Dinner and the Perils of the Trade
Emma
I’m sitting in the restaurant, and just like with the radio interview, I’ve made the mistake of arriving too early. At least this time, the only consequence is that I have to sit at the table alone for a few minutes.
It gives me a little time to reflect on what’s about to happen, though.
Danna is Damian’s twin sister, and although she was kind enough to call, apologize, and invite me out to dinner with her and her brother, I really get the feeling that she doesn’t really like me. A joke’s a joke, but it wasn’t too hard to see that the mea culpa was coerced.
When the two of them come into the restaurant, I see her first.
The guy working the front points Damian and Danna in my direction, and I get ready for whatever’s about to happen.
“Hey there,” Danna says, for the first time as herself to me in person. “I’m glad you could make it. Have you been waiting long?”
Half an hour.
“No,” I answer.
I’ve really got to stop getting to things early. It just creates a lot of waiting.
We sit down and share a few pleasantries. Danna apologizes again and I pretend like it didn’t bother me, and that after I found out what was really going on, I found the whole thing really funny.
“So, you’re not going to believe this—Damian, I forgot to tell this earlier,” Danna says out of the blue. “Today, you got another letter from that crazy lady,” she says. “Apparently, wedding plans are moving forward.”
I smile and chuckle because I don’t know that’s not what I’m supposed to do.
“She didn’t leave anything but the note this time, did she?” Damian asks.
“No,” Danna says. “She just wrote the whole thing using what may or may not be paint all over the road outside the house. I figured you’d see it when you got home, but I figured it might not be a bad idea if you’ve got a bit of a heads-up about it. She’s starting to sound a little desperate.”
“You’re not joking?” I ask.
“Sadly,” Damian says, “no. For the last couple of months, there’s been this woman who’s been sending me notes and leaving me weird crap—”
“Those flowers were pretty cool,” Danna says.
“Yeah, but the bag full of bloody tofu wasn’t,” he says.
“Bloody tofu?” I ask. “Flowers? Do you even know this woman?”
“No,” Damian says. “She’s never stuck around long enough for anyone to catch her in the act.”
“Why wouldn’t you tell me about this?” I ask.
“We’ve already taken all of the precautions that we can,” he says. “I just didn’t want to worry you.”
“How can I not be worried?” I ask. “You’ve got a stalker.”
I’m starting to feel like a nag again, but I haven’t told you about the phone call I got while I was waiting for Damian and Danna to get here. I’ll give you more on that in a little bit.
“She’s very persistent,” Danna laughs.
I just ignore her, but Damian seems pretty irritated by his twin’s amusement.
“Do they think they’re going to be able to get it off the road or are there going to be pictures of that all over the news tonight?” he asks.
“I wouldn’t worry about that,” I tell him.
“Why?” he asks.
“I’m sure they’ll get rid of it after they’ve taken pictures for evidence and all that,” Danna says.
“I just don’t know why you didn’t tell me about this before, Damian,” I say. “I’m not mad or anything, I would just like to know when the guy I’m dating is being harassed by some crazy stalker.”
“I think we throw the word ‘crazy’ around all too much these days,” Danna says.
“Is there any way you could keep your ridiculous sense of humor to yourself?” Damian asks her.
“Hey,” I tell him. “It’s all right. Calm down.”
“Well, you two decide what you want. I’m going to pop into the little girl’s room,” Danna says.
“Do you want us to order you something if the waiter gets here before you’re back?” I ask.
“That’s all right,” she says, and gets up from the table.
“So, how long has she been stalking you?” I ask.
“Like I said,” he says, “it’s been a couple of months. She’s been quiet for a little bit, though. I was kind of hoping she’d moved on or something.”
“And you’ve never seen her face-to-face?” I ask.
“If I have,” he says, “I didn’t know it.”
“There’s a creepy thought,” I tell him.
We chat a little and when the waiter gets to the table we order our food. We don’t order anything for Danna because she didn’t tell us what she wanted.
