“Jesus,” Gabe says.
“What?” Ollie elbows him before turning back to me. “It does. Your skin is glowing, your hair is luxurious. Everything about you is lighter, almost as if you got a five-foot-nine growth removed from your side.”
“Ollie,” Gabe says.
“He wasn’t five foot nine,” I say.
Ollie glances over at Gabe, and mouths, Yes, he was.
Gabe rolls his eyes.
“I’m just saying you look great,” Ollie says.
“Thank you?” I say.
“She always looks great,” Gabe says.
“She is right here,” I say.
“Ollie insults your ex-husband and you’re annoyed at me?” he asks, with more amusement than anything.
I shrug. I don’t know if I’m annoyed at him. I don’t know how I am.
“I didn’t like him,” Ollie says, determined not to be left out of this conversation.
“You met him once,” I say. “For five minutes.”
“It was enough,” he says.
Unlike with Gabe, who I’d only seen that one time in New York, I’d crossed paths with Ollie on several occasions over the past ten years. In addition to the highly publicized interview I’d done with him, we’d occasionally run into each other when I was in town.
The last time, three years ago, had been a fluke. The rare occasion where Jeremy had come with me to L.A. I’d had an interview scheduled at Little Dom’s in Los Feliz, so Jeremy had busied himself at the nearby indie bookstore, charming the booksellers and signing stock. When I was done, I texted him, but as I walked toward the door, a hand had emerged from one of the booths and gave my arm a friendly tug.
Ollie and his husband, Paul, had been drinking mimosas and sharing a plate of silver dollar pancakes.
There was a girl at the bar not-so-discreetly trying to get a shot of Ollie. When he waved at her, she’d squeaked and dropped her phone. He’d beckoned her over, taken a picture with her, and signed her napkin. She was leaving just as Jeremy walked in.
I made introductions; everyone shook hands. We talked for a few minutes, but it was enough time for Jeremy to offer to go back to the bookstore to get a copy of his book for Ollie.
“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.