The View Was Exhausting by Mikaella Clements

Chapter Eight

Sparkling wine and roses, to mark the end of the shoot. Oat milk lattes in the cars on the way back, while Marie briefed them on the guests at the Chavanne party. A bowl of quinoa salad at La Réserve, bites stolen between swipes of Matthew’s brush. Then pink Bellinis as they glided arm in arm onto the Chavanne yacht, and a revolving stream of waitstaff to refill their drinks as soon as they emptied. It was only when Win and Leo set their glasses down and escaped to the dance floor that Win was able to catch a breath, without anybody pressing the next thing into her hands.

This year’s theme was Cherrybomb! and, as always, Zacharias had shown a dogged commitment to the aesthetic. Waiters with pouty red lips were dipping glacé cherries in vodka and hand-feeding them to passing guests. The upper deck had been turned into a cherry orchard complete with several full-grown trees. There were gilt-edged vending machines dispensing cans of something called Cherry Chavanne by the bar, and a mirrored wall to the dance floor was hung with pink lipsticks on gold chains. A few lip prints were already smeared across the glass. The boat was sailing up the coast to Château de Montfort, a renovated castle where the after-party would unfold. Win wished she could rest her forehead on Leo’s shoulder without looking like she was already drunk.

“This feels like the first time we’ve been alone today,” she said.

“This is a pretty liberal definition of alone.”

They were surrounded on all sides by guests and their entourages. They would need to do the rounds later. There were a few important producers here, rubbing shoulders with the pop stars and actors and European royalty, everyone taking the opportunity to shake hands and pose for photos before the night got started. Zacharias Chavanne was wearing a three-piece suit, meticulously sequined with tiny glittering cherries, sighing about how gorgeous everyone was and adjusting supermodels’ collars with pursed lips. Win’s team had gone understated, a white minidress and a silk red bomber jacket that draped over her shoulders, a few sizes too big. Versace had sent Leo a tux with Mon Chéri emblazoned across the back in fluffy pink fur. People kept reaching out to stroke the words as they passed.

“It might be as alone as we’re going to get tonight,” Win said. She took a deep breath. “You wanted to talk to me.”

Leo looked away. “I’m sorry for pushing. I know you were busy.”

“I don’t care about that,” Win said. She waited.

“I don’t think we should do this here,” Leo said.

“Do what?”

“I—” Leo faltered. “It’s just private. I don’t want to talk when there’s eighty other people in the room.”

“We can go somewhere else.” Win stepped back. “Let’s go outside. It’s quieter there.”

Leo didn’t look convinced, but he followed her all the same. Most guests were still circulating inside, and in the cherry orchard they could feel more alone than they were. Laughter filtered out through the leaves. The sunset cast them in glowing pink, and the air felt too soft, like the calm before the storm. They found a stretch of railing toward the stern of the boat and leaned over, watching the white path of waves as they cut through the water.

“I hate these parties,” Leo said. “Why don’t we just take a few selfies and leave?”

“I don’t want to miss the fireworks,” Win said, though she knew what he meant. It was a tiresome crush of false enthusiasm, the endless chorus of ohmygodhihowareyou, and only a matter of time before the coke-fueled pop stars and leering producers found them. But Win had looked forward to weathering it with Leo as they always did, exchanging amused glances over the shoulders of weeping boys, rounding up Riva and her friends, and sneaking off to one of the cabins below deck with a case of champagne, a bag of edibles, and a stolen tray of cake. Right now, Leo still wouldn’t look at her.

“Do you remember that night at the Met?” he murmured.

Win shook her head. “God, don’t.”

“That was a good party.”

He meant the night three years ago, when they’d run into each other at the Met Gala. Leo had come alone and Win had brought Adam, a comedian she was seeing at the time, but he’d wandered off to admire the exhibit and—Win suspected—smoke in the bathroom when Leo came over, friendly, to lean over the back of her chair.

