Page 39 of The Road to You
LENA
T he lobby of the Hotel de Russie is the epitome of quiet elegance with its soft-spoken guests, clinking porcelain, and the faint rustle of designer shoes against marble floors.
Everything about this place screams luxurious Italian vacation, and I’m not surprised that Alain Faure chose it to spend time with his family.
If he needed a space to relax far from the Hollywood chaos, this is the choice.
Lush gardens surround this place, and luxurious small alcoves dot the hotel and the surrounding area, providing guests with space to spend time in privacy while enjoying the amenities, such as the bars serving colorful delicacies for dessert.
I spot him instantly. The director, the visionary, the one whose films have won awards I used to dream about from the back seat of my mom’s car.
Alain Faure is the most sought-after director for every actor who wants a legitimate chance at winning an Oscar.
He doesn’t do blockbusters or mainstream movies, but he’s gained the kind of recognition that assures you every movie he makes is an Oscar nominee contender.
He doesn’t even make movies very often, releasing one every three to five years, and that’s why it’s such a big deal that he asked for me.
He’s sitting in the corner, tucked into a velvet armchair near the windows that let in the kind of Roman light that makes everything look like a movie.
His signature round glasses are perched on his nose as he frowns over a bunch of papers he is reading.
He’s known for not using technology; he prefers old-school scripts printed on paper.
The closer I get to him, the tighter the grip on my stomach. I’ve had hundreds of auditions, screen tests, and talks with various directors and colleagues throughout my career, but he still manages to intimidate me. When he sees me, he stands with a warm smile, his expression familiar and curious.
“Lena,” he says, like we’ve known each other forever.
We shake hands and sit. There’s already a cappuccino waiting for me, a small gesture that makes my heart flutter.
He didn’t need to find out I’m addicted to coffee, but he obviously did his research.
He studies me like he’s trying to read my soul.
His gaze isn’t creepy, just intense. Intentional.
Like he’s flipping through invisible pages of me in his mind. And I squirm under his scrutiny.
“I’ve watched everything you’ve done,” he says, voice low and rich with his French accent. “Even the films you pretend don’t exist.”
I started my career as a child actress, but when it came to working with prominent actors, I had to begin at the bottom, gaining respect through less polished movies, if you can call them that.
I don’t regret those movies. They were part of my training to become better at my work, but that doesn’t mean I’m not embarrassed when people bring them up in conversation.
I laugh, blushing. “That’s bold of you to admit.”
“It’s part of my job. I don’t just want an actress. I want a woman who can haunt the screen. And you—” He gestures toward me, eyes lighting up like a man seeing the solution to a riddle. “You are her.”
Hearing something like that come out of Alain’s mouth is like a storm hitting your face. You don’t understand what’s happening, you’re disoriented, but you know deep in your gut that this is something massive that could change your life.
“Her?” I ask, wrapping my hands around the warm cup, trying to ground myself with the warmth radiating from the ceramic.
He leans forward slightly. “The protagonist. The center of the storm. The woman who has to confront the darkest corners of her mind after a brutal trauma. It’s a psychological thriller that delves deeply into the complexities of the human brain.
Huge budget. Complex script. No open casting for her.
I wrote this character with you in mind. ”
I stop mid-sip and almost choke on my cappuccino. Vivian told me he wanted me specifically, but she didn’t mention that he wrote the script for me. What god did I please to be noticed by him?
I blink. “Seriously?”
He nods, and his eyes sparkle with excitement, leaving me breathless.
“I’ve seen what you can do,” he says, with absolute certainty. “And no one else can give her the edge and the fragility she needs. No one else makes me believe she’s real.”
My heart thunders in my chest, and my breath catches. I haven’t felt like this in so long. Wanted. Seen. Not in my job, at least. Because Michele makes me feel all those things together and even more. My heart makes a flip thinking about him, but I focus my attention on the man in front of me.
I’m not just a gossip headline in his eyes, but an artist. A woman with something to say, something to give. This is the most empowering compliment someone could give me, and I smile timidly, not sure if I can live up to his expectations.
“Send the script to my manager,” I say, a little breathless. “I’ll read it as soon as I get the chance.”
He nods, satisfied. “Take your time. But not too much,” he adds with a grin. “We want to shoot this fall.”
I nod, and I feel the knot in my stomach relax a bit.
We chat a bit longer about the production, the cast he’s assembling, and the composer he’s trying to lure in.
Every word stokes the fire in my gut that I thought had gone out after everything that happened this year.
When you’re focused on saving your reputation, everything else gets dragged through the mud that the magazines stir up.
Michele and this journey across Italy did a good job of taking my mind off of my problems, but it also made me forget what I’m meant to be. An actress. An artist.
Something else slips into my chest, warming me from the inside out.
Maybe everything that’s happened to me lately was meant to guide me in this place.
Maybe it was fate guiding me through Italy with a man who made me discover myself, only to end up a mere five hours away from this hotel, from this life-changing moment.
Fate was just waiting for something like this to happen.
When we finally stand to say goodbye, Alain takes my hand and squeezes it lightly. “It’s good to see your eyes sparkling with excitement, Lena. That’s how I know I’ve found my lead.”
My legs buckle slightly, but I work to stand tall and smile. I thank him, not sure how I manage to walk out of the hotel without floating straight into the Roman sky.
Outside, the sun hits me full in the face. It’s warm and blinding and unapologetically bright. And I smile like an idiot, like a child, like someone who just remembered who she is.
I’m back, and whatever happens next, I’m ready.