It became immediately clear that he wasn’t.
I knew that actors and actresses made sacrifices to look the way they did, but I’d never really thought much about it. I just enjoyed looking at the results. Gabe moved the fries away, and I felt a little guilty for all the ogling I’d done.
“My trainer will be pissed,” he said.
He looked so sad that I was momentarily speechless.
“When can you have a burger and fries again?” I asked.
He glanced down at the tape recorder as if it was a snake ready to strike. “After Bond,” he said. “Unless we start shooting the second movie right away. Then it’s protein shakes and lettuce until we’re done.”
He held up his almost empty beer glass and gave it a loving look.
“Farewell, friend,” he said before finishing it.
There was a long silence and then he smiled—but not a real smile. It was funny how I could tell them apart already.
“Not that I’m complaining,” he said.
His voice was a little lower, a little slower. Not drunk, but on his way.
“Are you excited?” I asked. “About Bond?”
“I’m lucky,” he said as if that was the same thing.
“It’s the role of a lifetime,” I said.
“I was their second choice,” Gabe said. “They wanted Ollie.”
I froze.
Now we were getting somewhere. I knew that this was what I needed—what I’d come for—yet I couldn’t ignore that extremely icky feeling knowing that I was possibly, maybe taking advantage of the fact that Gabe was more intoxicated than he should be.
But this was a job—to me and to him—and if anything, this had leveled the playing field. Plus, if I were a guy, I might not even have these guilty feelings, let alone acknowledge them. I’d probably be ordering him another drink or offering to buy him shots.
I couldn’t let my crush on Gabe keep me from getting a good story.
“Ah,” Gabe said, leaning back. “You’d prefer Ollie too.”
“No.”
“No?”
“I don’t have a preference,” I said.
It was a lie. Because of course I had a preference. In life—in my fantasies—it was always Gabe.
But I knew what critics had been saying. Because while Gabe was gorgeous, he wasn’t a natural fit for Bond. Not the way that Oliver was.
Oliver Matthias was sophisticated. Cultured. It was the accent, of course, but he was an intellectual as well. An Oxford grad. Someone who had performed in the West End, doing Shakespeare and Beckett. He had years of experience, starring in a BBC teen comedy version of Pride and Prejudice when he was sixteen, then returning to the small screen to do a miniseries version of Cyrano de Bergerac after university. Even a prosthetic nose had done nothing to dim his appeal with his female fans—myself included. I might have even had a poster of him as Darcy when I was a preteen.
He was a proven leading man.
But according to interviews with Ryan and the Bond producers, Oliver hadn’t even been considered for the role. My journalistic senses, as immature as they were, were now the thing that were tingling.
“My mom prefers him too,” Gabe said.
“No, she does not,” I said.
He raised an eyebrow at me.
“My mom loves Bond,” he said. “She said—and I quote—‘Was Oliver not available?’？”
I winced.
“I know what people are saying,” Gabe said. “Contrary to popular opinion, I can read.”
“No one thought you couldn’t read,” I said.
“They thought I couldn’t read good,” he countered with a thick, hick-like drawl.
I didn’t really have a response because to tell him that wasn’t true would be a lie. People did think he was a bit of a rube. It didn’t help that his management had been pushing that version of him up until he landed Bond.
Interviews amplified his “good country boy” qualities—that he might have been a simpleminded community college graduate, but his talent was just as homegrown. While Oliver was someone who had been trained and cultivated, Gabe was all-natural. He was genuine.
But that also meant he was a harder sell in roles that went against that brand.
Bond had been a surprise.
“It’s fine,” Gabe said. “I’ve been working with a dialect coach, who promises me we’ll keep my ‘hyucks’ down to a minimum.”
“I think you’ll be great,” I said.
“You’re the only one,” he said.