Of Cannes, Couture and Cojones

I got home from work about an hour ago – so at 1 in the morning – and I should be asleep, as I’ve got to get up at 6 a.m. to catch a flight for Nice, and then whatever mode of transport (helicopter is best but not always available) I can get to Cannes.

I don’t want to go.

The truth is that I hate going up to people I don’t know at parties, especially if they are famous people who can be incredibly rude. I hate the gaze that sweeps over me and – in my mind, at least – finds my appearance lacking. I hate that so much of getting into parties and onto yachts is being gorgeous and bold, of which, honestly, I am neither. I hate the heat of the South of France in May – how awkward it makes me feel as my hair kinks up and I have to clutch a wrap along with my notebook because my upper arms are the size of some people’s thighs. I will never be one of those chic girls who somehow manages to look fantastic in a skirt, a tank top and flip flops.

The last time I went to Cannes, in 2004, I swore that I’d never do a film festival overweight again, and here I am, feeling too full from the work dinner I just ate, even though I skipped dessert and ordered fish for a main.

* * *

In the past two weeks I’ve had two moments where I had to call a friend and tell her to talk to me for 20 minutes about nothing, just to prevent me from picking up the telephone and calling my boss to quit. I’ve also had two moments where my job seems pretty damn fun – which is about two more times than I’ve had in nearly the past year. It’s funny how one of those moments can negate a couple of months of misery – at least until the next “I’ve got to quit” comes along.

One of the “I love my job” moments was in Portugal, with the band I was fearing interviewing. It was a gorgeous sunny day, where the sky was as clear and calm and deep blue as a watercolor, and I was staying at a hotel that was a converted 19th century palace. Despite seeming snippy in interviews I’d read, the band turned out to be incredibly nice, well-brought-up guys – the sort who offer to carry your computer backpack up the stairs and worry that you haven’t had lunch. Not the sort of people I usually deal with, that's for sure.

The second “I love my job” moment was on Friday in Paris, when I was allowed inside the archives of Balenciaga. It's as cool as a grotto, and there are racks and racks of clothing hanging in muslin bags (and loads more pieces too fragile to hang that are in boxes). You’re given a pair of white gloves before you can touch anything, and the guy who works in the archives unzips treasure after treasure from Cristobal Balenciaga from the 1930s through the 1960s: dresses, mink-trimmed gowns, pillbox hats, beaded jackets, ostrich-feathered handbags. This is when you understand how people can pay a fortune for haute couture: Each piece has an internal logic; an architecture, and the fabrics are untouched by time, the pinks still bright and the greens still grassy. I was told I was only about the fifth journalist to be allowed in there, and once inside, I spoke in hushed tones befitting a museum.

* * *

A final, non-job-related story I have to record: The, um, cojones of some men.

Saturday night I went to a party in Hampstead – friends of the boyfriend of a friend of mine visiting from the US. I wasn’t particularly drunk – in fact, I’d drank a bit quickly at the beginning of the evening and paused to slow down, which always means you’re going to get tired quickly. The secret to alcohol consumption is, of course, keeping it at a fairly steady level, instead of great peaks and valleys.

So I was feeling particularly lame that night and wanted to leave early, but it was impossible to get a taxi. I ended up staying over at these friends’ house, along with my friend, her boyfriend, and another guy who we’ll call P., a good friend of the couple having the party.

I’d met P. briefly the night before but we’d barely spoken – he was off taking cigarette breaks almost the entire evening. Nor had we spoken at all during the party.

At 4 a.m., when the others had gone to bed in their rooms downstairs, I was half asleep on my bed for the night -- one of the couches in the living room -- wrapped in two blankets because I was freezing. He sat on the other couch, quizzing me about Cannes. I was giving him the kind of short answers you give when you don’t want to be rude but you’re hoping someone will get the point and stop asking you questions already.

He wasn’t getting the point.

Finally he said, “Do you have to use both of those blankets? I want to cover the skylight.”

What the @#?!? How could you cover a skylight?

I didn’t say anything, hoping he’d think I’d fallen asleep. I might have tried to snore if I weren’t worried it would sound like a snort.

He tugged at the top blanket, which was afghan-like – in other words, loosely knit and full of holes. It would do about as much good blocking the light as a tennis racquet.

“I can’t untangle it,” he said.

I didn’t help.

He tugged at the blanket some more and when I finally turned to look at him he – as an Arkansas-born friend of mine would say in the accent I love so much – busted a move.

Um, hello? Did I miss the part where I threw myself at him, or otherwise indicated anything resembling interest?

“OK, I’m wide awake now,” I said. (Which, unfortunately, was true.) “What do you want?”

He attempted to guide my hand in a particular direction and, upon failing, said: “Aren’t you curious?”

Well, now that you ask, no. That would be no as in hell no.

“Not really,” I said.

“You’re not curious at all?” he said.

“Can’t say I am,” I said. Except then of course I was curious, because what kind of man does that?

Lest you wonder, I decided to let that remain a mystery.