Sweet heaven

Thursday, last week of shooting

I was nervous like hell again. Pierre-Jean had nicely set up the kissing scene last so that I would be acquainted with Tristan when… well, our lips would have to meet. I was leaving in two days to get back to Norway, and this had to happen. This very afternoon, I would be kissing a man that wasn’t mine. And, if I could, might get a bit further than that. No pressure, of course, it wasn’t in my contract. But I knew they wanted a little more, and I was ready to try to add some credibility.

Seeing me upset, the governor – a very kind actor who had joined us two days ago – tried to lift my spirits at lunch by making me laugh. It worked… for a while. But now, I was pacing like a lion in a cage in the dress Johan had, in theory, offered Margaux. Listening to Michael Jackson’s Thriller on the radio; there was only one station up there, and I was glad for the distraction. Next time, I would bring my mp3 and a speaker. If there was any next time in my life, which I strongly doubted.

Tristan popped up, clad in his pants and chemise, as if he lived in my trailer. We had become so familiar with each other, especially after he fell asleep on my sofa, that I didn’t even start. His hazel eyes found my face, and I could nearly see the cogs running in his busy mind. I paused then, refusing to let him see how affected I was by the little kiss we were supposed to share. Of course, Tristan didn’t buy it for a second.

Instead, he spread his arms, and started dancing on the music. I, of course, giggled. He was good, really good. ‘Thriller’s’ frantic notes echoed in the trailer, and I watched, mesmerised, as the stern reformist started a moonwalk. The contrast between his clothes, the grey hair and the modern dancing eventually sent me into peals of laughter. Tristan then executed a set of turns on himself before saluting; by then, I was wiping a stray tear from my cheek.

— “Better, my little fairy ?”, he asked.

The nickname caused warmth to spread in my chest, and I realized the stress was almost gone.

— “Yes, husband.”

— “I used to dance to this song in my youth”

— “You are very talented, and it is so funny to see Johan dancing like that. I cannot imagine he would approve… Ever”

Tristan lifted a faint eyebrow; another move his character would never do.

— “I guess not. He’s a reformist after all, not too much with the fun”

— “Definitely not”, I giggled again. “I wonder what Margaux found in him, aside from the good looks of course”

Tristan pursed his lips, watching my mischievous expression without taking the bait. Behind me, the radio started playing ‘Imagine’, from John Lennon and the mood changed at once. I started singing slowly – couldn’t help it – and I saw how Tristan’s eyes squinted at the corner. Meaning he was thinking. By now, I knew a little about his mannerism, enough to know when something was bothering him, or if he was just deep in though.

He seemed to attain a decision, for he extended his hand to me.

— “Come, wife. Dance with me”

I hesitated for a second, and Tristan didn’t push me. His hand remained, though, waiting for my decision. A way to tell me that he would be here, no matter what. Eventually, I grabbed his fingers in my smaller ones; he pulled me closer to start swaying in the little space between the table and the door. Unlike the first time under my oak tree, I stood barely a few inches away from him. It was so incredible, how I felt safe in the circle of his arms. His chest radiated warmth, his faint scent reaching my nose, and I felt myself melt in a puddle. It had been a long time I had felt this content… not since our first days with Stéphane. Damn, Stéphane. I tensed, but Tristan’s smooth voice stopped my self-inflicted loathing right there.

— “You don’t have to stop singing”.

Tristan’s whispered words sent a shiver though my spine, and he enclosed my lithe body a little tighter. My voice rose again, gentle, singing of universal love and conveying the dream John Lennon had envisioned when he wrote this song. Little by little, I let go of my guilt, just to enjoy the moment. Just a husband and a wife, swaying in rhythm in one square meter of plastic floor. The bond between us seemed to tighten, as if energy and feelings ran freely between us now. My head slowly, but surely tilted aside until it touched his chest. By now, my singing had abated to simple humming, and I felt every inch of Tristan’s skin around my fingers, every little pressure his other hand created on my waist. Cradled. Protected. Happy.

The knock on the door startled us both, and we broke apart with my heart playing drums.

— “Frances ! Pierre-Jean t’appelle” (Pierre-Jean wants you on set.)

— “J’arrive !”, I answered through the door. (coming)

The director could be rather harsh and short tempered, and I didn’t want to make him cranky.

— “Est-ce que tu as vu Tristan ? » (Have you seen Tristan ?)

I gave the actor a shy smile and he called.

— “Je suis là, j’arrive.” (Here as well, I’ll be here)

— “Oh. Ok !”

I heard footsteps retreating and sighed. There was no pushing the inevitable, but I felt much more confident now. Taking a peek at Tristan’s face, I found him lost in another world. Did he take so much care of every actress that had to play an intimate scene with him ? By any means, his idea had done the trick. I now felt… grounded. I opened the door, and was about to step out when he reached for my hand.

— “Keep the mood, stay in your bubble”

Then we set off in the coldish air of late February, hand in hand until Tristan released my fingers. I missed the contact at once. The sun was shining today, and Pierre-Jean waiting for us with a gleam in his eyes. My dress wasn’t entirely closed at the wrist and neckline, as instructed by the costume lady because ‘I was just trying it on’. The crew was in place, and Tristan sat on the wall outside the house. Supposedly waiting for me to try the gift he had brought from his travel with the money of a horse’s sale. His feet were bare, so were mine when I trailed outside, the dress hastily buttoned, my long hair trailing down my back. Despite the cameras, despite the crew and many appliances, I had only eyes for Tristan who sat, waiting for me, his hair tussled by the breeze. His beauty struck me there as he sat, like a statue, his hazel eyes the only door to his soul.

Remembering the dance we had just shared, I felt my affection and trust for this man surge forth, and gave him a shy smile. Tristan’s lips quirked with satisfaction – he liked what he saw. I approached slowly, my belly – covered in the coton and linen dress – almost coming in contact with his nose. He tilted his head backwards, lifting his eyes to meet mine, and the intensity of his gaze caused my breath to itch.

Somewhere in the back, Pierre-Jean was silent, meaning he liked the scene just the way it was.

Chasing the idea of onlookers away, I slowly ran my fingers through Tristan’s hair, settling at his nape. The strands were so soft – even dyed – and I relished in the sensation for just a moment. My other hand grazed his jaw as I shyly created a contact. His eyes never left mine, burning with such passion that I felt my knees go weak. For a moment, I just forgot about the movie, and the set, and the fact that those feelings were all supposedly fake because I was trapped in his gaze. Then I bent, ever slowly, to bring my face level with his. My hair rolled over my shoulder, shielding us for the cameras. The curtain engulfed us in our own little world and my eyes closed. His lips touched mine, feather like. A soft caress, so sensual that I couldn’t help but prolong. My fingers caressed his nape while I kissed him, feeling his soft breath over my mouth. And he responded in kind, absolutely motionless except for the gentle dance of his lips upon mine. He smelt of smoke, and of something soft entirely different. I just couldn’t describe it, and I barely got time to taste it.

Too soon, I had to pull away. My cheeks were flushed, and I gave him another smile before letting go, and descend the stairs. I felt him follow, silent as a cat, his bare feet molding around the polished stones of the domain.