Good Nights

by Heather Grace Stewart

  I take a step to the left, which I know is the beautiful Boulevard de la Croisette, lined with luxury hotels. The minute I step off the dock, the entire pack begins to follow me. This is ridiculous. I’m that chicken crossing the road, and they’re the chicks. What will I get on the other side?

  A woman with bulging eyes and buzzed, platinum-blonde hair holding a clipboard against her chest rushes up to my side and grabs me at the elbow. She starts walking me away from the water toward the bustling city streets.

  “Hannah. I’m Joyce, Doug’s publicist. He couldn’t make it to the dock, but he’s waiting for you at the Palais des Festivals, where all the action is. He should just be starting lunch now. Let’s get you… er… cleaned up. You’ll be dining with VIP.” She nods at my nightshirt and tote and turns her head away towards the ocean, like she can’t stomach what she sees.

  “Madame, venez avec moi.” A limo driver in a dark suit appears out of nowhere beside Joyce and holds out his arm for me, as if he’s my French knight in shining armor. A little too late dude, the whole world just saw my Canadian ass in all its glory.

  “Your mister awaits you,” he says firmly and takes my elbow, pushing me towards the waiting black stretch limo.

  “He’s not my mister. If he were, he’d have met me here.” I wriggle out of his grip and turn to Joyce. “I can walk or take the bus. I’m fine!” Joyce is already sliding into the backseat.

  The limo driver scowls at me. I suppose he won’t get his tip if I don’t get in. Joyce glares up at me; red faced, with those bulging eyes.

  “Hannah, for fuck sake, just get in. People don’t keep Doug Evan waiting.”

  She looks like she’s going to pop a vein in her neck. I bite my lower lip and stare out at the calming sea, weighing my options. An angry driver and an overworked publicist, or a pack of hungry paparazzi? I look back at the restless crowd. I am afraid for my life around these crazy paparazzi people. I decide to play it safe and get in the back of the limo beside Joyce.

  “Good girl. You made the right choice.” She offers me a fake smile, complete with a chunk of red lipstick on her left front tooth. I look down at my lap and snicker to myself, feeling amused for the first time all morning. She condescends me with “good girl;” I’m not going to tell her about the lipstick.

  I hear a phone buzz, and my heart flutters, until I realize it can’t be my phone. Joyce glances at her sleek gold-covered device. “Change of plans. Doug will be returning to the Festival later. He’s at his hotel, dining on the rooftop at Restaurant Le 360. He says to join him there.”

  The limo makes a quick turn. I look out the window and see people shopping, talking, and laughing in the midday sun. Of course. It’s a gorgeous day in the Mediterranean, and I’m stuck inside this car, about to have a forced lunch with my ex. I feel so trapped. He texted his publicist, but he didn’t feel he owed me an explanation for not meeting me at the dock? I bet when I charge my cell, I’ll discover that he didn’t text. What a jerk.

  I open my tote and check my phone, as if looking at it will revive it from the dead. I need to charge it or use the phone in the hotel to call Mom. How can Doug be enjoying a rooftop lunch when his ex-mother-in-law isn’t well? Something isn’t right about any of this. “I need to make an important phone call. Can we use Doug’s room before I meet with him?”

  “No Hannah, he’s on a tight schedule.” Joyce purses her lips. “Perhaps you can use his phone once you sit down with him.” She stares at me a moment, then takes a nail file from her clutch purse and starts filing her pinky nail. “I can only hope people will assume your outfit is a Canadian fashion statement.”

  I want to use the B word right now to her face, but Tripp’s soothing voice comes to mind. “She’s a total wankpuffin. Ignore her.” Suddenly, I feel at ease, and confident enough to grill her for more information.

  “Why were the paparazzi all over me back there? Doug was always the rising star. I was just his writer wife. The TV show did well enough in its heyday, but it’s over now. Why were they so interested in me?”

  Her jaw drops, and she puts down her nail file. “You honestly have no idea?”

  “No idea about what?”

  “Hashtag Douannah, honey. It’s lit or bit or a hit. Whatever the lingo is today, that hashtag has gone viral practically overnight! You two are the talk of the town. It’s the most brilliant move of my career.”

