But Harcourt didn’t care. I saw that. He looked totally unperturbed. He stood there smiling and then followed calmly as the girl walked us out and asked us to wait by a car while she escorted the others with a big smile and happy banter to a big bus. I saw her looking back at us. I saw her bitching about us. I figured Mademoiselle skinny bitch thought we were getting an undeserved privilege by being driven in a car instead of in the big bus along with all the others. I didn’t realize I was lucky. That I should have milked this superior treatment for all it was worth. That I should have just reacted like a snob as Harcourt did. But I was stupid that way. I thought everyone must like me. I thought everyone must be unconditionally warm and supportive. Yep. You said it. I was a dunce.

But Harcourt had the right attitude. He didn’t give a crap. Then again Harcourt had had more experience than myself. And he was a giant in his own right, both professionally and socially (not to mention physically). He had lived. He had lived contentedly and fully. I hadn’t even begun. My life was crap. So for me, this was a big deal. For me being part of the crowd, being respected, being treated like a human being, well it was all a huge and crucial step upward. For him it didn’t matter. So while he seemed to look upon all this, on all these people, on all this hysteria, with the bemused detachment of a medieval pope watching his armies being shredded, I looked upon it with the urgent hatred of a witch about to be burned at the stake.

No sir. I wasn’t calm at all. Even as I stood near the car, I was a nervous throbbing pulsating wreck of burning nasty filthy hateful evil thoughts. I was envious. I was angry. I was sad that the skinny girl hadn’t been so nice. I felt pitiful that I was so powerless and invisible. But I also felt lucky. I felt privileged. I felt excited. It was crazy. It was like my nerves were dancing a one-eyed jig on a madly swinging tightrope that was on fire.

Finally the skinny girl disappeared completely and a larger woman arrived. She smiled.

Hi, she said. I’m Caro. Sorry about the delay. I was getting in one last smoke!

No sweat, said Harcourt bowing his head. I’m Henri and this is Mia. Nice meeting you.

No sweat? Did Harcourt just say no sweat? Of course it was in French but it was slang all right. Where the hell did he get off treating me like scum and using expressions like no sweat with this large woman he didn’t even know? It made me sick. Not to mention gobsmacked at how easily he had morphed into this ultra-hip Henri guy. Jesus. I felt like crap now, thinking that even here he was taking the lead. That I was sitting here frozen with formality while he was all Henri and and coochy coo.

Anyway we got into the car. And I sat in the back feeling like congealed horseshit while Harcourt rode with Caro in front. And throughout the ride to Cannes, they chatted easily and affably like old pals while I maintained a pained idiotic silence. Thus I began to take in the scenery. I decided it was better than talking. So there, I thought. So there!

The scenes were depressing though. At first the highway was beautiful and hilly, with a creek that we drove over and lots of green trees on either side, along with pink clay houses on distant hills and furiously colored flowers hanging down from overpasses and billboards. Then the highway ended and the road widened, flattened and became uglier and more banal as we approached the suburbs of Cannes or l’intérieur des terres as they were called. Inland towns in other words, that weren’t nearly as wealthy as Cannes. Here there were large franchise stores and franchise restaurants, franchise ramshackled houses and blaring franchise car radios. Then the roads narrowed, and classy pines made their appearance as well as charming houses, charming streets, charming cars and charming people. I began to see money, vacation homes, and finally caught the smell and sounds of the sea. It caused a subtle but sizable shift in my heart rate.

Yep, there was nothing quite as magical as the sea, I thought. Nothing quite as spiritual. No wonder the sea was where the goddess lived, both for the Greeks and the Hindus. But here there were no goddesses. Here there were the inimitable French and their inimitably French habits. I looked out at them. Bringing home baguettes, walking back from the beach, walking children home from school. The wealthy people of the Mediterranean, I thought. La côte d’Azur. It was a thrill, for sure. I felt undeserving again, like I shouldn’t be here. Like I was too poor or brown or something. I felt exactly as I had when I landed in London for the first time and wondered what on earth I was doing among all these white people. That’s how I felt.

And yet there was tremendous excitement coursing through my veins precisely for this very reason. Because I didn’t deserve it. Because I was here nonetheless. That I had been asked for, not just by Claudie, but by Paris Plus whose top producers had insisted I be recruited. That felt delicious. Yes it felt superlative. So in spite of my nerves that were doing the cha cha cha and my heart that was crooning the deep country blues, I knew another part of me leaped and surged with hot delicious excitement. After all, I thought. The fact that I was here seemed to prove what I felt deep down. That really, in spite of all current appearances, I was made for the good life.

We were to go to the hotel first, have lunch and then make the obligatory (and much dreaded) visit to the Dominguez hotel in Cannes, where we would meet the Paris Plus folks and register our presence. Then we would go to the Palais des festivals where we would watch the rehearsal for the opening ceremony and then interpret for it later this evening.

So I suggest you take your evening wear with you right away, the woman said.

Well I’m already wearing my pair of sequined underwear, said Harcourt.

The woman chuckled.

I don’t think they care about that, she said. All they want is to see your tuxedo.

Oh dear, said Harcourt. Well then I will have to buy a jacket.

I was listening with only half an ear. But I thought of that phrase evening wear. They had told us we would need evening wear. My version of evening wear was a long skirt I wore with a bulky sweatery thing. I didn’t own anything more eveningy than that. Anything more elegant, sensual or figure-hugging. Not that I had a life that involved elegant, sensual or figure-hugging evenings so why the hell would I have evening wear? I thought. Indeed.

So I continued to look out of my car window. Finally, our car wound up a small street and entered a small circular driveway. In the center was an island of plants and flowers, and all around, a wall of rock. I was puzzled. It didn’t look like a hotel, I thought. But of course, it wasn’t a hotel. Per se.