Through His Eyes

by Emma Dibdin

  I’ve been ignoring Tom’s texts for the past three days. He wants to know, of course, what happened at the house and how much of this unravelling scandal I witnessed first hand. But I’ve barely processed the thing myself yet, and the idea of describing it to him is draining.

  The person I did not ignore when they texted, desperate for dirt, is my sort-of-friend Faye, who I met on a red carpet my very first month in LA. It was an unspeakably hot and shadeless afternoon, my first real (though unpaid) assignment as a film blogger in the city, and though she was a fan who had somehow lied her way into the press pen, we felt like equals. She was there simply to see stars up close, to gather their autographs and take selfies so as to have permanent proof that she was physically in their presence, and though I was there as an ostensible professional our goal was the same. To get close. To get almost inside.

  The film was an early spring release; a blockbuster planned as a tentpole release until the first test screenings made it clear that this was not a crowd-pleaser. March is not called ‘the dead zone’ in film release parlance for nothing – it’s after awards season and before summer blockbuster season, a no-man’s-land of mediocre money-pits and misunderstood indie gems. But both Faye and I were there to meet the same actor, a curly-haired former Broadway star who was the lead in a cable drama we were both obsessed with, and in that first conversation I could tell that we shared something. The need to cling a little too hard to fiction.

  It’s like waiting for a fever to pass, the feeling of being truly enmeshed in a fictional world, so overwhelmed with it that reality is grey and small by comparison. All you can do in the throes of it is wait it out, distract yourself, do things that force you to be physically in your body. As dissimilar as we are in every other respect, Faye is one of the few people I have ever met who understands this.

  I give up on getting anything done at 5 p.m., and head out into the too-dark night though it’s too early to be seen leaving. I need to rediscover the part of myself that cared about impressing people here.

  ‘Hey, love!’ Faye is an explosion of curly bottle-blonde, her voice high and always childlike, but I’m warmed by how genuinely thrilled she seems to see me, how tightly she hugs me. How she hesitates for a second, but does not say the most predictable thing: you look tired. I do. I couldn’t sleep last night, and when the jittery feeling of lying in bed trying to force myself unconscious finally became unbearable, I turned instead to Netflix and lost myself in him.

  ‘You need to tell me every single thing that happened on Friday,’ Faye almost yells, once we’re seated on a low couch with twin Cosmos in hand. So I tell her, realizing as I do that this is the first time I’ve really laid it all out and tried to make sense of it for someone else.

  ‘Wait,’ she interrupts when I’m almost to the pool. ‘It sounds like you got a legit amazing interview with him. Like, I’ve never read anything where he got this personal.’

  ‘Yeah, it was going really well until his publicist showed up!’

  ‘Stitch that on a cushion, honestly,’ she says, clinking her glass against mine. ‘It sounds to me like he was enjoying talking to you, just as people, but then his publicist showed up and turned it back into a work thing.’

  ‘Maybe.’ I can’t stop the corner of my mouth from turning upwards.

  ‘Anyway, sorry, go on.’

  I tell her the rest, now distracted by the memory of just how good that interview actually was, and watch Faye’s eyes gradually widen as the story reaches its climax.

  ‘Have you heard anything since? Like, has anyone kept you in the loop?’

  ‘God, no. I’m just reading the same as you online.’

  ‘The poor guy,’ she sighs. ‘So he was as nice as everybody says?’

  ‘Yeah, he was just… normal. He didn’t act like he was one of the most famous people in the world and I was a pleb being graced with his presence.’ I take a hard sip of my drink. ‘But I mean, it doesn’t matter. Nobody’s ever going to read the interview because Nest is never going to run anything that actually risks being newsworthy.’

  ‘Burn,’ Faye purrs. ‘I mean, just take the story somewhere else if they’re too basic to run it.’

  ‘I don’t think I can do that. He and his publicist agreed to Nest specifically, because it’s fluff.’

  ‘And? You’re sitting on a goldmine here – I mean, Clark Conrad’s last interview before his daughter’s suicide attempt? Are you kidding? Who cares what the editor of Nest thinks of you once you get that published?’

