by Anna David
And then I examine his friend’s quote: “He was a dork, just like the rest of us.” And I know without even having to call Amy back exactly what happened. The slightly scrawny and definitely short Ken Stinson opened up his issue of Absolutely Fabulous, excited to get his ego fed by relishing over his placement in an issue with actual beautiful people when he noted that his height and weight weren’t the figures he gave me. Reading further, he saw his friend’s quote, and, rather than laughing at it the way any person with normal self-esteem would, he got pissed, called the friend to vent, and the friend simply claimed he’d been misquoted.
I call Amy back and explain the “mix-up” about Ken’s weight and height, and assure her that I have the tape with Ken’s old friend’s quote. Even though I know I’m right, I’m semi-hysterical and guilty over Amy’s accusation, kind of like how I always feel like I’ve stolen something whenever I see a sign in a store that says they prosecute shoplifters. And being right while feeling guilty is never a good combination for me.
“If you’d like to avoid these types of exchanges in the future, I’d advise you to tell your clients to be honest when they’re being interviewed, and not pass on the phone numbers of friends they’re not comfortable with speaking on their behalf,” I say.
“Excuse me?” Amy says after a hostile pause. “Are you trying to tell me how to do my job?”
The fact that she’s getting snippy with me, rather than apologizing for accusing me of making mistakes when I hadn’t, pisses me off even more.
“It seems like in this case, you need to be told,” I snap back.
“Jesus Christ,” she says, and just as my blood starts pumping for a real knock-down-drag-out fight, she slams the phone down and I’m left hanging. I’m always so surprised when I get hung up on that I’m usually still holding the phone by like the fifth time that computerized female voice informs me that if I’d like to make a call, I should hang up and try again. I’m tempted to devil-dial Amy right back to yell at her for hanging up on me but part of me knows I’ve just done something terribly wrong.
Everyone who does celebrity journalism knows that personal publicists in Hollywood are insane, and that the important thing is to act like they’re not. Brian told me this on my second day at work, after a publicist called and yelled at me for telling him that the Jim Carrey write-around story I was doing was a cover story, even though I’d never said any such thing. Would you let a crazy woman yelling at you on the bus make you cry? Brian asked at the time, and I shook my head, even though this fictional crazy woman probably would make me cry and anyone who has to ride the bus in L.A. should surely be continuously crying anyway. Tears start to stream out of my eyes, which I don’t really understand, seeing as I’m the one who won this fight.
I decide to pull it together and not go running to Brian and tell him about what a crazy bitch Amy was to me. So I spend the rest of my time at the office that day blasting Kane’s and Linda Lewis’s music from my computer CD player and thinking about how it’s a shame that Amy Baker doesn’t understand how important I am—that I hang out with important British magazine editors and am invited into the homes of extremely famous musicians, even when they’ve already denied the magazine that right.
10
Kane has one of those video camera doorbell things that everyone who makes more than half a million dollars a year in L.A. has, where you look into this black box—which surely distorts your face completely, like a rearview mirror—and the person decides whether or not to let you in. I’m a potential appetizer being displayed before actually being served, I think as I smile self-consciously into the camera.
“Hello, there!” Kane’s exceedingly recognizable voice booms as he buzzes the door. I push it open and see Kane standing on a porch at the top of a flight of white stairs overlooking a tree-filled garden. A man sits strumming—or maybe tuning—a guitar on the couch on the porch and Kane casually introduces me as I walk up the stairs.
“Greg, Amelia. Amelia, Greg.” Greg gives me a simultaneous nod and smile, managing to wordlessly communicate the fact that he thinks I’m Kane’s plaything for the night and thus not worth shaking hands with, or even acknowledging for more than about half a second. The fact that Kane doesn’t introduce me as “Amelia from Absolutely Fabulous” is also duly noted. Whether Greg is an assistant, guitar tuner, band mate, or roommate is likewise not addressed.
“Would you like tea?” Kane asks as he leads me into his gadget-filled kitchen. He opens a drawer that seems to contain every type of tea known to man, and even some that probably aren’t. People from England are way too damn obsessed with tea.
