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Cate opened the heavy sliding door and stepped out onto the hardwood floor that covered the vast, open space of the terrace. After the almost uncomfortable chill of her air conditioned suite, the warm air enveloped her like a welcome blanket on a cold, winter night. Closing her eyes against the bright sun, she reached for her sunglasses, that were in the right pocket of her white, terrycloth bathrobe.
Walking up to the railing that would protect her from falling off the top of the Carlton Hotel, she took in the view of the Mediterranean. The late afternoon sun turned the colour of the waves into a bright blue.
“The colour of your eyes …”
Involuntarily, Cate turned around, as if the woman who spoke those words was still standing behind her, even now, three years after they had been here together. But of course there was no one there. She shrugged, trying to shake off the image of the slender young woman, dressed in a white lace frock, her black hair styled in a Victorian Gothic look that emphasised her otherworldliness. Cate had hated her own dress, a black, transparent top on a frilly black skirt, an uncomfortably stiff jacket draped around her shoulders. Alexander McQueen, no less, but she had felt exposed and out of place in black at the sunny boulevard where the Carol photo call was scheduled.
She vehemently disliked these moments, when the keen and sometimes downright rude photographers ordered her about to enable them to take the perfect shot. Of course, Todd had been there with her, making her laugh with his tongue in cheek jokes about the absurdity of it all. But it had been Rooney’s quiet presence that had pulled her through her ordeal.
Cate knew that her shy co-star hated these public appearances as much as she did. But somehow Rooney had been able to hide her discomfort and to even graciously yield to the unremitting flow of questions and requests. Aware of Cate’s barely concealed irritation, she had lightly touched her arm.
“Relax, Cate … it will be over soon.”
Her dimpled smile had disarmed Cate immediately. She shrugged.
“Well, I guess you’re right … “
Cate used her thumb to gently stroke Rooney’s small hand that was still grazing the skin of her right arm. It was a very intimate gesture, that surprised them both. Cate felt how an unwelcome blush slowly coloured her cheeks. “Ask her”, she thought. “Ask her now.”
“Would you please join me for a drink in my suite afterwards?”
Slightly taken aback by this unexpected request, Rooney’s green eyes sought Cate’s intense gaze. They were standing close and she could feel a growing excitement in her stomach. It made Rooney aware of something that had up till then been well obscured. “My god, I feel attracted to her,” she realized. It had been there, of course, all the time. But she had never had the courage to give in to this physical reaction, that more than surpassed the admiration she had always felt for the woman she considered most of all to be her role model. She tried to hide her anguish behind a reserved smile, but her answer betrayed her eagerness.
“Yes, yes I would.”
“Well, that’s that.”
They both laughed at the ease with which they had fallen back on those well-known phrases. Their eyes still locked, they turned as one to face the line of greedy photographers one more time.
______________
Cate’s eyes followed a luxury yacht that was making its way to the Cannes harbour. She sighed, envying the people on board. When was the last time she had been able to enjoy the freedom of even a few leisurely hours at sea? She knew she was ungrateful: never had her career been so successful. In her mind she let the diversity of projects pass that had established her status as the leading actress of the moment: Carol, of course, but also The Present, Manifesto, Thor and, soon to be released, Ocean’s 8. Her work for the UN Refugee Agency made it possible to share her political convictions with the world. She had become one of the prominent spokeswomen of #MeToo. And here she was now, Madame la Présidente, chair of the Cannes jury.
Yesterday evening she had dined with the other members of the jury and today they had joined her for the official photo call at the Boulevard de la Croisette. She was proud of this diverse group of very talented women and men. For the first time women dominated the jury and she was certain their choices would be different; they would certainly be more aware of the talents of those who did not fit into the traditional mould of the white male. Moreover, Cannes offered an ideal platform to highlight her views on equal payment and sexual harassment. She smiled, Madame la Présidente, indeed.
She reached for her phone that she felt vibrating in the left pocket of her robe. A short message from Hylda, her agent, (“Oh, Cate …”) contained a link to the website of a glamour magazine. After she clicked on the link she entered a page that already contained pictures shot at this afternoon’s photo call.
“Jesus”.
