by Andrea Meyer
“Hey, baby,” Anthony says. He sounds like he’s in a hurry.
“What’s up?” I ask, distracted. I motion to Alicia to pause the film. I grasp my hands together at my chest, pleading. She shakes her head, but hits Pause anyway.
“Babe, gotta run. Mikey stole a car and we’re in hot pursuit, but I wanted to check in. Probably won’t call later.”
“Okay.”
“Got your e-mail about the wedding. Can’t do it. Things are too hectic.”
“But it’s just one night. Literally take the red-eye after work on Friday and go back on Sunday morning. It will be so easy. I miss you.”
“Me too, beautiful, but I can’t do it. This shoot is insane. Imagine if I missed this stuff.”
“That’s why you have a second camera.”
“It’s not like that, babe. I’m the producer, too. I can’t just leave. Look, gotta talk to you about this later. Shit, gotta go.” He hangs up and my lip starts to quiver. Alicia’s looking at me and I wish she’d go away.
“Wanna go to Sam’s wedding with me?” I ask her.
* * *
We’re shooting Luke Benton at the Maritime Hotel’s swanky outdoor bar, which is decorated with potted trees and Chinese lanterns. I get there early with my photographer, Arjay, to check out the place. While he and his assistant run around looking for the best spot to set up, the hotel manager escorts me up to Luke’s empty suite. I sit down in the sleek, understated living room and look through the doors at the massive bed, where the movie star I’m going to interview spent last night. It looks as if it’s been swallowed by its fluffy white duvet and matching pillows. Above the bed hangs a tasteful painting of a woman’s bare derriere.
Luke Benton does not look like your typical handsome actor. He’s forty-one and has an odd face that for some reason you can’t stop looking at—more Owen Wilson than Jude Law. I don’t find him attractive, but I like watching him on screen. When he flings open the door, though, and strides through it in a black T-shirt with a Ziggy Stardust decal and ripped jeans, I feel his entrance like a wave that rips me suddenly off my feet. In person his deep-set, sloping gray eyes and unusually large, toothy mouth are sensual, his towering height impressive, his presence magnetic. I guess this is what they call star quality. He is extremely attractive: striking, comfortable in his skin, the kind of guy you’d have really good sex with, then throw on clothes and run out tousled for beers and Chinese food.
“You must be Jacquie,” he says, with a musical, slight Southern drawl, holding out his hand as he makes his way toward me. “Please excuse me for being late.” He takes my hand and it tingles.
“No problem at all,” I say, wishing myself out of my stupor. I’ve met hundreds of actors. Why am I acting like an ass? He throws himself down on the couch, right next to the spot where I’d been sitting, and pats the place where my butt should be. I sit. Someone knocks on the door.
“Come in!” Luke hollers, and a room service waiter wheels in a tray with a bottle of water and a plate of fries on it.
“I ordered fries,” he tells me as the waiter places them on the coffee table in front of us. “My last vice, and I cling to it with relish. Want some?” He picks one up off the plate and places it between my lips. My cheeks become very hot as I chew. Luke bursts into a grin. “Mmmm,” he says. “So good.”
“Yeah, I’m a sucker for greasy food myself,” I say, taking another. “And salty food. And sweets … Should we talk about your movie?” Luke eloquently analyzes Bad Rap and the politics that led him to take the part in a no-budget independent film by a first-time director. His passion is contagious, and forty-five minutes fly by, both of us animated and laughing often. I only have fifteen minutes until we have to go downstairs to the photo shoot, so I throw out some quick questions about earlier projects, his writing, his three-year disappearing act, and even a couple of more personal inquiries about his relationship with his two daughters and his very public recent marriage to a French actress half his age. He doesn’t hold back at all and seems happy to share an intimate side of himself with me.
At one o’clock on the dot, Luke’s publicist bursts in and asks us to wrap things up; we’ve got to get shooting. Behind him, in sweeps Luke’s wife, Celine Devereaux, as stunning in person as on screen but much thinner. Her waist is about as big as my ankle. “Baby, baby, baby, I meeessed you!” she howls, launching herself feverishly at Luke, who’s still seated next to me, wrapping her legs around his waist and shoving her tongue down his throat with complete disregard for me and the other onlookers in the room. I hastily snatch up my digital recorder and purse and rush out the door.
