The View Was Exhausting by Mikaella Clements

Chapter Four

The yacht was already full when they arrived: cabin staff and a captain, and then the group of pretty young things Marie had arranged. They were led by Riva, fresh from headlining Lollapalooza. She was in Saint-Tropez for the Zacharias Chavanne party, too, and she had brought her new boyfriend and a group of hangers-on to join her for the week. Win slipped into the motions, clutched their hands, cooed over them, and returned their compliments.

Win liked Riva. She saw her every couple of months because they were often thrown together at events, and every so often they met in the same high-rise hotels and read fashion magazines together by the rooftop pools. Like two brown Carrie Bradshaws, Riva had said. It was easy to be friends, and Win didn’t mind the company of Riva’s entourage.

Riva shrieked and hugged Win while her boyfriend Bart stood looking bland and handsome. Margaritas were handed around, fresh and sour, salt stinging at their lips, silver buckets filled with bottles and ice, heeled sandals scattered across the deck where Riva’s friends had slipped them off. One of the girls had brought a little Yorkshire terrier on board that came to yap gleefully around their ankles. Win’s mood was clearing. Out here she felt untouchable. Nathan’s barbs couldn’t land. The heat settled close and sinuous over her, twining around her shoulders, and the hollow of Leo’s throat gleamed with sweat.

Riva tripped back to them, holding her hand out to Leo. “We’ve met before, I think.”

“Have we?”

“In LA last summer?” Riva said. “I think you might have known some friends of mine.”

Leo put two knuckles up to his eyebrow, as if to soothe a headache. “Are you sure?”

“I think it was you. Some outdoor party?”

“I feel like I would have remembered that,” Leo said. It came out like a compliment, and Win wasn’t sure why Leo seemed so uncomfortable. Riva clicked her fingers.

“No! It was at South by Southwest. You were at one of the after-parties. I think you let me paint your face.”

“Oh.” Leo relaxed. “Well, that sounds like me.”

“We’ve never met, but I think we have friends in common,” Bart said, joining his girlfriend and attempting to give Leo a sturdy handshake. Leo’s eyebrows went up; he let go as quickly as he could, and Win coughed so she didn’t laugh. Bart was making a fatal error. Leo liked nearly everybody, as long as they didn’t try too hard. “I just spent a weekend in Belize with Robbie Hayes.”

“Oh, how is he?” Leo said, and explained to Win, “Rob and I met in London, he’s one of the crew there.”

Marie leaned forward with studied nonchalance.

“The Radio 1 DJ? I’m surprised he hasn’t made you a guest on the show.”

“I don’t know him that well,” Leo said, and gave Marie a very innocent look. “I’m sure he’s got more than enough people to talk to.”

Marie scowled. It wasn’t worth anyone’s life, trying to talk Leo into an interview. She strode away, probably to book Leo in for a surprise chest wax back at the hotel.

“Rob said you were in Berlin,” Bart continued. “Looking at studio spaces?”

Riva looked interested. “You’re setting up a recording studio?”

“No, it’s for, uh, visual art,” Leo said, twitchy as though he’d been caught out. Win shifted closer so she could lean her shoulder against his. “It’s just this idea I’ve been tossing around, like, a collective studio. People could come in and out, and we would cover materials, and there’d be fellowships for people who couldn’t afford their own space, and we’d do a quarterly showcase or something.”

“That’s cool,” Riva said, impressed. “You’re doing it in Berlin?”

“Oh, I’m not really sure,” Leo said. “I haven’t worked out the logistics yet.”

Leo had been working out the logistics on his studio for about as long as Win had known him. She suspected that the project was just too solid for him to start, too much of a commitment of time and energy. Leo liked to throw himself into something for a few weeks at a time, devote all his attention to one thing and then move on, whether it was starring in a music video for some indie band or pretending to be Win’s lovelorn boyfriend. It was part of why they worked so well: Win needed him to give his all for very distinct periods of time, and Leo enjoyed a campaign.

“I have a friend who runs an artists’ collective in Austin,” Riva said. “It’s small but they’ve put out some really cool stuff. I could hook you up, if you want.”