The look in Kristen Stewarts’ eyes left nothing to imagine. The smile and intense gaze with which she looked up to her betrayed adoration and, perhaps, something more? Cate’s eyes were drawn to a second picture, where Kristen was shown while she was unabashedly looking at her cleavage, that was only partly covered by the nude coloured jacket of her Stella McCartney suit. Cate was acutely aware of the fact that Kristen loved women and was very open about it. It did not bother her at all and she was in fact somewhat flattered by the obvious interest of the attractive, much younger actress. She had been looking forward to working with Kristen, knowing that she, though only 27, already had made her debut as a director as well.
The other young actress on her jury had been a Bond girl. But Léa Seydoux was much more. She represented French film nobility. But most of all Cate had been fascinated by her performance as Emma in the notorious La Vie d’Adèle. She had won the Palme d’Or together with Adèle Exarchopoulos, the year before Carol was screened at Cannes. Léa had modelled Emma, an artist who seduces the youthful schoolgirl Adèle, after the young Marlon Brando. A brilliant idea. Watching the movie, Cate had to admit she was fascinated by the seductive masculinity of the young, blue haired woman. And today, at the photo call, she had been very much aware of Léa’s presence. She scrolled through the photos until she found a picture of herself, smiling and standing too close to the French actress.
Cate smiled. Wasn’t it ironic? Here she was, at nearly 50, the respectable mother of four, in the company of two seductive and talented young women, both eager to work with her, one of whom openly made it clear that her interest in Madame la Présidente could well be more than platonic.
Three years ago, Rooney had been less direct, although the pictures of a star struck Kristen seemed to mirror many of the images of a swooning Rooney made then. In 2015, Cannes most of all proved to be a cheerful reunion for the cast and crew of Carol. After all, more than a year had passed between filming in Cincinnati and the premiere here at the Cannes Festival.
But it was especially being with Rooney again that had made her happy. It did not take long for her to notice that her young co-star had changed. At Cincinnati and also before that, when she presented Cate with The Cinema Vanguard Award at Santa Barbara, she had been very shy. “An awestruck superfan”, as she had called herself during her speech at the ceremony. During the filming of Carol she had even given in to her fear for her idol, because it worked for the dynamic between Carol and Therese. Most of the time she seemed to avoid being alone with Cate. Still, during their scenes together, there had been that immense, almost tangible chemistry between them. And at Cannes Rooney, for the first time, had been able to visibly relax in Cate’s presence.
Cate frowned. That chemistry had been clearly visible on screen and during the many interviews, photoshoots and press moments they had to endure before and after Carol premiered at Cannes. It had enchanted the audience and led to many, sometimes downright insolent, questions by the journalists. And when she involuntarily bumped into Rooney in front of the cameras in a crowded corridor and accidentally touched her breast, the incident went viral.
“You grabbed my boop!”, Rooney yelled at her, smiling broadly.
“I know!”, she had yelled back, highly amused.
She was used by then to frequently touch Rooney, although never in such an intimate way. During the shoots and on the red carpet they had often held hands or had their arms around each other. The contrast between Rooney’s petite physique and her own, tall frame was noticeable, of course. But somehow their contrasting bodies were in total accord. Feeling Rooney next to her felt so familiar and safe, in a way. Eventually it had made her aware of a growing whish to get to know this reticent young woman better. It was then that she had asked her for a drink. A private drink at her suite.
Craving for a wodka, Cate had poured them both a generous amount. Bringing their glasses together for an informal toast, their gazes met. Rooney’s face betrayed no emotions, but her eyes showed a sentiment that was not hard to read. Confused, Cate abruptly broke their gaze and walked through the open sliding door to the terrace. Rooney didn’t follow her. Outside, Cate took a deep breath. Her hand shaking, she brought the glass to her mouth. What was going on here? She was no fool. Rooney’s eyes clearly had shown desire, something she had not bargained for. Or had she? Cate felt her body react to this thought. Shaking her head, she leaned against the railing of the terrace.
The sound of footsteps made her aware of Rooney, who now stood behind her. Stubbornly keeping her eyes focused on the sight of the Mediterranean in front of her, Cate tried to act casual.
“Look at how blue the sea is.”
She knew this was no time for small talk, but what else could she say? Rooney’s answer came instantaneously.
“The colour of your eyes.”
She felt Rooney’s hand on her shoulder now, gently forcing her to turn and at last face the young woman.
“Cate …”
Cate felt an unfamiliar shyness, when, once again, she looked into those beautiful, emerald eyes.
“Can I kiss you?”
