That’s the narrative his people and the film’s producers have been pushing, and I was skeptical when I heard it. But Gabe’s entire demeanor changes when I ask. He’s been open and cheerful, answering questions eagerly.
Bond puts a somber hush on the conversation. He’s not looking at me, staring down at his napkin, which he’s twisted into a tight knot. He’s silent for a long time.
I ask if the backlash bothered him.
“I’m beyond lucky,” he says. “All I care about is doing the part justice.”
He shrugs.
“But do I worry that they’re right? Yeah, sure. Who wouldn’t?”
“They” are the fans writing angry articles and blog posts detailing all the reasons why Gabe is the worst possible choice for Bond. Because he’s American. Because he’s not Oliver Matthias. Because audiences are used to him playing hunky, dim-witted himbos.
And then there’s the whole Angels in America thing.
He orders a third beer.
“My publicist would have my head if she saw this,” he tells me. “I’m supposed to stop at two, but it’s Friday! Hey, what are you doing after this?”
Twenty minutes later, with puppy in tow, we’re on our way to look at a house in the Hollywood Hills.
I want to ask him more about Bond, specifically if he had anything to do with leaking the audition footage online, but it’s around this point, dear readers, where I embarrassingly lose control of the interview.
It’s the moment when Gabe starts interviewing me.
“You’re from here, right? Wow, that must have been wild. I can’t even imagine what it’s like to grow up in Los Angeles. It was Los Angeles, right? I know a lot of people say L.A. but they really mean Orange County or Valencia or Anaheim and I know that real natives don’t consider that to be L.A. at all. Right?”
He’s correct on both counts. That I am from Los Angeles and that we get very testy about folks from neighboring cities trying to claim residence.
“This place still feels magical to me,” he says. “Been here almost five years, made almost eight movies, and it’s all still magic. Bet that makes me seem like a sap.”
It doesn’t. It makes him seem inhumanly charming.
The puppy is asleep on his lap.
“I haven’t named her yet,” he tells me. “I’m waiting for it to come to me.”
We pull up in front of a gorgeous white-stone mansion.
Gabe lets the puppy explore the backyard while we get a tour of the amenities. The real estate agent is bending over backward trying to make this sale, but unfortunately for her, Gabe has decided that my opinion matters a great deal.
And although the house is beautiful, it’s not really my style. Which means that today, it’s not Gabe’s style either.
We bid the real estate agent goodbye and begin our own farewells. Gabe has given me several hours of his time and yet, I’m not ready to say goodbye. I’ve been fully charmed by the future Bond. That’s the only excuse I have for what happens next.
Gabe mentions that he has a premiere to go to the following night and as I hand his adorable sleeping puppy over to him, I somehow manage to finagle an invite to the after-party.
Chapter
1
I arrived early and damp. The blue cotton blouse that had looked professional and flattering in my apartment mirror was now stuck to my armpits in dark, wet half-moons. Lifting my arms, I blasted the AC in my car, hoping both to dry my shirt and shock the nervousness out of my system.
I’d interviewed celebrities before.
I’d even interviewed supernaturally beautiful celebrities before.
This was different.
Gabe Parker wasn’t just any celebrity. He was my number one, heart-fluttering, palm-sweating, thigh-clenching celebrity crush. I’d entertained multiple extensive, detailed fantasies about him. I’d done numerous searches for paparazzi pictures of him. Until this morning, a shirtless photo of him had been the lock screen of my phone.
I had zero chill when it came to Gabe Parker.
If Jeremy and I were still dating, there’d be a major possibility he would have tried to veto this interview. He knew how I felt about Gabe. When he’d insisted on us declaring our “free pass” celebrities, I’d chosen Gabe. Jeremy had pouted.
It was ridiculous, of course.
Gabe would probably be charming and kind and amiable. It wouldn’t be because he liked me, or thought I was interesting, or because we had any sort of deep emotional connection. It would be because it was his job to charm me. And it was my job to be charmed.
His management had been very, very clear about the kind of profile they were expecting me to turn in. What they wanted in exchange for the access Broad Sheets was getting to Gabe before he started shooting.
They wanted a story that would counter the bad press his casting had caused. They wanted a story that would convince the naysayers that he was the best choice for Bond. They wanted me to sell him to America. To the world.
I wanted a story that would keep getting me work.
I blogged and sent short stories to literary magazines like I was tossing rocks into the ocean.
I’d only gotten one published, and then, just when I was considering that maybe I should give up trying to be a writer, I’d gotten the gig at Broad Sheets.
I’d been recommended by a former professor who had once called my writing “mainstream”—as much of an insult as one could get in an esteemed MFA program but apparently exactly what Broad Sheets was looking for.
Jeremy called the stuff I was doing “puff pieces,” but we’d still celebrated when I got the job—spending a good chunk of my first paycheck on bottomless fries and happy hour beers.
The editors at Broad Sheets seemed to like my writing—at least, they kept giving me work—and every month I could pay my bills with the money I made off my writing felt like an accomplishment.
I knew that this interview was an opportunity to show that I could take on more high-profile, better-paying articles. It needed to go well.