  “You? You started it?” I can feel my chest, neck, and ears growing hot with anger. Wonderful. Let’s add “splotchy-chest” to my list of fashion faux-pas.

  “It was just one innocent little tweet, honey, suggesting you two were back on. I never expected the public to latch onto the story like they have.” She smiles, claps her hands together, and squeals, as if we’re the next Brad and Jen, Justin and Selena, Harry and Meghan. I just want to be Tripp and Hannah, in a forest where nobody knows our names!

  “But it’s not true!” I shout.

  “True, shmoo.” She rolls her eyes. “What’s truth got to do with anything anymore, sweetheart? This is big business. In one month, your old show has spiraled to the number one spot on Netflix. All thanks to one little tweet. The public has spoken. They want you two together.”

  I feel faint. “Let me out.” I say firmly but calmly, flicking the button on my door back and forth. It doesn’t open. I raise my voice. “Let. Me. Out!”

  She motions to the driver to pull over. “Calm down, Ginger!” She frowns at me. “Doug told me you were feisty, but I didn’t think I’d have to babysit you this entire time.”

  “If you don’t let me out, I’ll make a public statement that I was kidnapped at Cannes by Doug and his publicist.”

  “You’ll sound completely batty but go ahead.” She sighs and tells the driver to let me out, pushes a button to slide down the window, and shoves some fifty-dollar bills at the valet without even speaking to him. He grabs the money and starts to open the car door for her. “We’re already at the hotel anyway, Hannah. I’ll show you the way to the restaurant.”

  “Thanks, but no thanks.” I slam the limo door. “I don’t need any of you wankpuffins helping me.”

  Joyce looks confused about what I’ve said, then seconds later, as if she’s finally realized it was an insult, gives me the finger through the open door. The valet looks at her, then looks me up and down, smiles with amusement, and opens the heavy hotel door for me.

  What do you know? I didn’t even tip him, and I got service before Joyce. It makes me chuckle. I slip into the hotel lobby before any paparazzi notice me and look around for the nearest gift shop.

  I can handle Doug the Slug, anytime, anywhere. But I need to be wearing pants.

  Thirty-two

  Hannah

  The black leggings are itchy and barely fit around my bandaged knee. I just wanted to wear jogging pants, but the leggings and a fitted pink CANNES IS FOR LOVERS t-shirt were all the gift shop had left in my size. With my red locks in a high ponytail and several bangle bracelets on my wrist to tie the outfit together, I’m more of a Fashion Yay than the Fashion Nay I was down at the dock, but I also look about eighteen. I’m sure Doug and his business buddies, who always turn out to be more like frat brothers, will absolutely love that. I don’t want to be doing him any favors.

  Coming here pantless was bad enough, but I can’t believe I didn’t think to grab my powerpack before leaving The Lighthouse. I can’t believe I was stupid enough to leave The Lighthouse. Tripp would say I’ve been a dim-witted numpty, and he’d be half-right. If I can just borrow Doug’s phone and speak with Mom, I can sort this whole fiasco out.

  I step off the elevator and look around Le 360’s rooftop patio. There are about twenty occupied tables with beautiful lime green fabric chairs and hot pink peony bouquets at their center. The tables are shaded with large, crisp white umbrellas. Each table has a 360-degree view of Cannes and the sparkling teal blue ocean. I’d b
e hanging over the glass balcony, snapping photos and drooling over the aesthetic if I didn’t have more serious matters to attend to.

  It doesn’t take long for me to find Doug. I hear his faux, self-confident, booming laughter first. It echoes from his table at the center of the patio all the way across the roof to where I’m standing. Within seconds, my presence is noticed, and we’re both turning heads and gathering whispers. “Doug Evan,” a man at the corner table stage-whispers to his companion, and she quickly takes her phone out of her purse. Then her eyes meet mine. She starts to pan the cell phone my way, but I frown at her and shake my head. “Please, no,” I mouth. She looks down at her Greek salad, embarrassed. I think she’s a teenage celebrity, but I can’t remember her name. It’s getting weird now. Celebrities are fangirling over me. I didn’t ask for this!

