The View Was Exhausting by Mikaella Clements

Chapter Five

Leo wanted to take the jet across to the racecourse at Cagnes-sur-Mer, but Win vetoed it as unnecessary. She was feeling more sure of herself. The heat had broken last night and a heavy Mediterranean rain had fallen, blurring the bright lights of Saint-Tropez and bending palm trees gently backward under its weight. Win had listened to it drum against the French windows and mingle with the crash of the waves below. Leo slept through the entire storm dreaming, he told Win confidentially, that he was being chased through the woods around Lake Tahoe by a man with tiny hands and huge teeth. When they stepped out of La Réserve, he glanced around at the wet pavement and umbrella-laden paparazzi and said, “Oh, did it rain?”

Marie eyed him incredulously.

Win had woken up feeling cleansed, leaning out of her windows in the early morning and drinking in that electric-blue smell of damp paving stones, pearly sunlight, and the ocean. Their yacht trip yesterday had worked as intended. Shots of Win and Leo had done the rounds overnight, and in light of them Nathan looked like a bitter has-been, sulking because he’d lost out to Whitman Tagore’s one true love. (Win had once seen T-shirts circulating with a picture of herself and Leo on the front and the words TRUE LOVE WINS. She wasn’t sure what their love had supposedly won, besides the pun, but Leo bought twenty and spent the next six months shipping them to her one by one, wherever she was in the world, with a hastily scribbled note. Just in case you lost yours! said one, and another, For your next red carpet?? The last one came with a note that read I’m all out of jokes because Gum has been explaining his investment portfolio to me for 45 mins and I’m actively losing brain cells with every second. Come rescue me again soon. She’d thrown out the shirt immediately but kept the note, for a while.) Fan speculation was moving back to whether she and Leo were endgame, and this morning Marie had sent her a wink-face emoji with a forwarded tweet that read: She’s so much more real when she’s with Leo. He really humanizes her.

They had rented a private box at the racecourse for the day, high up and secluded enough in the stands that they might not have been noticed, if Marie hadn’t already queued up a series of carefully scheduled tweets from various dummy accounts. Win stood at the front railing watching ripples go through the crowd. As people started to turn and point, she went back to her seat, where Leo was already reciting a complicated cocktail recipe to their waiter.

Marie had two windows open on her laptop; one was Twitter, and the other a list of horses and their odds and best times. She had once told Win quite offhandedly that she would probably be a gambling addict if she had the time for it. It made a lot of sense. The only thing Marie liked more than a surefire win was a well-calculated risk.

Emil appeared with an attendant by his side. Win touched Marie’s arm.

“Care to place a bet, mesdames? Monsieur?”

“Ah yes,” Marie said, still frowning at her screen. “Let me put fifty on Crown of Thorns.”

“Adventurous,” Leo said, without looking up from his phone.

Marie glanced at Leo with vague annoyance. “And the bald monsieur will put a grand on Jean Paul II.”

Leo huffed an appreciative laugh and waved his hand at the attendant’s questioning look. “Sure, yeah, why not.” He flashed his teeth at Marie. “I’ll give you a cut when I win.”

“So kind,” Marie said, and turned back to her laptop. She was already bitter at Leo today. She had been irritated by the early morning runs he insisted on taking out in the hills, where she couldn’t keep an eye on him. Then Leo refused to talk to the press, and declined one interview in particular that had been scheduled for tomorrow morning.

Marie wanted him to pretend to be caught out, cornered on camera by a persistent (and scripted) host, who would ask questions about Win that Leo could palm off with wry, enigmatic answers. Win had already warned her not to bother. Leo hadn’t agreed to an interview in a long time. He didn’t like being questioned by strangers, and he was so used to people apparently knowing his business that he struggled to filter out things that were better left unsaid. He had cursed on daytime television, leaked the album titles of friends on the radio, and once, taken by surprise and quite high at Coachella, had appeared on a livestream weeping at the beauty of the sunset. The first time Win and Leo spoke after their fling in New York was a direct result of Leo’s disastrous interview technique. It was seven months after the Josip scandal, and she had been busy: her first Golden Globes nomination, a spate of exciting new roles. She had become used to exchanging only occasional texts with Leo, until he called her early one morning. Her heart felt a little unsteady, but she kept her voice cheerful and agreeable when she picked up.