Come to think of it, she has been in the bathroom for a pretty long time.
Danna has MS. Damian told me about that. I wonder if she’s okay.
“I’m going to go freshen up while we wait for our meal,” I tell him. “I’ll be right back.”
“Okay,” he says. “While you’re in there, would you mind checking on Danna? I’m sure she’s fine and everything, but—is that weird to ask?”
“Not at all,” I tell him. “I’ll be back in a minute.”
So, I head to the bathroom, only Danna’s not in there. I walk back out and look around the restaurant in case I missed her, but she’s nowhere around.
Not really seeing the purpose in checking outside, I walk back to the table.
“Is she doing all right?” Damian asks.
“She wasn’t in there,” I tell him.
“She took off?” he asks.
“It would appear that way,” I tell him.
“Fantastic,” he says. “I don’t know what her problem is lately.”
“Do you need to go after her?” I ask.
“No,” he says. “I’m sure she’s fine. She’s just pissed at the world right now, I think. Oh well. Hey,” he says, “things still messed up with your dad?”
“No,” I tell him. “And I’d really rather not talk about that.”
“All right,” he says.
For a few glorious seconds, I think that we’ve moved on and we’re going to spend the rest of the evening discussing other things, but Damian just can’t let go.
“I just wanted to let you know that I understand why you wouldn’t want to talk to him,” he says. “But at the same time, that was what, like 10 years ago?”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” I tell him.
“Did it go on after that?” he asks. “How old were you when it stopped?”
“Damian,” I warn him, “let it go.”
“I’m telling you that I understand,” he says. “Only that it might be time to revisit the idea of getting back in touch with him. It doesn’t even have to be on this trip or anything, you could just start calling each other every once in a while, you know, try to rebuild a foundation of trust and—”
“Damian,” I say in a very calm, quiet voice, very aware of the fact that after the phone call a few minutes before Damian arrived, people in the restaurant are starting to become much more aware of my presence, “for the love of God, take the hint and drop it. This is not something I want to talk about here and it’s not something I’m going to talk about here. Suffice it to say that my dad didn’t stop damaging the world when he stopped hurting us.”
“Okay,” Damian says. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I’m so obsessed with the idea of you and your father reconciling.”
I glance around and those that aren’t actually staring at me are being nudged by their dinner companions who are.
Exactly how something like this spread in a restaurant is beyond me, but there’s no mistaking that I’ve become the focus of the whole place. It’s so bad that even Damian starts to notice it.
“I guess we should have thought about whether or not we should do the dining in public thing right now while there’s so much press about us,” he says.
“That’s not it,” I tell him.
“What is it then?” he asks.
“Before you got here, I got a call,” I start. “It was Ben. He told me that he’d already spent the last money I sent him on a down payment for something and that he needed me to send him more. I told him that I was sick of being at his beck and call while he blackmails me, so I told him I wasn’t going to do it.”
“What’d he say?” Damian asks.
“What do you think he said?” I ask, and casually gesture toward the sea of faces that are looking between their phones and me.
“They’re out there?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I tell him.
“When did this happen?” he asks.
“I told you,” I said, “not long before the two of you got here. I’m glad you were a little late, though,” I continue. “It gave me a chance to call the police on the motherfucker.”
“This is really happening, huh?” he asks.
“Yep,” I tell him and smack my lips. “Before you see the pictures,” I tell him, “there’s something I think I should prepare you for.”
“I don’t think there’s much of you I haven’t seen,” he says loudly enough for people at the surrounding tables to pick it up and jump into hushed conversations.
Apparently, he figures there’s enough going on already that the story of two actors bumping uglies isn’t going to be that big of a deal. I don’t think he’s right, but at this point, I just don’t even care anymore.
“Bruises,” I tell him. “You haven’t seen me covered in bruises.”
The violence my dad never gave to me when I was a kid, I got from Ben.
