by Claire Adams
“Emma,” Ida says, “we’ve talked a little about your history with this man, but let’s fast-forward to when he comes back into contact with you. Did you know from the start that he was trying to blackmail you, or—”
“I wouldn’t say that I knew he was going to blackmail me, specifically,” I tell her. “Once I knew who I was talking to, though, I knew the conversation wasn’t going to mean anything good.”
“How much did he ask for?” Ida asks.
“While Ben’s still in pretrial, my attorney advised me not to go into specifics on that, but I can tell you that it was a substantial amount,” I tell her.
“Okay,” Ida says. “What can you tell us about that arrangement?”
The way she speaks the words makes them come across less accusatory than she actually means it.
“He informed me that he had those photographs of me, and that, if I didn’t want them to become public, I’d do what he wanted me to do,” I answer.
“And you went along with this?” Ida asks.
“I didn’t know what else to do at the time,” I tell her. “Maybe that sounds stupid, but—”
“No, sweetie,” she says in a saccharine voice that only proves my point that nobody’s going to be able to replace Oprah, “it’s not stupid at all.”
“This all happened, the blackmail, after we started working on this movie and it’s my first major feature, so I was trying to keep my name out of the tabloids if at all possible,” I tell her.
“Okay,” she says, and I’m done pretending.
“You know what?” I ask. “That’s actually not true. The truth is that I remembered what I looked like the weekend those pictures were taken—at least that I had bruises all over me. I didn’t want that to be what people saw when they came to my movies or when they met me in person. I don’t want those bruises to be what my life is all about. Maybe that’s what’s happened now, maybe not. It’s too soon to tell, but I just didn’t want people to see the bruises.”
“So it wasn’t the nudity that bothered you so much; it was the bruises?” Ida asks, and she jerks back a little when she sees the look on my face. It’s not a happy one.
“I like my privacy,” I tell her, “but the bruises are the bigger deal to me, as they were at the time.”
“What do you see when you look at those bruises?” Ida asks.
“I really haven’t looked at the pictures,” I tell her. “I glanced at them briefly a while ago to make sure that I was being blackmailed with something he actually had, but as soon as I saw what they were, I closed the file. I haven’t really looked since.”
“You couldn’t bear to look at those bruises,” Ida says.
“It’s not that,” I tell her.
She sits quietly for a second and then asks, “What is it?”
“They’re different things,” I tell her. “I didn’t want the pictures released to the public because I didn’t like the thought of everyone seeing what he’d done to me. I didn’t want to look at the pictures myself, because…”
“It’s all right,” she says, at the first sign of hesitation.
“I hate the fact that I’m smiling,” I tell her. “In every one of those pictures, I’m smiling. That’s when I really started to feel like he had me in a way that I couldn’t possibly escape. He could take pictures of my battered, naked body and still get me to smile for the camera. I didn’t like that then and I don’t like that now.”
“I was going to ask about that—a lot of people, even after you gave your press conference, thought that those pictures might have been doctored in one way or another,” she says. “Whether it was the bruises that might be fake or that you weren’t actually naked in the original and someone put in another person’s—you know how that sort of thing works,” she says. “The one thing that always chilled me to the bone, though, was that smile on your face.”
I wonder if we should be discussing why she was looking at the pictures in the first place. That just seems like a lot of schadenfreude for an ostensibly bubbly and caring member of the talk show community.
“I’ve got to be honest,” she says, “when I saw that first photograph, I thought those pictures might have been doctored, too. It was that smile. I couldn’t imagine someone going through all of that and still being able to put a smile on her face—”
“I didn’t do it out of courage,” I interrupt her. “I did it out of fear. There’s nothing inspiring about that smile; it’s a smile that I wore because I didn’t want to make him angry.”
“You did what you had to do,” Ida says. “I think that’s the best way to think about it, because who knows what could have happened if you refused? He could have beaten you or he could have drowned you in the lake—there’s no telling what—”
“I don’t like to think about that,” I interrupt her. “Even now, it still feels, sometimes, like I’m playing with someone else’s poker chips and at any moment, he’s going to come back to claim me and put me in that place again.”
“Powerful words,” Ida says, though I have no idea what she’s referencing. “We’ll be back after this break for our last segment with Emma Roxy. Stay with us,” she says.
“And we’re out!”
Ida leans toward me for a moment and says, “I noticed I touched a couple of nerves in that last segment. Don’t worry, the next one is all about the bright future you’ve got ahead of you and the wonderful ways in which you are blessed and blah, blah, blah,” she says. “There shouldn’t be anything too drastic.”
At least it’s nice to know the mask comes off.
“Yeah,” I say. “Could someone get me some water?”
Ida snaps her fingers, gets someone’s attention I can’t see, and mouthes the word “water” while pointing at me.
I see the man run off the set and I look over the crowd. Some of the audience members are looking at me or otherwise toward the stage, but the rest of them have their heads turned, talking to each other. Almost everyone in the room is smiling.