“Whitman,” Leo said. His voice was hoarse, like it had been scratched up by the satellites connecting them. “I need a favor.”

Some months before, Leo had been asked to appear on a popular late-night talk show as part of their Father’s Day special, and agreed because he had nothing better to do. He’d then forgotten about it until the day before the interview, when his father found out and gave him a lecture about Leo’s “responsibility to the family brand.” Leo had gone out drinking with his brother and turned up to film the segment hungover and still furious. He told the presenter and a host of cameras, slouching in his chair and scowling, that it was hard to tell funny Father’s Day stories when your dad was such an asshole, and that any scraps he’d learned about being a good person were all from his mothers. His father took no interest in any of his children, Leo explained, running a dismissive hand through his hair; Leo was simply the only one who’d noticed.

“Shit,” Win said.

Leo swallowed; she heard the dry click of his throat over the phone. “Listen, it’s— Obviously my father will be furious, but it’s really going to upset my brother. Gum idolizes our dad. The producers are refusing to reshoot the segment, let alone pull it. They said that unless I can give them something more interesting, they’re airing it.”

“You need a favor,” Win echoed.

“I know this is so shit,” Leo said, “but I wondered if maybe I could give them something about us. If we could do the fake relationship again. Everyone ate it up, and I know it’s crazy, but maybe if we announced that we’d been dating secretly ever since or—or even, well, an engagement would probably work—”

“Jesus,” Win said.

“I know,” Leo said. He sounded miserable. “I didn’t want to ask, but I can’t think of anyone else who can help.”

“Look.” She drew in a breath. “It’s not public yet, but I’m…I’m seeing someone, actually.”

“Oh, hey,” Leo said, startled.

“So I can’t really— I mean, it wouldn’t be fair to Dermott,” Win said. “And I think it would come out pretty soon, or it would look like I was cheating on you, or…”

“Right, yeah,” Leo said, with a bright, false tone to his voice. “No, obviously that won’t work. Okay, well, forget I asked. Thanks anyway, Whitman. Tell Dermott I’m jealous of him.”

He was obviously trying to be cheery, trying to let her escape without making her feel bad, and perhaps that was what made Win make her decision so suddenly. There was certainly no sensible reason for it, except that Leo needed her. Leo had helped her back in New York, even though there hadn’t been much in it for him. She could help him now.

“Wait,” she said. “I could give them something else. You said it’s a Father’s Day special? I could talk about…my dad. My memories of him.”

“Win,” Leo said. She felt it like a touch, low and gentle at the nape of her neck. She shook her head and plowed on.

“People always want to talk about him and I haven’t seen any reason to before now. I didn’t want to be…” A sob story, she thought, but Leo didn’t need to hear that. She cleared her throat and moved on. “It’s not important, but I haven’t spoken much about him before. I know it’s not the same pull as a story about you and me, but do you think they’d take it as a replacement?”

“I can’t ask you to do that,” Leo said.

“You’re not asking,” Win said. “I’m offering.”

The talk show accepted it. Win filmed a twenty-minute segment where the host asked her grave, probing questions, and Win forced her shoulders to relax and spoke about her dad. She told the host, and all the people watching later, about her dad’s quiet, happy life, about his small family and his teaching and the students who adored him. She told them how he had lifted Win onto his shoulders and whooped when she’d gotten the starring role in a theatrical adaptation of The Secret Garden, running in circles round the car park. She answered questions about his illness, his death. They talked about the funeral. She was impatient with the way her throat closed in on itself, the prickling spring of tears to her eyes, but she also knew how it looked. Her obvious emotion would make for excellent TV, and Leo would be safe.

The segment clocked up millions of views on YouTube. It wasn’t bad press for Win, though it wasn’t the press she would have chosen. Her Golden Globes nomination had been complicated—a nod to her talent, which set her aside from the pack but also triggered a new wave of suspicion about her ambition, her ruthlessness. But in the TV interview, she came across as honest, authentic in her sentiment and her memories. She allowed herself to be an object of pity so others could coo over her bravery and hold their hands out in comfort as if they knew her. She won over a lot of new fans. Her mother had disapproved.