“Sure, that sounds good,” Leo said, but he didn’t mean it. If Riva gave him a number, he would never call. Win had long since given up encouraging him to pursue the studio idea. Being reminded that there were people eager to see Leo succeed only seemed to make him more wary of starting. Leo was used to being a golden boy. The potential for failure troubled him.

The sun didn’t let up, and every empty glass was replaced with a full one. Win didn’t know where the boat was going; down the coast, she thought. There were Jet Skis ready for later, and a couple of the girls were already climbing on them, passing a champagne bottle between them as they took turns standing up on the seats. Riva controlled the music, and every new song was met with an elated whoop, sun-soaked voices crowing along with each chorus.

After a moment’s consideration Win slipped her dress over her head, discarding it behind them on the red-brown wood of the deck. Today’s bikini was a deep tangerine. Leo stayed quiet while she adjusted the straps and then lay down next to him. He handed back her drink.

Win was pleased. Leo leaned in and said, “Can I get you some more sunscreen?”

“Thank you, I’m all set. It’s kind of you to offer.”

“Anything I can do,” Leo said. “This”—he tucked one finger under the thin strap of her bikini—“doesn’t look like it’s protecting much.”

“Well, if you’re very worried,” Win said, and turned, holding out her hand. Leo paused and then laughed. He unbuttoned his shirt, handed it over, and Win slipped into it, white linen hanging demure off her shoulders. They watched each other, grinning.

“Oh, he’s gallant,” Riva said. “You looking at this, Bart?”

Bart was concentrating so hard he was almost frowning. “Whitman’s an interesting name,” he said, as though trying out some gallantry for himself. “Is it Indian?”

Leo’s mouth twitched like he was trying not to laugh.

“No,” Win told Bart, “my dad named me after Walt Whitman. I’m sure it felt like a good idea at the time.”

“Ah,” Bart said, “an artiste.”

Win shook her head. “He was an English teacher.” Leo’s fingers brushed against her elbow—the briefest, warmest touch.

Their conversation was interrupted by Marie, calling Win’s name from the cabin of the boat.

“Better not keep her waiting,” Leo said. “I’m amazed she’s left me alone with you for this long. Maybe I’m winning her trust.”

“I wouldn’t count on that,” Win said, draining the last of her champagne and handing him her empty glass. He twirled the stem between his fingers.

“Oh, come on,” he said. “You know better than anyone how I grow on people, Whitman.” Win ducked inside the cabin, out of range of the sun and Leo’s wry mouth.

Win’s mother had called six times, Marie said, holding Win’s phone out. Emil was glaring over her shoulder, clearly annoyed that Marie had hijacked duty of care for Win’s phone. Win could tell from the icy atmosphere that they had been arguing. She wondered how Marie had come out on top; probably threatened to have him ferried back to the mainland in a dinghy if he didn’t comply.

“You need to contain this,” Marie said. “A messy family situation is the last thing we need right now.”

She had clearly decided Win didn’t require any more soothing. Marie’s brutality knew no bounds: family, pets, and buried personal history were all fair game. She’d once told Win off for bringing a battered copy of Pride and Prejudice with her on a plane. It made her look basic, Marie said. At the very least, couldn’t she read one of the less popular Austen novels? Mansfield Park would give her more depth.

“Marie, I need a word,” Emil said, out for revenge for the phone theft. “Your schedule has five major conflicts.” Marie sighed and followed him out, leaving Win alone. Win swallowed. She called her mum.

“Oh, I’ve got through,” Pritha said when she picked up. “Hello, Whitman.”

The sound of Pritha’s voice washed through Win, and all at once she was home again, back in their old house in North East London with Pritha peering at her from the armchair. Once, when they were trading war stories, Win had asked Riva if she ever felt isolated, or homesick for her own identity, the parts of herself she had to leave behind in order to fit in at industry parties and awards shows.

“Girl, yes,” Riva had answered. “It’s why I haven’t given in and moved to LA, you know? It’s important for me to be with my community. Not just other MCs on the scene or whatever, but, like, my parents and my sisters and my school friends and aunts and grandparents. Everyone who knows me, everyone who remembers who I was and where I came from. Then when I go home I can be myself again.”

