Hollywood Ass.

by Eriksson, Jonas

  She shook her head and reached over towards Gianluca and said something in Italian. He looked up at me and said, “I think she left already. Sick.” He rubbed his belly to make up for his poor English.

  Alarm bells went off in my head. She had already left the party with Matteo, without telling me. How could she have gotten sick again? She wasn’t drinking that hard? Or was she? I said thanks to Gianluca and left the terrace in a haste. Once again she had walked out on me without saying anything and I was really angry with her. Was she at Matteo’s place or back in her room? I tried calling her, but as usual, she didn’t answer her phone. In the end I decided to take a cab back to the hotel, it seemed like the only sensible thing to do at that moment.

  But I didn't think straight and just walked out of the building without telling anyone and ended up walking for 20 minutes before I found a taxi willing to stop and take me back to the Hassler. I looked out the window at night-time Rome passing by and yelled at myself for dropping my focus and leaving B to her own devices. She was still fragile and could easily be manipulated into anything, especially by an Italian stud.

  ***

  I didn’t sleep well that night and woke up with a dry throat. I needed water, but the first thing I reached for was the phone, where I found a message saying: “I'm SO SORRY! I got really sick & Matteo offered me to stay at his place. I hope u got home ok! Love x.”

  She had spent the night with another man, which in my head could only mean one thing, infidelity, which in another turn could only lead to the dissolution of her marriage, which would make my job situation very shaky. I sighed deeply, walked over to the mini-bar, grabbed a bottle of San Pellegrino, sat down in the sofa chair and felt like a ton of bricks had fallen over me - like everything I fought for was lost. I don’t know why I felt it this harshly, it wasn’t a typical thing I did, I wasn’t a drama queen. After all, I wasn’t sure it would cost me my job or bear any grave implications on my personal life. It was too early to know anything. Still, her “betrayal” hurt me more than I could have ever thought.

  ***

  B returned to our hotel just after lunch, chipper and cheerful and constantly on her Blackberry. She didn’t say anything about her night with Matteo, only that she must have some kind of stomach bug, because she’d had the same feeling of nausea several times now, with it, timely, reaching new heights during one of the most prestigious red carpet events.

  This baffled me. Was she so far detached from reality that she wouldn’t even comment on what in my mind was a likely adultery? Wasn’t she sorry she abandoned me at a party in a foreign city? And why, if she was sick the night before, wasn’t she hungover? Where was all this energy coming from?

  Like nothing had happened, she suggested we take a trip to the Vatican, making it sound like the equivalent of popping down to Starbucks for a cream cheese bagel. I said yes, of course. What else could I say?

  At that point I thought B was completely oblivious (or just didn’t give a shit) about how I felt, but in the cab on our way to the Pope’s home, she proved to have a better check on her surroundings - she said, “What’s up with you today, Darryl? Why aren’t you talking to me?”

  I told myself to take it easy, but anger burned inside of me and I couldn’t help but burst out, “What do you think? You just left me, said nothing, didn’t answer my calls and spent the night at his place. I at least thought you could say something about it!”

  “What are you talking about? I was drunk and slept in his apartment, not in his bed! Not with him! He’s gay, remember? And I texted you this morning! Since when did you get so sensitive?”

  I had opened Pandora’s box and figured I might as well dive straight in. I looked at B whose lips were quivering with fury and shock and for a second I was going to back down. After all, she seemed to be feeling good about herself for once. But I couldn’t help but wonder: at what price?

  “Seriously? You didn't do anything? I saw you two. He looked like he wanted to lick you! Like some kind of horny cat! You slept at his place and nothing happened and you didn’t tell me you left because you felt sick and you couldn’t call me because your phone was out of battery? I’m supposed to believe all that? This is not Gullible’s Travels you know!” A pun like this would normally make me smile, but I was furious. A rare emotion in my body.

  “Whoa, what the fuck are you talking about? You think I’m stupid and heartless enough to cheat on my husband? Is this the perception you have of me, that I’m so fucking clueless I don’t know what I’m doing? What has gotten into you?”