She got a signed confirmation from the producers that Leo’s footage had been deleted, and she had it express mailed to him before she left the studio. She got his text before she went to bed: Thank you. Whatever you want, whenever you want it, I’m all yours.

It still took her some time to realize he’d actually meant it.

*  *  *

By late afternoon the heat had returned, making their wineglasses sweat and the soles of Win’s wedges stick to her feet.

Leo suggested they go to the balcony, for the breeze. Marie waved her hand no before Win could reply. Win knew she wanted to limit the amount of free shots they gave away, especially to the public, who could take pictures on their phones and have them online in seconds. There was no relief to be had.

Between Marie’s incessant typing on her MacBook and Leo’s arm thrown loosely around her shoulders, Win felt dazed, as if she were floating over the crowd in a sheer, shimmering bubble, drifting through the clouds of dust beneath the hooves of the horses, and out over the open sea. The thrum of the crowd and the races began to echo and catch high up in her temple. When they finally returned to the cars, Emil had security clear the area of photographers so that Win wouldn’t have to smile for them under her sunglasses. She settled gratefully into the air-conditioned back seat.

It was only when they pulled up to La Réserve that Win realized she’d fallen asleep with her head resting against the tinted window. Leo squeezed her shoulder, helping her out of the car, his face close and concerned for a flashing second. The sun seemed very bright. It was hard work not to tip against him.

Coming through the gold-plated doors, Marie caught up with Win, Emil hurrying behind her.

“Patrick called,” she said.

“She needs to rest,” Leo said, commanding enough to make Emil jump, but Win cut over him.

“No, I don’t. What did he say?”

“Paramount wants to talk.”

Win’s shoulders straightened; she pulled herself upright, ran a hand through her hair, and smiled at Emil, who was already offering up her phone. “I’ll need you with me.”

“Of course,” Marie said.

“Win,” Leo said, “why don’t we get dinner first?”

“They’ve already been waiting for half an hour,” Marie said. Win let go of Leo’s hand with an apologetic shrug of her shoulders. He would forgive her. She had a cold brew brought up with them, which woke her up, though the coffee curdled in her stomach.

The news from Paramount was positive. They had not given Patrick their word yet, but their people had started pulling the paperwork together. The majority of the discussion was between Patrick and two of Paramount’s lawyers, who were hammering out the terms of Win’s contract. By the end of the hour-long call, it was implied that they could expect an offer in a matter of days. Win knew she should be careful with her expectations, but she couldn’t help texting Shift a celebratory string of exclamation marks and will you hate me now I’m gonna be a Hemingway heroine??

“The Spencer issue is unfortunate, of course,” the producer said as they were wrapping up.

“We’re handling it,” Marie said. “Whitman’s name has been trending across Europe and the UK for the past four days continually, and in the US for at least a few hours every day. Nathan Spencer appears in less than 20 percent of the content. Maybe he hasn’t moved on, but Whitman has, and so has the rest of the world. With Leo, people can see what she’s really like.”

“Yeah, Milanowski is a hit,” the producer said. “And we love to see you looking so glam. It’s always been my favorite side of you, Whitman. Kind of an exotic Sophia Loren.”

“Thank you,” Win said, forcing herself not to bristle. “In the meantime, we’re expecting the whole Nathan thing to blow over in a few days.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” he said. “I think we have a better view on your suitability for the role. Don’t let us down, now.”

Once Paramount hung up, Patrick debriefed her on everything that was to come. The first rehearsals and shoots for The Sun Also Rises would start in mid-September, and were expected to carry on, with occasional breaks, for the following three months. Into those breaks she would have to fit the press tour for All Rivers Run and the Chanel campaign. Chanel wanted a few commercials plus photo shoots and making-of videos, Patrick explained; most of it could be done in one week in October, but she might have to fly back and forth between shoots for a while. Patrick had been in further talks with the director of the spy thriller, too, which he was excited about. He was, however, pessimistic about her chances of making it to Shift’s wedding. He said he would see what he could do.

They were finally done by ten thirty. The dreamy, heat-sick feeling of the day had faded into a bone-deep exhaustion and mild nausea, like a hangover. Win went straight to the balcony, throwing the windows open and stepping into the dark blue of the night. She wished she’d stolen another cigarette from Leo. She wished she’d reacted to the “exotic” comment. She wished getting what she wanted didn’t so often depend on keeping her mouth shut. Neither Patrick nor Marie had mentioned it in the debrief, and now Win felt tense with a frustration she couldn’t voice.