Win had nodded along, thinking only of this: her mum’s low voice, her hesitant pauses, the crackle of the phone line, as though Riva had a chorus and Win had an echo. Most of Win’s extended family was in India, and neither Pritha nor Win had visited them since Win’s father died. Sometimes Pritha’s accent was the closest thing she had to an anchor.

“Whitman,” Pritha said. “Are you very angry with me?”

Win had been angry this morning, but that was a few drinks away now. Don’t you start judging her, Leo had said. Nathan had been cruel to Pritha, too.

“Mostly I’m wondering if you congratulated Nathan when we broke up. Cheers to escaping my daughter’s machine.”

“I remember that conversation,” Pritha said. “It was a long time ago, when he came for dinner that night. We had all that wine. I think I was mostly teasing, anyway.”

“I don’t remember that conversation.”

Pritha hesitated. Then: “You were in the bathroom.”

“Ah,” Win said. “So you weren’t drunk enough to forget that.”

“I don’t think I said he’d get eaten alive,” Pritha tried.

“No. I’m sure your phrasing was much more subtle.”

“Well,” Pritha said. “I liked Nathan. He was very polite to me.”

“I know.”

“It’s ridiculous that this is even an issue,” Pritha said. “I said one thing six months ago, and suddenly you turn it into a national scandal.”

Win flinched. “I’m not enjoying this, either.”

“You seem happy in the photographs,” Pritha said.

Win couldn’t respond to that. She stayed silent, rather than try to explain something that Pritha didn’t want to understand.

Then her mum said, voice low, “But I’m sorry if I’ve caused you any trouble.”

“You’re no trouble, Ma,” Win said.

“Well.” Pritha drew in a breath. “I’m sorry if I hurt you.”

Win wanted to cry. She remembered all that her mum had been through in the past few years, the sudden unwanted attention after Win’s big break, having to snatch conversations with Win between flights to LA and Buenos Aires and Sydney, and then the news of her diagnosis, her surgery and stuttering recovery. It had been terrifying, too similar to those long, hopeless months with her dad. If it hadn’t been for Shift, who flew back from Canada to help look after Pritha, and Leo, who called Win every other night without fail, long past the point where she thought he would lose interest, Win would have broken down. Pritha herself had taken the diagnosis with no great reaction, like a ticket for speeding, and mostly complained about the amount of work she’d missed. At least now her mum was back at the office, where she was happy. Win straightened in her seat.

“Okay. Thank you. Are people saying things to you?”

“No,” Pritha said, “nobody I know watches such silly shows,” and Win rolled her eyes, relieved and annoyed at once. She moved on and asked about her cat, whom Pritha was looking after while she was away, and about her aunt, making conversation until she could hang up without feeling guilty.

Out the cabin window was Saint-Tropez’s aquamarine sea, scenes of luxury, yachts and fast cars beneath an impossible sky, exactly as she’d always imagined when she was seventeen and hungry. She looked back down at her phone. There was another voicemail waiting for her from her best friend.

Shift’s message was short and sweet. “Hey, babe! Just wanted to let you know that I’m on my way back to London, where I’m gonna murder Nathan Spencer and swing him by his man-bun from the Tower. It’s going to be awesome, very neo-Tudor. Love you, byyye.”

Win was still laughing when she called Shift back.

“It’s not funny,” Shift said. When she was angry she lost the dry, measured tones she had picked up living in Canada and became a London teenager again, swinging off the straps on the tube and passing a can of tepid cider back and forth while she ranted at Win about their newly forbidden school musical production of The Vagina Monologues. “I hate that guy. I genuinely am going to kill him for you.”

“You say the sweetest things,” Win said. “I’m okay. Leo’s helping me handle things.”

“Yes, I’ve seen. I’m stealing that shirt you were wearing yesterday, by the way.”

Win was almost touched. “I can’t believe you’re following my press.”

“I’m just keeping an eye on things.”

Shift didn’t need to explain what things. She had always been cagey about Leo. She didn’t dislike him, but she didn’t trust him, either.

Leo had, however, introduced Shift to her boyfriend. Charlie had been best friends with Leo’s brother Gum since their school days. Charlie worked as a model in the US, and a few years ago, Win and Shift had happened to be in Chicago at the same time as Charlie and Leo. They’d gone out for pizza together, where Win and Leo watched as Charlie and Shift leaned in close and then closer, shoving at each other’s shoulders for the chance to touch. The night culminated in Shift teaching Charlie three power chords on her electric guitar before they sang a heartfelt duet of “Bat Out of Hell.” Charlie and Shift had been together ever since.

