“You have my word on that. I’m sure we’ll be back in LA in no-time, re-energized and ready for a new start.” This wasn’t really true, I had no idea what the outcome of this trip might be, but I had to come up with something positive to say.
After I finished the phone call I had a hard time telling whether I should be impressed or scared by how casually A dealt with his wife’s emotions, wasn’t he worried enough to come for her? Why didn’t he talk directly to her? And why didn’t she talk directly to him? Had things gotten so bad they needed me as a mediator for everything? At that point I didn’t know.
When I got back the table I didn’t want to tell B about my gloomy prediction, I needed to help her maintain her refreshingly good mood.
“So what did he say?” B jumped at me like a starving dog.
I sat down and took a sip of sparkling water, “Well, he supports you and whatever you need to do to feel good about yourself again. He says you should take your time and that he loves you very much.” I said, with lots of icing on top.
B made a wheezing sound to this. “If he was still passionate about me he’d come here himself and drag me back to him. He’s a changed man, Darryl.”
“Well, in all fairness, you left him without a word and went to Rome to hang out with another man, friend or whatever. So let’s try to see this in a balanced way. I think you have both changed and it’s time to either get used to the situation or deal with it. Hiding from each other won’t exactly help, although I understand your need for a break.”
B’s voice traveled up a pitch, “Balanced way? I don’t think there’s anything balanced about human relationships? Only single people talk like that.”
That hurt. It really did. I hated being reminded of how lonely I was, because most of the time I thought I was fine. I decided to take a step back and get us to smoke the peace pipe.
“You might have a point. All I’m saying is that I think he’s being an adult in giving you the space you need. Don’t take it as an offense. All is good in the hood.”
“I don’t know which hood you’re referring to, but I can’t see much good in this situation right now. It’s kind of hard to shake the feeling that he’s just over me and it makes me want to be over him too.”
B poked around her food with her fork and looked like a mix between pissed-off and miserable. It made my heart sink.
“Is it that easy to be over someone after five years? That sounds ridiculous to me. I think you’re just protecting your feelings. There’s still plenty of life in your relationship and you know it. But you must both be willing to sit down with each other and blow some life in it.”
“You and your metaphors. The heart knows what the heart knows, that’s all I can say at this stage. Which in this case means that he’s fucking someone else. And I have a strong feeling about this so don’t give me some bullshit or try and cover for him. Let’s talk about something more fun.” B finished her glass, put it down on the table and looked me in the eyes. She suddenly seemed changed. Now she had taken on the look of a determined woman, completely in charge of herself and her emotions.
But I feared it was only her acting skills talking.
***
After our late lunch the mood was not exactly down, but solemn and contemplative. B seemed to have made up her mind that her husband was a cheating bastard and she wasn’t going to let him enter into conversation again. My guess was that she just wanted to put him as far from her mind as possible and although she was smart enough to know that it wasn’t going to work in the long run, she felt it was the best decision for enjoying the present, something I couldn’t disagree with.
We were walking around the picturesque streets, pointing to beautiful details on the facades and commenting on the remarkably elegant people and on how vibrant and romantic the city felt compared to LA. I noticed how she slowly got more into the groove, a smile sneaking onto her lips and her eyes opening properly. The city had a clear effect on her and I must say I really liked the B that came out. She was natural, charming and humorous. We had a really good time and I couldn’t help but think how much we were both smiling and laughing - a rare occurrence those last 12-18 months.
We were standing on a bridge, just looking out on the river Tiber, when I said: “You’re like a different person here. You’re like that girl I started working for four years ago - the one with the tireless energy and the bubbly laughter. I’m really happy to see that person again.”
B wore a quizzical look on her face, “You really think so? I guess I’m more relaxed here, it’s the obvious reason. I feel like there’s nothing I have to live up to. So what if people recognize me, somehow I’m still not worried the way I am back in the States. I don’t need to be constantly on guard and it’s such a relief.”
“I can understand that, I know you’re stressed out most of the time and it sometimes confuses me how anyone can live at that speed. But that’s the deal you get with fame.”
“I guess it’s life. You just have to deal with whatever cards you’re dealt, but no matter how lucky you are, sometimes you can’t help but feel you got handed really shitty cards. Not that I’m complaining, I know I’m rich and famous and all that and I know some people would gladly cut off body parts to be in my shoes. Still, the grass is always greener on the other side, and sometimes I long for a less complicated existence.”
We had talked about this plenty of times and I knew B loved her luscious lifestyle and being in the spotlight. But, obviously, when the going got rough, she wanted out.
“That’s what everybody feels, everybody thinks there’s something over the rainbow, something bigger, better, or just different. But usually small adjustments is everything we need to feel fine again. Like a trip.” I smiled at B, wanting desperately to keep her mood intact and ride the positive wave she was on. I needed her good self, her real self, because it made everything so much easier and so much better.
“Like a trip,” she said and smiled back. It was a nice moment between friends that I sometimes think back to. What happened next wasn’t as nice.
