by Jen Malone
I touched her arm to get her attention. “Um, why would prisoners of war come to a press junket?”
She looked down at the carpet and mumbled something that sounded suspiciously like, “Why, Lord, why me?” When I started to protest, she pointed again to the headset. Yeah, right. I was onto her.
“Pay Own Ways,” she told me, using an “I’m talking to a three-year-old” tone of voice. “Some of the major print publications think it will compromise their journalistic integrity to have the studio fund their trip, and by extension their interview. Of course the TV people you’ll be working with today have no such ethics. We cover their trip right down to a generous per diem. And let me tell you, some of them do this every weekend, so you can imagine the vacations they can take on frequent flyer miles and hotel points alone.” She ended on a snort and we resumed speed-walking the corridor.
“Okay, so to save money, we split the cost with another studio. It’s called piggybacking. For this movie, we’re piggying with Warner Brothers. The print interviews for their movie are today and their TV ones will be tomorrow. We do TV today, print tomorrow. The reporters get interviews for two movies with one trip and we get to split costs with Warner’s. Win-win. Got it?”
She didn’t bother waiting for my nod as she paused in front of suite 212. Pivoting, she said, “Okay, gotta drop you here. No time to explain more, but you’ll be fine. Just go with the flow. Good luck.”
Under her breath came, “You’ll need it,” and this time when I raised my eyebrows in question and pointed to her headphones, she smirked. “Nope. That one was for you.”
“Uh,” I began, but the snarky publicist lady was already halfway up the hallway.
I turned to face the door and rapped lightly. A stocky man in giant padded headphones yanked it open, glaring. “Are you an idiot? We’re taping in here! Didn’t you see the sign?” I stood awkwardly in the doorway as the occupants of the room swiveled to face me.
A woman with a stopwatch in her hand shot daggers at me, then turned and said, “We’re going to have to start over. I’m so sorry, Graham, but this’ll cut five off your ten-minute break.”
Did she say Graham?
I stepped deeper into the suite and moved delicately around a black felt backdrop to spot two hazel eyes appraising me with amusement.
Graham Cabot.
Well, shit.
For someone who just lost half of a precious break, he looked decidedly mischievous as he gave me a once-over. Smugly so, actually. I bristled inside, but did my best to keep my expression blandly apologetic as I made my way over to the far wall and tried to blend into it.
“Oh hell no,” said the same woman, gesturing me over to her side. “I was just filling in until you got here. This sucker’s all yours.” She smirked, handing over the stopwatch. “Hit start, then tell the reporter each time a minute passes. Every interview is precisely five minutes.” She gave extra emphasis to the “precisely” and paused to wait for my nod. “Are you sure you can handle this?” she asked with a doubtful expression. I nodded mutely. Was I going to be treated like an idiot all summer? Because if so, I’d like off this ride, please.
Once the queen of punctual left, action in the room resumed and no one glanced in my direction again. My surroundings were a surreal mix of Movieland and posh hotel. Graham was seated facing another man who I figured for the reporter, based on the inches of pancake makeup plastering his face and his “this face can deliver breaking news and you won’t even be scared” features. The black felt backdrop hung from the ceiling in a semicircle, enclosing Graham and the reporter on three sides and obscuring the silk wallpaper and the view of office buildings beyond. I knew just enough to recognize that this was so the viewers at home would see Graham in his chair with nothing distracting behind him, aside from the foam-mounted movie poster advertising Triton propped up on an easel. Wynn kept Access Hollywood on in the background while we did homework, so I’d seen this celebrity-floating-in-black-space setup countless times.
I’d also seen Graham countless times, but in person there was almost this energy shimmering around him or maybe even radiating from him. Obviously, I still thought he was a total asshat for the way he’d treated me the day before, but I suddenly understood what people meant when they referred to “star power.” Good thing I had enough common sense not to get sucked into his force field. No matter how well his shoulders filled out a waffle-weave henley.