  ‘Yeah, but I also don’t want to…’ I stop.

  ‘You don’t want to piss him off,’ Faye finishes for me.

  ‘I mean, he just almost lost his daughter. It’s traumatic enough without some reporter trying to milk it. And who knows when he might be useful to me in the future? It’s not worth it.’

  ‘Fair.’

  ‘I do need something, though. A story that’s industry-focused, something I can pitch to actual culture editors and be taken seriously.’

  ‘Does it have to be an actor? I mean, obviously that’s the most fun, but would you consider something with a producer or an exec?’

  ‘Sure. That might actually be better, because I need to get a foot in the door at Reel. Why, do you have something?’

  ‘You know Ben Schlattman is leaving Scion?’

  The Schlattman brothers are two of the most powerful producers in the industry, but their company has been struggling for years, losing money – haemorrhaging, by some accounts – on a series of high-budget gambles which only just broke even. But the brothers’ power is in combination; they come as a unit, a one-two punch. I’ve heard them referred to as good cop-bad cop, Ben the charmer who reels you in, and Bill the hard-nosed tycoon who comes in at the end to make the deal.

  ‘Wait, really? I thought that was just a rumour.’

  ‘Nope, it’s real, he wants to go out on his own. They had a blowout, I guess. He plays golf with my uncle,’ Faye continues casually. ‘I can get you his email address, if you want to ask for an interview. He’s kind of a nightmare, but—’

  ‘That’s perfect.’

  I order us another round, already feeling less adrift, imagining my Q&A with Ben Schlattman as the lead story on Reel.com, maybe even a page in the print edition.

  ‘Wait, I can’t believe I didn’t ask you this before,’ Faye exclaims, clutching my arm. ‘Was Amabella Bunch there? Clark’s still dating her, right?’

  I nod with a grimace. Amabella has been by Clark’s side in every photograph coming or going from the hospital, looking directly at the cameras with a practised smoulder as he shielded his face beside her.

  ‘She wasn’t at the house, and he didn’t mention her. But I had to write a post about her this morning, actually.’

  ‘Ugh, you’re still doing those 4 a.m. news shifts?’

  ‘It’s just for this month. Probably.’

  ‘They’ve gotta be paying you enough at Nest that you don’t need to take this extra stuff.’

  ‘Barely.’

  ‘You’re a workaholic.’

  I smile. People say this as though it’s a bad thing.

  ‘I mean, having to write about Amabella’s “hashtag fitspo” post this morning definitely gave me second thoughts about carrying on.’

  ‘She is always doing the most. I don’t know how much that raw food brand pays her to shill for them, but her Instagram is fifty per cent sponsored content at this point.’

  ‘They pay her a lot,’ I reply. ‘And I mean, fair enough – if you have no discernible talent except taking selfies you’ve got to hustle.’

  ‘Your burns are on point tonight.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I’m actually being unfair to Amabella. After all, she did have a supporting role in that YouTube original drama series last year, the one where she played the cheerleader who got eaten. That was a pretty nuanced part.’

  ‘She has her own lifestyle brand now too, and a fragrance, because of course. Also, I don’t want t
o be slut-shamey, but—’ Faye lowers her voice conspiratorially. ‘She was married to that Silicon Valley guy for, what, four months? Are they even divorced yet?’

  I shrug. This is an aspect of Clark I simply do not want to know any more about, the part of him that sees any value in Amabella Bunch. The man I met would see through her right away, especially given his distrust of influencers, but maybe she’s a better actress than I’m giving her credit for.

  ‘She’s garbage,’ is all I say to Faye, with a smile.

  Back at my apartment, another roach corpse awaits me in the kitchen, and I suppose I should feel blessed that they’re always dead now when I see them. The exterminator warned me this might happen – ‘It’s the chemicals, dries ’em out, draws ’em into the open to die’ – but the sight of them still jars me so violently I have to soothe myself afterwards with a shot of whiskey. And, of course, with Loner.