“Do you have anything a little…stronger?” I ask, feeling corny and like I’m reciting dialogue out of a made-for-TV movie starring Tori Spelling. “A beer? Or a drink-drink?” It hadn’t even crossed my mind that he wouldn’t offer me a real drink, even though this was a follow-up interview and all. Of course, I interview people when I’m stone cold sober—most of the time, anyway—but this situation was already feeling like it was veering into decidedly un-interview-like territory and I was thus feeling like a drink was sounding mighty appealing, if not downright necessary.
“I’m afraid I don’t, Sweetheart,” he says. “But I can make you a strong tea.”
Kane whistles as he throws a tea bag in a ceramic mug and holds it under a boiling water faucet, motioning for me to sit down on the couch in this sort of sitting room off the kitchen. The whole place is loftlike and open, so I can hear Greg playing chords like he’s sitting on the same couch.
“So, we didn’t really get into too much detail about your childhood,” I say, as Kane sits down next to me. He sighs and I don’t really blame him. What he had said had sounded intensely depressing—Dad abandoning the family, Mom drinking heavily, the usual ingredients of a tragic childhood—and I’d been so uncomfortable about having to make him pontificate about these things yesterday that I’d changed the subject altogether. But such details are Absolutely Fabulous’s bread and butter so I know there’s no avoiding them now.
I notice that Kane is glancing at the tape recorder rather incredulously, like he hadn’t actually expected for me to bust it out. Am I the stupidest person alive? Does everyone know that “follow-up interview at my house” is actually code for “come to my fancy house and fuck me”?
Don’t get me wrong. I really don’t have any problem with sleeping with him, at least in theory. But there would be plenty of time for that later, after I’m able to get him to reveal personal, painful secrets in what would go down in history as the preeminent Kane interview.
“Look, Kane, as I told you before, I’m going to need to talk to some of your friends—famous friends, if possible—about you for the story,” I say. Most celebrities are usually fairly quick to offer up the phone number for their sister or Bruce Willis or Andy Dick or some other random celebrity they consider a friend. But Kane had kind of ignored the question when I’d asked him about this yesterday. Now, though, he smiles and says he can get me in touch with Joni Mitchell and some backup musician.
“But you’re being so businesslike now,” he smiles. “I’ll get you those numbers. Call me tomorrow or the next day and I’ll make sure you get in touch with everyone you need to.”
I realize that no digits are going to be forthcoming now, so I get busy asking some of my questions, and Kane answers them—the same sort of stock, unspecific, guarded responses he’d given me the day before—while at the same time distracting me from what I’m trying to do.
“You know, you’re one of those girls that gets more beautiful the more I look at you,” he says, just after I’ve asked him if he ever speaks to either of his parents anymore.
I put the tape recorder down. “Thank you. That’s very sweet,” I say, silently begging my ego not to take over and start gunning for more. “But I’m curious…when was the last time you talked to them?”
Kane smiles at me, somewhat dreamily, moving so close that his face is right next to mine
. “I’m serious, Sweetheart. Some girls look spectacular at first but then their features start to look rather plain after you’ve gazed at them for a while. Yours are the opposite. You look more stunning every second.”
I glance down, officially distracted now, and the next thing I know, Kane’s big, wet lips are brushing up against mine. I look up, shocked, even though I’ve been half expecting this the whole time.
“Kane!” I say, moving away from him. It’s the only word I can think of.
He reaches out to massage my shoulder. “I’m sorry, darling. It was terribly rude to do that without asking. I simply couldn’t help myself.”
“Look,” I say, shifting uncomfortably so that I can take a swig of cold tea for placebo-like liquid courage. “I’m attracted to you, but I also have a story to do, and I really need to deal with the former before I can even address the latter.” I like the way that comes out. Official, yet alluring.
Maybe at another time, or with another guy, I could toss the tape recorder to the ground, not caring if it busted wide open, and let him seduce me right there on this very couch, but my desire to really turn things around for myself at work is looming so heavily on my mind and I know I can’t afford to fuck this up.
