Substitute Lover [Entertainment Industry] - Chapter 89

Mid-May.

The 127th Cannes International Film Festival was held in Cannes, a city in southern France.

The jury for the main competition unit consists of a President and eight renowned figures from France or other countries, all appointed by the organizing committee. The jury decides the winners by secret ballot. The first two rounds of voting follow the absolute majority principle, while subsequent rounds follow the relative majority principle.

“What does this mean?”

Jiang Cha pointed to a line of text on the screen for Ji Fan: “This part.”

Ji Fan’s “pretend amnesia” plan was becoming less and less professional. She realized that Jiang Cha had truly let things go and wasn’t going to hold her past against her, so she slowly relaxed. She began to show flashes of her old possessiveness and desire for control—though, compared to before, it was far more restrained.

For this film festival, she insisted on coming along no matter what.

It was as if she were afraid Jiang Cha might run off and get lost.

In the car, Ji Fan looked over and saw the line of text on the screen.

It was the official Cannes Film Festival website; viewed on a phone, the font was tiny.

Jiang Cha was still analyzing the selection rules.

This was her first time participating in such a prestigious international film festival. No matter how calm a person usually is, it was normal to be anxious and nervous at a time like this.

“The absolute majority principle refers to a system where a candidate wins by receiving more than half of the votes. The relative majority principle means that the candidate with the most votes wins, regardless of the total number of votes.”

“Oh.” Jiang Cha nodded.

Ji Fan glanced at it briefly and said indifferently, “None of that matters. Knowing the rules won’t help you much anyway.”

“I still need to look.”

Jiang Cha lowered her head. There was a slight film of sweat on her fair profile; she seemed genuinely nervous.

“……”

Sitting in the back seat, Jiang Cha’s slender fingertips swiped across the screen, browsing slowly.

The shadows of trees outside the window flickered across her face. The car drove steadily and soon reached the airport.

In May, the roadside green belts were in full bloom with white peonies, dense and clustered, lining the path like double-petaled white gardenias. It was late spring, the season on the verge of summer. The Cannes Film Festival, held in northern France, lasts about twelve days and is divided into six units: “Official Competition,” “Director’s Fortnight,” “Un Certain Regard,” “Critics’ Week,” “New Perspective on French Cinema,” and the “Film Market.”

The films in competition are in the Official Competition unit.

Two sets of juries judge feature films and short films respectively.

The President and Vice-President of the Cannes Film Festival attend the jury’s deliberations but do not participate in the voting.

Despite this, in most cases, the jury’s taste still follows that of the Jury President.

This had been true for several previous sessions—the aesthetic of the Jury President influences the entire group. It had become something of an unspoken convention.

Luo Yan happened to know the Jury President.

Jiang Cha didn’t dare hold out much hope for the outcome.

It was just the way things were.

With only two days left until the opening of the festival, another topic regarding the film hit the trending searches.

Camel Cigarettes Shortlisted for the Main Competition Unit of the 127th Cannes Film Festival

The trending post listed the awards Song Baiwei had won in the past. The press release noted she was a frequent visitor to the world’s three major film festivals and stated that she was highly likely to win again this time.

This search then branched into another topic:

[Let’s predict the Best Actress winner. Vote: a. Jiang Cha, b. Luo Yan]

Jiang Cha lowered her head, her dark pupils shrinking suddenly.

She tapped a choice randomly. The bar chart below appeared; the votes for Luo Yan were more than three times those for Jiang Cha.

One tall and one short—it looked incredibly… glaring.

The comments were also almost entirely in support of Luo Yan.

“Go, Luoluo!”

“Luoluo’s acting is amazing, she must win the award!”

“My Luo is the GOAT! [voice cracking]”

“The Empress has always been great!”

It had become a habit; wherever there was an occasion to praise Luo Yan, there was inevitably a “step” taken on Jiang Cha.

“Why is Jiang Cha蹭 (leeching) the heat again?”

“Since when can the two of them compete together? They aren’t even on the same level.”

“Is there no end to this? She’s literally reaching for the stars (touching porcelain) here.”

“Watching a max-level boss slaughter a newbie. [eating popcorn].”

……

She could choose not to care about these comments in her heart, but she didn’t want to let people down.

Ji Fan was with her.

When the time came, she hoped that the person looking at her from the audience would see her being affirmed and see her brilliant side—not be with her in some gray, defeated corner out of the spotlight, sitting in the audience clapping for someone else. That would be embarrassing for her.

She had plenty of pathetic moments, and it was fine as long as she was the only one who knew, but the last person she wanted to see her that way was Ji Fan.

She didn’t want to lose.

Especially since her competitor was Luo Yan.

The two of them boarded the plane together. Jiang Cha’s agent had booked the tickets—Intercontinental First Class. Ji Fan and Jiang Cha shared a large double-bed cabin. Yang Yan, being sensible enough not to be a third wheel, sat elsewhere.

“Ji Fan.” Jiang Cha tucked her phone into her small leather bag and glanced at her.

“Hmm?”

Ji Fan leaned against the porthole. Bright, white light shone in, falling on her ankle.

She had a white fruit platter on her lap, her long hair was down, and she looked relaxed. With her gaze lowered, she held a grape to Jiang Cha’s lips.

Jiang Cha’s lips parted to take it, and she swallowed it before leaning closer.

Jiang Cha shook her head, feeling a bit helpless.

Ji Fan: “?”

Knowing she was uneasy, Ji Fan leaned over, wrapped her arm around Jiang Cha’s waist, and gave her warm, tender neck a light kiss. “Tell me. It’s okay.”