We started walking again and were soon in a maze of narrow, cobblestone streets with restaurants and their outside tables crammed between the walls. It looked like a setup to attract tourists, not locals. Suddenly a man with a large camera took a few brisk steps toward us, stopped for a second to take a few quick shots, then moved forward again. We had had a nice walk, where it felt like Hollywood and the life we had in LA where not only geographically, but also emotionally far away and suddenly here was reality, flashing in our faces. I put my arm around B and held up my hand, but the man in the leather jacket and the goatee had no intention of stopping, he had found a target. He got closer and then suddenly, like something swept through my body, I decided to do something I don’t think I’d ever done before (or since then for that matter), I stepped up to him and told him to stop it. I stared into his eyes with a wild fire, something I rarely felt, being a calmer, more calculating person. “I warn you!” I shouted in his face, but the man pushed me away to get a clear shot of B. This made me see red and I came at him with full force and shoved him to the ground, where he fell hard and his camera smacked heavily against the cold stone. “Let’s go,” I said to B, a mix of determination and shock taking over my voice, and I grabbed her hand as we ran away from the man and further into the maze of narrow streets.
I heard the man shout furiously in Italian behind us, but after a few turns we must have lost him, because a calm set between us. We stopped and looked at each other like we had escaped the jaws of death, when it was only paparazzi - something we dealt with almost daily. B looked at me with incredulous eyes and said, “Wow, what happened there, Darryl? You really caught fire!”
“I don’t know,” I said, still panting from the run, “I just lost it. We were having such a nice time and the last thing I wanted to see was one of those motherfuckers.”
B smiled, “I like the way you protected me, it felt like you were saving us from a ro
bber, not a man with a camera and magazine contacts. But you know he might try to charge you with breaking his camera? This is Italy, I don’t know how they deal with things here, but you might get in trouble.”
“I’ll take the risk,” I said, feeling a rush of masculine adrenaline and pride. I was happy I’d been able to show a tougher side of myself around her, not only being the eternal, funny friend, but also making it clear that I did have her back too.
It was of course not a normal situation for us, B traveling all alone without as much as a bodyguard, but I think we both enjoyed the challenge and the freedom of it. It allowed us to get closer and be somewhat free.
“I think we both deserve a glass of wine now,” B said and we both smiled again.
***
We ended up in a rustic old bar with a marble counter and dark oak features. The place looked 300 years old, but had received good reviews on Tripadvisor and I loved the ambiance. Plus, there weren’t many people here, only one or two couples and a lone guy by the bar. I scanned the faces to see if anyone recognized B or paid her extra attention, but everyone seemed to be minding their own business. Fame was a weird beast, sometimes you got the over-eager fans who just wouldn’t let you go until you called security, but most of the time people were just happy to look, marvel and tell their friends who they had seen. This was the good, acceptable part which I didn’t mind. Look - but not touch, was a decent principle to live by.
I ordered two glasses of Brunello and gave B a glance. There was a color in her face I hadn’t seen in quite a while, a beautiful, soft red nuance that told me that no matter how many paparazzi we might run into, she was still very much “alive” and happy to be here. I was starting to see her reasons more clearly.
“Cheers,” I said and lifted my glass. This was the lifting I preferred, wine instead of weights.
B’s eyes were glued to her phone though and she had a mysterious little smile on her face.
“Who is it?” I asked, slightly peeved that she was preoccupied with other things when my mood was so exuberant.
“It’s Matteo. He's inviting us to a big party tonight, hosted by one of Rome's biggest art collectors.”
I could hear in B’s voice that this excited her, which was big for a girl who had been to pretty much any party there was. I, however, had hoped for a relaxed evening just the two us, talking, drinking a glass of wine and enjoying the lack of action. If I had been more in tune with my own feelings and not so focused on B all the time, I would probably have realized what was happening inside me. Suddenly I was jealous not to have her for myself.
I couldn’t really hide my lack of enthusiasm, “You sure going to a party is a good idea when you're trying to cut down on the drinking?”
“I’m going to cut down on the drinking, yes, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to stay home and be boring. I can drink moderately. Don’t you think it will be fun?” B replied, wineglass in hand.
“I thought the whole point of the trip was to get away from the spotlight?” I offered, desperately.
“I wanted to escape Hollywood and the media machine, not people in general. Isn’t it better for me to socialize and forget about the whole thing, than to sit in my room, depressed and think where the fuck my life is going? That doesn’t sound very helpful.”
I knew she had already decided to go to this party, but I had big second thoughts about her drinking, the presence of Matteo and what other excuses for being uncomfortable I could come up with. It just didn’t feel right.
“I have nothing to wear!” B said, like she had just discovered world hunger, “we need to go shopping. And it’s about time you wore something stylish too, you always look like an accountant.”
This was a stab I couldn’t have foreseen, I was always classy and tidy, I thought.
“What's wrong with how I dress?”
“Chinos? Seriously? You're younger than me! And they make your ass look big and chunky.” Seeing the shocked and slightly sad look on my face, B continued: “I’m not trying to offend you, I’m just giving you some well-needed advice. You’re single, good-looking and not yet thirty. Bring out your potential!”
