After All

“Well, well, well if it isn’t Mr. Movie Star,” Ted Phillips says to me as I open the door to see him and Will standing on my stoop in tuxedos, squinting in the sunshine.

“TV star,” I correct him with a smile, always happy to see Ted. “And a pretty mediocre one at that.”

“Ah, false modesty,” Ted says, patting me on the back and strolling past me down the hall, looking around the open living area of my house. “But damn what false modesty can buy you.”

“You should try it sometime, Ted,” Will calls after him.

I let Will step in, looking him over. The man has always had an old school James Bond way about him, though more Roger Moore than Connery. He’s tall, dashing, with a jaw that needs its own postal code. Naturally, he looks extra dapper now that it’s his wedding day.

“I’m not sure if it’s the groomsman’s role to tell you that you look good, but you look good pal,” I tell him.

“Well, it’s sure as hell not the best man’s role, is it?” Will says, directing his words at Ted yet again as Ted slides open the glass doors of the living room and steps onto the patio that overlooks the bay.

“How are you doing? Are you nervous?” I ask Will, heading to the kitchen.

“Not one bit,” he says smoothly. He’s so damn unflappable. The opposite of me.

“Need a drink?”

“Why the hell do you think we’re here?” Ted asks with a grin, stepping back inside. “We can’t get properly boozed at the wedding without raising a few eyebrows.”

“You mean I can’t,” Will says. “If you don’t have a glass in your hand at all times, someone is going to check your pulse.”

“You seem you like you need a drink too,” Ted calls out to me. “Make it doubles all around.”

“Single, please.” Will is trying to be the responsible one here.

“Ah, not in a few hours,” Ted says, wagging his eyebrows.

“Why do I seem like I need a drink?” I ask Ted as I start pouring the Crown Royal. I did wake up with a hangover but after a shower and a quick run of the beard trimmer (I have it in my contract that I can’t fully shave–part of the doctor’s charm is having permanent stubble which is harder to maintain than you’d think), I cleaned up pretty well. My brain fog cleared on the cab ride back to North Vancouver where I had to pick up my car before they towed it. The last step to looking and feeling presentable is the tuxedo and no one can look lousy in a tux.

“Don’t pretend, I’ve seen the news,” Ted says. “TMZ, Perez, Just Jared. That asshole is pissed that you broke his phone. He deserved it, no doubt, but he’s livid.”

I close my eyes and groan. Ted is in his sixties with a shock of white hair but his charming smile makes him seem much younger and he keeps up-to-date with all the Hollywood gossip more than anyone I know, like he reads Variety and the Hollywood Reporter in his sleep. Being the owner, along with Will, of Mad Men Studios, which does animation and visual effects here in Vancouver and in their LA office, I guess he prides himself on being the first to know everything, even if it has no direct connection to his business.

“Maybe you should be my publicist,” I tell him, handing them both their drinks. “You take this sort of news a lot better than she does.” In fact, it’s kind of strange that Autumn hasn’t called me yet but then again she did say she was going hiking all weekend and I’m sure cell reception is scarce. Maybe the whole thing will blow over by the time she gets back. Maybe she won’t know at all.

Wishful fucking thinking.

“How bad was it?” I ask him with a wince.

Ted cocks a brow. “Well, it was on Instagram live.”

I groan.

“Which was actually a good thing because people were able to see what an asshole the guy was being. Like I said, he deserved it. People are on your side this time. Still think he’s going to raise a fuss and get you to pay for his phone though. Luckily if you can afford this house,” he notes, looking around him again, “you can afford a new phone.”

That doesn’t change the principle of the whole situation. Why should I have to buy him a phone when he was in the wrong? Why do the boundaries of being a decent human being fail to exist when you’re a celebrity? The moment you become a public figure you cease to have feelings, cease being able to express yourself without getting shit on. You cease to exist as a person, you’re just a pixelated image on a screen.

I exhale loudly and get myself my own glass before turning to face them. “Well, that’s enough about me, then. Today is Will’s day. Let’s focus on that.”

“Also, it’s my day since I’m the father of the bride,” Ted adds, raising his glass.

“Every day is your day,” Will says under his breath before breaking into a grin.

I guess this wedding is a little different from the usual. Not only are Will and Ted business partners and friends but Ted is Jackie’s father. Will and I have been friends for a long time, even when I was living in London and doing theatre and he was at the LA office with his ex-wife. We both helped ourselves through some messy breakups and now he’s finally met the real love of his life. Of course there were complications, since she was his employee and the daughter of his best friend. But true love prevails and all that fucking bullshit.

Stop the cynicism, I have to remind myself. Some people are built for love and long-lasting relationships. Some people aren’t. I know which category I fall into, it’s time to start owning it.

With that slightly bitter thought lingering in my head, the three of us cheers and finish our drinks outside on the patio, the waves of English Bay lapping against the rocks beneath the house. When we’re sufficiently buzzed–at least Ted and I–I get on my tuxedo and the three of us leave. The wedding venue is at the Royal Vancouver Yacht Club down the street, about a fifteen-minute walk from my place.

We must make a peculiar trio, all dressed to the nines under the late July sunshine, enduring some honks from passing cars and I swear a few snaps from the paparazzi, though I’m probably just paranoid. After last night it’s hard not to be. We stroll around the corner to the yacht club and head down the driveway to the ornate building.

A small crowd of wedding guests have gathered outside beside the large, white columns that surround the front steps. Jackie, thankfully, is nowhere in sight. Will is old-fashioned enough to believe in that “not seeing the bride before the wedding” superstition.

And then I see a sight for sore eyes.

It’s hard not to.

For one, she’s in a hot pink dress that’s nearly blinding in the sunlight, beaming against the white building like radioactive bougainvillea.

For two, she’s got the nicest set of tits I’ve ever seen.

For three, her face is fresh, glowing and sweet, and yet her eyes are full of snark and sass.

She’s got that “bitch-hot” vibe down pat.

Poor girl doesn’t know I’m a sucker for that.

“Who is she?” I ask Will, nodding at her as we make our way towards the group.

“Which one, the tiny Asian one, the blonde, or Jackie’s grandmother?”

“The blonde,” I tell him.

“She’s off-limits,” Will says, giving me a stern look. “I mean it.”