“If I don’t win the award…”

Jiang Cha turned her head. A jade-like nose tip peeked out from her long hair, brushing against Ji Fan’s ear as she asked, “Will you be unhappy?”

Ji Fan: “……”

That was actually the question she wanted to ask Jiang Cha.

If she didn’t win, would she be unhappy?

Ji Fan couldn’t help but curl the corners of her lips. She leaned down to kiss the crown of Jiang Cha’s dark hair, hooked her finger under her fair chin, and tilted it up, forcing her to look at her. “I won’t be unhappy. Winning an award is external. External things are all illusory.”

Ji Fan’s eyes were very dark and bright.

Looking at her so intently and seriously, she seemed to carry an invisible power—like a warm spring, gentle yet inexplicably firm.

There is a saying about “determining the distinction between internal and external, and discerning the boundary of honor and disgrace.”

It must describe this feeling.

The so-called “having is not necessarily having, and not having is not necessarily not having.”

Winning isn’t necessarily a true gain, and losing isn’t necessarily a true loss.

One must have the internal strength to weigh things for oneself.

After leaving the airport, they checked into a hotel near the Palais des Festivals in Cannes.

The entire main crew, including Luo Yan, Song Baiwei, the assistant director, and the producer, were all staying at that hotel.

At dusk, Jiang Cha and Ji Fan left the hotel and walked along the Boulevard de la Croisette. On the southern coast of Cannes, thin waves washed over the shore layer by layer. The afterglow of the sunset dyed half the sky. Palm trees pointed high into the air, and the restaurants and hotels along the waterfront were lit up as the crowds began to move.

The two walked along the shore, holding hands.

Footprints stretched out slowly behind them.

Their shadows were pulled very long.

“Do you have any plans for after the film festival ends?”

Ji Fan tucked a strand of long hair blown by the wind behind her ear. Her long lashes blinked, casting a shadow on her fair nose.

“I do. You still owe me one thing.”

“What?”

Jiang Cha leaned in and pecked her ear: “A honeymoon.”

Although the two had gone on a show after their wedding, they hadn’t had a real honeymoon. Some things, if held onto, become a knot in the heart; if seen clearly, they are as small as a sesame seed. Jiang Cha had never imagined that Ji Fan would nearly lose her life for her. This fact existed in a very subtle way—it was both the opportunity to untie the knot and a hurdle she couldn’t quite get over.

Birth, aging, sickness, and death are the norms of the human world.

The moment she thought the surgery had failed and Ji Fan was no longer in this world, she finally saw clearly.

She didn’t want Ji Fan to leave.

Being back together wasn’t about forgiveness.

It was only about whether she had seen clearly into her own heart.

Ji Fan kissed her cheek and smiled softly. “Alright. You decide where we go for the honeymoon.”

In the distance, there was a familiar figure—it was Luo Yan and her manager.

The two were talking about something, but when they saw Ji Fan and Jiang Cha approaching, they stopped without changing their expressions.

Luo Yan’s eyes caught a glimpse of Ji Fan holding Jiang Cha’s hand.

She then lowered her eyes and looked away.

“The waves of the Yangtze River behind push those in front.”

Luo Yan’s manager glanced at her and whispered in her ear: “Between the two of you, one has to be the foil, the also-ran. You figure it out.”

Luo Yan looked at Jiang Cha.

Standing far away, she could only see a blurry silhouette.

Jiang Cha was wearing a white dress, her soft, thick dark hair draped to her waist—a slender waist, snow-white skin, and red lips. A quintessential Oriental beauty, she attracted the gaze of many foreigners.

A foil?

Luo Yan only smiled.

Jiang Cha was still green. How many movies had she made? Which one was memorable? None. She wasn’t afraid of Jiang Cha. The film industry respects seniority. Luo Yan won the moment she debuted—that’s called winning at the starting line. Everything after that was something others could only dream of.

As for Ji Fan.

Since she had already lost her, she would no longer pine for her.

She had more important things—she wanted to go further. Her current status in the film industry wasn’t enough. Just thinking about being recorded in film history made her feel everything was worth it.

She had given up so much for it.

There was no reason she shouldn’t get what she wanted.

The four of them had an awkward encounter. As they passed each other, Luo Yan looked at Ji Fan silently, but still couldn’t resist calling out to her suddenly.

“Was it really not you who helped me get the lead role in Blind Youth?”

“No. It was Ji Linyu.”

“……”

“Anything else?” Ji Fan asked.

Luo Yan lowered her eyes, her face turning slightly pale.

Ji Fan held Jiang Cha’s hand and walked forward.

The conversation with Luo Yan had left Jiang Cha uneasy; her fingertips curled slightly, a tiny movement.

Ji Fan only felt a pang of heartache.

A few steps later, they passed a small thicket of shrubs. Shadows blurred their silhouettes. Some couples were whispering nearby. Behind the thick, white trunk of a London plane tree, Ji Fan cupped her face. Her red lips pressed softly against Jiang Cha’s, and she kissed her slowly, gradually deepening the kiss.

Jiang Cha held her breath slightly, nervous sweat damping her fair palms.

The kiss made them lose track of time, immersing them in a boundless, soft, warm, and lingering touch. A wave of heat rose up; Jiang Cha’s cheeks were burning, but Ji Fan’s hands suddenly let go.

“What’s wrong?”

Jiang Cha’s breath was coming in short pants.

“……”

Ji Fan looked at her, her dark, bright eyes flashing with an expression that was either shyness or nervousness. Her long lashes flickered twice, and she suddenly leaned close to Jiang Cha’s ear.

“I love you.”