He had forgotten to give me the code name, he said, and as for Lauren, he had no idea she was going to be in London. She’d shown up at the restaurant, and when they left, they’d been hounded by reporters and paparazzi. He went to the hotel, alone, and went to bed, and that was that.
“Christ, love, I’m sorry,” he said, “but it’s just the media. Let it go.”
I was so tired at that point, I broke down sobbing. But I knew it was more than exhaustion. I knew that I couldn’t let it go, at least not for long, because this—this watching our lives on TV and reading about it in the newspaper—was here to stay.
While Dec was on the rest-of-the-world promotional tour for Normandy, I suddenly became a minor paparazzi target. The spotlight had shifted while he was gone, helped along by the Kate magazine article, the Kendall Gold publicity and the fact that I was selling my designs. Suddenly I was someone in the eyes of the media, where I’d been just a wife before.
Wherever I went, I felt like I was the actor, because it seemed as if I were onstage, with too many eyes on me.
“Kyra! Kyra!” they yelled, as I came out of Rosita’s building into the twilight. They had finally learned my name.
“Hello,” I said. I tried to maneuver around them, clutching my bag to my side. I always felt as if they might try to pickpocket me as well as photograph me.
“How about a smile?” they yelled.
I hadn’t mastered the art of the quick-flash-fake-smile-that-looks-genuine the way Declan had, but I would try. I could feel the grin come out stiff and heavy. I would start imagining what my hair would look like in the picture, but then I would hate myself for caring, which would make me frown, and then the photographers would pounce, chasing me down the street and to my car, following me to the store where I bought my groceries and my wine. Within days, a picture of me wearing a massive scowl, holding a bottle of wine in a brown bag would appear in the tabloids with a caption like Declan Drives Kyra To Drink.
It became too hard to go out for the small things. I began to have Berry pick up my groceries and my wine, and when the workday was over, I spent my nights alone, unless Bobby could take me to dinner.
On those many nights at home, I turned to the TV more and more. I was watching it in earnest for the first time in my life. Emmie abhorred TV, and as a result, I never watched it as a kid, with the exception of Entertainment Tonight at my friend Colleen’s house. In college, I was too busy getting stoned and lolling around my boyfriend’s apartment. In grad school, I spent all my time at the drawing table. Later, in New York, I had too much to do to be enticed by TV. In fact, I didn’t even own one.
But now, there I was, three thousand miles away from home, drinking too much red zinfandel from fat, bowl-like glasses and watching hour upon hour of the boob tube. Why had no one told me what garbage was on television? I couldn’t drink enough to make it funny. I changed to cabernet, but still every show was so fucking stupid.
And yet, I couldn’t stop. No one had given me a hint as to the complete inaneness of ninety-nine percent of TV programming, and yet no one had explained how compulsive it is. I was an addict. I could go cold turkey for a while and swear to quit. But then I would itch, I would twitch, until I could find out who had received a rose on The Bachelor, whether they were going to convict that guy on Law and Order.
When Declan got back from the tour, he was in meetings all the time. Meetings with the producers of this film, meetings with the directors of that. Declan had literally gone overnight from an actor who had to beg his way into auditions, to an actor who rarely had to read for anything or anyone. They could meet with him, they could talk to him, but it had to be big to get him to read from a script. He was now considered that good, or at least that bankable.
One afternoon when he left Studio City, he thought he saw a black car following him. He got a call on his cell phone then, a call from Max he was waiting for, so he took it and soon forgot to pay attention to the black car. When he got to Mulholland, he noticed it again, he told me. The car’s windows were tinted, making it impossible to see who was inside. He took the curves faster than usual in his new Jag. He punched up the gas and ran through yellow lights. But it was still there, always behind him like a shadow. It was right on his bumper when he got to our gates. He punched in the security code, wondering if he should confront them or just get through the gates and shut them out. He wondered why he felt so anxious and thought it might have something to do with too many spy movies. His hands were wet on the steering wheel as he waited for the gates to open. Surely the car would back up now and drive away, but they were right on his tail, and they came right into our driveway.
