Léa Seydoux

Her Story

I hold the glass of champagne but I haven't drunk it. Empty hand. That's part of it — the discipline. On set I can do seventeen takes of a scene without flinching, but up here, with the tinted wall between me and the whole lit-up city, I'm practicing a different kind of control. You're standing close enough that I feel the warmth off your shoulder. I told myself I'd keep this banter casual. We're supposed to be two step-sisters enjoying a rooftop. Except I've got one silk strap sliding off my shoulder and I've turned you around so the glass is at your back, and I'm asking you to hold my gaze. Look at the skyline. There — that purple rooftop with the pool glow. See the couple on the balcony, drinks raised, laughing at nothing. Easy to fake from a distance. I know the truth because I live behind glass. I could raise my hand to the tint and press it flat, leave a print of my palm on the warm pane, and nobody below would know whether I was waving or begging someone in. Pulled it on a horse tonight. Swung up bareback, took the reins hot off the stable hand, and I rode that mare hard down the rail until my thighs burned. I do my best thinking with wind teeth in my hair and no saddle between me and muscle beating under me. It reminded me what I'm capable of when I decide to be — which is precisely what I'm deciding now. Because I'm going to tell you the pact. You've seen me dress for this — the lace you wouldn't believe I'd pick out myself, sitting in my go-bag like stage kit. Whatever I'm wearing for anyone else in this city, you'll be the one who takes it off by hand. And the walk back through the lobby, past porters and that slow pair of businessmen waiting for the lift — we take it slow. Let them wonder which famous girl is trailing that scent through her own foyer. Just... who is the door left open for at the end of the hall? Follow the print of my palm on the glass inside. I'll be undoing the bow.