“I’ll grab one on my way out,” Ollie had said.
“Do you think he will?” Jeremy had asked maybe five more times that day.
“I’m sure he will,” I’d said, even though I knew he wouldn’t.
I’d both hated and loved how superior the interaction had made me feel. Jeremy was the one who had all the clout in our community in New York. He was the well-respected novelist, I was his puff-piece-writing wife.
In L.A., however, I was the one chatting with celebrities who I knew had no interest in Jeremy’s work.
That memory did serve to prove his point, though. I didn’t love fame, but once I had a taste of it—no matter how bitter the aftertaste—I wasn’t willing to give it up.
If I was, I would tell my agent that I didn’t want to do another collection of essays. I would tell her and my editor what I really want to write. I would take a fucking risk.
“How’s Paul?” I ask Ollie, thirty thousand feet over New Mexico.
“Dying to get to know you better,” he says. “Now that you’re back in L.A., you’ll have to come have dinner with us. He’s a fan.”
“Of me?”
“Yes, you,” Ollie says. “He loves your writing.”
“Oh, that’s very nice of him,” I say.
“Not nice,” Ollie says. “Honest. Paul has absolutely exquisite taste. It’s why he married me.”
Gabe snorts.
Ollie ignores him. “He loved the Vanity Fair piece.”
When Ollie had decided to come out, he’d contacted me to write about it. I’d been proud of the article, even more proud that Ollie had trusted me with his story.
“I never thanked you for the flowers,” I say. “They were lovely.”
“Well-earned,” Ollie says. “It made my mum cry, you know.”
“Mine too,” Gabe says.
“Did she cry at the Broad Sheets one too?” I ask.
It’s sort of a joke, but there’s a long, terrible pause, and my stomach gives a lurch.
“She liked it,” Gabe says, not looking at me.
I realize immediately what that means.
“But you didn’t,” I say.
For a moment, I think I’m going to be sick.
“It was well-written,” Gabe says.
“Gabe,” Ollie says, voice quiet.
“Wow,” I say. “Wow. You hated it, didn’t you?”
He doesn’t respond, but he doesn’t have to.
I’m stunned.
Despite my conflicting feelings about what it had done for my career, I knew it was a good article. No. It was a fucking amazing article. It had been flattering and fawning and had made Gabe look like he was the only possible choice to play James Bond. It had shifted the narrative around his casting and though it hadn’t quieted all of the haters, it had certainly shut enough of them up. I wasn’t the sole reason that The Hildebrand Rarity had been a hit, but I had helped pave the way.
That wasn’t just my ego speaking. That was what numerous reviews had said. They’d pointed to my interview with Gabe as the reason they had gone into the film with an open mind.
And Gabe had hated it.
What the fuck was I even doing here?
“This was a mistake,” I say, getting up from my seat, wishing I could just drop myself out a window.
“Chani,” Gabe says, but I wave it off.
It hurts. It hurts more than it should.
The plane is small but there’s still enough space that I can escape to another quartet of seats in the back. I throw myself into the chair, arms wrapped tightly around my torso as if I can contain all the horrible, angry feelings roiling inside of me.
I lean my head against the window, watching snowy states fly by beneath us.
I’m furious and tender.
I hadn’t known it at the time, but the article was a trade-off. Attention and career stability in exchange for a certain kind of notoriety. A reputation. It had always seemed foolish—and pointless—to wonder if it had been worth it, when at the very least I had been pleased with the work. Even when everyone seemed to focus on the content of the article, I’d been proud of the writing itself.
But now, knowing that Gabe hadn’t even liked the article made the trade all the more difficult to stomach.
Just the latest in a long line of unexpected consequences.
After Gabe’s article, my agent had gotten a glut of requests from the people who represented the most promising up-and-coming stars. A few actresses, but mostly people wanted me to interview young, handsome actors. The implication was clear, and there was always an underlying quid pro quo to those interviews, but no one came right out and said it to my face.