Lunch (23 page)

All that matters is locked in a blue room, waiting for the push of a button.

 

Chapter 23

I
t will be better if I watch the ceremony from the television in the limo, I told Nick, and he agreed. I have never gotten used to the inquisitive stares at public gatherings, even if it is the industry and ­people who might know me, I don't want to feel the eyes of the well-­dressed and ill-­bred stars and starlets, see the wide glare of the lenses focused upon me, and hear the echoing trail of their habitual murmurings about what I look like and who I am and why Nick is with me. Not tonight.

Tonight belongs to Nick.

When he hears his name called, Nick sits stunned for a second, then as the applause begins he gives Belinda a cursory hug for the cameras. He straightens his jacket and saunters up to the podium, a dazzling roar buoyant around him, crashing in his ears, drowning out his desperate craving to call out Olivia's name to the world watching him.

“Wow,” he says, his hands clasped around the golden statue. “Never, never did I think I'd ever be standing here.”

A wave of delighted laughter ripples through the crowd, then more applause. He rakes his fingers through his hair, and one stray curl flops to his forehead. He is one of them, their own gorgeous darling, glowing with vitality and happiness, impossibly handsome, and unbelievably desirable.

“You know, most of us, even me, if we are honest enough to admit it, aspire to this mad dash for glory more than any other,” he says slowly, adding a flash of the famous smile. “This one perfect moment.”

He squares his hands around the base of the gleaming Oscar.

“This is one perfect moment for me as an actor, and for that I am profoundly grateful. All you who have helped me in my life and work—­my friends, my colleagues, everyone on
Faust,
my costars, the cast and crew whose patience was tried, I know, on many occasions, and I hope you'll forgive me now—­share with me in this delight. I must especially thank my agent, Edmond McAllister, who had the balls to back me up on this project, and enough good manners not to laugh in my face even though I'm sure he thought I was crazy. And I'd like to thank Jamie Toledo, my director, who had the courage to believe in me when nobody else would.”

Trembling pause.

“Although I am not blessed with a family of my own, I am fortunate that my friends and colleagues, and all of my fans, have become like family to me,” Nick continues, “and there are two ­people most dear to me, my real family, that I must also thank tonight.”

Belinda preens and adjusts her dress, readying herself for the cameras, running her tongue over her teeth to make sure there's no lipstick on them.

“The first many of you know only as the Major, a friend who has been like a brother to me for many years. Wherever you are,” he says with a wide grin, “I know you are watching.”

“The other is someone who gave me one other perfect moment, not so long ago in my life.” He stops, and steadies his breath. “And so I would like to dedicate this Oscar to her, my true beloved, the woman who gave me my heart and taught me at last the terrible power of love. Without her, the rest is meaningless. Thank you.”

Who would have thought Nick capable of such public tenderness? I imagine the collective hiss of unbridled libido and wonderment sighing through the auditorium like wind in wheat. There is no woman in the audience or in the world, at that instant, not brimful of anguished desire, aching to take Nick home to hold tight in her arms, crooning sweet nothings, his head grateful on her breast, and be the one to save his soul, his true beloved.

No woman save Belinda. As she wipes the very perfect single tear of delighted pleasure from her eye in case any roving photographer should catch her reaction during Nick's moment of glory, I expect the wheels are already churning below Mr. Frederick's impeccably towering coiffure. The glint in her green eyes as hard as the emeralds in her ears, oh yes, her thoughts as transparent as the chiffon gown shielding the superb curves of her body, the jealous knowledge that Nick's true beloved has not been and never will be Miss Belinda Beverley, oh no, but whoever that bitch is, she'd better not think of setting foot in Miss B's face.

Belinda's shoulders square imperceptibly in anticipation of
le tout
Hollywood trying to divine the real identity of Miss True Beloved, but then, she realizes, why shouldn't it be her, the lucky creature, oh yes, the envious eyes of the world will be upon her. Her shoulders move back another notch, plumping forward her breasts. Yes, why not. Her dimples deepen. Why not indeed. Better call McAllister and make sure her price goes up immediately. Maybe her next film could be called
True Beloved.

T
HE DIVINE
delight of the obligatory grand entrances at all the right parties, Belinda giddy with joy and glowing luminous with the gloriousness of brilliance reflected, the momentary horror of his speech instantly forgotten as she propels Nick, their fingers sweat-­locked together, toward the photographers calling out raucously for just one more shot. My ravaged face is not wanted to mar these pictures of perfection incarnate, so I hang back, ducking my head, little black freckles dancing before my eyes from the strobes exploding in our faces. ­People who do not know me stare impudently, wondering how such an incongruously rude jolt of undesirability could possibly be thrust amid their toned and scalpel-­shaped flesh at such a stellar gathering, until someone whispers a few quick words of identity and I catch a sideways glance that quickly shifts away, blushing and afraid. Few dare speak, even to offer token words of congratulation, but I am not surprised. All I see around me are the yapping mouths working furiously, opening and shutting, grinning, dazzling white with perfectly polished, capped teeth.

No one will sleep tonight, buzzing on the delirious whoosh of adrenaline and drink and the spiteful delight of sharing in the underdog's gleeful victory. We have been to the Academy dinner, and two of the most prominent benefits, and McAllister's, and now we are at the most exclusive party of all at last year's winner's house up on Woodrow Wilson, a short drive from our own, the panorama of twinkling fairyland at our feet. The air is thick and humid, a storm is brewing, but it will not rain, not this night, tonight belongs to the stars on the ground light-­years from those in the heavens, and it is not desired by the earthly bound to be inconvenienced by wet. It is their night, the terminally trendy, sliced and diced, poured into sharply cut tuxedos or slinky gossamer confections, teetering on toothpick heels, necks in perpetual whiplash swiveling between Nick Muncie, superstar, and the marvelous rush of recognition every time another guest arrives.

