CHAPTER FIVE
Who are you Wearing?
It was late, way past the hour when decent people were in bed, but I was sitting at the chunky desk in the corner of my apartment by the window, wearing a satin gown and looking at amateur pornography on my laptop. It wasn’t for my enjoyment. Quite the opposite, in fact.
I should have been doing something else — transcribing interviews from the Screen Actors Guild Awards earlier in the evening, answering email, doing dishes, writing cover letters and sending out resumes — anything else. But I was too worn out to get anything done. Adam had been at the awards. So had Nick. And spending the night avoiding both my douchebag ex-boyfriend and the frustratingly gorgeous movie star I’d shared a disastrous date with two weeks before had drained me of all productivity.
So I sat there, scrolling through clips on the celebrity sex video website run by the aforementioned ex-boyfriend, reminding myself how much I despised him. Adam had launched the site when we were together, though I didn't know anything about it at the time. SpankBanks.com, a not-so-clever play on his last name, Banks, was exactly what it sounded like — a repository of footage of famous and fame-hungry people having sex.
At first, he just hosted the videos on his site and charged a monthly subscription fee to view them. Later on, he got into the act himself, sleeping with B-list or C-list wannabes on camera and sharing the footage. I’ll say this for him, he didn’t use hidden cameras or lie about the fact their sex acts were being filmed. These women knew exactly what they were getting into. Like Adam, they did it for the publicity. The site didn’t really take off, though, until he started his own video blog on YouTube. He made so much in advertising revenue from vlogging he didn’t even have to charge a fee anymore. Now, he accepted video submissions from anyone with even the vaguest of connections to stardom and critiqued their performances for his ever-growing audience. He had half a million subscribers.
I left him as soon as I found out what was going on, of course. I felt so stupid. Back then I didn’t know anything about the world of YouTube fame. Not only was he gaining infamy right under my nose, he was cheating on me and broadcasting it to the world. I knew something was off all along. He was secretive and protective of what he called his “private time.” But I didn’t want to see it. We had fun together and he pampered me when it suited him. So I stayed with him against my own better judgment, until the truth was staring me in the face.
After it ended — and this is the part I’m really not proud of — I subscribed to his channel and tuned in each week for the latest videos. I browsed through the content daily, forcing myself to witness the evidence of his betrayal. It helped me through the moments of weakness when I wanted to pick up the phone and hear his voice. Eventually I realized how unhealthy it was, so I cleared the bookmark from my browser and swore off all things Adam for good. It had been six months since we’d broken up, five months since I’d last talked to him, and three months since I’d gone cold turkey.
But seeing Adam earlier that night had brought it all back again, the highs — the front-of-the-line treatment, the exclusive parties, the chef’s tables — and the lows. I watched him arrive from my spot on the press line. He always scored an invite to the hottest events. Put up a velvet rope anywhere in the city and you’d soon find Adam on the other side of it, a one-man charm offensive.
His limo arrived with impeccable timing, early enough so he wasn’t lost in the crowd, but late enough he didn’t appear too eager for attention. He stepped out, polished as ever in skin-tight navy suit with velvet lapels, blond hair swept to the side. He was accompanied by the usual entourage of shiny young things, attractive but not quite in his league. They tended to follow him the way pilot fish swim alongside a shark, hoping for a stray morsel of attention. He didn’t do anything in particular to encourage them, but he didn’t discourage them either. He climbed the steps and walked directly into the auditorium, leaving a trail of onlookers feeling envious and inadequate in his wake. I ducked behind a pillar so he wouldn’t see me.
Nick Archer, on the other hand, walked the red carpet, and he definitely saw me. After Adam disappeared into the auditorium, I turned around to find Nick standing a few feet away and my traitorous heart skipped a beat. He was on the carpet doing an interview with a pretty red-headed reporter, but his eyes kept darting in my direction. His hands fidgeted as he ran them over one another while he talked. A woman, probably a publicist, tugged at his sleeve and thanked the reporter as she moved him down the line to the next microphone. I thought I saw Nick trying to catch my eye before he greeted the new reporter with a brilliant smile that tied my stomach into knots. While his attention was on the interview I moved up to the the start of the press line, knowing he’d already passed that way and wouldn't be coming back.
It was a cowardly move, but seeing Adam had shaken me and wasn't sure where I stood with Nick after ending our date so abruptly. I hadn’t sorted out my feelings for myself yet, so how could I explain them to him? How could I tell him I despised actors because all my experiences with them had been heartbreaking? Or that I was having such a good time with him I’d nearly ignored it all and thrown myself at him anyway?
