“Oh, that’s sweet, love!” I sighed, pointing my toes as his words washed over me. I liked being his one and only.
“Who’s on your list? Come on, give it up!”
“Well, Joey Joe you know about. That goes without saying. And I suppose Johnny Depp is always on the list, now and forever.”
“He could be on my list, actually. He is quite dashing.”
“And there’s this new actor—he’s been around only for a little while. Someone introduced me to his work last year. He’s pretty dreamy.”
“Last year. Is that so?”
“Yeah, he’s an up-and-comer, one to watch for sure. I think his name’s Jack Hammond or Hamfield. Something like that.”
“I’ll give you a hamfield!” We both laughed.
“Are you going out tonight?” I asked after we had quieted down.
“No, I’m too tired.”
“I wish you were here, George.”
“Me too, Gracie, me too.”
“You still with me, asshead?” Holly’s voice brought me back from my daydreams.
“What’s that? Oh, yeah. What are we talking about?”
“What does Jack Hamilton think about the pictures that have surfaced recently of you considerably heavier than you are now?”
“I imagine he feels the same way any other actor would feel if pictures of him were sold to a tabloid to make a quick buck, to profit off of someone else’s personal struggle. Was I heavier than I am now at one point? Yep, and while for me personally I made a choice to live a healthier lifestyle, it doesn’t take away from the fact that women in this industry—and in society for that matter—are held to a standard that men are not. So show that picture as often as you need to. That was me then, and this is me now. And I’m okay with it,” I finished, my voice growing stronger at the end. I realized I wasn’t just shoveling bullshit to a reporter. I believed everything I’d just said. And I was going to tell anyone who asked me what I really thought. I glanced at Holly, waiting for her reaction.
“Okay, fruitcake, I think we’re done here. Let’s go talk Michael into making us dirty martinis and bringing them to us in my hot tub.” She snapped her planner closed and winked at me. Press junket, here we come.
Later that night, I was home waiting for Jack. He was actually driving himself back from the desert for a change. He liked the drive. He said he liked the peacefulness he derived from speeding through the desert at night. But he was more than two hours late, and as I cleaned the sink for the tenth time, I considered calling him again. Then I saw his headlights pull into the driveway.
We both had new cars, my little convertible I traded in on a large Escalade that I felt safer in when driving. And Jack now had his own convertible safely tucked away in a private garage in the Valley. He now drove a much less conspicuous but still tricked-out Tahoe when he was out and about without Bryan.
I smoothed my shirt as I walked to the front door, nervous energy charging through me. I hadn’t seen him since the wrap party for my show, and I was anxious to see him, hold him.
I opened the door, and there he was. Hair starting to grow out a bit and looking messy, even though it couldn’t be more than a half inch long. Circles, huge bruised-looking circles under his eyes. He looked exhausted, and even the way he was walking seemed tired, plodding across the pavement with his duffel bag and guitar. I was glad to see he still had it with him. He seemed to have lost some interest in playing over the last few months. His smile, though, that still belonged to me, and it greeted me twenty feet from our front door. He was home.
“Hey.”
“Hey, yourself,” he replied, walking past me inside the door, dropping his belongings and catching me into a close embrace. I wrapped my arms around him, sighing as I breathed in his scent, accented by sun and sage from the desert he’d been living in. His body was lean and hard against my own. He had lost some weight while he was shooting, and he seemed to be all angles and limbs, hugging me tight.
We held each other in front of the front door, kissing and connecting, holding and remembering. I pulled back to look at him, resting my forehead against his as he leaned down.
“I’m so glad you’re home.”
“Me too, love.”
“Are you hungry?”
“I’m too tired to know.” He laughed ruefully, looking down the hall toward our bedroom.
“How about you take a nice, hot shower, and I’ll heat something up for you. How does that sound?”
“Can you bring it to me in that red silky thing you wear for me sometimes?” he asked, one eyebrow raising.
“I thought you were tired?” I pushed back against his chest as he nuzzled into my hair.