  I walk briskly over to Doug’s table and hang my tote over an empty chair, saying nothing. He raises his dark eyebrows, lowers his sunglasses, and grins up at me, but he doesn’t get up.

  “Hani! So glad you could join us. Sexy outfit, babe. You always had style.”

  “Babe?” I breathe in through my teeth so they almost whistle, trying not to shout at him. I know I must remain calm, but I’m going to fail miserably. “Why did you ask me here, Doug? What’s going on with Mom?” As I cross my arms over my chest and look to my left, I notice someone filming us. Not with a cell phone, but with a large film production camera. A short, stocky man is holding the camera and a taller one is holding an umbrella. At first, I thought it was another patio umbrella, but now I can tell it’s for lighting.

  “What’s going on?” I lower my voice and glare at him.

  “Sit down,” he says, and I do so, not to follow his orders, but because I want the cameraman to stop zooming in on my legs, ass, and ankles.

  “These camera guys follow me everywhere, now. I’ll explain in a minute.” He motions to three bearded men at the table who are wearing expensive caramel colored suits and blue shirts identical to his and raises a pint of beer.

  “Gentlemen, this is my Hannah.” He adjusts his dark sunglasses, pushing them back on his nose. “I just had a private Ace five-forty seaplane pick her up while we were having drinks. Didn’t want to interrupt our business but had to please the little lady, as well.” He leans back in his chair. “Dropped a few thousand Francs. What are you gonna do?” He smiles wide, and they all laugh and nod in agreement, like he’s given a stellar State of the Union address, and they’ll be breaking out the whiskey and cigars any minute.

  I roll my eyes. He doesn’t see me at all. He begins cutting his filet mignon as he plays to his posse. “I just rented the seaplane, of course. The one I took across the Atlantic is mine. It’s new this year. Even has a three-piece bedroom in it.” The men keep staring and smiling at him like he’s a World Series game and they can’t miss one play. I want to puke.

  “Doug. The cameras. Tell them to leave.” I say it firmly but low, aware of the dozens of pairs of eyes on me.

  He ponders this for a moment, then waves the cameramen away. In an instant, they’re gone, and onlookers in the restaurant start to return to their own business. I move onto private matters.

  “What’s going on with Mom? Is she okay? Is she in hospital?”

  “Ah, that.” Doug sighs, his dark eyes narrowing. He takes his fork and uses it to carefully scrape out pieces of corn from the cob on his plate. He eats four kernels slowly, meticulously. He’s going to take an hour to eat his forking corn. I’m still waiting for an answer when he slowly puts his fork down beside his steak and takes a long swallow of beer. The three men with him follow suit. They’re all eating their corn exactly the same way. I blink. Then I blink once more and shake my head, hoping that the rattling will wake me from this bad dream.

  “Hani,” Doug finally responds, “I found your Mom at our place, lounging by the pool, drinking pineapple mojitos with some man I’ve never met. Highly inappropriate, if you ask me.”

  What the hell were you doing there? I nearly scream. I glare at him. “Our place! Our place isn’t our place since I kicked you out! I asked Mom to stage it for the showings.” I’m livid that he interfered like this. I can’t believe he kept his key.

  “Damnit, where’s a good pineapple mojito when you need one?” I put my hands in my head and exhale, then turn to him, grab his beer and take a long swig. He doesn’t look surprised. He knows me, and he knows that he’s been playing with fire. What I can’t figure out is why. What does he want from me?

  “Well, you didn’t tell me that, sweetheart.” He looks at each of his friends and shakes his head. “Women!” They all laugh. One raises his beer. I scowl at him, and he shrinks a little in his seat and immediately puts it down.

  “So, Mom doesn’t need my urgent help?”

  “Personally, I think she needs psychiatric help. She told me she wants to buy the place. She asked the realtor to take it off the market this week.”

