy to understand and just as easy to explain. He would be furious at every backhanded comment, every “exotic” and “nontraditional,” every Nathan Spencer look-alike mining her family for laughs on TV, and that fury would become Win’s problem. Win’s to soothe, Win’s to explain why she could or couldn’t respond, and Win was already so tired. She relied, very heavily, on being able to dismiss the people who dismissed her, and Leo would never let her
look away.

  Win lived in a house of cards. She couldn’t risk what they had on the occasional impulse that flickered in her hindbrain when he bent his mouth to hers.

  “Okay, well, look,” Shift said. “No matter what, you have to talk to him.”

  “We’ve got the Zacharias Chavanne party tonight,” Win said. “Everyone will be watching us.”

  “After that, then.”

  “Pretty soon after that the filming for The Sun Also Rises starts. And then my next press tour.”

  “He’s not going to go with you?”

  Win shook her head. “We don’t want him to be too closely associated with my career,” she said, summarizing long conversations with Marie while her thoughts raced on ahead. “If he comes on press tours for a film he’s had nothing to do with, it looks like I’m not interesting without him.”

  “Okay,” Shift said. “Then you have to make time to talk to him. You owe him that much.”

  They were both quiet. Win wished that Shift were there with her. It was sometimes strange that they had such separate lives now, when their teenhoods had been so intertwined. She couldn’t think of an important memory that Shift didn’t feature in: whooping and forcing the rest of the audience to their feet after Win’s first starring role in a community theater production, or her shoulder pressed hard against Win’s at Win’s father’s funeral. Win had taken Shift as her date to her first movie premiere in London, both of them shiny-eyed and raw with their own youth and pleasure. It hadn’t been long after that, though, that Shift moved to Montreal to record her first album, and Win’s dates started to be organized for her.

  Win stepped up to the window, leaning out, and the coastal wind slapped her in the face. There was a strange lump in her throat, like she was giving something up.

  “We might be wrong,” Shift tried, as though offering Win something. “Maybe he just wants your advice on his next ridiculous haircut.”

  Win managed a laugh. “Sure.”

  Shift paused. “Leo’s a big boy, Win.”

  “I don’t want to hurt him.”

  “So talk to him,” Shift said, “or leave.”