Declan stopped his car short of our house and jumped out of the car, angry and nervous.
“Get out!” he yelled, rushing up to the car. “Get the fuck out of there and tell me what you want!”
The car idled. It seemed to him like a black cat waiting to pounce. Declan stalked up to the driver’s side and pounded on the window. He wasn’t sure if he was being brave or stupid. Still no reaction from inside, but he thought he heard the sound of more than one voice, and he thought he could see more than one person inside.
Declan pounded on the window again. He said he was intent on breaking it if they didn’t show their faces.
But finally, the window rolled slowly down. And revealed four teenage girls, terrified, but clearly thrilled to be in the driveway of Declan McKenna.
Before I met Declan, I had always thought the concept of celebrities with bodyguards sublimely ridiculous. These people weren’t visiting dignitaries, after all. They weren’t leaders of a troubled nation.
And the first time Declan’s manager suggested it, shortly after we returned from Dublin, I said never, ever was I going to have some beefy bohunk trailing us, watching us. But after the increasing number of weird letters, and after that car followed Dec in the driveway so easily, I changed my mind.
As Graham interviewed bodyguards, we also had the security system at our house updated. It cost thirty grand. There were sixteen cameras in the house, a digital voice recorder, remote monitors, trip wires and heat sensors. There were dozens of eyes always watching us at home now. Wasn’t it bad enough that we were studied every time we left the house? But whenever Berry bit her lip nervously and handed me another letter from Amy Rose, I was glad to have all the gadgets.
Two bodyguards were hired to work on a rotating basis, or if Declan went out of town, one would go with him while the other stayed with me. Declan’s guy, a somber man named Adam, had actually trained with the Israeli secret service. Denny, the other guy, was a huge black man with a shaved head. He scared the hell out of most people. Just one look could send fans scurrying away. But when you got him one-on-one, he was smiley and goofy. He and I spent so much time together that he began to feel like one of our friends. Albeit a friend that we paid fifteen hundred dollars a week to hang out with us.
chapter 23
If walking the red carpet for the premiere of Dec’s film with Lauren was something of a hoot, a thrill, and the premiere for Normandy was an exciting coming-out party, the Golden Globe Awards was something else all together. Declan was nominated for Best Actor, and it was a zoo. The minute we stepped out of the limo it started—the screaming, the furious shotgun staccato of cameras, the buzz of a million interviews being conducted ahead of us. During our previous red carpet experiences, we’d been on the fringe of the circus—a much, much smaller circus—but now Declan wasn’t just one of the freak sideshows. He was under the big top, and he was one of the main attractions.
Before, we walked the red carpet by ourselves, we talked to a few people, we giggled a lot. Now there was a small team of publicists under the direction of Angela, who led the way, deciding who Declan should talk to. Adam and Denny trailed behind us, silent and menacing.
And the posing for pictures—how bizarre. This wasn’t the pack of ten or so photographers hanging outside our apartment, shooting us as we walked to our car. This
was a literal wall of black-clad photographers and videographers.
“Stop blinking,” one of the publicists whispered to me.
“What?” I was still staring at the monolithic structure of photographers, all standing on bleachers, so that the lot of them reached high into the air.
“You’re blinking,” she said. “They won’t be able to use a shot if you have your eyes closed.”
Hmm. Something to remember. Was it possible I could walk everywhere with my eyes closed, just so they could never use another picture of me?
I’d already been taught by the publicists how to stand with my posture perfectly straight, one foot in front of the other, my shoulders back, my arms slightly bent (“so you don’t smoosh the top of your arms against your body,” the publicist had said, shuddering. “Nothing will make you look fatter”). Despite that training, though, with all the photographers that day, I felt like a bird in a cage, there for people to feast their eyes on before they moved on to the snake house.
Because of the preposterous quantity of TV I’d been watching, I was able to greet nearly all the interviewers by name.
“Pat. Billy. How are you?” I said to the Access Hollywood crew.
I shook Melissa’s hand and asked about Joan.