The problem was that Shift saw a lot more of Leo’s brother than she did of him. Gum meant well, but he was a jealous friend, clinging to Charlie, and he had failed entirely in trying to impress Shift with his New York credentials and corporate bluster. Shift tolerated Leo as just another Milanowski, a remnant from her boyfriend’s indolent youth. And even from the start, Win had known Shift didn’t approve of The Win and Leo Show.

“You know I don’t give a shit that you’re faking it,” she told Win for the hundredth time. “It’s just—sometimes it looks too real. I worry about you.”

“I’m a good actor,” Win said, also for the hundredth time. “So is Leo. We’re on the same page.”

Shift made a noise like she wasn’t convinced. “Is he still throwing himself at you every half second?”

“Leo likes to flirt.” Win shrugged. “I do, too. So do you, actually. I think Charlie is the only one of us with any modesty, and he’s the literal runway model.”

“Oh, Charlie Schmarlie,” Shift said, then paused. “Actually. About Charlie.”

Win felt a frisson of unease. It would be hugely inconvenient if Shift’s relationship self-combusted in the same week as hers. “Is everything okay?”

“Yeah,” Shift said. Win could hear Shift smiling in that very particular way that made her imagine Shift wandering about her Montreal house, phone tucked between her cheek and shoulder, carrying stacks of records, or DIY pieces of recording equipment. “It’s good. Really good, actually.” She laughed, sounding almost embarrassed, and said, “Charlie proposed.”

Win gaped. “What?”

“I know,” Shift said. “Little idiot. Uh, so, I guess I’m getting married?”

“Shift,” Win said. “Congratulations! You need to open with this stuff, I just moaned about my bullshit for—”

“It wasn’t bullshit,” Shift said, “and you weren’t moaning. But, yeah, it’s—it’ll be nice. Mostly I just wanted to check that you’ll be my maid of honor, right?”

“Of course,” Win said. “I’d be offended if you asked anyone else. Shift! When did it happen?”

“Yesterday,” Shift said. “We were hiking and then he got down on one knee and I thought he was fixing his shoelace, so I kept walking and he had to call me back.”

“Oh my god. And the ring?”

“Has two hearts, four hands, one love engraved on the inside. Fuck me.”

Win was cackling. “Do you have any ideas about the wedding yet? No, Charlie has the ideas, doesn’t he? I bet he has a binder.”

“He has a Pinterest page,” Shift said glumly, “and he wants to go through the whole thing with me. But we haven’t worked much out yet, except that we’re thinking December.”

“Nice,” Win said. “That gives you eighteen months to plan it—”

“No, this December.”

Win blinked. “As in five months from now?”

“Probably only four,” Shift said, “we’re thinking early, before everything gets taken over by Christmas.”

“Wow,” Win said.

“I just don’t want to do a long engagement, and the longer we draw it out, the more carried away Charlie is going to get. And I…” She sounded almost shy. “I don’t really want to wait eighteen months. If we’re going to do it, we should just do it, right?”

“Right,” Win said. Her mind was racing. With any luck she would be working on The Sun Also Rises by then, which was already overlapping tightly with the press tour for All Rivers Run, her latest film, due to come out in late December. She’d probably be working right up until Christmas. Then Patrick had mentioned that she was on the short list for a spy thriller whose script she’d loved, with an Oscar-winning director attached, and—

“I’m sorry it’s not a lot of notice,” Shift said. “But it’s not going to be a huge thing.”

“Right, yeah,” Win said. “I’ll definitely try my best.”

Shift hesitated. “But you’re the maid of honor.”

“Shift, I know, but you haven’t given me a lot of time to work with,” Win said. “I’ll talk to Patrick, but I think I’m going to be busy pretty much all the way through the year.”

“It’ll be two days of your life. What, you don’t get weekends?”

“I hope I’ll be able to come for more than two days,” Win said, trying to keep her voice gentle. “But you know what my job is like.”

“I know.” Shift sounded tense. “But this is important, Win.”