I saw Nick again at the entrance to the theater, hands in his pockets, head swiveling. The arrivals had wrapped up and most of the audience were already seated inside. I stayed hidden behind the neon green plastic box shrubs bordering the press line and studied him, feeling the bitter twinge of regret lodged in my heart since I’d left him at the taco stand. He cut a dashing figure in his classic black tux and bow tie. The word dapper was invented for men like Nick. With his prominent cheekbones, thick eyebrows, sharply defined features and dimpled chin he looked like he belonged to another era.
He wasn’t in any hurry to join the crowd in the auditorium. He just stood there, dwarfed next to a giant replica of the “Actor” award statue, checking his watch and scanning the crowd. If he was waiting for someone, they didn't show. Who in their right mind would have stood him up? Eventually he gave up waiting and trudged through the doors alone.
When I got home I didn't even stop to take off my gown before sitting down at the desk, opening up my laptop, and going on YouTube to see what Adam had been up to. It was like pressing on a bruise. After I was done wallowing in my past with Adam, I looked for clips from Nick’s movies. The search brought up one of my favorite scenes from The Carriage House, where Rakeway discovers Emma hiding from her father and they kiss for the first time. The music swelled as the camera swept around the couple, capturing dusty beams of sunlight through the windows. It was a gorgeous shot. I studied Nick’s kissing technique, how he held her face in his hands and moved his mouth over hers with increasingly frantic passion. It was just another way of torturing myself.
As I replayed the clip for the fourth time my stomach reminded me with a rumble that I hadn’t eaten since breakfast. Before the show I’d heard a rumor there would be cold sandwiches in the green room, where they held the post-awards interviews. By the time I got there, though, there were only empty trays. Never underestimate the appetite of a room full of journalists. Now my options were peanut butter and ice cream — the only edible things in my kitchen — or Thai Palace, which was close by, open late, and delivered. It was no contest. I took the takeout menu from my desk drawer, dialed the number, and ordered enough to feed a family of four.
While the food was on the way I wriggled out of my dress like a snake shedding its skin. It felt like I was shedding my worries at the same time. I changed into a loose tank top and yoga pants, leaving all thoughts of Adam and Nick in a pool of black satin on the hardwood floor. As I’d settled into the couch, flipping through channels in search of some decent late-night TV, my phone vibrated on the desk. I didn’t recognize the number, but it was local so I picked it up in case it was the restaurant calling to tell me there was a problem with my order.
"Kate?" The voice on the other end was low and very familiar. It took me a second to place it. When I did I nearly dropped the phone.
“Nick?” My voice sounded scratchy, unused.
“Saw you at the show tonight.” He stated the fact without emotion, like he was commenting on the weather.
“Yeah. I saw you too. I was going to say hello, but I had kind of a crazy night.” I wanted it to be the truth, to believe I was braver than the girl who’d run away.
“I’m sure.” There was silence on the line for a moment, then he continued, “Listen, if you’re not busy I was wondering if I could swing by.”
It was a bad idea, but I was was overstimulated by the image of Nick as Rakeway and that amazing kiss. I agreed before I knew what I was saying. “Um. Yeah. I guess that would be okay.”
A knock came at the door, my food delivery arriving. It wasn’t a moment too soon; the peanut butter and ice cream were sounding better and better. “Hold on a sec,” I said into the phone.
I grabbed my credit card and opened the door, preparing for the tangy, nutty smell of pad thai noodles and chicken satay. Instead, I was struck by the scent of sandalwood and citrus. Nick was standing on my porch, still in his tux, the phone up to his ear. In his free hand he was holding an enormous gift bag stuffed to overflowing with luxury goods.
"Hello,” he said, ending the call.
His bow tie was undone and a few rebellious strands from his slicked-back hair had escaped across his forehead. He looked like a member of the rat pack, or the leading man in one of those artsy black-and-white perfume ads.
I couldn’t figure out what to focus on — the late hour, my yoga-chic attire, the fact Nick Archer knew where I lived, or any of the other things that were wrong with this scenario — so I ignored them all and pointed to the bag. “What is that?"
"A peace offering?" he said. It came out as a question, like the status of his offering was wholly dependent on my accepting it as such.
"You'd better come inside before someone sees you. This neighborhood isn’t as nice as you’re used to.”