by Emma Dibdin
Though I picked the lowest pair of heels I could find, the balls of my feet are still killing me, and I’m grateful to find actual seating in the backstage press area, along with a full buffet – salads, charcuterie, two kinds of pasta, a wan-looking cheese plate. I haven’t eaten all day, and if I thought about it for long enough I would probably be hungry, but I also haven’t been able to work out in days and so I limit myself to Diet Coke and a few kale chips before hurrying in to reserve a spot in the winners’ room.
When you win a Golden Globe, you pay the immediate price of being led backstage into this cavernous ballroom where a seated throng of journalists will ask you basic-yet-confusing questions, and your responses will be filmed and uploaded to the internet for immediate dissection. Everyone in this room is hoping, on some level, that at least one winner says something controversial enough to become a story, and to justify all of our being here. It’s always possible, too, that someone will make an inspirational speech. The two major currencies of the internet: outrage and joy.
Two hours later, and not a single newsworthy thing has happened in this room. The winners have emerged and given earnest responses to earnest questions, and confused responses to confused ones. The word ‘blessed’ has dropped dead from overuse. ‘What’s the first thing you’re going to do when you get home tonight?’ is a question that keeps being asked, along with, of course, ‘Where are you going to put your Golden Globe?’ I know I should have the balls to get the mic myself and ask a question, instead of just complaining inwardly to myself about how stupid other people’s are, but I’m exhausted and distracted and have no clear assignment here. And Clark, in what’s already being described as a ‘shock upset’, did not win Best Actor in a Drama.
Armstrong was beaten in every major category by a lavish historical romance called Idyllwilde, whose poster is laden with quotes calling it ‘stirring’ and ‘heartbreaking’. I found it neither, but its heavy-handed script and showy lead performance are pure awards bait, and though most pundits had predicted a win for Clark and for Armstrong, Idyllwilde sneaking in has always been a possibility. I try to keep the resentment off my face as the lead actor fields press questions, his answers more smug and contemptuously boring than the average. The only good news here, from my perspective, is that Idyllwilde is a Scion production, and so its unexpected Globes triumph throws Schlattman’s departure into an even more newsworthy light.
I deliberately kill a little extra time once the ceremony winds down and the last press call is over, so as not to arrive at the afterparty too early. This hotel is not so much a hotel as a complex, housing multiple restaurants and bars and ballrooms which allow most of the various Globes afterparties to take place just steps from the main event. As ever, the real party is the after-afterparty; these do not involve lists or RSVPs and most certainly do not involve journalists. Their locations are secret, usually the home of a celebrity or a discreet private room at the kind of club that knows how to protect its patrons’ privacy. Faye somehow got herself into an after-afterparty for last year’s Grammys, held at an unidentified millionaire’s house in Bel Air, but as far as I can tell she spent most of the evening taking surreptitious selfies and failing to inject herself into conversations between famous friends.
The Scion party is inside one of the hotel’s many ballrooms, its dated seventies carpet and beige vibe transformed by lilac-hued lights and candles and champagne flutes into something that feels exclusive. The women here are all lithe and polished and radiant, the men neat and broad beside them, the collective angles of everyone’s cheekbones exhausting. The un-chosen few among us are easily discernible, the journalists and publicists and assistants who made it in here as accessories, necessary addenda to the glowing, shining core of this town.
And of course, I know nobody at this party. Except, I suppose, Ben Schlattman, who really did come through and put my name on the list but is nowhere to be found inside. I’m not even convinced that I remember what he looks like, and pull up his face on my phone to be sure before accepting my first glass of champagne from a passing waiter. Then a second. Three is usually the number it takes for me to feel capable of striking up a conversation with strangers, and so I sip my third glass while looping the room, glancing casually from one side to the other as though searching for my companions. Keep moving. This is the most important rule I’ve learned from years of covering these things alone; don’t stay still for too long, don’t hover for long enough to make it obvious, don’t look desperate.