The bar downstairs is buzzing. The makeup artist has set up her table and is perched in a director’s chair, impatiently wiggling her foot. Arjay has placed white Chinese lanterns artfully above a table and is taking Polaroids of his assistant in various positions around it. Smith, the publicist hired by the studio to promote the movie, is there chatting up Steve, who has turned up for the occasion, and the love of Smith’s life, Foofy, is hobbling around looking for scraps of designer bar food.
“Foofy, come here!” Smith shouts, digging a treat out of his pocket. “We’re about to get this party started.” He throws his arms up when he sees me and rushes over to plant kisses on the air next to each of my cheeks. “Hey, doll, you look gorgeous! How was it?” I assure him that the interview went exceptionally well. We squeeze each other tight, in silent acknowledgment of the triumph we’ve managed to pull off together.
During the photo shoot, Celine has a hard time staying more than three feet away from Luke. At one point he’s leaning against a photogenic wall posing for close-ups and she’s crouched on the floor at his feet with her arms wrapped around his legs, gazing up at him rapturously and whispering the mantra je t’aime je t’aime je t’aime je t’aime into his kneecaps. While the makeup artist is refreshing Luke’s face, his publicist approaches the besotted ingenue and whispers something into her ear and she’s whisked off, only after she’s jumped onto Luke’s lap and buried her face in his neck and cooed, “I weell meeess you so mooosh, mon bebé. Ce n’est qu’un fitting. I weell be back by four o’clock. I loooooove you.”
“Love you, too, angel,” he tells her, as she scampers off to the limo waiting to escort her.
When the shoot is done and we’re packing up, Luke’s publicist approaches me and says, “Jacquie, Luke would like some more time with you.”
“What do you mean?”
“He said you were rushed out of the interview earlier and he’d like to give you more time.” I’m surprised: I considered the interview fairly indulgent, but I’m also touched and tell him I’d be happy to continue our conversation. I let Steve know I’ll be staying, and Luke and I say our goodbyes. We stand silently side by side in the elevator as it rises slowly toward the fifth floor, where we get out and make our way back to Luke’s room.
We take our places on the couch and I pull out my recorder and turn it on. “All right, so tell me more about this movie. What was it about a guy leaving prison that hooked you?” I say, not really knowing how much is left to be said.
“You know, it’s a project I’m very proud of. The idea of starting over, of leaving behind destructive patterns and trying to be a better person, strikes something very deep inside of me. I’ve reinvented myself so many times.” He’s sitting about a foot from me on the couch and staring right into my eyes. I wonder if he thinks I’m pretty.
“You are known as much for your many lives as you are for your talent as an actor. Are there any surprises around the bend that you want to warn me about?” I think I detect a glint in his eye. He definitely raises his eyebrows mischievously.
“Hey,” Luke says, reaching over and turning off my recorder, “let’s talk about you now.”
“What about me?” I ask, shivering slightly.
“How long have you been doing this?”
“About six years.”
“Do you love it?”
“I
used to say I loved my job so much I’d do it for free, but now sometimes I think I’d like to do other things as well.”
“Like what?”
“Well, I’ve started writing relationship stories for a women’s magazine. It’s a lot of fun.”
“I see you being a great writer, Jacquie, someone people will notice,” he says, continuing to look straight into my eyes. I nod, wondering if he thinks my stomach looks fat in this skirt.
“I like you,” he says and touches my cheek. It warms under his fingers. Is this actually happening?
“I like you, too.”