  I didn’t know what to reply. Suddenly I felt that maybe she was right, maybe I was imagining the worst? On the other hand, B was a skilled actress.

  After contemplating my options for a while, I raised my hands above my head in defeat, “Okay, okay, I’m out of line. I just don’t know what to think, the way you’re acting. Can we drop this, please? I’m sorry I got a stupid idea in my head. I was just worried about you.”

  B put her arm under mine, “You were worrying about me? You’re so cute I could pinch your chubby little cheek,” she said in a quick shift of emotion, grabbed my cheek violently and tugged it back and forth. It hurt, but I had to be manly enough and pretend not to be bothered by it.

  Then she put her hand on my shoulder, “I’m happy we’re clear on the cheating thing. I don’t cheat, period.”

  I nodded in agreement, but honestly I didn’t really know what to think, because reality was that if she wanted to cheat, I couldn’t stop her, so I might as well stop thinking about it. People do what they want. We learn that the hard way.

  ***

  In the square outside of St Peter’s Cathedral, the line to the church looked mighty demotivating. I didn’t really know why B had wanted to come, she wasn’t the most devout Christian, but like most celebrities she did get irregular bouts of spirituality which sometimes broke out into a tattoo or God-inspired tweet. All this fame and money must make you battle feelings of guilt from time to time and I guess religion helps you deal with that.

  Besides, believing in God is kind of cool. At least for celebrities.

  “There's a line?” she said, both surprised and annoyed at the multi-colored cue of people who were there because of faith or guidebooks.

  I looked at her with a crooked smile on my face, “Yeah, there are no VIPs as far as God's concerned. Except for the Pope maybe. And the cardinals. And the priests. And...little boys.” A bad joke, I know, but I couldn’t help it. Besides, I really liked the idea of B having to stand in line for once.

  “Ha-ha, very funny, Darryl. It just looks so long, that's all.”

  I looked over at the massive group of people slowly moving forward towards two metal detectors and said, “It’s quite fast though, won't take more than ten minutes.”

  “Ten minutes my ass,” B snapped back as we placed ourselves at the bottom of the line. I kept my eyes open for people who might recognize her and start trouble, but hopefully standing in line to a church would save us. B had also managed to cover herself up pretty well in a big hat and giant Dior sunglasses, and why would a world class celebrity be here, queueing like everybody else?

  “I always wanted to see this place, it's on my top five,” B whispered like we were already in the confessional.

  “Which are the other four?” I asked, curious, because I had no clue.

  “Since I’ve been to the Louvre, it’s Taj Mahal, The Great Wall of China, Chichen Itza and Petra.” B rattled off, like it was on top of her mind.

  The line moved almost as fast as B’s tongue and we were soon at the metal detector. She put her Gucci bag through the miniature car wash machine and watched it disappear. Since we didn’t carry any heavy weaponry, no alarm went off and we were allowed inside the church.

  Like most people of my generation I tend to believe only what I see, which has severely dampened any interest in religion, but the massive St. Peter’s Church took my breath away nonetheless. Just the sheer size of it was, well, amazing.


  I looked over at B and saw that she had tears in her eyes, “It's so beautiful...” she said, her voice breaking slightly, “I didn't know what to expect, just not this.”

  “Yeah, it's fantastic,” I said, my eyes wandering.

  We walked around quietly among scattered groups of people who were either equally taken or just there to say they had been there, the latter being people whose cameras probably experienced more on the vacation than they did. I lost track of B for a moment and when I found her again I saw she was sitting on a wooden bench behind one of the massive stone pillars. She was crying. My heart sank down to my stomach because I really hated seeing her emotions get the better of her every single time. I sat down next to her and put my arm around her.

  “What's up?”