On my third loop, I finally accept that nobody I know is going to spring out magically from behind a decorative plant to save me. But Melody Harmon is here, the rising star now turned Best Supporting Actress winner, and she’s engaged in a conversation that looks non-committal enough for me to cut in.
‘Excuse me, Melody?’ I ask smoothly, what I think is smoothly, and she turns to me with a sculpted eyebrow barely raised. I remind myself that she’s hardly a star, that before this Globe nomination she was recurring on a CBS sitcom, that she’s the same age as me and I do not need to be intimidated by her. ‘I’m a reporter with Reel, could I ask you a couple of questions?’
She blinks at me, almost smiling.
‘No,’ she says, then, ‘Sorry,’ in a tone that suggests that she’s only sorry our paths crossed to begin with. And then she is gone, her golden dress a blink in the distance as she shoots away to tell, presumably, everyone else at this party to stay away from me.
I spend the next several minutes in line for the bar, the better to face forwards. If my skin were capable of turning any colour but alabaster, it would be flushed. On my way back, an Old Fashioned in either hand (the line was long and I’m planning ahead), every eye that catches mine feels accusatory, every glare confirming that word has already spread around the entire room. Melody knows everyone here, inevitably, and maybe it’s bad form to chase interviews at an awards afterparty, maybe these events do not work like most of the industry parties I’ve attended. Maybe I’ve breached some invisible but sacred line, my indiscretion solidifying the fact that I do not belong here.
I get a wall at my back and pretend to be texting frantically, then realize there’s an actual text I should be answering. Today marked Tom’s fourth unanswered message, this one tinged with an unmistakable, understandable passive-aggression. ‘Got some big news… call me if you ever get time. T x.’ Right after I’ve sent off my long-delayed response promising to call Tom in the morning, I spot Ben Schlattman, his face newly clear in my mind. He’s in a roped-off VIP area of this VIP party, and as I move towards the rope my path is blocked by a security guard.
‘Miss, this is—’
‘Mr Schlattman?’ I say loudly, and he looks over, as do the three people he’s surrounded by. Two power producers in suits, a pinched older actress I recognize from Idyllwilde. He’s bigger in person than I imagined, both taller and wider, his thinning hair slicked back and beard trimmed short, his suit clearly tailored yet somehow slightly too small. ‘I’m Jessica Harris, with Reel. Faye’s friend, you—’
He nods, waves me over with a quick nod to the security guard, and the rope is pulled back for me.
‘Congratulations,’ I tell him as I shake his hand. ‘Five Globes, not a bad omen for the rest of awards season.’
‘Did you like the picture?’ he asks, and I barely hesitate.
‘I did, very much.’
‘So you’re not one of those reporters calling it “hackneyed” and “obvious” and “the easy choice”?’ His tone is light, even jovial, but something in his eyes makes me suspect he’s serious.
‘It wasn’t my favourite of this year,’ I allow. There’s no point in lying more than necessary. ‘But I thought it was elegantly made and told a powerful story well. The cinematography was stunning.’
‘Roger’s a gem.’ He nods. ‘All right. Not your favourite, but powerful. I’ll allow it.’
I laugh, a little too loudly, and let him introduce me to his three companions, all of them feign
ing interest when he tells them I’m a reporter.
‘I thought about being a reporter,’ the younger of the two producers tells me.
‘Really?’
‘Yeah, back when I started out I thought I was gonna be a newspaperman, dig up scandals in Washington, speak truth to power, all that stuff. I was in the mail room at the Post, and then the copy desk for a while.’
‘Why did you give it up?’ I ask.
‘Too much work for not enough money,’ Schlattman answers for him. ‘Toby straightened out his priorities along with the rest of us.’
‘Smart move, I can attest,’ I say ruefully, and raise my glass in a mock-toast.
‘Do you love it?’ the producer asks me, as the other two drift away to join a more compelling circle. ‘Reporting?’