“I like the outfit,” Leo had said, smiling at her. The theme was Golden Ages, and Win was draped in heavily embroidered gold fashioned to look like armor, brocade plates around her shoulders and the suggestion of a shield slung over her back. Win stood up to hug him, taking in the clean hit of Leo’s aftershave, the hint of stubble when he kissed her cheek. They were moving wordlessly away from the bright lights, where they could talk properly, when Jack Caplan, once a heartthrob and now a seedy older actor with a string of shiny twenty-year-old girlfriends, came storming over.

“Hey, Milanowski!” he called. “Milanowski! You think you can just fuck my girlfriend?”

Leo looked up, startled. Win rolled her eyes.

“Oh, come on,” she said. “Leo wouldn’t do something like that.”

“Uhhh,” Leo said. “What’s your girlfriend’s name?”

Win started to laugh despite herself, Leo grinning guiltily at her.

“You think it’s fucking funny?” Jack said, voice ugly. “You think that’s a really good joke? I’ll show you a fucking good joke—”

“I mean, this is already pretty funny,” Leo told Win, relaxed and amused as ever, which meant he missed it when Jack lunged toward him, fist raised, face dark with rage.

Win, who had been eyeing Jack with dislike, did not miss it. She moved forward on instinct and shoved him, hard and solid, one heavily jeweled ring catching in the flimsy silk of his toga-style shirt and tearing across his chest.

“That’s enough,” she snapped.

“This doesn’t have anything to do with you, princess,” Jack jeered. “Stay out of my way.” He barreled forward again, but he was wasted and stupid and Win had spent the past two years starring in a superhero franchise, working out early in the mornings and late in the evenings. She took another step and shoved Jack again, and this time he stumbled backward, flailed for a moment, and then tripped right over the edge of a mosaicked fountain, falling with a heavy splash. Silence broke around them. Jack gaped up at her before his face twisted in rage.

“You fucking bitch,” he said, and launched himself out of the fountain and toward her, at which point Leo swung smoothly in the way and punched him in the face.

There was no video (“Thank god,” Marie had said, looking pale, at the same time Emil said, “Too bad”), but the incident was widely reported and discussed, especially when a photo emerged of Jack with the first beginnings of a black eye, dazed and furious, and Win and Leo blurry in the background laughing into each other’s faces. More photos continued to surface over the next few days as Marie desperately tried to do damage control, revealing the truth of the night. They’d been so pleased with each other, high on adrenaline and their own daring, slouching through the party like they owned it, arms slung around each other. “You fucking idiot,” Win had said, smiling up at him, “can’t you keep it in your pants for, like, half an hour?” Leo had shrugged. “Didn’t know they were exclusive,” he said, and put her hand to his mouth, kissed her palm, told her she was better than a knight in shining armor. Win never remembered to find Adam again. She didn’t even think of him, spending the dregs of the gala swaying with Leo in a low-key slow dance, half messing around, half…not, with Leo’s hands on her hips, Win’s fingers hooked through his belt loops. Their mouths a breath apart.

The media was delighted. Win was a diva, she was dangerous, she’d grown up doing who knows what in the rough parts of London. She became the crazy voicemail girl again—unstable, untamed—except now she’d corrupted America’s golden boy in the process. People were worried for Leo.

“This is highly embarrassing,” Marie said. “If you’d just let Leo fight him on his own, we wouldn’t be in this mess. I could have made it look like a romantic gesture.” She considered, then added reluctantly, “It’s quite an impressive black eye.”

*  *  *

“That was a nightmare,” Win said.

“I shouldn’t have put that picture up,” Leo said ruefully, because a week after the party, when the gossip was just starting to die down, he’d posted a photo of Win in her gold armor, looking directly at the camera, hand out like she was reaching for him, pleased and possessive, her eyes lined with black. He captioned it My hero. “Marie was so mad.”

“You have no idea.”

She didn’t tell him about the private conversation between her and Marie, at dawn on the fire escape of the hotel, hunched over their coffees. Is this something I need to worry about, Whitman? Marie wasn’t accusatory. It wasn’t her job to dictate Win’s private life, only to control how and when it was revealed to the world. Win’s no was firm.