“What do you want me to wear then?” I said, with sadness in my voice.
“I have some ideas.” B smiled, “We'll don you up, it'll be fun!”
And as we headed for the stores, I couldn't disagree more.
***
A man was touching me. Luckily we weren’t in a bar, but in a Gucci store and the man was a white-haired, old-school tailor with a pen behind his ear and measuring tape in his hands. I was getting an outfit custom-made, express charge and B was paying for it. She was sitting in a chair, watching the spectacle with an amused grin on her face and a glass of bubbly wine in her hand. She seemed to be in a great mood and had already found a 970 dollar black Prada dress she could wear, which according to her was a bargain. When it was my turn, I was so tired from all the walking we had done that day that I was about to faint.
The feeling persisted. My pants ended up being so tight my testicles were about to explode through the fabric, but B gave my outfit two thumbs up and said, “That’s more like it! Now we’re talking HOT! Hot chocolate!” This bad joke emitted a chuckle from the ridiculously good-looking and well-dressed shopping staff, while I wondered if B had had a glass or two too many already. It was going to be a testing night.
“Shake that moneymaker,” she said with a grin when I stood in full figure in front of the mirror in my new tight grey jeans-like pants, black and shiny-striped shirt, a teal scarf and pointy brown leather shoes. Saying I was uncomfortable would have been a major understatement, but I had no choice but to take it for one night.
“You look fabulous! Have you lost weight?” B’s eyes wandered over my body.
“Yeah, worrying about you is making me skinny,” I said in a dry tone.
“But seriously, don’t you feel great? This is the kind of clothes you should wear! Gone are the days of Grandpa-pants!”
“I feel...tight. But if you’re happy, I’m happy and I would be even happier if we could leave soon so we could rest a bit before the party.”
We said goodbye to the ecstatic Italian shop crew who had recognized her from the start and was on their very best throughout the shopping “experience”. When we were out on the street, B slapped me gently on the ass and said, “Now let's buy some champagne.”
Sexual harassment in the work place? You bet. Weird thing was, I didn’t mind it.
***
I had never tasted better room service food, gloriously prepared by the hotel’s Michelin star restaurant, Imago, but B seemed far more interested in the bottle of Moet we were sharing, which meant I was having a glass and she was drinking the rest. I wanted to drink more, if only to save her from over-consumption, but I didn’t really like champagne - to me it was always sour and made my stomach gassy, and I didn't want gas in my new pants - it would blow a hole straight through them.
B’s mood was as bubbly as the champagne and her eyes sparkled like the dress she was wearing. In two days she had become a completely different person, which made me happy, but it also concerned me that it was equally easy for her to retreat into her cave of unhappiness again. That was usually how dramatic her shifts were, although they were slightly exaggerated this time.
We were sitting on her magnificent penthouse terrace, enjoying a lukewarm evening and just watching the night skyline of Rome with its lighted domes and beautiful buildings and for a second I wished we could stop time and sit here forever. But we couldn’t, because we had a party to go to.
B was in a talkative frame of mind, trying to dissect her issues herself, without letting them color her mood.
“Everybody thinks I've got more to give, I can do more interesting roles, be in bigger and bolder movies, that I can really act. Everybody except for the few people who actually have something to say, the directors and moviemakers who rule Hollywood. I don't want to end up shooting these pointless comedies for the
rest of my life - I know I’m better than that.”
I didn’t really like these types of discussions, because it was obvious B’s real issue wasn’t the roles she weren’t getting, it was something else. Still, in a way, she was right. She probably had more talent than people got to witness on screen.
“I don't think they're pointless, lots of people get something meaningful from them, besides just letting them escape their dreary everyday lives for 90 minutes. You’re being far too harsh on yourself as usual.” I said, trying to kill the topic.
“That's bullshit, Darryl, and you know it. The movies I'm in make as much impact as bubblegum. It doesn’t take long to realize they have no flavor, no real substance, and thirty minutes after they’re finished, you forget you ever watched them at all.”
Since I wasn’t a big fan of her movies and she knew this, I couldn’t argue, so I tried to find a sub-path on the same subject. “You could always go to Broadway or back to acting school. Maybe look for something independent like Nicole Kidman did with Lars Von Trier? Why not European films? There are tons of possibilities, you just need to be patient. And maybe kick Julianne out, I don’t think she sees things the same way.”
“You never liked Julianne, I know that. Actually, I don’t like her much either, but she’s a great agent and my mother’s contact and I wouldn’t hear the end of it if I fired her.”
B did anything to avoid her mother, even if it meant staying with an agent she didn’t like. It seemed like a practical approach to her, but just pushing the problem away, to me.
“I’d like to start painting again, you know.” B said and eyed me unsurely, probably wondering how I was going to react to such a surprising comment. I knew she used to paint a lot as a little girl, after all she was of the same blood as her artist father, but I had no clue she ever wanted to get back to it. She had never mentioned it before. My immediate thought was that she was seeking his distant approval. Family relationships rarely make sense and we always feel the need to be accepted, even from people who treat us like dirt.
Hollywood Ass. Page 6