“He hit you?” Damian asks.
“Yeah,” I answer, “a lot. That’s going to be the story. I’m going to be the only celebrity in the fucking world who gets naked pictures leaked and nobody’s going to give a shit about the naughty bits. Everyone’s going to be looking at the bruises.”
“But that’s tantamount to him admitting to the assault,” he says.
“Yeah,” I say, “I guess so, but I think blackmail is going to be the heftier charge.”
“Are you okay?” he asks.
“I’m not great,” I tell him. “I’m not looking forward to any of what’s going to come next, but it’s really too late to worry about that now. What’s done is done and there’s not a damn thing that either of us can do about it now.”
I don’t know if this is the nicest restaurant in the city or not, but it’s not the kind of place where anyone can just walk in out of the gutter and get a table. There’s a dress code here, and a certain conduct is expected of those who dine here.
None of that, though, seems to have any effect on the 30-something man who comes over to the table where I’m sitting with Damian, pulls out his phone, and takes a picture of me.
The man sees that I’m looking at him and he says, “Sorry. You’re Emma Roxy, right?”
“You’re the one with the picture,” I answer. “You tell me.”
“Do you think I could get a picture with just the two of us?” he asks.
It’s all I can do to keep Damian in his seat.
* * *
I get the call an hour after Damian and I leave the restaurant that Ben’s been apprehended, and they want me to come by and take a quick look through the glass to make sure they’ve got the right guy.
If it’s what they need to screw him to the fucking wall, I’m happy to do it.
Damian, bless him, won’t leave my side even when I’m walking into the police station and identifying the jackass who tried to ruin my life twice and get away with it.
They take Ben away, and even knowing there’s going to be a trial and I’m going to have to testify and everything, it already feels like so much is already done. The fact that he’s nowhere he can get to me is enough for now.
Damian was right about one thing: leaking the photos was a stupid idea. I don’t know if he didn’t think I would call the police if he let the pictures slip or not, but now that everyone in the world is seeing either blurred or explicit shots of me covered in scrapes and bruises.
That weekend, Ben told me at the time, was to make up for what a child he’d been a few days before. He was referencing our “discussion” that put those bruises on me, and while he told me that he wanted to take those pictures because of “how sexy” he thought I looked, I knew why he was really taking them.
He wanted a reminder of just how much power he had over me. He wanted something he could throw in my face if I ever went so far as to defy him. Well, now I’ve defied him, and that picture is in everyone’s face and it’s going to go a long way toward influencing whatever jury he ends up with.
For the first time in my life, I’m actually not ashamed about those bruises.
“You’re going to have to make a statement at some point,” Damian says.
“I know,” I tell him.
“It would have been better if you could have gotten in front of this before he sent out those pictures, but—” he stops. “I think things are going to be all right,” he says.
“Yeah,” I answer.
This is my first real movie.
This is my first one.
When people talk about me from now on, they’re going to be talking about those pictures. Maybe that won’t always be the case, but that’s my immediate future, at least.
This isn’t how I wanted people to know my name.
Damian’s trying to be helpful, I know that, and I’m sure, over the next weeks or however long this lasts, he’s going to be. Right now, though, I wish he were a little steadier on his feet.
We eventually decide that the best course of action is to write up a statement, phone it in to a couple of people to make sure it sounds good, and then call a press conference. Damian asks me if I want him to say anything, but I tell him this is something I should really do alone.
So, before the late news, we’ve finished up a draft that sounds reasonable, and I give a call to my agent and a couple of other people whose calls I haven’t returned until now. With a few minor changes here and there—primarily cosmetic, nothing to change the substance—we put the thing in motion.
Me, I have no idea how to call a press conference. I don’t even know where one would start with that.
This is where Damian comes in handy.
Within an hour of finishing up the statement, I’m walking out the front gate of my driveway to a podium that someone, although I couldn’t tell you who, has already set up.
