Carly must be able to tell how much of an emotional wreck I am, because she begs for us to get a few minutes off and then suggests we do some casual shots, still in our outfits, inside the lounge. “So the whole day is not lost, yes?” she says. “I’m pretty good with a camera. What do you say?”

During the crew’s break, it’s just us sitting on the leather couches in the sunroom, which has been cleared out for our use, and I’ve got my legs up on a glass coffee table—now in a pair of Discipline snow boots.

“You sure you’re all right?” Carly asks me. The sun is glowing in a halo around her hair, and I realize this room really does have perfect light for a shoot. I hope we can at least get a couple of decent shots out of this.

“Yeah. I’ve never had my dignity been beaten so hard by a bunny slope, but otherwise I’m fine.” I give her a soft laugh. “Honestly, I’m just so mortified. I hope I haven’t ruined everything.” My voice wobbles.

“Ruined everything? Oh please.” Carly gives a casual hair flick. “I should tell you about the time we tried waterskiing on a shoot.”

“Hah. I appreciate it, but you don’t have to make me feel better about screwing up.”

“Oh honey, I’m not trying to make you feel better, but this story is too good. In fact, I don’t even have to tell it to you—YouTube can.” She calls up a video from seven years ago—one that involves an insane-looking wobble, tangled legs, a bikini that did not stay put, and an epic wipeout, all within about seventeen seconds. Someone has turned it into a GIF, so the wipeout just repeats over and over again in slow motion. It’s… awful.

And also hilarious.

“You can laugh,” she says, and as she catches my eye—this mature, accomplished icon who is everything I wish I could be—we both start hysterically giggling.

By the time the crew and photographer return, we’re wiping tears of laughter away from our cheeks and getting our makeup frantically retouched for the final session of the day.

“You were such a trooper,” Carly says when we wrap, giving me a hug. “How’s the ankle?”

“Already much better. Thanks,” I say, grinning. At the very least, I finally feel more at ease. No more Robot Rachel, trying to be the damn best. It’s just real Rachel left now, take her or leave her. I glance around. “You didn’t see where Alex went, did you?”

“Alex?” Ollie says, appearing by his wife’s side. “He had to go back to the hotel to deal with a work thing, but he asked me to tell you to meet him at Cloud Nine at eight p.m.”