Over his shoulder I see the bedroom with its fluffy duvet. The ass of the woman in the painting is bigger than mine, but next to Celine I’m gargantuan. If Luke and I had sex, he’d probably think I was a cow. What am I thinking? Luke and I are not going to have sex. Or are we? Oh my God, I think. And then: Wait. I have a boyfriend. Having one still feels new. It’s been a long time since I’ve been with a man who trusts me and counts on me to be faithful, and even longer since I’ve gotten into a situation like this while I was in a relationship. Usually I only have to contend with myself, a guy (in this case, a rich, famous, astonishingly attractive and charismatic one), and the angel and the devil on my shoulders, who are bickering about how slutty I am and whether that’s a good thing. Now there’s all that plus a man with whom I might spend the rest of my life. Oh yeah, and one of the most beautiful women in the world, who happens to be married to the man whose thigh is now pressed up against mine. If I sleep with this guy, I’ll become another notch in a movie star’s bedpost and I’ll freak out the whole time about how fat my butt is and whether I’m as good in bed as Celine Devereaux. But I will also have a great story to tell my friends. What’s really standing in my way is the fact that I would be cheating on Anthony, and I don’t cheat. Never have, never will. I just don’t do it.
“You know,” Luke says, running a finger lightly along the length of my jawline. “There was a time in my life when I would have taken your hand and guided you into that room over there without a care in the world.”
My cheeks flush again. Oh my God. “You’re married,” I say.
“Well, that’s the problem, isn’t it?” he says, his thumb and forefinger lingering at the tip of my chin. “There was a time when that wouldn’t make much of a difference to me either, but I’m trying to be a better person.”
“I have a boyfriend,” I say, relieved to have said it.
“He’s probably a pretty special guy.” I nod. He leans forward, puts his hands on my shoulders, and lightly brushes my lips with his. It sends a jolt through me, and I close my eyes to savor the sensation for a second before pulling away and gently encircling his wrist with my hand and shaking my head: no.
“Let’s do it anyway,” he snarls, running the back of his hand down my throat and tantalizingly along the edge of my breast. This guy knows exactly what he’s doing: It feels so good, I have to squeeze my thighs together to stop myself from floating away—or into his bedroom. Luke looks into my eyes with hard determination. He is trying to hypnotize me.
“I can’t,” I say.
“All right, let’s get out of here,” he says, and jumps up from the couch.
“That’s a good idea.”
As we wait for the elevator, both of us start laughing, quietly at first and then like hyenas. “I can’t believe I just had that conversation with Luke Benton,” I say.
“For a minute there, I was just a man.”
I nod.
In the elevator, he looks over at me. “What are you thinking?”
“Just wondering if I have any regrets,” I say.
“Want to go back?” he asks, his mouth widening into a lecherous grin. I push him with my hip and shake my head in mock disapproval.
“Goodbye, Luke,” I say, now in the lobby, and give him a forceful hug. Everyone at the reservations and concierge desks pretends not to be watching and wondering did we or didn’t we?
Alone outside on Sixteenth Street in front of the hotel, I throw back my head and scream. An old lady holds her purse more tightly against herself. I take out my cell and call Courtney.
“Oh my God, Court! You’re not gonna believe what just happened! Luke Benton hit on me! He, like, made the moves. I could have slept with him. I didn’t, but I could have. He wanted to. Wow, we had this amazing connection. It’s very Celebrity, don’t you think? You know the Woody Allen movie? All alone in the movie star’s bedroom and he starts making the moves. Woody did it again when Scarlett Johansson slept with that sleazy director in Scoop. But no, it was a real connection, more Diane Lane and that babe Olivier Martinez in Unfaithful, you know, wrong but impossible to ignore. I thought it was just me at first, but then it was totally mutual. Oh. My. God!”
“Jacquie!” she says. “This isn’t a movie you’re talking about. It’s your life. And Luke Benton is married.”
“I know that, Courtney. Obviously.”
“Well, then, what are you so excited about? I don’t find it interesting or sexy. I find it disgusting.”
“That’s all you have to say when this gorgeous movie star just hit on me in his hotel room? Yeah, this gorgeous, married movie star no less. Come on, even you have to admit that’s pretty friggin’ cool.”
“I’m sorry, I really just don’t think so. A famous actor with a reputation as an incorrigible womanizer almost cheats on his wife and you almost let him. Why? So you could tell everyone how great he is in bed? So you can say you slept with a movie star? You got him to cheat on his beautiful wife? All I can say is I’m glad you used whatever restraint you were able to muster, or I’d be sick. Jesus Christ, Jacquie, what about Anthony? What about the supposed love of your life?”