I glance back and see the man coming toward the stage, but one of the directors or someone in similar position of authority stops him.
The man’s looking back and forth between me and the man that’s holding him up, talking to him. He nods a couple of times and then just stands there as the man who stopped him calls out, “And we’re back in five, four, three…”
“We’re back with Emma Roxy,” Ida Falcone says, and it’s not until that moment the man with my bottle of water is allowed to come up to the stage and hand it to me. They wanted to make sure they got it on tape and they couldn’t do that if we weren’t “back.”
I unscrew the lid and take a sip of the water, just to ease my throat, and Ida turns back to me.
“Now, we’ve heard some of the terrible things that you’ve gone through,” she says, “but you’ve also got a lot to look forward to, don’t you?”
The way she phrases it, I don’t know how to answer.
“Yeah,” I tell her. “I suppose.”
“Well, you are dating Damian Jones, aren’t you? I’d say that’s something to look forward to,” she says, and the audience cheers.
Maybe it’s the shortened “commercial break,” but I’m having trouble seeing how they’re going to make this drastic transition work on broadcast.
“We’ve gotten to know each other a bit over these past few months,” I answer.
The rest of the conversation is just more of the boring drivel that I thought I’d end up missing after Ben sent off the pictures. I still don’t miss it.
Finally, the show’s over and Ida and I pose for some pictures on the stage—although it’s not entirely clear who’s taking the pictures and why—and she points me back toward Sweater Guy, still standing in that same spot, just offstage.
“You did great,” he says as I get close. “I thought that was a very powerful show. How did you think it went?”
“I think she’s kind of a cunt, but you seem like a decent guy,” I answer, and just
keep walking as he stops.
It’s the middle of the day and I’ve still got to get back to the set and lay down a couple of scenes. We’re getting so close to wrapping up filming and I’m just wondering what I’m going to do with my time.
I’ve gotten a lot of offers since those pictures came out, more than a few from Lifetime, but nothing’s standing out to me.
Now that I’m almost done with my breakthrough film, I have an enormous decision to make: what kind of actress am I going to be?
Recent events are lending a lot of opportunities for me in the revenge genre, but I don’t want my work to be about my life. That’s kind of the exact opposite of what it’s supposed to be.
Taking everything outside of my career itself out of the picture for a moment, the first big question is whether I’m going to stick with lighter movies, comedies with big name actors and that sort of thing, or if I want to branch out straight out of the gate.
I could always do another film similar to Flashing Lights and then try something else after I’ve gotten some more notoriety (for my work as an actress), but the problem with that is that I’d have to fight being typecast.
There’s still time for me to figure it out and the offers seem to keep coming, so I’m not going to let my small death onscreen a few minutes ago be overshadowed with simpler worries like my career.
I get out to the parking lot and I’m mobbed by women from the audience, and once they recognize me, random people walking by the studio set.
Nobody’s asking for an autograph right off the bat, which is kind of surreal. Mostly, everyone just wants to tell me that they wish me well and that they’re glad I got out of such a bad situation, etc., etc., etc.
I’m working my way through the crowd and the first few headshots start to come out, their owners looking for a signature.
The crowd loves me now, but if I start refusing autographs to this many people without someone standing next to me telling everyone that I’ve got to go, this could turn ugly pretty quick, so I start signing.
With all these people handing me headshots and photos from magazines and T-shirts, I’m not worried about writing personal messages to everyone. I’m just trying to get through so I can leave.
For the most part, the people around me are respectful, but as more time passes, the people toward the back want to get closer and the people at the front don’t want to leave where they are and I start getting jostled around a little bit. I’m starting to lose my balance when someone grabs my arm and pulls me upright and toward them.
“I have a few pictures I’d love for you to sign,” the man says, and I look up, horrified. It’s Ben. He’s wearing a hat and aviator sunglasses, I assume because if he didn’t, these people around me would tear him to shreds, but it’s him.
“You can’t be here,” I tell him, trying to keep as calm a look on my face as possible.
“I’m out on bail,” he says. “I’m a free man, and I plan on staying that way. I’m going to need you to ease back with all the stories you’re telling about me,” he says. “And I want you to drop the charges against me. If you don’t,” he says, “I’ll kill you before this thing ever gets to trial.”
My head slams into Ben’s face, and I swear I can feel the cartilage in his nose popping out of place. When I lift up my head again, he’s standing there, covering his bleeding nose with both hands. I’ve broken his glasses.
Someone in the crowd shouts, “That’s him!”
Someone else yells, “Get him!”
“No!” I shout with all the force of my lungs.
The people around me stop in their places, though they’re now restraining Ben.
“We are going to call the police and he’s going to go back to jail,” I shout. “We’re going to show him that we’re better than he is.”
There seems to be general agreement among the group, though there are still a few people throwing bottles and various detritus at him.
This is just going to be one more thing in the papers and on television, and I’m sure if the internet’s not broken already, it’s got to be nearing that end, but right now, I’m not so worried about that.