The door of the suite opened behind her, and there was a murmur of voices and the sound of the door closing again as Marie left. Win breathed out, then jumped when someone rapped on the window behind her.

Leo raised his eyebrows through the glass and held up a pizza box.

“Oh, god,” Win said, almost collapsing into Leo as he stepped outside. “I could kiss you.”

“You’re just in the habit of it,” Leo said, flipping open the box and offering it up to Win. She reached for it, but the smell of grease and melted cheese hit her first, and before she could help it, she shuddered, a roll of revulsion in her stomach.

Leo frowned. “Are you sick?”

“No,” Win said. She put a hand up against her forehead, and realized for the first time that she was damp with sweat. “I think it’s just sunstroke. Give me a second.”

Leo set down the box and disappeared back inside. She could hear the low murmur of his voice on the phone, his words lost in the crash of waves below her. She checked her phone while she waited; Shift and Charlie had sent her a video of them setting off a dozen party poppers in their living room in excited reaction to the Paramount news. The streamers settled in Charlie’s golden curls.

When Leo returned, Win asked, a little guiltily, “Can we smoke?”

Leo laughed. “Yeah,” he said, and pulled his tobacco pouch out from his back pocket. Win watched him, idle and quiet, while he rolled the joint, his long fingers, his quick movements. He ignored her reaching hand when he finished, tucking the joint behind one ear. “I have something better, too.” He picked up the box with one hand and held the other out to her. “Come with me.”

Win considered him. “I shouldn’t really smoke outside. And we’ll have to tell my security—”

“It’s taken care of,” Leo said. “Come on.”

He led her out of the suite and back into the elevator, but instead of heading down, they went up, and the doors opened onto the roof. It was even better than the balcony, with a salty breeze coming in from the coast. Beyond the loungers and folded parasols was a rooftop pool, larimar blue and glowing in the soft underwater lighting. The water rippled in the wind. Saint-Tropez looked almost cozy against the dark hillside, dressed up in dark velvet and sequins of orange light. It was reflected, a second city, on the inky surface of the sea.

Leo tossed the pizza box aside and straddled one of the loungers, beckoning Win to him. She sat cross-legged in front of him and took the joint when he offered it up to her, tilting her head down so he could light it. He tucked her hair behind her ear, out of the way, and Win took in a deep, indulgent breath. Leo was smiling, crooked in the corner of his mouth, and the lounger was still baked hot beneath them from the day’s sun.

“Where is everyone?” Win asked.

“It’s closed to other people. Tell me about the Paramount meeting.”

Win took another drag and then handed him the joint and told him, running through the details, the tight timeline, the issues with Spencer, the good news. The moment was the kind of familiar that hit her right in the chest, sitting in some quiet hideout Leo had found for them, talking through her decisions. Saying it aloud to Leo made a situation make sense, helped her work out what she actually wanted. When they were apart she would call him sometimes, listen to him saying, Wait, one sec, and the noise surrounding him would subside as he closed a door between Win and the rest of the world. But it was better like this, Leo’s face intent on hers, the weed setting in and her muscles slackening.

“It went well, then,” Leo said.

“Well enough,” Win said, and picked up his hand, setting her fist in the center of his palm, sleepy and stoned. Leo slipped his hand out and pressed it starfish-style to her face, pushing her gently away, both of them giggling at each other.

“Cards?” Win said, because their knees were overlapping and she was edging closer to him.

“You’re dangerous when you’re high,” Leo told her. “I think we should cool down first.”

He undressed and ran for the pool before Win could really process it, arms pointed neatly as he dove. She trailed after him, slow, watching. His skin looked green under the water, and when he surfaced, drops of water were running down over his buzz cut to his collarbone. Win could only see his chest now, the rest of him distorted under the water. If she focused, she could just make out the V of his hips, the black line of his briefs. Win dipped a toe in.

“Don’t be a baby,” he said.

She’d left her heels downstairs, so there was nothing to delay the slide of the zip down her back. It was a thin, gauzy sundress that fell neatly off her shoulders, and Win had expected to feel cold, but it only felt good, like shedding unnecessary skin. Leo had made it to the far end and stood in the shallows, his back against the wall and his elbows up behind him over the side of the pool. He was watching her.

