“Fortification,” Oliver told me.
We both know why I’m here, but I’m not about to rush him, because if I know anything about Oliver Matthias, it’s that he knows how to tell a story.
“I’d bet a lot of actors have an affinity for Halloween,” he says. “Though, we do it a little differently in Britain.”
I nod as if I know—I don’t. I’ve lived in the United States my entire life. My only trip abroad was to Amsterdam to visit Anne Frank’s house with my temple youth group.
Oliver has been all over the world, but has recently settled in Los Angeles, buying a house in Brentwood, up in the hills.
“It’s a good neighborhood for trick-or-treating,” he says. “Or so I’ve been told.”
This will be his first Halloween here.
“Every year I would go all in,” he says. “And that year, I wanted to go as Xena.”
He smiles, remembering.
“My mum had always made my costumes and she went all out that year. I’m one of four boys, you see, and the whole thing about a mother wanting a daughter was quite applicable.”
“Are you still close with your mother?”
He nods. “There I am, in full Xena regalia, marching down Piccadilly with my brothers, who were, of course, dressed as soldiers. They were always dressed as soldiers.”
“Technically,” I interject, “you were a soldier too.”
Oliver laughs. “Not quite,” he says. “I was a warrior.”
I stand corrected.
“There I am, full warrior mode, strutting my little heart out when—bam—I walk right into someone else. Another Xena.”
It’s easy to picture this. A young, adorable Oliver Matthias, his blue eyes glinting, his chin lifted high, too high for him to realize that he’s about to collide with someone else dressed exactly like him.
“I’m furious, of course,” Oliver says. “How dare this other Xena—this imposter—ruin my walk?”
“Of course.”
“I look up—because this person is much taller than me—and I see that this Xena is also a boy. Well, a man, really. He looks down at me, smiles, and gives me a wink. And then he’s gone.”
Oliver puts his hand to his chest.
“And I was in love.”
It was a love that brought heartbreak—not then, not even when he came out to his family and friends—but years later when he told the director and producers of an upcoming film that he was gay.
And they told him, in no uncertain terms, that they’d never cast him to play James Bond.
Chapter
17
We go to dinner—a steakhouse with red leather booths and dim lighting and stone walls. It feels like I’m inside a classy hunting lodge, which I’m certain is the point. I’m just grateful that the mounted animal heads on the wall are at a minimum. The restaurant is mostly empty and the waiter seats us in a back room that’s set aside from the rest of the place, so we have far more privacy than we need.
It seems rude not to order meat.
I’m feeling surly and also get a whisky on the rocks.
At lunch yesterday, Gabe insisted that he was fine watching other people drink, and Ollie also orders a drink—an old-fashioned—but I’m still at risk of being disrespectful.
I know I need to be an adult about this whole situation. That I need to deal with my hurt pride, and get through this weekend without bruising any other tender emotions.
Instead, I mainline the whisky on an empty stomach and turn to Ollie.
“I should probably get a quote or two from you about the movie,” I say. “Since you’re here.”
“Of course,” Ollie says.
I look over at Gabe. “If that’s okay with you,” I say. “I wouldn’t want to write another extremely flattering profile that you inexplicably hate.”
So much for being an adult.
“I didn’t hate the article,” Gabe says, but I wave a hand at him.
“I’m talking to Ollie now,” I say.
I’ve moved from being passive-aggressive to just plain aggressive and I know it. I can’t help myself. The anger I feel is raw and covering a whole host of other emotions that I’m not ready to deal with.
“Why The Philadelphia Story?” I ask Ollie once I’ve taken my phone out and started recording.
“I’d been told it was a movie that could use an update,” he says.
It’s almost exactly what Gabe said to me. Apparently, it’s going to be one of their go-to press junket sound bites.