‘I love writing,’ I say honestly. ‘Using words to try to get at the truth about somebody, or something. I’m not sure I love reporting in the same way, but you have to do the one to get to the other.’
‘Not if you’re a critic. Then you just get to watch the movies, churn out a few hundred words, pass judgement without having to create anything of your own…’
‘Toby’s still sour from his last round of reviews,’ Schlattman murmurs, and Toby grimaces. His last project, I think, was Only the Good, a neo-western blockbuster which got savaged upon its debut at Cannes, drawing boos and walk-outs and a wave of reviews so brutal that it was reportedly re-cut before its eventual release. I never saw it, so can only smile sympathetically.
‘So, what can I do for you?’ Schlattman asks me. I’m taken aback, and since I’m not sure whether the news of his leaving Scion is common knowledge, I reply with caution.
‘Like I said in my email, I’d love to profile you. A little bit of a retrospective on your career to date, obviously, how Scion was formed, the awards success of Idyllwilde, and a look into the future. Where you see the industry going, where you see your own work going.’
‘A look into the future,’ he says, contemplative. ‘All right. Let’s do it, Jessica.’
The VIP area is growing full, and Toby slinks away in the direction of the bar, presumably punctured by the memory of Only the Good. I follow Schlattman over to a low sofa beside his reserved table.
‘We don’t have to do this now,’ I say hastily once we’re seated, suddenly realizing he may think I want to interview him immediately. ‘Just let me know when’s good for you.’
‘Want to meet me in the lobby restaurant here tomorrow for breakfast? Bright and early, that’ll keep you out of trouble tonight.’
‘Sure. Sounds great.’
I watch him, as he continues to ask me questions about my job, my background, why I got into the industry. It’s curious, the mismatch between his body language and his apparent interest; he’s angled almost away from me, his gaze distant and his face impassive. Anyone watching from afar would assume he was annoyed, or at the very least not enjoying our interaction, and yet he’s the one pushing the conversation forward, so much so I feel as though I’m being interviewed. But this, I suspect, is how he operates in business; make people feel special, make them feel unique, but never quite make them feel secure. I don’t doubt that he has an agenda going into this interview, a perspective that he wants to get across, and that’s fine. He gets to tell his side of the story, and I get to put my byline on it.
Melody Harmon passes by and I can’t suppress a wave of pleasure at the startled look on her face. She did not expect to see me in here, much less at Ben Schlattman’s table, and I smile lightly at her before turning back to Schlattman, who’s now distracted in turn. He’s craning his neck to look up at somebody at his right shoulder, and I realize with a thrill that it’s Clark.
He doesn’t immediately acknowledge me, though he clearly sees me. I’m frozen, though of course on some level I knew he might be here. He’s doing the rounds.
‘You want to join us?’ Schlattman asks, raising his voice back to a normal volume. ‘This is Jessica, the hack Reel sent to profile me.’ He says the word with a crooked smile in my direction, and I smile back.
‘We’ve met before, actually,’ Clark says, and stretches out his hand to me. ‘Good to see you again.’
‘Don’t you have your own afterparty to be at?’ I ask playfully as I take his hand.
‘He likes us better,’ Schlattman answers. ‘And he knows he fucked up when he chose them over me. Could’ve been you tonight, Clark.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Careful,’ Clark says lightly. ‘You better be sure this is off the record.’
‘It is,’ I say quickly, but Schlattman waves a dismissive hand.
‘Hell, this is already out there for anyone who cares. Clark was my first choice for Idyllwilde, I said that from the start. Wined and dined him, thought I had him, and then he turned me down for the space movie.’
Clark shrugs in a mea culpa way. ‘It was the role of a lifetime, I’m not sure I’ll ever read a better script.’
‘I can send you ten better scripts from my slush pile,’ Schlattman snaps back. It’s all in jest, no true venom; this is just how the business works, and we all know it. Still, there’s always a grain of truth in the joke. After the pair of them have gone back and forth on this for a while, Schlattman gets called away by another acquaintance, leaving me alone with Clark. And though I’m braced for him to bail, for his eyes to fix on a point somewhere over my shoulder and excuse himself with a painfully polite smile, he stays.