  I look down at the plate in front of me and feel a wave of relief wash over me. She’s not in hospital. She’s met someone. I can’t wait to hear about him. It’s been at least a decade since she dated anyone, and I want her to be happy. “Sounds like a Mom move to me! I’d love to sell her the house. I’m sure she was going to tell me soon, but I’ve been a little preoccupied—there was a flood where I was staying, and we helped some people out and...”

  “Yes, yes, yes.” He’s not even listening; he’s reading his phone. A second later he looks up and over at me. “You look… different.” He removes his sunglasses and finally takes a moment to look at me. “What happened to your knee? Whatever have you been doing on that odd little island over there, Hani?”

  “Stop calling me that!” I finish his beer, slamming the glass on the table. “I want to know why you summoned me here like some kind of king, when Mom’s doing just fine, and the house isn’t on fire. What the hell is going on?”

  “Sorry, can’t explain that now, doll.” He’s reading another text that just came in. He throws his napkin down and stands, and the men with him stand and do the same. He motions for someone to come over to the table, and to my shock, Joyce appears from behind a tall plant in the corner of the room. She hands me a black garment bag.

  “Wear the dress. I’m booked solid in meetings until four p.m.,” Doug says, still staring at his phone. “But there’s a cocktail party before the closing ceremonies, and I can sit down with you then and explain everything.” He lowers his glasses. “Hani. You need to hear what I have to propose. Trust me. I’ll leave some security detail with you.”

  “Damnit, Doug just tell me now!” I want to scream. I’m not sure what newfound strength inside me—the island?—is keeping me still, but I manage to say it firmly, not loudly.

  “Doug. You’re already fifteen minutes late,” Joyce hisses as she grabs his elbow and begins to steer him towards the elevator.

  Doug shrugs his shoulders at me. “It is what it is. What are ya gonna do? See you at four, babe.” He and Joyce rush out of the room, followed by his three colleagues. I’m left standing by the table holding up a garment bag.

  “Hello, Hannah Storm. We heard you say pineapple mojito?” A tall waiter approaches me and gives me a smile. He’s holding up a yellow drink garnished with a slice of pineapple and a tiny green umbrella. “This one’s pineapple vanilla, compliments of the manager.”

  Okay then, clearly there are some benefits to my silly newfound fame. I thank him as I take the refreshing-looking drink from his hand, hang the garment bag over a chair, and flop back down at the table. I exhale deeply, not caring who hears.

  One of the two security men who had been standing behind the camera people pulls up a chair beside me. He’s got streaks of sweat running down his cheekbones, and his shaved head has been sunburned. His steel-blue eyes tell me he’s tired and feeling old, yet I’d say he’s about my age, maybe a couple years younger. Is he tired of the gig, or ti
red of the people?

  “Security.” He smiles at me and puts out his hand. He leans in a little and whispers, “But if you wanna be human about it, call me Hank.’” I laugh at the way he deadpans that. I take his outstretched hand and shake it.

  “I’m Hannah.”

  “So, I hear you’re from Canada? Always wanted to go. Beautiful country. Bloody love your Prime Minister’s socks.”

  His knowledge of Canada and his strong British accent make me grin right back at him. I can’t believe this. It’s like Tripp truly is sending me love messages from across the ocean. Maybe he got my note. Maybe we’re all good, and I don’t have to worry. I still have to get my phone charged so I can speak to him and Mom.

  Hank puts on his sunglasses and stares out at the sea, and I realize that I feel safe for the first time since I arrived in Cannes. Maybe he can help me out of this colossal mess.

  “Bottoms up,” I say. I raise my glass to my funny new friend and down the drink.

  Thirty-three

  Hannah

  “You look like something the feral cat dragged in.”

  “Gee, thanks Mom. Not just a cat. A feral one. Nice.” My mother’s beautiful, slender image has just appeared on Hank’s phone, which he kindly loaned to me.

  I stretch my legs out on the bed’s quilted, dark grey duvet. Doug’s penthouse corner suite has it all: King bed, a wet bar, a jacuzzi tub in the corner, wall to ceiling glass windows, and a glass paneled balcony with sweeping ocean views. I remember living like this whenever Doug took me to LA on business, which was, now that I think of it… only once. I got sunstroke, and we bickered the entire time.