“If you’d warned me, I would have brought a swimsuit,” Win said. Her bikini wasn’t any less revealing than her underwear, but somehow she felt more exposed like this, in lacy black with Leo’s gaze tracking across her.

“We’re old friends, Whitman,” Leo said. “No need to be shy.” His mouth was crooked in the shadow of a grin.

Leo always wanted her company in such a frank, straightforward way that she could give herself over, into his hands, before she even knew what she was doing. She half considered running off, with the pizza and all the clothes, to leave him stranded up here. She had done that to him once before in LA, but he had only shrugged and met her at the hotel bar in his soaking swim shorts, running a wet hand affectionately along the back of her silk shirt. It was hot and stuffy in her room tonight, and the water seemed fathoms deep. She dove.

It was much colder than expected. She came up cursing, running her hands through her soaked hair in shock and kicking her feet to stay above water. Leo was moving closer, gliding through the water with wide, effortless strokes. He swerved around her, swam sideways behind her shoulder, and headed back up the pool again. She watched him, focused and intent. She remembered that if a shark came after you in the ocean, you were supposed to punch it.

“Feel better?” he asked.

“Yes,” Win admitted. She started swimming, slow and distrustful around the edges of the pool. They were circling each other.

“This reminds me of Miami,” Leo said. “Poolside at midnight. The only thing missing is a tattoo gun.”

Win laughed. It had been so long ago—back when she was on the short list for her starring role in the Reckless action series, a secret-agent superhero franchise that would consolidate her staying power and give her a decent five years of regular premieres and a fanbase to match. But Patrick heard that the casting manager thought Win was too straight-edge for the job: prudish was the exact word they had used. She had needed to prove she could be cool. Leo, when she called him, thought it was hilarious. But sure, he said. He was ostensibly in Miami Beach for a cameo in a music video, but mostly for a string of parties, still in his fast-car bad-boy phase. Why didn’t she come out and join him?

They spent a week racing around town, drinking beer out of cans and crushing them underfoot, making out against the walls of nightclubs in South Beach, molly under bright lights and seedy mornings with Bloody Marys and sunglasses against the paparazzi flashes. Leo announced his intention to get PROPERTY OF WHITMAN TAGORE tattooed on his chest, and pitched a huge fit when Win refused to get a matching one. They argued for so long that their tattoo guy passed out.

It was a relief to let go, even in such a calculated way: to take what she wanted, to slam shots and make obscene gestures at photographers, to unleash the anger and boredom she kept so closely contained. Leo called it the Win Gone Wild tour. Finally, the producer called. Win put him on loudspeaker while Leo and his friends played pool and the clamor of the bar was loud in the background. “All right, all right, we get it,” he said. “The part’s yours, baby, when can you get here for the first table read?”

She could still remember the thrill of triumph. After she hung up she had raced across the bar and flung herself up against Leo, looping her arms around his neck and kissing him. It wasn’t the first time they’d kissed that week, but this time there weren’t any cameras around.

They pulled back and looked at each other.

Win said, “Better not.”

“The pining,” Leo said. He didn’t clarify who was in danger that time. “You’re probably right.” She’d had to leave the next morning, so she and Leo had left the bar and gone back to the villa they’d been staying in, stretched out in the backyard, and played long rounds of Sixty-Six, the card game Leo had picked up in Switzerland as a teenager. He’d taught her late one night in New York. They’d been fascinated with each other, making excuses to stay up. “We used to play this in dorms,” Leo said as he shuffled, “after poker got banned because some kid put up half his trust fund.”

“You’re like an alien species,” Win had said. She kept having to wrench her gaze away from his hands, his mouth. The next night they would discover a good alternative for stretches of unoccupied time—Leo’s hands, his mouth—but in Miami, she realized the cards were safer. Now they played between shoots, while Marie was still organizing their next location, in hotel bars after long days, in the early mornings before the car arrived or when Leo was watching her a little too closely and Win’s thoughts kept circling back to those nights in New York. Leo kept a note in his phone, a long spiraling list of scores.