‘Can I tell you something?’ I say quietly, so that he has to lean in to hear me.
‘That’s a loaded question.’
‘You made the right choice. Armstrong is a way better script than Idyllwilde, and there’s no comparison between the roles.’
He nods.
‘Agreed. But who’s sitting here tonight with a Golden Globe in his hand? Not me.’
I watch him stare vacantly into his glass and wonder if he’s joking, startled that he cares this much about what is objectively the least important award of the bunch. But this might not have mattered so much to him a month ago, or even two weeks ago, before Skye drew a bloody divide between one era of his life and the next.
‘I still think you’re going to get the Oscar.’
‘You must like to go against conventional wisdom.’
‘I think a lot of the conventional wisdom around awards season is bullshit. You’re not going to stop campaigning, are you?’
‘I haven’t been doing a lot of that, under the circumstances.’ His tone pointed, as though I could possibly have forgotten. I was there. And I feel something in me shift, the alcohol and the giddy rush of this evening powering me towards a reckless thing, an idea that will either draw me closer to him, or ensure that I never see him again.
‘That’s exactly what I’m saying,’ I tell him, looking hard into his eyes. ‘The Globes voting closed at the start of the year, too early for… those circumstances to be reflected. But the Academy is voting right up until January 30. That’s nearly two weeks away.”
He regards me steadily.
‘The sympathy vote. That’s what you’re saying?’
‘I’m saying you deserve the Oscar because your performance is the best I saw all year. But it’s rarely just about that. Right? It’s about who campaigned the hardest, who’s in favour, who’s really earned it? Who reflects the values the industry wants to be seen as upholding? Who do we like the most? Not just their performance, but them as a person.’
‘I assume you’re going somewhere with this.’
‘Everybody likes you. You’re one of the nicest guys in the business – I’ve heard about seven variations on that sentiment this week alone. No one’s heard from you since what happened, and that’s good because you don’t want to seem opportunistic. But I’ve been thinking a lot about what you said during our interview, before. About wanting to be more present in your daughter’s life, and how admirable that is.’
He shakes his head with a bitter chuckle.
‘Maybe. And I would never pretend to know what your family is going through, or how you’re feeling after what happened. But there are more absent fathers in this world than not.’ Clark frowns, as if prompting me to expand on this, and I don’t hesitate. ‘My dad went out for groceries one afternoon when I was seven, and never came home. We thought something had happened to him, until the police came to search the house and discovered that he’d taken a suitcase with him, and clothes, and his passport. Money. He ghosted us.’
I haven’t told this story in a very long time, and not to anyone since I moved to LA. I tell people that my father is dead, now, because it’s so much more straightforward, and if I had the power I would rewrite my own memory to make myself believe it too.
He stares at me, and I dig my nails deep into my palms to steady myself. I had no idea I would be revealing any of this tonight, but it’s coming out so easily now, so naturally, and he understands me.
‘So believe me when I tell you that trying to be more present as a father is admirable to me. It’s not small. It’s not nothing.’
He reaches out and holds on to not my hand, but my wrist, a tap of pressure near my pulse point.
‘Thank you,’ he says quietly, ‘for your honesty. It’s generous of you to share that with me.’
‘It’s a little bit self-serving, too.’
‘Oh, I know.’
‘So you know where I’m going with this. Everybody likes you, but at least as far as the public is concerned, no one really knows you. I’m willing to bet a lot of voters feel the same way. So. If you ever decide you want to speak to the press, and open up about… anything, maybe before January 30, I hope I’ll be your first call.’
He looks at me, unblinking, impassive, and maybe it’s the alcohol or maybe it’s not but his silence is not unnerving. It feels like understanding, a shining invisible thread between us now, a thread that’s been woven ever since that Friday by the pool.