I turn my attention out onto the nighttime sky past the window, vaguely aware of the background hum of their conversation. Unbidden memories from last night flit through my mind: Emily’s breath whispering through my head, the echo of the distant party, sounds of laughter and music.
I can understand why she didn’t report it. And while it’s impossible to know what I would do in similar circumstances, I can understand her thinking. She didn’t want to fuck up her career, she didn’t want to rock the boat. All reasons I might have had for not getting involved with this if I hadn’t been threatened anyway. There’s always that fear that by diving into the murk, you’d somehow become tarred and feathered by it too.
I’d imagine she didn’t report it because she didn’t want a court case, she didn’t want more indignity, she didn’t want justice in that sense, she just wanted what she’d always wanted, a proper career. I guess she felt she was owed that, at least. But blackmail is a crime too. I don’t know if I agree with what she did but I certainly understand why she might have done it.
26
St. Valentine
SUNDAY, FEBRUARY 14
We pull up outside the concrete-and-glass structure. A valet takes Nick’s keys in hushed tones and we are led into the roughhewn-floored reception of an achingly modern restaurant.
The space beyond is hard and minimalist and beautiful just like the diners inside it. Its polished-concrete floors give way to panoramic glass walls with under-lit terraces beyond. All around us the quiet, cool hum of conversation babbles.
We’re up in the hills, though from the view alone I couldn’t tell you where exactly, having wound up endless snaking roads to get here. Beyond the glass, LA sprawls out into the distance beneath us, glowing bioluminescent as plankton in a lake.
We are guided out to the candlelit terrace, and to a front-row table overlooking the twinkling city. I’m struck by how beautiful LA is from a distance, like a fading ingénue with just the right lighting once the harsh light of day has passed, its gray arterial freeways, bald-patch car parks, and low sun-bleached buildings all melted from sight, leaving behind only the winsome sparkle in Hollywood’s eyes.
* * *
—
We’re partway through our second course and swapping stories about growing up in small towns when the free drinks arrive.
“Compliments of Mr. Chapman,” the waiter says, placing them on the table between us.
Nick scans the crowded restaurant, finally alights on someone, and gives a curt nod. I follow his gaze and meet the eyes of a burly man in his mid-forties at a booth behind the glass of the restaurant. He’s with a very attractive, very thin, very young woman. She’s on her phone, her soft blond hair falling across one cheek, completely uninterested in her dining partner. He gives us a tight grin and tips his head in acknowledgment, his eyes locked with Nick’s—half challenging, half collegial. Nick raises one of the recently delivered champagne flutes and tips it in thanks. The interaction complete, their gazes break.
Nick leans in. “That’s Ben. He’s a producer. He probably recognizes you.”
My blood runs cold. Ben. The name on Emily’s recording.
That hushed authoritative voice saying, “Ben, leave the room.”
I look back at Ben across the bustle of the beautiful restaurant. He doesn’t look like his picture on the Moon Finch website, he looks a good twenty years older, tougher. But why would he need an up-to-date photo—he’s not an actor, is he?
“I’ve never met him,” I mumble. “How could he recognize me?” I watch the man across the restaurant slice into a hunk of Wagyu steak, plunge the resulting fleshy clump into his distracted mouth.
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.”