Really, I’m just feeling pretty good about the throbbing pain in my forehead and the fear in Ben’s eyes as he continues to bleed while someone calls the cops. Nobody’s physically holding him back now, but nobody’s going to let him leave here, either.
Along with the restraining order I should have filed years ago, Ben will now be receiving another set of charges, and if I’m lucky, he’ll be too old and decrepit when he comes out to even consider trying to come back into my life a third time.
The police arrive with an ambulance not far behind them and they take Ben away.
We’re all standing around for a long time talking to the police, but eventually, they let us go. I tell one of the officers that I want to file a restraining order against Ben and he gives me a quick lowdown of the process involved with that.
I’m not a violent person. In fact, I deplore violence.
That said, though, nothing in my life has ever felt better than making that son of a bitch bleed.
Chapter Eighteen
Making Amends to Those Who Deserve It
Damian
It’s our last day of filming. I’ve personally set back production by about three weeks: a personal best.
Things are starting to turn around, though. With Ben finally remanded, Emma’s doing a lot better. With Danna planning to move back in tonight, a lot of crap is finally off my mind.
Danna’s decision to move back came as a bit of a surprise. She had, like she said she would, sent someone to pick up her things and her stuff was gone, all of it. Then, out of the blue a few days ago, I get a call from her saying that she’s had a change of heart, and if I’d still have her, she’d be happy to move back in with me.
My sister, my twin—she can be quite the handful, and she has mood swings like nobody I’ve ever met, but she’s always been there. Even when we weren’t together, we were always talking, and being completely out of contact with her, even for such a short time, was more difficult than I thought it would be.
Maybe it’s a twin thing, maybe it’s a dead parents thing, but when you’ve been through a certain kind of chaos for long enough, you really start to value the things that don’t change and the people that stick around. I’m just glad that Danna decided to remain one of those people that stick around.
Before I get to the set, I stop by Ed’s hospital room. We’ve been getting along a little better now that he’s dying.
I’d love to be able to put it less bluntly than that, but I’m pretty convinced that if the old rotten bastard wasn’t dying, we’d never have been able to bury the hatchet as much as we have.
“Shit,” he says as I walk into his room, “it’s you.”
“Yeah,” I tell him. “It’s me.”
“Haven’t I told you never to come back here?” he asks.
“Every time I’ve come to visit,” I answer.
“Stubborn,” he says. “I guess I can respect that.”
“You’re calling me stubborn?” I ask. “You were supposed to die weeks ago.”
“True,” he says, “but I’ve never been that good about keepin’ to a schedule.”
“Have they found a heart for you yet?” I ask.
“Nothin’ yet,” he says. “Mine’s hanging in there better than the doctors thought it would, though. Son,” he says, “I think there’s something we need to talk about.”
Son? That was a bit unsettling.
“What?” I ask.
His mouth moves like he’s trying to move a bad bite of food into his cheek.
“I loved my daughter,” he says. “I loved that little girl since before she was born and I love her even now that she’s been gone all these years. Do you know what it’s like for a father to see his daughter look at another man like he’s going to solve all of her problems?” he asks.
“No,” I answer, “I don’
t.”
“Well, it pisses ya right off,” Ed says, and has a small coughing fit. “That’s the look she’s supposed to have reserved for her father, but that’s not the way it works out. One day, the little girl becomes a young woman, and there’s someone else she thinks can take on the world in her honor, and when you started coming around, I saw that look going to you more and more. That’s why I didn’t like you while the two of you were dating.”
The only thing I can think is that he knows he’s going to die and he’s just trying to clear his conscience before he goes, because despite the fact that we have made some pretty huge progress since that first visit, we’ve never been anywhere near this.
“After she died,” Ed says, “I knew it wasn’t your fault, but I wanted somebody to blame and you were custom tailored for the role. Penelope and I’ve had a long, good life together and I love my wife, but Jamie was the light in both our worlds. When she was gone, I felt like hurting someone else the way that I felt hurt, and because we’d never gotten along and because she was pregnant with your child, I made that someone you. For that,” he says, “I really am truly sorry.”
This isn’t what I was expecting when I came here.
“Thank you,” I tell him. “That really means a lot to me.”
“All that said,” he continues, “I still think you’re a pompous idiot who gets paid way too much to do something a reanimated corpse with a decent set of teeth could do.”
Given the nature and number of our conversations to date, that’s still on the list of nicest things he’s ever said to me.
We talk for a while until he starts to get tired, and I excuse myself with plans to see him again sometime in the next couple of days, and I walk out of that hospital feeling pretty damn good.
I leave the hospital, drive straight to the set, and it’s not long before I’m in wardrobe, getting ready to do my last scene. I’m wondering if I’m going to miss this set like I’ve missed others in the past. This is where I met Emma, so I’m sure it’s going to have a certain significance to it, but with everything else that’s happened while this movie’s been getting made, I’m not sure that significance is going to be all positive.