“Hello, Bob,” I said, making my way to the Entertainment Tonight crowd. I glanced around, hoping for a glimpse of Ms. Hart.
Declan stared at me in wonder every time I did that. He thought I was making an effort on his behalf; others probably assumed I was a monumental ass-kisser. How to tell them that it was all a product of nocturnal boredom and loneliness?
“Kyra, is this one of your dresses?” I heard again and again. Now, that kind of attention I liked. I’d designed a sheath dress in a silver and white fabric with a black bateau neckline. The best part was that the circle-of-diamonds pin, placed in the middle of the bodice, was made of real diamonds, à la Harry Winston. I kept glancing down at it, covering it with my hand, needing to check that I hadn’t lost twenty carats’ worth of the highest-quality diamonds around.
The noise was so loud—the buzz and screams of the crowd, the chatter, the hum of TV cameras—that many times, Declan and I had to shout to answer questions. I tired of this quickly, but Declan loved it.
“This is crazy shit,” he said, waving at the hollering crowds. He said it twice before E! News Daily had to turn off their cameras and ask him, smiling, if he wouldn’t mind avoiding the “S” word. He apologized, the dimples on his face charming everyone. He always lapsed into his thicker brogue when he was nervous or excited, and the swear words would fly with more frequency.
“Oh, fucking Christ,” he said a few times when we had a moment to ourselves. “Look, look.” He pointed out Paul Newman, whom he’d always admired, and across the way, an actress he’d had a crush on a few years ago. He was enamored with all these people, with the stars. He didn’t realize that he was one of them.
Before moving to L. A., I had never watched the award shows, save for the Oscars, which I saw every year during Emmie’s Oscar party.
The Oscars being my only point of reference, I expected the Golden Globes to be the same. Mainly, I expected them to have the obscure, boring categories like “The Key Grip in a Motion Picture Featuring a Singing Dog.” But no, the Golden Globes seemed to be the meat and potatoes—best actors and actresses, best drama, best comedy. It was entertaining, but as the time for the best dramatic actor award drew near, Declan and I got antsy. This was the first time he’d ever been nominated for any kind of an award.
“I think I’m going to be sick,” he whispered in my ear.
I glanced at him. His face was slightly flushed. “Breathe,” I said. “It’s just like we’ve been talking about. It doesn’t matter if you win. It really doesn’t. I mean, hell, the fact that you were nominated alone means that you might get an Oscar nomination.”
Declan shot me a look. “Don’t say that.” He was ultrasuperstitious. It was an Irish thing.
I leaned over and kissed him slowly on the cheek. As I did it, I saw a camera a few rows away swing around and catch us. Usually this made me instantly nervous, aware, once again, of the people watching, but this time it didn’t matter. I saw Declan close his eyes in that moment and take a deep breath. When he opened them, he nodded at me. “Thanks, love,” he said. “I’m all right.”
Ten minutes later, Jennifer Aniston read the nominees for Best Dramatic Actor. Declan squeezed the blood from my hand, but his face remained calm.
“And the winner is,” she said, slicing open the envelope with a graceful finger.
She opened the envelope. As she read it, a small smile drew over her face. Declan squeezed my hand harder. I held my breath.
“The winner,” she said, “is Denzel Washington for Stolen Lives.”
My heart sank hard and fast, but Declan burst into fanatical clapping. He thought Denzel Washington was an amazing actor, and after meeting him at the Golden Globes luncheon, he was even more enamored with the guy. I clapped along with him, sneaking side glances at his face. He looked almost relieved.
After Declan’s category was announced, I felt my cell phone vibrate in my purse. I took a quick peek at it—a text message. (I was such a tech whore by that time it sometimes frightened me.)
Meet me by the west bathrooms, the message said. It was signed, B.
“Bobby?” Declan whispered. Bobby and I were forever on the phone or text messaging each other. What I would have done in L. A. without him, particularly since Normandy, I couldn’t imagine.
I nodded. “I’m going to the rest room.”
“Tell him I said hi and congrats on Everett,” Declan said. One of Bobby’s clients, Everett Walden, had won a Best Supporting Actor award earlier.