  This is how I spend my evenings, now. Watching him, one episode after another after another, murmuring the dialogue under my breath as I cook, exercise, clean my apartment. As I sleep too, probably. Once it finally begins to sink in that I may not see him again, that my Friday afternoon at the Laurel Canyon house will soon start to feel like a memory, I have to hold on somehow. This is how I used to feel close to him.

  7

  When I tell people what I do for a living, they sometimes get a fervent gleam in their eyes, as though I can unlock something for them. Who’s the most famous person you’ve ever interviewed? they ask. Do you get to go to premieres? What’s it really like on a film set? And sometimes I enjoy it, their awe bringing back a spark in me that’s been ground out over the years, a reminder that this really is a dream job. Other times, I force a smile and wish I could be honest about how unglamorous the whole business really is.

  A case in point, tonight. I am going to the Golden Globes. The unofficial beginning of awards season, one of the few ceremonies that celebrates both movie and TV stars in one evening. Half of the most famous people you can name will be there, either as previous winners or current nominees or presenters. I’ve spent close to three hours getting ready, which is so foreign that it’s warped my entire sense of time. I rented a dress, the kind of full-length gown I have no reason ever to own, and it’s so tight around my hips and waist that I had to practise sitting down. I watched a YouTube tutorial on cat-eye makeup and followed it to the letter, and will now spend the entire night paranoid that the liquid liner will run. I went to the salon that only does blow-dries, and got my hair polished and smoothed and twisted into an intricate up-do that required forty-seven pins to secure. I don’t understand the mechanics of it, nor how I will undo it later, but all that matters is that it looks sleek and will require no maintenance from me through the evening.

  This is my first time at the Globes, and though I won’t have a seat at the actual ceremony, I am covering the red carpet, and then the backstage press room, and then the afterparty, assuming Ben Schlattman was serious. He emailed me back within an hour, responding to my three-paragraph interview query with a single lower-case line: ‘sure. come find me after the globes. will put you on the list.’ The Scion afterparty is not an easy ticket to get, so this in itself seems hard to fathom. But all of this depends on whether I can even get near the building.

  My Uber driver has been attempting to drop me off for the last fifteen minutes, only to be blocked at every turn by men in high-visibility vests waving him onwards and yelling ‘No stopping!’ The Beverly Hilton is a fortress at the best of times, a nightmare labyrinth of driveways nestled at the intersection of Santa Monica and Wilshire boulevards, and now even the actual entrance is cordoned off, the entire complex reworked and lined with impenetrable security.

  My driver looks expectantly back at me, as though I might have a solution to our quandary. As though I have any idea what I’m doing. I’m anxious already, my chest tightening, and I hold in my next inhale for several beats before slowly letting it out. 4-7-8, inhale, hold, exhale. You’ve got this.

  ‘You can just let me out wherever there’s a place to stop,’ I tell the driver, ready for this ride to be over. ‘I’ll figure it out.’

  He gestures to our left as we crawl up Wilshire, pointing out a gas station, and I try to suppress a laugh at the perfect anticlimax of this. I clamber ungracefully out of the backseat into the parking lot, restrained by my gown, and walk from the gas station to the red carpet. No one in the parking lot so much as looks twice at me, and I think maybe I’m not the first.

  I’m waved inside by an unsmiling security guy once I flash my purple MEDIA lanyard at him, and walk cautiously onto the red carpet as though there might be a tripwire waiting. I keep expecting to be stopped, maybe searched, maybe told that I’m going the wrong way or maybe simply turfed out because I so clearly do not belong here. But nobody gives me a second glance, and as I reach the press pen I realize just how early I am.

  My spot is at the lousy middle section of the carpet, sandwiched between a newswire organization and a blog from Germany I’ve never heard of, and I shoot off a quick email to my editor warning her to lower her expectations. Every carpet has its own kind of internal logic, and it’s always a waste of time trying to figure out whether being near the entrance is a good or a bad thing, but being this far from either the start or the end of a very long carpet is not auspicious. I’ll be lucky if I get three interviews out of this, and even luckier if they’re with anyone who matters.