Whether or not I’m actually attracted to Kane isn’t something I’ve examined much. He’s bright and shiny, like all celebrities, and so I can’t quite be myself—whoever that is—in front of him. I feel the same way I did when I met Oliver Anderson at a party and then drove to another one with him, making out in his Porsche at every red light: I could basically hear myself talking, like I was an invisible person in the car who was listening to the interaction and quite impressed with how Amelia Stone managed to attract the attention of someone so sought after while simultaneously concerned that she was going to say something any moment to screw it up and make him realize that inviting her into his orb was a mistake.
Kane seems satisfied with what I’ve said and pats my hand platonically, almost condescendingly. But he’s still smiling. Then he glances at the clock and mentions that it’s getting late.
“I should probably be going,” I say.
He nods, stands up, and walks me out of the house, onto the front porch, past the still-tuning Greg who doesn’t bother to say good-bye and to my car that’s parked at the curb outside his front door. Giving me a kiss on each cheek, he smiles.
“Good night, darling,” he says. “Drive safe.”
I smile back. “So I’ll call tomorrow to get those numbers from you?” I say, more as a question than a statement.
He takes a step back and it’s so dark that I can barely see him anymore. “Yes, darling,” he says. “Good night now.”
Linda Lewis’s publicist calls me on my cell the next morning and asks if I can do the interview that day at noon. Since she lives near me and the office is across town, I call Brian to let him know that I’m going to prep for my interview at home and come into the office later.
“That’s fine,” he says, sounding completely distracted.
“I did my follow-up with Kane,” I say, wondering why I’m bringing up something I don’t even want to talk about.
“Good, good,” he says, and I can tell there’s someone in his office that he wants to talk to more than he wants to chat with me.
I don’t want to let him go without some guarantee that he’s back on my side again. “By the way, I ran into Tim Bromley yesterday,” I say.
This fails to captivate Brian. “Did you? Tell him hello,” he says. Bastard’s not even listening to me.
I decide to give him a test to see if he’s paying even the slightest bit of attention. “So, I’ll see you tomorrow, then,” I say, even though I’d said I was coming in this afternoon.
“See you tomorrow,” he says and hangs up the phone.
Staring at the phone, I think about how much I’d like to call Stephanie and tell her about the Kane experience, and about Linda Lewis and inadvertently getting the day off work, and then I feel myself starting to get sad.
Whatever, I think, as I put on Linda Lewis’s CD and blast “Sinner” as loud as I can. Maybe Linda Lewis can be my new best friend.
It was tragic,” Linda says, her features scrunched together as a tear falls out of one of her eyes and hits her lap. “I was devastated.”
And so there it is—my first interview subject to cry in my presence. I had just innocently asked her about the cat she references on the fourth song on her CD; it turns out Daisy was run over by a car, and next thing I know she’s crying. It’s not like I’m angling to be the next Barbara Walters, or that making people cry has been some kind of a career goal, but you have to admit that you’re probably doing something right if a subject’s tear ducts are activated when you simply ask a question. I kind of want to hug her, but after last night’s brush with Kane’s lips, I feel distinctly aware of that reporter-subject line and how much I don’t want to cross it.
I gently lead Linda back to happier subjects, like the moment she got signed by her record label, when she first heard “Sinner” on the radio, and how it feels to be getting the acclaim she so clearly deserves. She cheers up and regales me with anecdotes and thoughts that I completely relate to—like her take on authority (that she doesn’t have the instinct that other people do to respect the people in charge, and it’s always getting her in trouble), feelings about her sexuality (just because she embraces it doesn’t mean she’s not a feminist) and San Francisco (“overrated”). I feel like most of what she says could have come directly from my mouth. Jesus, I’m developing a platonic crush on this woman, I think as she tells me that she so likes the taste of salty and sweet together that when she’s feeling particularly indulgent, she’ll throw Milk Duds into her buttered popcorn at the movies—something I’ve been doing since about the age of ten.
“Me, too!” I shriek for about the thirty-ninth time during the interview.