She wondered if he’d brought the cards up to the pool with them tonight. They could play sitting cross-legged in their underwear, dripping on the heat-baked concrete, Leo’s throat cool and the smell of chlorine rising off him.

Win struck out for the deep end and dove under again, reaching out to brush the bottom of the pool with her fingertips. She could just catch Leo’s silhouette, blurry in the pool lights. She pushed her feet against the tiles and propelled herself upward, bursting out of the water again and sending waves out around her.

“Show-off,” Leo said, drifting past her. She could see the solid line of his shoulders, his narrow waist, and then she let her eyes slip away. She didn’t know how much of her body was visible under the water. When he reached the other end of the pool, he dragged the pizza box over and flipped it open. Win tried not to think of it as bait.

“I have a proposition for you,” Leo said.

“Oh god,” Win said. “You’re not going to suggest we get engaged again, are you?”

“No,” Leo said, and gave a high, barking laugh. It was a startling contrast to his usual low laughter, and Win twisted in the water to look at him. “Why would you say that?”

“I was kidding. I can’t let you forget your youthful idiocy.”

Leo rubbed the back of his neck, shaking his head. “No,” he repeated. “Obviously not. I wanted to ask you to be my date.”

That piqued her attention. “Does your sister have another premiere?”

Unlike her relatively aimless brothers, Hannah was the only junior Milanowski who had carved out a genuine career for herself. She produced intricate documentaries with obscure subjects, like Canadian fishing towns or radio telescopes in the desert. Hannah was reclusive, happier behind a camera than in front of one, and she tended to wilt under the spotlight. A few years ago Win had run into both siblings at a Sundance after-party. It was the year that Hannah’s short film was panned by critics, and she’d been almost certainly about to cry in front of the cameras before Leo grabbed Win’s hand, begged a favor, and they crashed the interview, playing drunk with their arms wound around each other. Hannah had made her escape unnoticed. Marie had not been impressed.

“No, Hannah’s in Thailand,” Leo said. “She’s tracking down witnesses for some true crime documentary. I meant to the wedding.”

“Shift’s?”

“What, you thought I wouldn’t get an invite?”

“No, I guess—I hadn’t started thinking about dates yet.”

Leo shrugged. “I figured since we’ll both be there, we might as well go together. Saves me from having to make small talk with whatever hot new talent you dredge up.”

“My dates are always carefully selected through a matrix of prestige, attractiveness, and conversational ability,” Win said. Leo laughed, but he was still waiting for her answer. She stretched and struck out toward him on the far side of the pool. He listed away when he saw her coming, watching her and paddling backward. Her bra was soaked through, near transparent. She slung her elbows up on the edge, and Leo shook his head, gaze slipping away. She took a slice of pizza for herself.

“I don’t know,” she said after she’d swallowed. “I mean—yes, if it all works out, of course I’ll go with you. I’m worried about finding the time for it.”

“Ah, c’mon,” Leo said, his shoulders relaxing again. “You’re the big movie star. Just pull a diva moment, you can take a few days off.” He held his hands up when he saw the look on her face. “I know, I know, you have this big planned schedule and everything’s crazy all the time, but come on. It’s your best friend.”

“I know who it is,” Win said. “It’s fine. I’ll sort it. Let’s stop talking about it now.”

“Okay.” Leo changed tack. “It looks like Gum’s going to be the best man. He keeps calling it Charlie’s last hurrah and he says it’s a joke, but I’m starting to worry it’s not? It’s going to be a nightmare.”

Win laughed but didn’t respond. She knew how responsible Leo felt for his older brother. When Gum was arrested for drunk-driving in Santa Barbara, Leo had sped up the news cycle by appearing in a series of dazzling shots cavorting with Win around Morocco’s Atlantic coast while she filmed the second Reckless movie. Truthfully, they’d barely seen each other. He’d been distracted and worried, fielding endless calls from his family members, Gum calling tearfully from rehab, and Win was busy with twelve-hour days on set. She remembered watching him drive out to meet her in the desert, his skin burnished by the sun, his boots heavy with sand.

She finished her first slice of pizza and helped herself to one more, trying not to think about what her nutritionist would say. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d eaten like this, hot cheese and grease and the weed sharpening every flavor. The air was warm and smelled distinctly of Saint-Tropez, palm trees and clean asphalt and the rich drift of gasoline from the sports cars as they raced through the hills.