There was a slight hesitation. But then Cate slowly nodded and she cautiously brought her mouth to Rooney’s waiting lips. Their kiss was tentative at first, almost virginal. They had kissed before, of course, as Carol and Therese, making love at the hotel room in Waterloo. Bur this was different. Soon Cate wrapped her arms around Rooney, pressing her against her own body. Rooney moaned softly, her mouth becoming more possessive as she pressed her tongue against Cate’s lips, that opened willingly. What was left of their initial hesitance, now turned into a passionate, all devouring kiss, that in the end left them both breathless.
It was Cate who broke off their overwhelming embrace. Panting, she tried to make sense of what was happening.
“My God, what are we doing?”
Not answering, Rooney hid her face against Cate’s shoulder, savouring the warmth of her beautiful body, the scent that was so exclusively hers. Holding her close, Cate rested her chin on Rooney’s head, ruining her carefully constructed braid.
“Darling,”, Cate mumbled, her lips grazing the soft, black hair.
Rooney’s hands fumbled with the little hooks on the rear of Cate’s dress and she carefully started to unhook them. Soon, her fingers touched the bare skin of Cate’s back, softly caressing it, making the lanky woman in her arms shudder.
This time it was Cate’s frantic mouth that sought Rooney’s, biting her lips before she kissed her with abandon. Bringing her hands to the back of Cate’s neck, Rooney pulled the taller woman’s face to her, desperate to bring her even closer. Panting, she positioned her right leg between Cate’s legs and slowly moved it to generate friction. Cate moaned, dazed by the mounting desire caused by Rooney’s touch. Never before had a woman kissed her like this.
“Madame Blanchett?”
Startled by the sudden sound of a male voice coming from inside the suite, they instantly let go of each other. Rooney stepped aside, trying to stay out of sight of the person that had entered Cate’s room.
“Fuck …”, Cate mumbled, turning to the sliding door where an elderly man, impeccably dressed in the uniform of the Carlton, materialized.
“I’ve brought the items you requested, Madame. I have left them in the bathroom.”
Inwardly cursing, Cate remembered having ordered some extra towels. But why bring them now, for God’s sake? She managed a weak smile.
“Ah, yes … very well. Merci beaucoup.”
The man nodded, then turned to leave the suite. Holding her breath, Cate watched his retreating back. Had he seen anything? And if so, would he tell anyone? She felt a rising panic. She did not want to be publicly embarrassed, not now when she had just adopted her little girl, which made her, more than ever, the delightful wife and mother of now four lovely children. It was one thing to jokingly and for the sake of Carol give room to speculation about her and Rooney. But it was another thing entirely to be actually caught in the act. Shaking, she brought her hand to her forehead.
“Cate?”
Rooney was beside her, touching her still bare back with her right hand. Cate winced, than stepped away from the woman she had just kissed so intimately. Her whispered words were hardly audible.
“Go, Rooney. Please…go.”
_____________
Still looking out over the sea, that was now turning orange in the light of the setting sun, Cate felt regret. Regret, that, fearing exposure but also, she had to admit, frightened by the powerful emotions kissing her had evoked, she had not pursued her feelings for Rooney. Somehow, she had managed to evade her co-star and not be alone with her again at Cannes, but also afterwards, during the awards season. Bewildered by her sudden change in behaviour, Rooney had confronted her, desperately tried to speak with her, call her. But in the end she had just given up, deeply hurt by Cate’s rejection.
Cate sighed. Being at Cannes again, in this suite, she was inexorably confronted with her grief. Rooney had moved on, was in a new relationship now. She snorted. What did she see in that unattractive fat little man? She knew she was unfair. Joaquim was a wonderful actor and she could imagine that his quirky personality appealed to Rooney’s own eccentricity. But still…
Once again she reached for the left pocket of her robe, taking out her phone. Scrolling through her contacts she eventually found what she was looking for. She wondered if Rooney’s number was still the same. But there was no alternative. Her text was brief.
“I’m at Cannes.”
To her great relief, the message was received and read. Rooney’s immediate answer was brief as well.
“I know”.
Cate hesitated, then started typing again.
“I miss you.”
But before Rooney could react, she added
“Can I call you?”
She nervously squeezed her phone, while waiting for Rooney’s reply. What was she thinking? Why would Rooney want to speak to her after the way she had treated her? She felt her phone vibrate, and she closed her eyes briefly, not daring to read the words.
“Yes … Please.”
Cate felt how a great tenderness filled her, mingled with a growing excitement. Her hands trembled while she dialled Rooney’s number. What would she say?
Rooney answered at the first ring.