I couldn’t interpret the look Graham sent my way (Annoyed? Chagrined?), but it lasted only a second and then he adjusted himself in his chair and flashed the reporter a smile that clearly conveyed, “Sure, I could be your best friend.” If the reporter weren’t wearing so much pancake on his face, I’m fairly sure his blush would have shown through. Graham, on the other hand, seemed to need no makeup whatsoever. He leaned back in his seat and threw an arm across the back of it like he owned the place.
And then everyone was once AGAIN focused on me. I stared back at them for a second before realizing they were waiting on my go signal. “Oops, sorry. Go ahead.” I clicked the stopwatch. Nothing like being dropped into a foreign situation to make me feel totally incompetent. Ugh! Where on earth is Mom anyway, I thought as the dial swept its circle.
“Um, first minute,” I whispered sixty seconds later, waving a little to get the reporter’s attention.
The camera operator threw up his hands and Graham giggled.
Giggled.
Then he said, “You can’t actually talk, or your voice will be on the tape. You have to use hand signals. Hold up a finger for each minute. Okay?” he said, demonstrating as if I might not know how to count to five on my fingers. Surprisingly, there was a note of something odd in his voice. Sympathy? From the obnoxious Graham Cabot?
Then, even more amazingly, he added, “Hey, don’t worry about it. You should have seen me on my first ever day of shooting. They had to shut down the production because I kept forgetting to use my ‘inside voice’ and then, right in the middle of a scene, my mom’s cell went off.”
The word cell was still hanging in the air when my own phone exploded in a cacophony of alarm bells. I jumped up like fire ants were attacking the seat of my pants. My snooze button was set to thirty minutes and I must have hit it instead of turning the stupid thing off before leaving my room. I was ready to run screaming from the room when I heard a low rumble.
It grew.
Graham and the reporter had tears of laughter running down their faces. Graham clutched his side. When he caught my eye, he winked. That was so unexpected that, totally unwittingly, a giggle escaped my own mouth. Before long, everyone else, whether of their own volition, or maybe just to suck up to the movie star in the room, had joined in.
I wasn’t even sure why I was laughing, given how perturbed with him I was, but there was just something about that wink that made me feel like he’d invited me into his personal bubble. And something about him that made me want to be there, despite every misgiving I had.
Graham got up from his seat, carefully unclipping his mike from the folds of his shirt, and crossed over to stand in front of me. My laughter turned to hiccups as I gulped for breath and tried to stand. He stuck out a hand.
“Can we maybe start over here?” he asked. He seemed sincere, but then again, he was an actor. I contemplated him for a moment. If I said no, it would be awkward and maybe even confrontational, so a big part of my brain was screaming, “Just say yes, so you can take the easy out.” But another part was flashing back on that look he’d leveled me with in his bedroom.
Sure, he seemed perfectly friendly now, but maybe it was because there were people around. Then again, there had been people around the day before too. My brain got all jumbled, the way it always did when I was in a potentially ugly social situation, so I did the only thing I could think to do in the moment. I hiccuped my assent and placed my hand into his.
And tried to con
vince myself that the all-over shiver I felt when our hands touched was just my achy-from-laughter rib cage protesting the vigorous shake.
Chapter Five
I was fairly sure I was imagining it—I mean, I had to be imagining it, right?—but I could have sworn Graham Cabot kept stealing tiny glances at me.
After the whole crew got their laughter under control, we got down to business. By the time the third interview was over, I had mastered the stopwatch and been given the additional responsibility of handing the blank DVD each reporter entered the suite with to the tape editors in the adjoining room. They’d pop it in and monitor the feed coming from the camera and then I’d collect and return the finished recording. Except for the mystery of those glances from Graham, joking with Lenny and Brian in the control room was about the only thing making my job not quite stick-a-fork-in-my-eye level.
Don’t get me wrong, it was definitely slightly interesting to be on the inside of a Hollywood moment, but I was learning that behind the scenes was not all it was cracked up to be. Every few minutes a new reporter would walk through the door. There would be one minute of pleasantries while I handed off their DVD and then an interview consisting of the exact same three questions and the exact same three answers.
