The 'ding' of the luxuous elevator was a poor announcement for the flurry of lace, fluff and excitement that suddenly invaded my lonely ride. My nerves were already a bundle – the red carpet awaited, Tristan rooted upon it – and didn't need the zealous that rocked the little space. I knew next to nothing when it came to cinema, although I'd learnt a bit after les Cévennes. But not enough to recognise anyone on sight – where those women minor movie stars ? Even if Tom Cruise patted me on the shoulder – preposterous, since the man didn't attend Cannes festival anyway – I might take a few minutes to recognise him. This is how abysmal my knowledge of the seventh art was.
I tried to keep my bubble intact like Tristan had taught me, but the amount of energy pouring out from the three women was