  “I don’t know. It just came over me, I started thinking how stupid and immature I’ve been. I’m 32 years old, I don’t want kids, I’m not sure about my marriage and I’m having some kind of career crisis. I’m just so fucked up it’s ridiculous and it really, really hurts.” She dabbed her tears away with a napkin.

  “Don’t be so hard on yourself. If you feel like you’re not ready to have kids, then you’re simply not ready. Maybe you never want to have kids? Who’s going to force you? And if you’re concerned about your marriage, it’s something you both need to work on. Whether it’s through counseling or just trying to find that spark or level of communication you used to have again, it’s something you have to solve together. Being as talented and successful as you are, there’s no reason for you to be feeling like this. You’re so much better than that.”

  B looked up and rubbed her temples with her fingertips, “Sometimes I’m losing hope. Like there’s no way we’ll patch it up - too much dirty water has passed under the bridge. And saying that you can do what you want with your life is kind of naive, as you’re almost always forced through circumstance. I often feel like that, anyway. It’s like I’m the ball in a pinball machine, not an actual human being.”

  I was taken aback by this, was this how bad she saw things? “I think you’re exaggerating a bit, we’re all victims of circumstance, sure, but that’s life. You just need to roll with it and roll with it in a direction you’re comfortable with. You can still guide your own fate.”

  “I know you’re right, I’m just saying how I feel from time to time. I also know I have lots to be thankful for.”

  “I guess we’re just humans adrift in the giant sea of life,” I said in a overly poetic voice to lighten up the situation. We were getting unnecessarily deep and needed a laugh. Which we got.

  “You’re such a weirdo. And that’s why I love you, Dar. Such a fucking weirdo.”

  She said that at the same time as our eyes met and we both felt it. The moment.

  So what happened? Because something happened alright! For an instant I looked into B's shining blue eyes and I felt something. I felt something! Not like an ache or gas or something like that, but something else, something I never thought I’d feel.

  Okay, I might as well come out and say it, I felt like kissing her! How the hell did that happen? That would have been the worst thing to come out of anything - overstepping a professional boundary while of course also putting my foot on A's heart.

  Imagine what destruction one little kiss can create - a slip of judgment that could haunt you for the rest of your life. One kiss can destroy families, lose jobs and change the lives of many people - possibly ruin them.

  One kiss. Think about it.

  But how close was it? Did she want me to kiss her? Did I really want to? My mind was buzzing for hours afterwards...

  ***

  The night after the moment was strange, anxious and nervous. We both felt awkward and I was increasingly sure she had felt it too, the strong electric current in the air that flowed between us. The taxi ride to the celebrity-prone restaurant we were heading towards, felt long and tense. Luckily, as far as anything lucky can revolve around Julianne, my phone beeped.

  “What’s going on? Are you still in Rome?” Julianne shrieked from the other side.

  “Yes, we are. Things are okay here. How are you?” I asked, not expecting a reply. I glanced over at B, who sat stone-faced next to me.

  “I’m dying, Darryl, what do you care?” Julianne coughed, “I actually had an interesting discussion with Paul Berkins, you know the up-and-coming director? He wants to work with her, sounds very interesting. But I can’t be sure, he was quite drunk...and flirtatious.”

  I couldn’t believe my ears. To flirt with Julianne you had to be a lot more than quite drunk. And I didn’t really know what to make of her rambling, she was usually more to the point than this. Maybe she was drunk.

  “Let’s talk about it when we’re back in LA, okay?” I had no desire to stay talking to Julianne, despite the tension in the car.

  “When will you be back? This is getting out of hand. I have so many requests for interviews and appearances I need to reply to asap. Opportunities she can’t miss.”

  “I don’t know. She needs time off, she says. What that really means, only she can know. Maybe she’ll be ready to go tomorrow, maybe in a month. I’ll keep you posted. Ciao.”

  “But...” and it was my turn to hang up. Believe me, it felt pretty good. And the timing was perfect too, the taxi had stopped and we were outside the restaurant.