Reporter: Tell us a little about Triton.
Graham: Well, Triton is about the son of Poseidon, who fights evil underwater with his trident and a magical conch shell. My character has to battle Ladon, a hundred-headed sea serpent, for control of the sea. And of course, I do it in part to win the heart of the mermaid Coralia.
Reporter: Just great! Okay, so what was it like filming underwater so much?
Graham (with a laugh): That definitely wasn’t my favorite part of this experience. The tank that we used was the same one they used for Titanic, so we were in Mexico for months and it was really warm outside, but for whatever reason the tank was always this side of freezing. I never knew hypothermia would be a career hazard when I signed up for this movie star thing. (More laughter from both Graham and reporter.)
Reporter: So I think we’re clear that the water wasn’t your favorite part. What was?
Graham: Oh, that’s easy. Getting to work with Adrian Porter. He’s an amazing director and any actor would count themselves lucky to work with him. I’m just flattered that I had the chance to at this point in my career.
Cue intent nod from reporter and then heartfelt thanks, as if Graham had personally insisted on the privilege of sitting down with, say, Theresa Lopez from WAAI Tupelo. Then handshakes and backslaps. Occasionally there was the “I really never do this, but . . .” autograph requested for the ten-year-old superfan daughter back home.
This was fun the first time, less fun the fifth time, and mind-numbing by the tenth time. We were now on hour three.
At the first break, an hour and a half ago, Mom had slipped silently into the room. How did she know to wait until the changing of the reporters? She went straight to Graham—where they greeted each other like long-lost kin—to see if he needed any powder (of course he didn’t) and then stopped by my chair.
“Sorry about this morning, sweets. I got sucked into the craziness as soon as I stepped off the elevator and I haven’t stopped since. I’m running around putting makeup on anyone who moves, at this point. One of the publicists is getting married next month and just had me diagram a full makeup plan for the big day. Can you believe it? People are tearing around here like a bunch of wet hens. Hey, how are you holding up?” She gave a furtive glance in Graham’s direction before whispering, “Did you make amends?”
“I’m fine and we did. It’s actually sort of monotonous in here. Seriously, Mom, you don’t have to worry about me. Just do what you need to do, I’ll be fine.”
Mom gave me a grateful squeeze on the arm. “Thanks, hon. Lunch is in a bit in the hospitality suite. Catch you then?”
“Okay, sure.”
Now mealtime was fast approaching and I could have sworn I wasn’t making up the little looks Graham kept throwing my way between interviews. Was I breaking some other cardinal press-junket rule? But strangely, they didn’t seem like mocking glances. They seemed . . . shy. Which was seriously weird.
For one thing, the guy probably had a Victoria’s Secret model for a girlfriend. I’d never been inside a Victoria’s Secret, much less had a chance on their runway. Anyway, I don’t know why I was even contemplating any of this. Assuming we had somehow landed in the Twilight Zone and what he was doing could be construed as flirting, it’s not like I’d be interested. What would I possibly have in common with a movie star?
But as one reporter left and the next one made small talk with the cameraman, Graham beckoned me over. For the first time today, he was less than completely in command of the room. If anything, he looked like he was squirming in his shoes, and he stuffed his hands deep into his (perfectly distressed) jeans pockets when he stood.
“Hey, so, um, I can’t exactly go into the hospitality suite with everyone in there just waiting to pounce, so I was wondering if maybe, um . . .”
He trailed off. I picked up his dangling sentence for him.
“Oh, you want me to get you something and bring it back here when we break? Sure, that’s no problem.”
“No. I mean, yes. I mean, no, not exactly. I do want you to get something for me, but, um, I was hoping maybe you would bring your lunch back too. I mean, if the walls in here aren’t totally closing in on you after all these interviews.”