“I’m never too tired for that, Crazy.” He pulled me close again and lifted me a few inches off the ground, swinging my legs around in a circle.
“Okay, you go shower. I’ll make you something to eat, then I’ll play dress up for you. How does that sound?” I teased, removing myself from his arms and starting for the kitchen. I turned to see him watching me walk away. Grinning big was his only answer as he headed the opposite way. I heard the shower turn on, and I smiled to myself as I fixed him a snack.
A little of this, a little of that, and then I slipped into his favorite red negligee, lacy and see-through in all the right places. I waited a few moments after I heard the shower turn off, then headed into the bedroom with a tray piled high with all of his favorites.
There, in our bed, Jack lay sideways, still in his towel, sound asleep. I set the tray down and sat next to him on the bed, trying to rouse him enough to have him turn the other way. He sighed in his sleep, turning on his side, reaching out for me and placing his head in my lap. With a small sigh escaping, he was back to sleep almost immediately.
I sat in my lace and peekaboo, running my fingertips across his face and down along his neck, through the closely cropped hair and across his eyelids.
My star needed some sleep.
A pair of solid hands pulled me backward, sliding me against a warm body. I shuddered a bit, sleep pushing from my eyes as I realized I was in our bed, with my Jack. My star was no longer sleeping. My star was on the prowl.
“Jack, you should sleep,” I protested, rolling over and raising up on one elbow, peering down at him. He ran his arm from my knee to my thigh, up and over my backside, plucking at the red lace he loved so. His hand was warm, and so was his smile.
“I slept,” he whispered,
“You still look tired.” I caught his roving hand and brought it to my lips for a kiss.
“What a nice thing to say. Do I get five orgasms now?”
“Funny.” I chuckled, relaxing into his side and tucking in, resting my head on his shoulder. I sighed, still sleepy but craving his skin.
“I could probably handle at least one, then a snack?” He pressed his lips against my forehead. I threw one leg over, sat up above him, and smiled.
“I can handle that.” I went to work.
A while later, I lay in our bed, snuggled on Jack. I wrapped around him like a blanket, still perched on top of him, legs and arms around him, my head tucked into his shoulder. His hands traced a path from my thigh to my backside, up to my shoulders, then pressed into each dent in my spine. They were hands no longer frantic and frenzied, now quiet and soothing.
“I missed you, Crazy,” he breathed into my hair, and I sighed, content with his hands on me.
“You have no idea,” I answered, kissing his ear, tickling with my lips until he laughed.
“How are things here going?” he asked, bringing his hands up to move my hair away from my face, his green eyes piercing even in the moonlight.
“Good. Busy, but good.”
“No, I mean, how are you doing with everything? You ready for tomorrow?”
“The junket?”
“The junket. You ready for that?” He sat up underneath me, my legs automatically going around his waist. He sat cross-legged with me on his lap, his strong hands dipping do
wn to my backside and pulling me closer.
“I think so. I mean, Holly and I prepped and went over the likely questions, when to dodge and when to answer.” I nodded, feeling my tummy clench a little at the thought of facing the firing squad in less than twelve hours.
“I hear what you’re saying, but how are you really feeling?” he prodded, his hands moving under the red lace to be closer to me.
“I’m scared to death,” I admitted, throwing my arms around his neck and clutching him close. He chuckled into my hair, holding me tight.
“I know, sweet girl.” He got it.
“It just makes no sense. I haven’t even done anything yet, and they all want to know how I feel about being a fat actress in Hollywood, and how you’re dealing with my weight gain. How absurd! This makes no sense!” I spilled my secrets to the back of his head.
“None of it makes any sense. The sooner you get that, the easier it’ll be,” he said, pulling back just enough to kiss me soundly on the forehead.
“How are you dealing with Grace’s recent weight gain, Mr. Hamilton?” I asked, thrusting my thumb microphone into his face.
“Yes, well, it’s pretty tough to take. I suppose really the only thing to do is just grab a handful and go to town,” he answered deadpan, followed quickly by him actually grabbing a handful.