  We entered through a frosted glass door and came to a sitting room with rustic leather furniture and a fireplace. Two couples were sitting in upholstered chairs, sipping glasses of champagne. They all gave B a glance when we entered. They knew who she was, I could tell, not that she wouldn’t get looks even if she weren’t famous in her nude-colored knitted Missoni with generous cleavage, but they knew.

  We were greeted bona sera by a middle aged woman in a black shirt and a yellow smile. “Come with me,” she said and we followed her down a corridor which led us through another room full of signed celebrity portraits. I thought for a second that B must be on that wall, but I didn’t ask. If she wasn’t there, she would be soon.

  Suddenly we were out in a large garden, full of tables with white tablecloths and cosy, dampened lighting. Two well-dressed and impeccably groomed men came up to us, showcasing blinding smiles and expressed two extremely drawn-out booooonnaaaa seeeeraaas. We smiled back at them and then a short man with a tanned face and soft, chestnut-colored hair, entered the room and walked up to B. They embraced and performed the double cheek-kiss maneuver.

  “How are you?” he asked her and looked into her eyes. He had natural, easy-going charm, the perfect restauranteur. “I’m fine,” she said, but to my ears it sounded forced and unsure. She wasn’t feeling her best, it was all too obvious.

  He shook my hand and showed us to a table. We sat down and I smiled at her, “So you’re up there on the wall as well?”

  B smiled with her eyes elsewhere, “Yes, I’m sure I’m up there somewhere. I at least remember us taking a photo.”

  “And you say they have great wines here?” I continued. I was nervous too.

  “You know I’m not wine expert, but I can promise you they have LOTS of wines.”

  She was right. The wine list was the size of the phone book and they had everything neatly categorized by region. I don’t know if the almost illegible handwritten prices were meant to be illegible, but with B price was never a problem, so I settled for a 450 euro local wine that sounded interesting. We ordered our starters and fiddled nervously with cutlery and phones for a while. I’d never felt so tense around her and was unsure how to start a conversation, but thankfully she blurted out:

  “I need to go to New York, Darryl. I want to work on my marriage. I realize I’ve been acting ridiculous and selfish.”

  B’s decision-making process was run completely by emotions, so I was used to her changing her mind from one day to the next, but this was still completely unexpected. I thought she was having the time of her life here in Rome and that she was far away from wanting to leave. Not that it’s a crazy
idea to want to be close to your husband, but I still felt a bit cheated. I was enjoying myself too.

  “You sure?”

  “Yes, I’ve been thinking a lot and I’m sure.”

  I took a sip of wine and let it roll around in my mouth and fill it with happiness. To me, she didn’t look one percent sure, in fact, she looked to be in a state of utter confusion. I couldn’t tell her this though, because I thought she’d made a mature decision and it wasn’t really a decision I could argue with. She wanted to go back to her husband and work on their relationship. Nothing wrong with that, nothing wrong at all. Except for that somewhere inside of me a spark had developed, a spark I had desperately tried to stomp out, but failed to do.

  But in the end, it was my job to make sure she was happy and the best way to let her do that was to shut my mouth and leave my feelings aside.

  That’s how I felt at that point anyway.

  “Okay. Sounds sensible to me. I’ll call the agency and have them book the first plane out. There should probably be something tomorrow afternoon.” I said, trying my best to sound unaffected. But I did feel some kind of lump in my throat.

  “Yes, please. Do you think I’m crazy? You give me that look.”

  “This is very sane. You want to be with your husband, that’s great news.” I really tried my best, but I couldn’t manage to sound convincing.

  “You act strange, Darryl. What is it?”

  “I kind of like Rome, I guess.”

  “Well, I do too. I had a great time here, but I really need to do this. We can go back soon, do a reunion tour.” We both smiled to that, although the smiles had a hint of sadness.

  “You know what?” B said, changing her tune to something more upbeat, “let’s go out tonight. Let’s have a fun last night in the city we both love.”

  I liked the idea. At least one more night before my jolt back to reality. Little did I know what that night had in store.