Nick gives a surprised chuckle and my gaze is drawn back to the table. Nick is smirking at me. “He knows you because he’s Ben Chapman and you’re a BAFTA-nominated actress…remember?”
It takes a moment for Nick’s words to really reach me through the haze of my fear. I release the breath I hadn’t realized I was holding, because he’s not the Ben from Emily’s recording. The man gazing in our direction across the restaurant is not Ben Cohan, he’s Ben Chapman. And now that I think about it I’ve seen Ben Chapman’s name scroll by on the credits of countless film. I’ve seen it on emails, press releases, and casting breakdowns for years. He’s a heavyweight in the industry, with the power to make and break careers. I look back at him across the crowded room; he looks nothing like the photograph on the Moon Finch website, and now that I look again the girl with him is smiling as she shows him something on her phone. He gives her a jovial avuncular smile before digging back into his meal. He’s not the awful predator of my imaginings. And there’s no law against dating someone a third your age.
When I look back, Nick is studying my face in amused disbelief. “Of course he recognized you,” he continues. “Unless he’s been living under a rock I’d say he’d be well aware of your work.” He gestures to the restaurant as a whole now. “I’m guessing ninety percent of the people here know who you are, Mia. You’re either hirable to them or you’re their competition. You’re not in London anymore, this is hardball. The industry is always on out here. But then people only come to LA for one reason, and whatever they say, it’s not the weather.”
My eyes scan the poised faces of diners around us as they talk, sip their drinks, and push their hundred-dollar sushi around their plates. It’s got the production values of a high-end perfume ad, the clothing colors all in the same palette, the characters clearly defined, the location spectacular. And the product they’re selling, I guess, is what? Success? America’s greatest export: a dream. And yet hardly anyone here is smiling. In theory everyone eating here has made it, except there’s a furtiveness beneath all this, a fear that somehow it might all slip through the fingers. Or be taken, by someone else. Actors and directors and producers, oh my!
Nick’s right, I see it now. Everyone here is on show but they’re also here to watch the show. Hollywood as the performance and the audience rolled into one.
I recognize a few well-known faces scattered through the restaurant crowd. A balding character actor I’ve loved watching for years stands by the up-lit bar, red wine in hand, nodding in agreement as one of his group holds forth.
I see a young indie actress in a booth near the terrace windows, surrounded by female assistants and her manager, as she unwraps a tissue-paper-packed present with delight.
On the smoking terrace a controversial actor-director is guffawing in a group of men.
But it’s clear that the actors are not the real VIPs here, they aren’t the ones with the real money or power. Other eyes, watchful, appraising eyes, flick over the shoulders of their dinner companions and take everything in. These are the people who keep Hollywood running.
“God, this place is packed with them, isn’t it?” I turn back to Nick. “How can you stand it? It must be like having dinner in a work canteen. If everyone at work wanted to eat your dinner. And take your job. And live your life.”
Nick laughs. “That’s funny.” He shrugs boyishly, eyes intent on me. “I thought you might like the food? And, you know, the chance to get the full Hollywood experience. What kind of producer would I be if I didn’t bring an actress to a place like this?” I feel a flush rise up my neck. He brought me here to impress me or at least give me what he thought I wanted. Which makes me wonder if Nick has had many real girlfriends or if he’s just dated a lot of aspiring actresses who wanted all of this. “A lot of people would kill to be here with this crowd,” he continues, his tired eyes playing over the bustle around us. When he looks back at me, he catches my expression, my eyebrows raised sky-high, and he’s laughing again. I clearly am not one of the people who would kill to be here, present company excepted. “To be fair, I had a feeling you weren’t like a lot of people. Well, I kind of hoped you wouldn’t be.”