We wrestled on the bed, slapping and tickling. We finally came to rest somewhere near the headboard, Jack pinning me down and playing with my lace once more.
“You’re going to be great. You know that, right?” he said, breathing hard from our playful fighting. “Just be yourself. That’s who I love. They’ll love her too.”
“And when they ask me about dating you?”
“Tell them yes, tell them no, tell them to bugger off. I’m not the story. You’re the story. So tell it your own way, Nuts Girl.” He gave my bottom a slap. “Now where’s that snack? I’m starving.”
After a few minutes, I perched cross-legged in our bed and watched Jack slurp leftover sesame noodles and crunch through the egg rolls I had reheated for him. Naked, sheet tucked around his middle, he ate everything with gusto, telling me about the rest of the shoot and how much he’d enjoyed working on this project.
“I mean, what other job in the world would I, some wanker from London, get to fire off rounds from big giant guns and drive a tank—a sodding tank! Are there any more egg rolls?”
I chuckled as I went to the kitchen. It always made me laugh how the more excited he was about something, the thicker the accent got.
I set about heating up the rest of the egg rolls, toying with the idea of slicing up some fruit for him as well, when I heard his phone go off. It was on the counter. And he was in the other room. It was Adam calling. I debated whether I should take it to him or throw it out the window, but then I remembered that the windows were closed, and I didn’t want to replace anything right now, and that the mature thing to do would be to take the phone to Jack.
You wanted to talk to him about this tonight anyway. Now’s your chance . . .
I realize that, but things were going so well.
Give him the phone, heat up his egg rolls, and then have your Come to Jesus conversation.
Yeah, yeah, yeah.
I took him the phone, throwing it maybe a little harder than I would have normally. He was still in bed, sheet pulled down low on his hips as he reclined against the headboard.
“Phone call,” I said, leaving the bedroom as he answered it. I finished the reheating, then headed back in, just as he was finishing up his call.
“Right then, tomorrow. Sure thing. Yep, ’bye.” He hung up and looked hungrily at the plate I brought him. He reached for it, but I held it just out of his reach.
“What’s up, love?” he asked, a puzzled grin making its way across his face.
“We’re going to talk, and then you will get your egg rolls. Fair enough?” I sat at the end of the bed, curling my legs underneath me.
I was still in my red negligee, and I realized this conversation was entirely too serious for the amount of peekaboo I was still in. A look of frustration crossed his face, one I’d seen lately when he was confronted with photographers but rarely directed toward me. He sighed, but sat back against the headboard.
“Okay, so I’m not really sure how to say this, since you’ve been doing this longer than I have, certainly, and you’re an adult and all, and really you’re—”
“Say what you want to say, Grace,” he said quietly.
“I don’t like the path you’re on. It worries me, it worries your friends, and it’s worrying Holly.”
“Is this coming from you or from her?”
“Me. Both. Me. Jack, I know I’ve said this a lot lately, but I’m worried about you. I’ve never seen you like this with your fans. You’ve been downright rude a few times. That’s not like you. And you know how I feel about Adam.”
“That’s what this is about, isn’t it?”
“It’s part of it, yes. He’s just . . . he’s not good for you. You’re a different person when he’s around.”
“Grace, I can’t go anywhere in public without either a bodyguard or a driver hardly at all anymore. My girlfriend is attacked for dating me, even though the question of whether we’re really dating can’t even be answered because some focus group somewhere says it would be bad for my career to be seen as unavailable right now. I can’t go to a restaurant without someone tweeting it and fifty people showing up within twenty minutes, and if I don’t feel like signing autographs one night because I’m tired as fuck, then I’m an asshole who doesn’t care about his fans. I blow off a little steam, and everyone is concerned. To use one of your American phrases, everyone needs to just chill out a bit. Everything is fine. Are we done?” He got out of bed and headed over to the chair where his clothes were.
“Wait a minute. Where are you going?”