“I want to be there,” Win said. “I’m going to do my best.”

“You have to be there,” Shift said, and to save time, Win said, “Okay, well, I will.” There was no point arguing when she wasn’t even sure if it would be a problem. She changed the subject to ask how Shift was going to break it to her dad, who actively disliked Charlie and insisted on calling him “your friend Charles.” Shift sounded happy enough when Win got off the phone, heading back out onto the deck and rubbing her hand across her eyes at the newly harsh glare of the sun.

The group had scattered across the yacht, leaving a trail of discarded Louboutins and empty bottles. Someone had started a poker game, and there was a pile of banknotes in the center of the couches, a fluttering mix of euros and dollars and pounds, weighed down with an empty cocktail glass. Platters of food appeared, although no one seemed much interested in them. The Jet Ski girls had stolen a plate of steak and were feeding it piece by piece to the dog. Bart sniffed, rubbing the heel of his hand under his nose, and someone cranked the music up louder, bass and bursts of brass bouncing between the sea and the sky. Riva made sympathetic eye contact with Win, clearly expecting that she had been dealing with the fallout from Nathan’s rant. Leo tilted his chin up at her, a silent question.

“Where’d you go?” Riva asked. “Is everything all right?”

“It’s fine,” Win said, glad Shift had given her a good excuse. “Actually, my best friend’s getting married.”

“Charlie proposed?” Leo said. “I thought he was going to wait for Christmas. Gum told me he wanted to do some gag about mistletoe.”

“Well, apparently they’re getting married this December,” Win said. “So maybe it’s adaptable.”

“Oh, winter weddings are so romantic,” one of Riva’s friends said. “Did you go to Henry’s last year, when he married the Italian princess? They had real hot springs at the reception, it was back when I was dating that footballer.” She stretched with a satisfied purr. “We were in there for hours.”

Only Leo met Win’s eyes across the crowd. He knew better than most how impossible her schedule would be. But she didn’t need Leo’s sympathy. She needed him for something else, and glancing out at the sea and the small motorboat of paparazzi with long-range lenses—hidden enough behind the froth of white foam and rocky outcrops for it to be conceivable that Win and her team wouldn’t notice them—she reminded herself what it was.

She swiped back her champagne glass, strolling toward the bow of the yacht. Over her shoulder, she called, “Whenever you’re ready to pay me some attention, darling,” and ignored the muted chorus of whoops from the group.

Marie had taped down a discreet marker, and Win stood on it, gazing out across the blue water. It was a perfect day. She wouldn’t be surprised if Marie had arranged dolphins.

Leo stood close behind her. “You want to do the Titanic thing?”

“I’ve been on a boat with you three times,” Win said. “And every single time you make that joke.”

“One day you’ll say yes,” Leo said.

Win loved her job. She was a good actor, she was good at assuming a new character, and she didn’t put nearly as much effort into this as she did her actual roles. She didn’t need to. It was always easier to sell to people when it came packaged as real life. But she still had that giddy, pleased feeling that she was doing something real, making herself someone new. She couldn’t control Shift’s wedding, or Nathan’s mouth, or her mother’s opinion of her, but she could control this.

“Take your sunglasses off,” she said, “and look at me.”

Leo pulled them off. After a moment’s thought, he took Win’s, too, and tossed them both aside. They stood on the deck together, exposed.

Win said, “You having fun?”

“That guy Riva’s dating is one of the most boring people I’ve ever spoken to.”

“I’ve met four of her boyfriends and they’re all like that,” Win said. “She says that she doesn’t want to date someone famous, but they have to be rich or she worries they’re only with her for the money.”

“I hate it when people worry about that,” Leo said. “So what, they like money. They’re still being nice to you.”

“Very wise.”

“Anyway, not everyone has the advantage of your selection committee,” Leo said, and put his hand up, stroking her hair. The sea winds were already tousling it out from its braid, sending it wild and wavy over her face. “I was wondering, this morning, after that video. What was the appeal there, with Spencer?”

Win’s mouth twisted. “He wasn’t always like that. Obviously. He could be really charming, and we had a lot of fun. He was the one who wanted to meet my mum in the first place.” She hesitated, then said, “I don’t know. He was— Look, I was really into him, it wasn’t like you and me—”

“Ouch,” Leo said.