I was so taken aback I didn’t answer. Graham must have interpreted that as reluctance on my part because he rushed on. “Don’t feel obligated or anything. I’m totally fine here on my own. I can always watch TV or whatever. I just thought, maybe, well, there aren’t exactly a lot of people my age around these things and I was kind of excited when I found out from your mom that you were gonna be hanging around all summer. I was hoping we could be friends, even if we didn’t exactly get off to the best start.”
He looked almost vulnerable. Which was crazy. The guy could open up the window and spit and it would land on someone perfectly willing to sacrifice a lunch hour for his company. He had to be the least starved-for-company guy on the planet.
Right?
Any fight I might have had left in me (as if I ever had any fight in me when it wasn’t just me and Mom or Dad or Wynn) went out, because now I was more than a little curious. Plus, Wynn would hang me by my ankles off the old railroad bridge if I turned down this particular invitation. So I answered, “Oh yeah. No, I mean, that would be cool. I just have to find my mom and tell her. She was planning to meet me.”
“Oh, you should definitely catch up with her then. Forget I asked.”
“No, it’s no problem. I mean, I want to. I’m kind of in the same boat. I haven’t seen any of my friends since we moved to LA and I probably won’t meet anyone else my age again till I start school. It’s totally cool.”
Graham looked grateful and put his hand on my arm. I tried not to jump at the touch. “I’d offer to get our food,” he said, “but I probably wouldn’t get back until dinnertime if I set foot out there. Sorry, it’s not exactly model ‘guy behavior’ to send the girl out for lunch, huh?”
“Well, it is when I work for you,” I answered, and he winced. “Sorry,” I said quickly.
“No, it’s cool. I just don’t want you to think you have to or anything. This wasn’t a boss/employee thing.”
Oh. Right.
“Um, okay. So, any weird dietary requirements I should know about?” I waited patiently for the “no mayo, no bacon, low-carb bread on the side” Hollywood version of a sandwich, but Graham surprised me by saying, “Pile anything and everything on. The more, the better. The weirder, the better. Surprise me. Just no pickles.”
He made a perfectly adorable sour face when he talked about pickles and I had to remind myself that this was my employer here. Just my employer. Who only wanted to hang
out with me because I was the single other person under the age of twenty-five around (although some of these women might claim otherwise). An employer who I would never be interested in anyway, because I am not the type of girl to lose control just because a guy has a dimple in his left cheek that is so deep I could swim in it. Not that girl at all.
“Sure thing,” I told him, and headed back to my seat for the last few interviews before lunch. When I popped into the adjoining suite to collect the recording from Lenny and Brian, they started in.
“So, Loverboy’s making his move, huh?” Lenny asked.
“What?” I pretended not to know what they were talking about.
“You forget, the room is miked for sound.” Brian clutched at his heart and pretended it was thumping.
I turned red. “Seriously, guys. It’s just lunch. It doesn’t mean anything.”
“You tell yourself what you want, Newbie. You’re also forgetting we get the camera feed. And I saw the look on that boy’s face when he was trying to work up the nerve to ask you to have lunch with him.”
“Brought me right back to my single days,” teased Lenny as he punched Brian on the shoulder. “Wish we didn’t have to get lunch ourselves. I wouldn’t mind taking in the show.”
I escaped before they could turn their focus back to me. Besides, they were talking pure crazy.
I probably should have restrained myself. Graham had been perfectly normal all morning, but after an evening of dreaming up revenge scenarios, I couldn’t help myself when presented with such an easy opportunity. Besides, he had told me to get inventive. The “sandwich” I made Graham had six different types of meat including one mystery one, plus peanut butter, plus marshmallow spread, plus mayonnaise, hot sauce, and raisins.
Graham picked it up and held it in front of his face, examining it carefully from all sides. With his eyes locked on mine (do NOT notice how nice his eyes are, Annie!), he leaned forward with deliberation and took a giant bite out of it. He chewed slowly, tilting his head back and forth as he contemplated the taste. I waited for a reaction that never came.