“One day she’ll forgive me,” Leo said.

“Well, you’ve been very well behaved this trip,” Win said, and frowned when Leo winced. “Leo?”

It had gotten dark while they were standing there. Inside, a Runaways cover band had started up and were already being matched shout for shout by the crowd. The orchard was filling up with partiers eager for smoke and gossip. No one was sucking on cherries anymore—instead bottles of red liquor were being passed from group to group, tossed carelessly aside when they were empty, and Win had to lean in close to keep her focus.

“I don’t know how to say this,” Leo began.

“Leo!” a stranger yelped, not for the first time that night, but Leo swung around at the sound, and then the man was shoving himself between them, wrapping himself around Leo in a greedy hug. Leo hugged him back with startled, stilted affection.

“Alex?”

“Who else?” Alex said. He was a tall, wiry guy with straggly blond hair, underdressed for the party in a brown leather jacket and wide-framed glasses. Once he and Leo had untangled themselves, he turned to Win and held out his hand.

“Right,” Leo said. “This is Win.”

“Your date!” Alex said.

“Kind of, yeah.” Leo glanced at Win. “Alex is a friend from LA.”

“This is crazy, right? Like five people have already asked if I’m selling coke.”

Win gave Alex a sharp once-over. He seemed to be a typical Silver Lake hipster. A little drunk, maybe, but harmless. She thought he had decided to flout the Cherrybomb! dress code until she noticed his worn T-shirt, a 1960s motif reading BAN THE BOMB. “I bet he’s been complaining all night,” Alex said, jerking his thumb at Leo. “Oh, parties bore me. I don’t care for fireworks.” His imitation was so close to the real thing that it shocked Win into a laugh.

“He wanted us to take a few selfies and leave,” she told Alex.

“Lenny,” Alex said, mock distraught. “You never take selfies with me.”

“You’re not very photogenic,” Leo said.

Alex sighed, resigned, catching Win’s gaze and looking rueful. “It’s hard when you don’t meet his high standards.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Win said, which earned her a laugh from Alex, but Leo was stony-faced. He had let go of her hand.

“What are you doing here? Who else is with you?”

“Hae got us invites from the label,” Alex said. “The European tour starts in a week anyway, so we thought, why not? We only landed a few hours ago. Lila and Hae are still sleeping off the jet lag, you know what they’re like. They probably won’t hit the after-party until four a.m.”

“Did you follow me out here?” Leo asked. Win tried to touch his hand, but he brushed her away.

Alex seemed taken aback by the question. “Of course not. We didn’t even know you would be here. It doesn’t really seem like your speed.” He gestured around at the crowd. Beside them two girls were posing for photos, passing a diamond ring back and forth between their teeth. One of the trees had already been knocked over by a couple making out against it, and now they were rolling around in its wreckage, while inside the band screamed on and on. It seemed exactly like Leo’s speed to Win, but maybe there were other sides to him, other Leos Win had never met.

“Sorry,” Leo said, although he looked harried, as if Alex were an annoying fan, demanding something of him. “It’s good to see you. We’re just busy right now.”

He put his arm around Win’s waist. The gesture felt awkward, because, Win guessed, he didn’t really want to do it.

“I get it.” Alex nodded. “I don’t want to interrupt any secret Hollywood business.” He threw his hands up in a showy gesture. Win felt tension slip through her, iron in her spine, and she looked around reflexively to see if anyone was paying attention to them. Immediately she locked eyes with a smirking casting manager, a man who had labeled her a “high and mighty cockshrinker” a few years before. He wasn’t the only one watching them. She forced her smile.

“I’ll see you at the after-party, though?” Alex asked.

“Maybe,” Leo said. “Or I’ll call you tomorrow, okay?”

“Better call Lila. My phone’s been dead for a week.”

“Sure,” Leo said as he basically stage-managed Alex off of the deck. He gave Alex a solid pat on the back that was almost a shove. Alex looked a little hurt. Leo turned his back, his arm tight and demanding around Win’s waist, and started walking.