“You know what I mean,” Win said. “The thing is, it’s not like we weren’t both profiting from it. Nathan was down to earth, which made me look down to earth, and he was getting a lot of meetings with producers about new shows and opportunities. But he—he didn’t get that I have my own public image and he wasn’t always…good for that.” She could feel her throat closing up. She’d liked Nathan. For a while, even as he tried to wear her on his arm like a backstage pass, she’d liked him a lot. “Then he finally told me I was a control freak, and I was making him look…weak, or something.”

Leo wrinkled his nose. “Standard bullshit, then. Never trust a white man.”

“Ha,” Win said, in lieu of actual laughter. “Sorry, I forgot I was talking to the One True Good Man.” Leo loved to tell her who not to trust, who to avoid, and who wasn’t worth her time, and these people were inevitably men like him. He tried very hard not to count himself among the pack. “Anyway, then, you know, he…”

She made a gesture that meant told the world I was a frigid, controlling prude so I had to come to you for damage control. Nathan’s words still stung, even when the breakup didn’t anymore. Win pictured his statements like a reverberation, wave after wave of people having their worst assumptions about her confirmed.

Leo stood close, his face turned down to her, almost worried. He ran his fingers lightly over her shoulder, the warm linen of his own shirt, and Win admitted, “I haven’t had a lot of sleep the last week or so.”

“You just say the word,” Leo said. “I’ll get you a bed. You can sleep for hours.”

“That’s all right,” Win said. “The press will already have the kiss. We can’t give them too much. They’ll get spoiled.”

“Hey,” Leo said, and gave her a long, considering look. “I wasn’t going to let the press in, either.”

Win opened her mouth, something prickling at the base of her spine, when someone across the deck dropped their glass. She remembered what they were meant to be doing. “Move a little this way,” she said, and shuffled them until they were tilted toward the open sea; a clear shot of Leo, and Win’s good side. The movement brought them closer, and Win reached out with one hand to curl her fingers through Leo’s belt loops.

Then she waited. She had maneuvered him this far, but it was important for him to make the final move. From the taunting way he was holding back from her, she could tell he was enjoying it.

“Whenever you’re ready,” she told him.

“There’s no exercises you have to do first? Warm-ups?”

“I’ll be okay,” Win said, and Leo took her chin in his hand, tilting her up. They kissed as easy as breathing: once and then again, Leo’s mouth hot and guiding on hers. There was margarita salt on his bottom lip. Win licked it away and swung in closer to him. He got one hand on her waist and pulled her in, his palm low on the small of her back. Win let herself touch him the way she’d wanted to, her hands on Leo’s flat stomach, the curve of his chest, sliding up until she could wrap her arms around him.

Leo tilted her back so that she had to cling to him to keep upright, and kissed up her neck. When he got to her ear, he murmured, “Marie going to say when?”

“No, just, you know—enough,” Win said, arching up against him but not quite grinding. They needed to keep it light, not dirty enough for the press to turn ugly.

“Then you say when,” Leo said, and pulled her in closer, deepening the kiss. It was as though the sure press of Leo’s mouth could cut through all the murk and confusion of Win’s days and make them subside into something uncomplicated and good. He knew how to touch her, and had for years. His fingers tangled in her hair just to the point of strain, and she gasped, clinging to him. They always kissed longer than you’d think: enough time to give the cameras a couple of good angles.

Win let Leo kiss her until her mouth felt bruised and swollen and she’d caught herself digging her nails into his shoulders three times. She said, voice gone rough, “That should be enough.”

Leo’s fingers brushed against her jawline when they broke apart, and they eyed each other, careful. Win didn’t know what her face looked like. It felt hot.

She asked for the boat to move on to the secluded cove, where they could have some genuine privacy. The moment the engines went off, she climbed up on the railing, looking at the blue below, leaving Leo’s shirt in a neat heap behind her. Then she dove.

The water closed up over her as though she belonged to it, and for the first time that day, there was quiet. She took two long strokes through the dark and surfaced, shaking her head like a dog and preening, stroking her fingers through her damp hair, waiting for Leo to come lean over the side and laugh down at her, which he did.

“Are you coming in?” she called up.

“I’m right behind you,” Leo said.