“For a drive. I need to get out of here for a bit.”
“But you just got home! Jack, I need to be able to talk to you about this stuff, okay? I need to know that when you’re gone, when you’re on location, that you’re okay. You can’t blame me for being concerned.” I stood in front of him as he stuffed his legs into his jeans and pulled on his shirt.
“You talked; I listened. I hope you heard what I said too. There’s nothing to be worried about, okay?” He planted a kiss on my forehead absently on his way out of the bedroom. I followed him, my mind whirling at how quickly this conversation had turned.
“Wait, Jack, what’s happening here? Are you really leaving?”
“Just for a bit. I’ll be back soon. It’s fine, Grace. We’re fine. I know what you’re saying, and I appreciate your concern. I really do.”
His eyes were hidden from me as he pulled on a jacket and headed out into the night. I stood in the doorway, still in my red lace, shivering in the night air.
“Tell Holly the next time she goes through you to get to me, we’re going to have a real problem,” he said, sliding into his car.
I watched him go, then went back inside. I turned out all the lights, except for the one in the entryway, then padded back to our room. I left the red lace on the floor of the bathroom, slipped into one of his T-shirts, and got into bed. Stunned, I lay on my pillow, more worried than I’d been in a long time.
Sometime in the early-morning light, Jack came home. He came in, I heard him undress, and I felt him climb into bed.
Come over here. Please, come over here, I silently begged, needing to feel his arms around me. After what felt like an eternity smashed into twenty seconds, he wriggled over to my side of the bed, slipping his arms around and under me, hands surrounding my breasts and laying his head on my pillow. I breathed out, letting him hold me.
“I love you so much, Jack,” I said quietly.
“I know,” he whispered back, kissing the side of my neck and going to sleep.
My alarm, set to wake me up for my first day of press interviews, went off thirty-seven minutes later. I looked like hell.
twelve
The press junket was tough. I’ll admit, I didn’t expect it to be so hard. Was I digging ditches? Nope. Answering phones in a call center somewhere for ten hours in a row? Uh-uh. Was this a hard job? Not in the traditional sense, nope. No way. Was that press junket hard? Hard as a motherfucker.
I’ll never watch a celebrity interview the same way. Even though I had prepared for this—I knew what to expect, I felt ready to go—it was hard. You sit in a hotel room, with the windows blocked out behind you, publicity posters sitting all around, and every ten minutes another journalist comes in and asks you essentially the same questions the last thirteen did. And you try to answer them differently but not stray too far from the “script.” You smile and nod and thank them when they tell you they loved what they’ve seen of the series so far, and you wonder if they are really being truthful.
And when they get clever, when they start asking questions and you know exactly where they’re trying to lead you to (Hamiltontown) you smile and nod again, and then evade. Because as much as they would like you to believe they’re in charge of this interview, it’s up to you to keep it on the material that you feel comfortable with.
I’d done well. I was pretty impressed at how I’d handled things. Holly was there. She had conversations with each producer ahead of time, and then again with each interviewer before we began to make sure they stayed on topic and only on preapproved subjects: the series, my costars, my recent rise to fame, adjusting to life in the limelight. They were each allowed to ask one question about my weight—something I had initially been against but was warming up to.
Was my body a little out of control right now? I couldn’t honestly say yes, because while I had abandoned the cucumber-and-air idiocy, I was eating and exercising with the same zeal I had been for the last few years.
I shook my head to clear it, getting ready for the last interview. A beautiful blonde from ENT breezed into the room, shaking hands with me and smiling her perfect teeth at the camera as they miked her. Holly reminded her once more what she could and couldn’t ask, and she smiled again. The camera light went on, and we made nice for a few moments—about the series, my costars, the usual. I stifled a yawn as I went through the motions, thinking about getting a dirty martini as soon as this was all over, wondering if I could talk Holly into joining me. I snorted a little at the thought of her turning down a cocktail, losing my focus, and that’s when the deer-in-headlights happened.
The Redhead Plays Her Hand Page 12