Lie with Me (Arrête avec tes mensonges)

LIE WITH ME

Based on the novel by Philippe Besson

Follow me.

- You had a good trip? - Yes.

Good.

It's good to meet you at last. In the flesh.

How long since your last visit?

35 years. Since I left.

Tell me if it's changed. I've always lived here.

This way.

Sorry about the car.

Ours broke down on the way out. This is all we had.

It will be fixed when we arrive, in 45 mins, give or take a tractor.

Thanks, Thierry. This is Mr. Belcourt.

- Front seat? - I prefer behind.

Really?

Fine.

I thought they'd never arrive.

Your story's superb. We were thrilled.

I have more if you want. For Paris.

I already sent some to your publisher.

Here's a memo pad so you don't get lost.

First, we have a signing at Texte Libre. The owner's a fan, you'll see.

The short story with each of your books bought.

Tomorrow, interviews. Local TV and press.

This afternoon, technical rehearsal to get to know the room for your speech.

Usually, we invite visual artists for our special blends.

For our bicentenary, though, a writer seemed just perfect.

Especially a homegrown one.

And there's a guided tour of the cellars for our US importers

if you want to join.

No, thanks. I did it 1,000 times as a kid. I'll pass.

Of course, I understand.

- Andrieu, move it! - I'm coming.

Hurry!

Come alone.

Thanks, Thierry.

Okay?

- Okay, Lucas? How's it going. - Great. Perfect.

Mr. Belcourt...

Let's slip in before the group. Follow me.

Hello, this is Mr. Stéphane Belcourt.

Hello, sir. Just fill this out...

No, it's booked under Baussony.

For the American's passports, Mr. Andrieu has them for you.

- Gaëlle, please. - Coming!

If you drop your things off,

we leave in 15 for the bookstore.

See you later.

Room 15, third floor.

Mr Belcourt, may I?

Come on, sit down.

Am I dreaming or you eye me up?

You like me, right?

Yes.

You already did it?

No.

You?

No.

Not with a guy.

You tell no one.

All right.

Come one, follow me.

Only you and me know.

See you.

- You arrived safely? - Just fine.

All going well?

Sure, even if I wonder what the hell I'm doing here.

It was your call. I didn't force you for one.

We received the short story. They did a fabulous job.

So I saw.

I sent one to Mertot. He wants to reviewer it.

No, it's a commission.

Honestly, I did landscapes. "Cognac, history of the soil."

They aren't even my real memories.

Maybe that's why it's so good.

Thanks a butch.

You could write more. You never published short stories.

The new direction you wanted.

- Still nothing from you. - What?

- The chapters you promised to send. - Actually...

- You forgot? - I trashed them.

You could've send them anyway. It's a great idea.

- You know... - I don't get you right now.

Sorry, gotta go. Can I call you later?

You're a connoisseur?

No, not particularly. An old model, isn't it?

It was my father's.

Lucas. Nice to meet you.

- Stéphane Belcourt. - Yes, I know.

- Really? - Our guest of honor.

Mr. Belcourt?

I'll park her up before I get yelled at.

I was looking all over.

May I introduce our chairman, Mr. Dejean?

Delighted to have the revered author here.

I'm delighted you invited me.

I admit I was skeptical.

Don't get me wrong, nothing against men who like men.

I was concerned about our brand image.

You know, tradition, eternal France...

I was scared you'd be too...

modern.

But I realized my wife was a big fan.

She wept over one of your books, so I though it might work.

Anyway, I'm delighted you accepted our invitation.

In any case, see you tonight.

With the Prefect!

- The Prefect? - It slipped my mind.

An informal dinner at Baussony Manor.

The Prefect's lovely. You can call me for help.

Your readers are waiting. Let's go.

I'll just get my coat.

- Be right back. - All right.

- You scared? - No.

We came as fast as we could.

This is Stéphane Belcourt.

And this is Mr. Teicher, our genial host today.

It's an honor to have you here. I've often tried to organize it.

Take a seat, everybody.

I am...

I am very happy to welcome Mr. Belcourt.

As you know he's a prolific writer, as many as two novels a year.

So prolific I struggle sometimes to keep up.

But there's been a two-year gap. An eternity!

Dear Stéphane, you are often described as the great writer of love.

True, but of the end of love.

Nobody captures romantic ruins better than you.

If I may quote you,

"When, following grace,

there is nothing but gaping holes opening up ahead."

Mr. Belcourt was due to read from his short story,

but prefers to dip into an earlier novel to celebrate his homecoming.

The Betrayal of Thomas Spencer.

Stay stop.

"In the photo, Thomas is smiling.

Slightly.

Awkwardly.

I asked him to pose for the camera.

His discomfort under the lens's scrutiny is blatant.

He rejects the intrusion, the indecency.

He makes an effort for me. An effort to smile.

It's a photo from when we were young.

A moment captured.

Almost nothing.

The photo

says something about him.

His beauty, of course.

His singular virility.

As well as his shyness.

The photo also says some...

thing

about the two of us.

The urge to keep a record,

to testify that happiness existed, since it is there...

since it is there in the photo."

Sorry about those other days.

We can't risk it, you know.

You won't be disappointed.

Amber memories...

among friends.

Thank you, Alexandre.

- What's your name? - Geneviève.

- There. - Thank you. Goodbye.

Can you sign these for the Americans?

Sorry, you thought it was over.

No, no problem.

But they won't understand. It's in French.

Perhaps you could write in English. I saw you lived in San Francisco.

And other places.

I'll start with you.

Okay, with pleasure.

- You work at Baussony? - In the Los Angeles office.

The visitors ate our best distributors, so I'm looking after them.

How's it going? Not too hard?

Not at all. They're delighted to see what they talk about every day.

Make them laugh too, and you've struck gold.

I see. Bravo.

So...

Lucas, if I remember right?

And your last name?

Andrieu. Lucas Andrieu.

That's funny.

Because I knew a...

Thomas Andrieu in high school.

There weren't 150. Must be my father.

You knew him well?

More or less.

Classmates?

No, we did our senior year together.

Nuts. He could have told me he knew a celebrity.

Everything's relative.

I wasn't one back then.

He didn't make the connection.

Come on, a writer.

I'm only half-surprised. My father never said much.

You didn't stay in touch?

No.

After finals, he moved to Spain.

And I was born there.