Emilie was on her way back to the hotel in Juan Les Pins where she was staying for the duration of the festival. When she boarded the train at Cannes, she went upstairs and found a seat by the window. Plugging in her earphones, she sat back to scroll down the list of songs when she noticed the man sitting in one of the seats opposite her.
Emilie stretched in her white lace skirt and turned up the music.
The song rose in a crescendo of guitars: Emilie turned to stare out the window. Out in the bay the sea was flat around the oyster beds and the scattered boats.
Noticing, in her reflection, her bra was just showing out of the top of her t-shirt, Emilie pulled the pale blue cardigan across her middle. As she did, she sensed the gaze of her fellow passenger.
Emilie got off the train at Juan Les Pins. She crossed the main road and headed down to the sea front.
The man from the train was following her at a distance when she turned into the side alley where her hotel was located.
The hotel was on the first floor, above a patisserie.
Emilie went to get her key and climbed to the second floor.
Emilie was lying on the bed, listening to the song, when the passenger appeared in the doorway.
“Posso?”
Emilie did not bother to answer; instead, she turned her back and pulled up the white lace skirt over her cowboy boots.
Emilie felt his hands round her middle as she lifted herself off the bed.
“Quando ti vedo di nuovo?” he said, as he lay, exhausted, over her. “When will I see you again?”
“We’ll talk about that when I sign the contract.”
“You should know,” he said. “You’re the fucking producer.”
*
“I can’t believe that really happens in the film business,” said George. “It’s all a lot of noise to make it sound more glamorous.”
“Trust me,” said Giorgio. “This is exactly how it happens in Italy. Either you have to know someone or you have to sleep with them.”
“Surely it’s changed, now we are in the time of Me Too.”
“It’s Italy. Some things never change.”