“I didn’t do anything, Court. Jesus Christ, it was just kind of cool that we had this connection.”
“Well, congratulations,” she says. “You know, you are so fond of saying you’re pathologically faithful, oh yes, and honest to a fault. But I’m not so sure. Sometimes I think you’d lie and cheat all the time if you knew you wouldn’t get caught.”
“That’s a mean thing to say.”
“Well, I’m in a bad mood and that’s how it seems to me,” she says.
“I’m hanging up,” I say, and I do.
As I’m creeping along Seventh Avenue, agitated about the conversation, Clancy calls.
“Been meaning to call you,” she says. “I was out with a twenty-four-hour flu.”
“Are you okay?” I say, relieved that she wasn’t blowing me off.
“Completely healed. But listen, Jacquie, I am thrilled with your piece. Not changing a word. You’ve got the Luscious voice down. It’s smart, funny. I want you to do another for the next issue.”
In the back of my mind, I remember that there’s something I was upset about, but the thought is easily evicted from my brain.
“I thought of another idea: how to deal with a boyfriend who’s married to his work. I’ll give examples from workaholic movies like His Girl Friday, Wall Street, Kramer vs. Kramer, stuff like that. I’ll have to think of one where the husband’s workaholic tendencies drive the neglected wife to cheat. Duh, Heat with Pacino, remember that awful scene when he walks in on her with the new guy?”
“Painful.”
“Hey, Clancy, do you think I might be able to write these regularly? I think there’s an endless number of stories here.”
“Shouldn’t say anything, but I am going to propose it to the editor in chief. So fresh, unlike what I’ve seen in the other mags. Jacquie, I think we’re onto something.”
I’m bursting with excitement and want to call Anthony and tell him, but then I remember that he doesn’t even know that I write for this magazine. God, the lies upon lies have become so convoluted, I can’t even share this news with him any more than I can tell him I almost slept with Luke Benton. I guess I could just tell him about the workaholic assignment but he probably wouldn’t be thrilled about the subject matter, and what if he started b
uying the magazine? I’d be screwed. Then again, he never reads my articles that he does know about. In any case, it’s time I told him the whole story, but not while he’s out of town. I have to do it in person. I have to be there to make sure he doesn’t keep hating me when he starts hating me. Suddenly exhausted, I call Alicia and tell her to invite a friend to the premiere party for a Spanish film we were supposed to attend together. I can’t do it.
I’m fast asleep at eleven-thirty when Anthony calls and says he can talk only for a minute because he has to head out again.
“You’re obsessed with your job,” I tell him sleepily.
“What?” he asks. He sounds angry.
“You are. You’re obsessed with your work.”
“Yeah, maybe I am, and what’s wrong with that? I like what I do. I like to do it well. So, what’s the big deal?”
“I just wish you had more time for me. I haven’t seen you in such a long time and I have to take my sister to my friend’s wedding.” I roll over in bed and lean on my elbow, feeling more alert now. “Even when you are in town we only see each other for five minutes before bed. I don’t know when the last time was that we’ve even spoken about something going on in my life. Have you ever read anything I’ve written? It just bums me out. That’s all.”
“Jacquie, I can’t deal with this right now. I think I’m going to hang up before you really start pissing me off. Me and my crew are out here working our asses off and I really don’t need this from you. Jesus Christ, Jacquie! You expect me to dump everything to come home for some wedding of some chick I don’t even know? Show a little respect for what I do.”
“Fine,” I say. “I’m sorry.”
“Good. I gotta go.”
When he hangs up, I experience a sensation I’ve felt before, of grabbing aimlessly, trying to find something to hold on to before I fall. My arms and body feel heavy, as if I could sink right through the mattress. What is it with me that I always love men who are somehow out of reach? Anthony has handed me his love, his company, and his home, but he still isn’t really here. He’s still off somewhere without me, while I’m lying in bed alone. Yet, I was drawn to him before I knew what our life together would be like, back when he appeared only generous and loving. It’s as if I subconsciously seek men who will leave me wanting more.