“Amazing,” Linda smiles. “We’re very connected.”
She actually cares about what I have to say, I think, unlike other people I’ve interviewed who pretend like they do but are just planning when they can stick a tongue in my mouth.
And I’m so enamored with everything she’s telling me that I let some other things slide, like the fact that she’s closed off most of the rooms in the house and won’t say whether or not she’s married. I figure I’m getting such amazingly descriptive answers from her on all kinds of other topics that it will more than make up for some of the other odds and ends the story may lack.
I save the whole age question until the very end, starting it off the way I always do when I suspect it might be a sensitive topic.
“So Absolutely Fabulous is completely obsessed with putting people’s ages in every piece,” I say.
Linda’s lids fly open and she looks at me with wild eyes. “I never say my age,” she says.
“Oh, so Tina didn’t say anything to you about this?” I ask, even though I know the answer. Damn publicists. Linda shakes her head.
“Well, I told her on the phone that this was pretty important.”
Linda seems really cold suddenly, not at all the evolved and loving being she’d been a few moments earlier. “I never say my age,” she says again. “Just tell your editor I wouldn’t tell you.”
I take a deep breath. “That’s the thing about Absolutely Fabulous,” I say. “They don’t accept answers like that. We’re not allowed to let people not answer questions.”
“That’s ridiculous!” she snaps, and then, realizing how harsh that must have sounded, she smiles. “Fine. Just tell them I’m thirty-something.”
“If I don’t get an exact number, they’ll just look it up from DMV records.” I say this in a really low voice that some might label a whisper. But the woman has the aural capabilities of a trained dog.
“DMV records?!” she shrieks. “Is that even legal?”
Smiling at her, I think how much I hope that this ridiculous age issue isn’t going to cause a permanent fissure in what
I’d imagined would be our lifelong friendship. “Look, I’m on your side about it,” I say. “I think it’s ridiculous. But Absolutely Fabulous has all these policies that people just end up adhering to.” I smile again. “You look amazing,” I say, but not in a way that might make her think I’m coming on to her. “And really, age is just a number.”
Glancing down at the ground, I think about how much this situation calls for a cigarette. When I look up again, I see that Linda has tears in her eyes again. This time, I’m a lot less thrilled.
“You can’t let this happen, Amelia,” she says, suddenly reaching over and grabbing my hand. “I can’t have people knowing my age. I’d rather have the piece not run than have it say my age.”
While I’m interviewing Linda, Brian leaves me a message informing me that my Kane piece has been moved up in the rotation schedule, and that I need to be able to turn it in in the next twenty-four hours. His voice is distant, which definitely doesn’t help cushion the news that I’m going to have to stay up all night if I’m going to be able to make this happen.
Luckily, Alex is as available and ready as usual. And, also as usual, he’s a stickler about his two-gram policy. If I’m alone, I usually only want to do one gram—and yet, if I have two, I will do two. Surely Alex has all this figured out. But since, for a drug dealer, he’s extremely reliable, I always buy the two grams and then try to hide the second one from myself so that I don’t do them both in the same night. But I can never think of a hiding place that’s good enough for me to be able to forget about it, which is probably because my apartment is about the size of a postage stamp.
Alex makes his delivery, and I give him the crisp bills still warm from the ATM, slide the folded-up Lotto tickets into my pocket, go upstairs, and lay the coke out on a Jay Z CD. I don’t have the butter-flies and sense of anticipation I usually have before doing coke because the night doesn’t hold the intrigue and promise of a typical night out. It’s just, I decide, a necessary work enhancer. Sure, I could just drink coffee, but the problem with coffee is that it doesn’t keep me interested in what I’m doing. Somewhere into transcribing the second hour of the Kane tape, I’d probably find myself too bored to keep going. But coke has a way of making whatever I’m doing seem infinitely more interesting than it actually is. I’m doing this to save my career, I say to myself as I roll up a dollar bill—I’d tossed out all my straws in a moment of remorseful horror at the state of my life during the depression that hit after the Steve Rosenberg party night—and do my first few lines.