I tried to stay low as I crept over Declan and into the aisle. Immediately, a woman with long blond hair appeared before me. A seat filler. She gave a low weird bow, almost as if we were in Japan, before she slipped into my seat.
The west lobby was nearly deserted, but I saw Bobby, gorgeous in a tuxedo, leaning against a far wall smoking a cigarette.
“You can’t smoke here,” I whispered to him.
“I can until someone makes me put it out. Actually, I’ll put it out for you.”
He crushed the cigarette on the heel of his shoe. “You are the most beautiful woman here.”
“Thanks.” I twirled around to show him my dress.
“One of your best.”
“Well, it’s probably the diamond pin. It’s real this time.”
“Harry?”
I nodded.
“Nice.” He grinned. “Looks like you’ve made it. Hey, how’s Declan? Is he okay?”
“He’s absolutely fine. He loves Denzel.” Inwardly, I thought how odd it was that I should be throwing around the single name Denzel as if I knew the guy. Odder still, my husband actually did. “Declan said to say congrats about Everett.”
“God, it was great, wasn’t it? He really deserved it.” He pulled an airline-size bottle of vodka out of his breast pocket. “Want a hit?”
“Absolutely.” I took a healthy gulp. It slid down my throat, warm and bitter. “How’s your date tonight? What’s her name, Playa?”
“Chaya. She’s all right.”
“Geez, when are you going to find someone to fall in love with?”
Bobby made a wry face. He looked at the empty hallway. He shook his head. “It’s definitely not Chaya. So how did the carpet treat you tonight? You handle it okay? I know you hate that shit.”
“It wasn’t bad. We had the PR people and Adam and Denny.”
“You know it’s only going to get worse with the Oscars coming up. Especially if Declan gets nominated.”
“I know.”
“I mean, it could get really crazy. When I was representing Julia, and this was a long time ago, it got off the fucking charts.”
“I know, Bobby, I know,” I said, a little irritated. “You tell me all the time.”
“Hey, you s
aid you wanted me to warn you about this stuff.”
“I do, but I also know Declan is my husband and my best friend, all right? So I’ve just got to put up with this stuff.”
He was silent.
“What?” I said.
“Nothing. More fun topic. What party are you going to afterward?”
“I think we’ve got ten of them.”
“Well, shoot me a message, and I’ll meet you guys somewhere.”
“Deal.”
He kissed me on the cheek, and I crept back into the auditorium to relieve my seat filler.
At our first bash of the night, I followed Sherry, Graham’s wife, to the bathroom. This was a surprisingly difficult task with the throngs of people there. The feel in the air was like a keg party after high-school graduation—everyone relieved to be done and blowing off steam. As we made our way, I saw Al Pacino, looking haggard but somehow handsome, talking to Kirsten Dunst. Great dress she had on, vintage Balenciaga from what I could tell. By the bar, I spied Brad Pitt and George Clooney. Declan was in the VIP area congratulating Denzel. Unfortunately, no sign of Bobby, yet. Luckily, no sign of Lauren.
In the rest room, we had to wait in a short line. When I came out of the stall, Sherry was talking to a statuesque black woman. In fact, if I wasn’t mistaken, she’d been one of the women who carried the Golden Globe statues onstage.
“Kyra,” Sherry said, “this is Malory Nevlin. She used to be Graham’s assistant.”
“Hello,” I said. I held my hand out to her, and I gave her hand a squeeze.
“Malory,” Sherry said, “this is Kyra Felis.”
“Hi, there.” She had almost let go of my hand, but then she was pumping it again. I noticed that something glittered behind her eyes—an interest, a recognition, an excitement. This had been happening to me lately. People didn’t used to have that glitter in their eyes when I met them at a bar in New York or at one of my old temp jobs or when I first moved to L. A. The glitter hovered there now because I was, apparently, somebody. I was Declan McKenna’s wife; I was a fashion designer; I was someone who designed a dress for Kendall Gold. I had achieved a special status in the eyes of certain people, even though I didn’t feel any different.
The Year of Living Famously Page 18