Damian stands behind me to show his support, but that’s the most I would allow.
There’s any number of possibilities of how this thing is going to end up going and I don’t want to drag him down with me. He’s innocent in all this.
“Good evening,” I say into the microphone, and try to keep my eyes fully open despite the multiple bright lights in my face. “As I’m sure you’re all aware, I have, up until earlier today, been the victim of blackmail. The man responsible for this has been arrested and charges are being filed. Judging by the response in the media to the release of these pictures, there has been some outcry regarding the state of my body in the photographs, and I would like to thank all of you who’ve shown your support and…” I trail off.
…the state of my body.
I clear my throat.
“I appreciate your concern. I don’t have too much more to say before I answer a few of your questions directly, but I do want to say that what I went through is not uncommon. It’s not rare, it’s not in sharp decline, it’s not a relic of the draconian past. This happens every day to thousands of women. Thousands. Tonight, the world is talking about me because I’m in these photos and I’m acting in a new movie, but what I think we should all be talking about a lot more often is how we can work to stop the cycle of abuse and protect these women who are, so many of them, afraid for their lives. Not all of them make it out on their own. I think the least we can do is try to make it easier for these women to find their freedom. Thank you. I will now take your questions.”
There are so many flashes of light and shouting voices, that for a few seconds, I’m just frozen there, overwhelmed by the sensory input.
My heart is racing as I point to one of the reporters.
“How long were you being blackmailed?” he asks, “and are there more pictures?”
“To my knowledge, there are no more pictures, although if there are, I would imagine the police will take care of them,” I answer.
“Take care of them?” the reporter asks.
“Evidence,” I answer. “I would imagine they’d take care of anything like that as new evidence, although I certainly don’t speak for the police and am largely unfamiliar with their procedure in this kind of situation.”
Someone else shouts, “Do you think this is going to affect your ability to find work in the entertainment business?”
I have to smile.
“I don’t know,” I answer. “I guess that depends on what kind of mood Hollywood is in that day.”
A few of the reporters snicker, and the rest of them shout follow-up questions.
“When were these pictures taken?”
“Were you involved in a sexual relationship with the man who blackmailed you, if so, when did it end, or are the two of you still an item?”
That’s my favorite question of the bunch, but I’m not about to answer it.
Calm, cool, and only tell them what you’re prepared to tell them and what you have to tell them. That’s the advice Damian gave me when we finished the draft.
When one reporter asks me if I have any scars, and if so, would the press be allowed to photograph them, I find it a little difficult to remain calm and cool and as far as only telling him what I’m prepared to tell him and what I have to tell him…there’s a lot I’d like to tell him.
The press conference drags on and I answer questions as best I can.
No, this wasn’t the first time he had physically abused me. Yes, I did give him an amount of money; no I didn’t pay him off completely.
This whole exercise is dragging on into its 20th minute and I’m doing my best to hang in there, to answer as many questions as possible and try to limit speculation and thus, hopefully facilitate the whole thing to blow over just a little quicker.
Finally, at about the point where I’m seriously questioning whether there’s going to be any lasting damage to my cornea because that jerkoff in the back can’t figure out how to light me without blinding me, I say, “One more question.”
I’ve just had enough.
“Yes,” one reporter asks. “Did you find it sexually arousing to be photographed like that?”
“I’m sorry, who are you working for?” I ask.
“I’m freelance,” he says.
“No,” I tell him. “I did not find it sexually arousing to have my abusive boyfriend-at-the-time commemorate the savage beating he’d given me, but go to hell for asking.”
“Okay, that’s going to be all,” Damian says, jumping in, only they just start asking him questions instead of me. He has a way, though, of not saying anything no matter how many people are trying to get him to talk.
It’s miraculous.
“Thank you for coming,” Damian says.
Damian leads me back through the throng and back to my house as some of the reporters try to slip one last question in.
When we get back into my house and the front door is closed behind us, I just sit with my back against the door and cry.