“It would be nice to go to Montreal,” she admitted to Leo. He was gliding up the pool again. Soon he would be right next to her. “I haven’t seen snow in a long time.”

“We can drive to the Alps tomorrow, if you like,” he said.

“You can suggest it to Marie,” Win said. “I think it might conflict with our reservation at Château de la Whatever.”

“God forbid,” Leo said, but didn’t push it. Win could feel herself becoming melancholy, and was irritated by it. Now he was close enough to give her the searching Leo stare, the one she’d had so many times before: in LA, when he was trying to talk her into ditching a party to go make their own fun; in Paris at New Year’s, when she said she didn’t believe in resolutions; in Singapore, when he suspected her of cheating at cards. Tonight she wasn’t in the mood for scrutiny.

“I think I’m done,” she announced. Leo didn’t argue. He followed her out of the pool and handed her a clean towel.

They were quiet on the way back down. Win couldn’t stop yawning. Her head was drooping, weighed down with wet hair. She wondered if she could let herself go to sleep without showering. She had an impulse to apologize, as if she’d somehow let Leo down.

“Sure you’re okay, Whitman?” he said, when they were almost at her door.

“Just something a producer said. It’s good, though, they like me.” She didn’t want to get into it tonight. Too much fuss over one word, and it would be easier to hold her own once contracts had been signed. Leo would take it seriously, offer to spread mean rumors, wonder if maybe Win should turn down the role altogether. He wouldn’t understand that biting her tongue was dull necessity, rather than indifference.

*  *  *

Once, nearly four years ago, Win had gone to an industry party and met a guy. Leo had been jetting around with a model who loathed Win, and Win herself had been sequestered in the West Village preparing for a role. Neel lived between New York and Mumbai; he was a journalist, and some of his longer pieces had been optioned for film. He and Win ended up spending most of the party on the balcony, not unlike the one at La Réserve, above the roar of Manhattan traffic instead of the sea.

Neel had a girlfriend in Mumbai, and Win had a movie to shoot. It was one of those strange, prickling nights, the tension between them as understood as if they’d said aloud ruefully, Ah well, maybe in another life. They didn’t kiss, but they leaned in close, the conversation jolting with energy. He touched her wrist, her shoulder. She knew she was looking at his mouth too much. They swapped stories in the way that first-generation immigrants do, familiar in their incongruity, Win’s mother’s blank distrust of her career and Neel’s disdain for the white yogis preaching spiritual awareness out in LA.

Win had thought the balcony was private, but it wasn’t, and the next day there were photos of Neel and Win together, leaning close, hands touching. What surprised her most was the tone of the headlines: settled, smug, a little bored. Only a few were outright racist—BOLLYWOOD BEAUTIES, read one; IS MAMA MATCHMAKING? demanded another—and most of them seemed almost pleased, as though at last Win had done something conventional. She’d texted Neel to apologize for the fuss and ask him whether he wanted her to reassure his girlfriend that nothing had happened. It was a pleasure, he replied, and no problem, Mahani is very understanding. They really want you to shut up and settle down with an Indian guy, huh?

It was a weird jolt, to be understood so clearly. To have someone put into words what Win mostly experienced as a nameless, simmering undercurrent.

“What happened to that one journalist guy,” Leo said when they met a few months later. The supermodel had ditched him unceremoniously once fashion week season was over, and he had shown up on Win’s set to play cards in her trailer and lick his wounds.

Win said, “Oh, that wasn’t a thing. People just got excited that I was finally back in my own lane. Settling down with an Indian guy at last.”

Leo laughed. “God, that’s so reductive. You weren’t even born in the same country. It’s almost funny, isn’t it?”

“Well, not really.” Win waved a hand when Leo went to apologize. She hesitated. “The worst part is—I had a really nice time with him,” she said. “He got it. I didn’t have to explain things to him. It was like…recognition.”

“Well,” Leo said. “You’re Whitman Tagore. If you want something like that, I’m sure you can get it.”

“Ha. Thanks,” Win said, and laid down her cards. “Your shuffle.”