“Nice to meet you,” Win said over her shoulder to Alex. Alex raised a hand, watching them fold into the crowd.

Leo pulled her another couple of meters before Win disentangled herself as unobtrusively as she could. Smiling, keeping her lips close together, she said, “Leo, what the hell?”

“Sorry.” Leo pressed two knuckles against his eyebrow, drew in a sharp breath. “God. Sorry. I wasn’t expecting to see—”

He was actually starting to look upset, and Win caught his hand in midair, linked her fingers through his.

“Hey,” she said. “It’s okay. Come on, let’s go somewhere a little quieter.” She pulled him through the crowd. Inside the dancing had gotten dirty, desperate, and hands came grabbing for them. Cans of Cherry Chavanne were rolling between their feet. They took a door on the far side and ran into Zacharias himself, leaning against a locked porthole and looking bored. “Babies,” he was calling to a group of models, “babies, please, give the captain back and nobody gets in trouble.” Beyond him were stairs, and the way down to a blessedly quiet lower deck where there were only a few other people, huddled in circles, the click of lighters in the dark. If they were lucky, they might have five minutes’ peace.

Win turned to Leo. His restless energy had infected her, left her on edge, her heart racing. “Do you want me to talk to security?”

Leo let out a surprised bark of laughter. “No.” He passed his hand over his face. He looked very tired. “No. Sorry. He’s fine. I just wasn’t expecting to see him.”

Win hesitated. Secret Hollywood business, Alex had said. She steeled herself, then asked, “Does he know about us? The…truth about us?”

“I—no,” Leo said. “Maybe he’s picked up on some of it, but he wouldn’t…You don’t need to worry. It’s not about that. It’s just a little— I’m not sure about some of his friends.”

“Sure about what?” Win said. Leo shrugged. They were quiet while Win tried to fumble her way through the confused fog of champagne and moonlight and her own apprehension to understand what was upsetting Leo. Finally she said, “I know you don’t like lying to your friends.”

Leo shook his head. “It’s not that.”

“You wanted to tell me something,” Win said. Leo’s lips were pressed tight together. He wasn’t meeting her gaze. “Leo.”

“It’s…” Leo cleared his throat. “I don’t know how to start.”

That was when Riva came teetering down the stairs, calling their names. She was in a red leather two-piece and flanked on either side by long-legged, beautiful girls. She had to lean down to hug them, cooing as she ran her hands over Leo’s jacket. Each of her friends wanted to hug Leo, too, and one of them demanded a round of photos, Win and Leo caught tight between them like rabbits in a snare. They smelled like expensive perfume and whisky and sweat. On the deck above them a fight had broken out, and Win could hear the grunts of men throwing punches and tables being upended.

“Uh-oh,” one of the girls said, not sounding very concerned. “That’s probably about me. We should go and stop them.”

Riva went with them, all of them doing an admirable job of stalking upstairs in their heels.

“Leo,” Win said, “just fucking tell me.”

Leo was pale. “Look, I hung out with Alex and his band for a few months earlier this year. We were friends but it ended weirdly and I’d rather not see them.”

He looked away the moment he’d said it. Win watched him, waiting for more, but he only shrugged, staring out at the black sea. Upstairs Win could hear joyful cries of “Quentin, stop!” Win knew Leo was still holding back, and she had the sinking feeling that she’d let him down, and let Shift down, but she drew in a breath, taking his hand and pulling it toward her again. There would be time to talk later and tease out the real problem, whatever it was; there was always time to talk.

“All right,” she said. “That sucks. But look, we don’t really have to be at the after-party. We’ll just get off the boat with everyone else, and Emil can have a car waiting. We’ll be there for five minutes and then leave. We don’t have to talk to your—friends. Alex said they probably wouldn’t even get there until four, right?”

“Right,” Leo said, nodding fervently.

“Everything will be okay,” Win said, and put her other hand up to touch his wrist. She curled her fingers around his, resting their hands on the rails.

“Yeah,” Leo said, and managed a stuttering laugh. “Are you reading my palm? Does it say so there?”

