ALPHA || TIMOTHÉE CHALAMET

052

Suspira is having its official screen and carpet premiere in Venice later this summer. Tonight we're attending a private pre-screening, private meaning cast and crew, a handful of A-listers and reps, some journalists, and of course, press, though a limited amount outside the theater only.

"It won't be too big," Timothée reassures periodically throughout the day, like I'm someone who should have a personal reference for 'big'. As thrilling as it may be, I also find the ordeal overwhelming. I take his consolation while feeling dumb for needing it, my independent I-can-take-care-of-myself mindset seeping, then reminding myself of my own novicehood to the star-studded bubble.

My evening wear is a black slip-like gown, a fancy silk number with a cowl neck and subtle shimmer lining the thin shoulder straps. I spritz my last styled wave with hairspray, combing my fingers through once dried, my fidgeting increasing the sooner it's time to leave. When finished with my face, I dig out a plum brown lipstick from my bag and dab it across my mouth, using the nail of my ring finger to wipe off excess and dabbing to smudge the harsh line.

In the mirror, Timothée emerges leaning against the doorframe, hands in his pockets, one corner of his mouth curled higher than the other. A single wavy strand hangs over his face. He's in monochrome tonight, a royal blue button down matching his trousers, with black boots to complete. I watch his eyes flit up and down and linger at my ass for a few extra seconds. I catch his glance in the mirror and his face erupts in red, cheeks lifted in a widening mischievous grin.

"Holy shit," he shouts, the volume startling me, his hands around his mouth. "That's my girl!" At my bashful reaction he curls his arms around my waist from behind me, planting his lips at my temple.

"Suspiria is officially premiering later at the Venice festival later in the summer, but tonight we're attending a private, unofficial pre-screen gscreening that we would be attending – private meaning mostly the cast and crew, several more A-listers, journalists, and of course, press, although a limited amount.

"I look okay, then?" I retort with sarcasm.

"It'll do." Soft lips peck my neck and bare shoulder, head nuzzling mine as I rest my arms over the ones around my waist.

I notice Iris's absence later when we're waiting for our car, and I ask Timothée if she's coming. His face changes. "No," he says and hesitates before he continues. "We haven't really agreed on some things...for a while now. I've been in the process of getting someone new. I think she flew out today."

I nod. "Oh, okay," I reply.

"I'm sorry about her. I know she's..."

"It's okay." I squeeze his hand in assurance.

We're joined by two other PR assistants in our car. Timothée sits at the window, looking out the entire drive while keeping my hand clasped in his, resting on his lap. I study his face as he looks out the window, elbow propped by the windowsill, fingers near his jaw. It's the excitement of a golden retriever. I shift my glance to our hands when he turns to look at me. He presses his lips to my forehead, and I feel my cheeks flush, my chin perched at his shoulder, washed in a momentary déjà vu.

While there's no carpet at this event, a trail of steel barricades contains press and photographers, and my heart begins to rise to my throat.

"Okay?" Timothée says in a low mutter, searching for confirmation, squeezing my hand again. I smile and nod, squeezing back. He exits the vehicle first.

"Timothée!" voices resound. The PR people and I exit from the opposite door, and I follow behind, hugging a black oversized blazer around me, nagging at myself to straighten my posture, much too aware of the cameras. I follow the assistants, grateful that I wore all black, just nearly tripping in my heels as I speed walk to the theater entrance.