She never saw Neel again, more by happenstance than deliberate avoidance. She didn’t mind it—she was used to dealing with these things alone, and the click of recognition she had felt with him was a passing thrill, something she had enjoyed but could live without. But every now and then she wished she had someone else to call, to get a second read on a word like exotic, to understand her discomfort without needing an explanation. Now she couldn’t even properly remember the producer’s phrasing, his exact words. Was it a compliment? Was she overthinking it?

*  *  *

They lingered at the door of her suite, wet hair dripping onto the plush carpet. Leo leaned against the doorjamb, halfway through a yawn when something came to him. “Oh, shit. Listen, I forgot to tell you—I got a weird call this evening.”

Win tensed. “A journalist?”

“No, it was...” He paused, looking almost embarrassed. “My mums, actually.” My mums was how Leo referred to his mother and her wife, who’d been together since Leo was a child. “There’s some kind of disaster going on with their friend Anya—don’t worry, disaster for them usually means somebody’s shih tzu got quarantined for sneezing at customs.”

“Ha,” Win said, trying to conceal her relief.

“The thing is, Anya’s already down here for work, so they want me to meet up with her on Saturday.”

“Of course,” Win said. “Just let Emil know what time you’re going.”

Leo nodded. “Right, I was just going to duck out for an hour, but—she wanted me to ask if you’ll come for brunch? She said she likes your aesthetic.”

Win cocked her head to the side. “You’re becoming very demanding.”

“I’ve always been demanding,” Leo said. “You’re just finding me harder to resist.”

“Maybe I’m just trying to keep you sweet and pliable,” Win said.

“Whitman,” Leo said, as if offended. “When have I ever not been sweet?”

Unspoken between them: Win already owed him much more than this. Through the years their respective debt to each other had become tangled and overlapping, so it was hard to keep track of who was in the black and who was in the red. Win remembered the relief she had felt when Marie turned to her, just before their jet was due to depart for Saint-Tropez, and said, Leo says he’ll be there. It was best to assume that a favor was always deserved.

“We’ll make it work,” she said.

“Thank you,” Leo said. “I’ll give Emil the details. Good night, Whitman.”

“Sweet dreams.”

“I expect so,” Leo said. Win laughed, and closed the door. She pictured him wandering back to his own room, changing into a dry shirt, collapsing into bed, and falling asleep without effort. When they’d shared a bed in the past, he always drifted off first. In sleep all the sharp lines of his face seemed to retreat, and he looked soft and pink-mouthed like a boy.

She didn’t have a shower. She lay on her bed. She thought about Leo’s shoulders cutting through the water.

“Jesus,” she said, and put her hand between her legs.

It was easy, most of the time, to flirt without letting the steady flicker of attraction between them leap up and catch. They used each other instead, flaunted the other on their arm when they needed a story, created new personalities and narratives and lives. Slowly, Win had realized that Leo was on her side, no matter what she asked, no matter how ridiculous he thought her latest project was. Leo was flippant and spoiled, but he was also loyal. He remembered what she’d done for him. Sometimes she thought he loved her for it. And he showed up every time she called.

Sometimes she didn’t have to call. When she was conspicuously snubbed at the Oscars several years back and Hollywood was rubbing its hands in glee, she opened her hotel door and found Leo lounging in the frame. He was sleepy-eyed and faintly hungover, and he said, “I heard you were in town. Do you want to go for a drive?”

There were hundreds of blogs detailing their impromptu road trip, catchy New York magazine write-ups about their “effortless sexiness” and Tumblr compilations of every Instagram photo and paparazzi shot. Win and Leo in Leo’s convertible flying through Tijuana; Win doubled over with laughter and banging her Corona on the table to prove a point in a forever-looping GIF; Leo squinting out at the Gulf of Mexico, captioned Which way to Alaska? But what Win mostly remembered was lying awake swatting mosquitoes and talking drowsily as they outran awards season and the winter. “You’ll get them next time,” Leo said. He was always so complacent in his belief in her. Most of the time it annoyed her, like he didn’t understand what she was up against, and then once in a while it would hit her hard, the lazy way he stacked all of his bets on her, his quiet faith.

The world thought Win had the perfect love story with the perfect man, passionate and devoted, always breathless, always in the honeymoon stage, stormy and on-again, off-again but still that strange, magical thing: true love. But Win had something better than that. She had a friend, and a secret.