“I don’t know how to do that,” Win said. She wanted to distract him from his panic. “But maybe I’ll read your gaudy jewelry.” She slid her nail over the silver thumb ring Leo wore. “This says that you went to a fancy boarding school, and still attend reunions every couple of years, and laugh about it but secretly feel very fond of it. I bet you refer to the headmaster as a good old boy.”

“Amazing,” Leo said. His shoulders relaxed. “Truly your psychic powers are unparalleled.”

“Thanks.” Win touched the elegant gold ring that snaked up in a spiral from the base of his finger to his knuckle. “Here’s your India trip for you. It opened up your life, it changed your world, and now you have something tacky to remember it by.”

Leo managed a grin. “Actually, that’s an old one of my mum’s that I found a couple of years ago. I used to have a ring from India, but it turned my finger green.”

“I’m sorry. That was a misstep.”

“It’s okay. Do you want to go to India together? Think how much fun you’ll have telling me about all the stuff I’m doing wrong.”

Win wrinkled her nose. “I’ll pass.” Going to India was tied up in childhood trips with her parents, the crush of hot cities and dozens of strangers waiting to greet them as family, and she wasn’t sure how she’d fit Leo into those memories. Most of those family ties had dissolved now, anyway. Win couldn’t remember her relatives’ names, the places they lived. She took his other hand instead, touching the gold ring, and Leo turned his hand over and let her run her fingers over his palm, skimming down to touch the pulse in his wrist. His forearms were tanned. Her mouth felt dry.

“This one’s nice,” she said, touching the delicate silver ring that sat on his index finger. “Pretty.”

“Hannah made it for me. She went through a metalworking phase.”

Win tapped another ring that sat under Hannah’s, a bronze band with a greasy pink gem pressed in the center like a dead bug. It glimmered like broken glass. “And this one?”

“Don’t actually remember,” Leo said. His voice was strange. Win looked up at him and swallowed; his eyes were fixed on her but something about him was closed off, as if he had pulled down the shutters to keep her out. “I think I picked it up in Vegas.”

“Appropriate.”

If Leo would just tell her what he was thinking, then at least she would be able to react. If it was a problem, they could solve it. If it was about the two of them, they could talk about it. If she knew what he wanted, she could give it to him, or let him down gently. But she wasn’t used to Leo not talking to her. Leo was happy to piss her off and happy to fight with her; she wasn’t used to being shut out like this. Her heart was pounding in her throat, fluttery and panicked.

There was another round of commotion on the upper deck, and then a shriek as someone—presumably Quentin—was shoved overboard. He fell right past Win and Leo, but the drop at this end wasn’t so far and he landed in the water with a splash, coming up spluttering. His nose was bleeding and he turned back up to his adversary, shaking a pathetic fist. “Fuck you, Antoine!” he cried, and behind them the staff came pattering down to calmly fish him out, tossing down a life preserver.

“You really know how to pick a party,” Leo said.

“You can talk,” Win said. She realized she was being stupid, and turned back. “I just…I want you to know.” She spoke slowly, like she was feeling her way across unstable ground, one foot scuffing forward before the other. “I know this is maybe not the right setting, but I want you to know, you can tell me anything.”

Leo’s voice was rough. “I can?”

“Yes,” Win said, “and we’ll sort it out, whatever it is, you and me.” She looked up at him. “Sometimes it feels like everyone’s either lying to me or telling me what I want to hear, but it’s not like that with us. You showed me there are still people I can trust. You can trust me, too.”

Leo looked stricken, turning away.

“Whatever you need, whenever you need it,” she said, and Leo snapped back to her as though she’d tugged on a leash, his eyes dark. Win swallowed. “That’s the deal, isn’t it?”

Leo nodded, mute.

“Then everything’s okay,” Win said.

They stood next to each other in the dark beneath the pinpricks of the stars. Leo opened his mouth and closed it, frowned and tried again, and then gave up. Win’s heart was beating, too hard.

“What?” she said. “What is it?”

Very quietly, Leo said, “Do you want to do the Titanic thing?” and above them, the fireworks took over the sky.