  The pens are still an hour away from being locked down, and so I take a walk all the way to the glossy end of the carpet, the feted place where the major trades and the TV networks are positioned. Rectangular shrubs are lined up to form a hedge around the perimeter, interspersed with golden blocks that read ‘Golden Globe Awards’, as though anyone could possibly forget where they were.

  Way up at the other end of the carpet is the public pen, the place where onlookers and fans can gather to wave autograph pads and memorabilia and scream for their favourites, hoping for a few precious seconds in their orbit. I move closer, pretending to be absorbed in my phone, until I can hear their conversations, overlapping and frantic.

  ‘Do you think she’ll sign a DVD?’

  ‘I heard he’s only doing the step-and-repeat and then they’re going right inside, but if he sees our sign—’

  ‘We’re in a good spot right here, everyone has to come past us, I think we have a really good shot of him coming over.’

  ‘I heard she’s really weird about selfies, but I want that so much more than an autograph, like who even cares about a scribble on some paper?’

  ‘I just want him to see the sign, honestly, like even if he doesn’t come over at least he’ll know we’re thinking of him.’

  I glance over at the girls discussing their sign, and my suspicions are confirmed; they’re here for Clark. ‘WE LOVE YOU, CLARK’ blares their homemade sign in black and gold, a red crayon heart in place of the O, and a part of me wants to forsake my spot in the press pen and join them.

  Finally, the process begins. Celebrities are dropped off by limos and SUVs in a holding pen, from where they are escorted down the carpet for a procession of carefully scheduled photo ops and interviews, and the whole thing becomes a blur of tuxedos and satin and shimmery makeup. The German blogger next to me turns out to be a stunning blonde who has brought a cameraman with her, and tries to position herself on the carpet with a microphone until a security guard sternly tells her, ‘You’re not approved for on-carpet, ma’am, please walk back behind the barrier.’ Her name is Hilda, and Hilda eventually proves herself useful because she has no shame in screaming out the names of every celebrity who passes, openly begging them to come over and speak to her. And I, meek opportunist that I am, get to ride on her coat-tails with the few that do come over.

  Thanks to Hilda, I speak to a former leading actress from a network drama about her character’s unexpected recent death, and to the writer of an indie movie which broke out at this year’s Sundance. Most excitingly for me, I
speak to the producer of Clark’s Neil Armstrong biopic, and get a few quotes on his performance which I can use as supporting colour for the profile I still want to write.

  But soon, the carpet is too full for us to get anyone’s attention. There’s something uniquely bizarre about watching some of the most famous people in the world being herded along like cattle, in a space that’s rapidly proving itself too narrow. I’m getting claustrophobic just watching, and now a cluster of publicists is making it impossible for anyone to stop for us even if they wanted to.

  ‘This is a fucking nightmare,’ I hear one hiss, seemingly unaware or uncaring that she’s within earshot of the press. Over their heads, I see two first-time Best Supporting Actress nominees being shepherded towards the doors by their handlers, arms linked as though they’re afraid to let go of one another. I can’t blame them. I’m trying to look out for Clark but it’s pointless, the carpet now six-deep as everyone rushes to get inside in time for the 5 p.m. show start time, and he probably came as late as possible on purpose, the better to keep his head down and avoid the cameras. He might even have been sneaked in early, or through a side entrance.

  Every time I cover a red carpet, I swear to myself it’s my last – they’re a relic, a throwback to a bygone time when there weren’t thousands of online outlets scrabbling for the same access, and a time when stars weren’t media-trained to the point of being useless. But I’m nowhere close to the point in my career where I have the luxury of opting out.

  Though I picked the lowest pair of heels I could find, the balls of my feet are still killing me, and I’m grateful to find actual seating in the backstage press area, along with a full buffet – salads, charcuterie, two kinds of pasta, a wan-looking cheese plate. I haven’t eaten all day, and if I thought about it for long enough I would probably be hungry, but I also haven’t been able to work out in days and so I limit myself to Diet Coke and a few kale chips before hurrying in to reserve a spot in the winners’ room.