I catch Nick's eyes swerving to the door, as if the sheer force of his desperate admission of love could somehow propel Olivia over the portal and into his arms.

After a while, he stops looking.

I want to go home and lie down in the dark, alone and quiet, isolated from the maelstrom of noise and jealous adulation buffeting us like the Santa Ana winds, but Nick has asked me to stay near him, to film everything this night of nights, a splendid souvenir. The irony of the camcorder out in the open did not elude him, and I dare not disobey, not tonight.

There we remain high in the hills, high above the world on the pinnacle Nick has climbed.

I am standing near the bar, surveying the crowd through the viewfinder of the camcorder at my cheek, when I catch snatches of conversation between two men waiting for their drinks, filtering between the noise and general merriment.

“. . . never thought I'd see you and . . .” says one. I recognize him, vaguely, as a producer of art-­house films. I can't remember his name. “. . . here in Hollywood.”

“My wife didn't . . . not fond of . . . but we sail at dawn,” says the other. His accent is French. “Might as well . . . up all night . . . Hawaii.”

“. . . very pleased . . . too bad she didn't keep the portrait. It'll be worth a fortune now . . . Oscar.”

Portrait. A Frenchman. There is a terrible feeling, one I never wanted to feel again, beginning to crawl through the knots in the pit of my stomach.

I slide closer, turning my back, until I can hear them more clearly.

“. . . quick stopover, yes, a belated honeymoon, for at least a month or two, bobbing around the Pacific, in blissful silence,” says the Frenchman. “But of course I insisted on a small keyboard, for practice, and she is bringing her paints.”

“Well, it sounds delightful, but I can't imagine anyone else here tonight would care much for such splendid isolation,” says the producer. “It's very refreshing to find someone who chooses to spurn the spotlight. Almost shocking, in fact.”

“Yes, but I have quite enough of it when I'm on tour,” the Frenchman says, “and I very nearly had to drag my wife out of our hotel. She says these film ­people are too
dégueulasses,
but we came with friends who insisted on this party. To them it is very important, and you know . . .”

I step away from them and risk a quick glance, recognizing him instantly from the photographs I have seen so many times on the front of his CDs. He is thinner than I thought, not a commanding presence, but a pleasant face, full of character, deep laugh lines etched near his eyes, attractive and happy and blessedly normal.

I keep the camcorder high, paranoid, because I don't want Olivier to see the scars on my exposed cheek. What if, for some strange reason, Olivia has described my face to him?

What if he knows?

What if she sees Nick? What if he sees her?

The panic is churning inside me, and I step into the throng of ­people congregating around Nick, still pretending to be shooting.

I find Nick through the lens and press the button. He is laughing, someone shouts over to him and he turns his head to the noise, I follow his gaze, I see the laughter die on his lips.

Olivia.

Nick sees Olivia.

His heart stops. He is dead, but still breathing, he can hear noise, an echo of Belinda's laughter, there are bodies pressing close to his, he can still see, he sees her, the impossibility of Olivia, there, before him, almost close enough to reach.

I keep the camera on Nick, although there is nothing I want more than to drop it there at my feet and find her, to see her face, most beloved, to sink my hands into her hair wild around her, to drown my face in it and stay like that, forever.

I remain immobile, watching him, paralyzed by my own longing, and by the look of such unbearable pain clouding Nick's eyes, threatening to dissolve in tears. I was shocked by the sudden tears he willed away when he first saw the portrait, but still he has not cried for many years, and he will not cry now. A helpless wave of desperate pity for him floods me, stabbing my heart with bittersweet tenderness, replacing the bleak ache of hatred that has lived there, a dull and boring tenant, for so long it is my constant companion.

I can finally see clearly, with dazzling clarity.

There is no rage left for all that he did, the memories of the flat, or the car, or that last awful day, every memory erased by a shining beam of love. With that fleeting second, no longer than a blink, his love dazzles me, a searing flash, the pure sonar still sounding in the depths of his anguish.

“Take care of him, M,”
she'd said to me.
“Promise me. Only you know what to do.”

With that fleeting second the mask drops to reveal the appalling nakedness of yearning vulnerability, as if a computer suddenly realizes that it does indeed possess a soul, yet is pathetically aware of its terrible shortcomings.

But Nick is only human, and undone, wounded beyond comprehension, yet so nearly redeemed by the illusion of his one perfect moment.

A shadow moves in front of Nick, and I stop filming. I look back up to see him standing, pale under his tan, his eyes closed, forcing the emotion back to the darkness with a few deep breaths. When he opens his eyes, that look has disappeared, replaced by the habitual gaze of the emperor in his court surrounded by the sycophantic chorus of admirers. You were fantastic, you must be so thrilled, they are saying. Here, have another drink, smile for the camera, oh thank you, you deserve this, you really do, this must be the happiest night of your life.

“Take care of him, M. Promise me. Only you know what to do.”

She must have disappeared, melting into the crowd, taking her own anguish with her, melting as the core of him did for one infinite second, one interminable, aching moment.

I do not turn to find her, she is already gone. She was always gone because she was never truly there, a pale shimmering ghost, a fleeting shadow dancing in delirious abandon in a gilded flat in Porchester Square, captured by the camera, frozen in unreal movements, her body intertwined with his, naked wanting made palpable on tape, a living dream of the essence of desire.

But all that remains for me is this one frozen moment.

I know what I must do. I will honor my promise, her last request.

T
HE SUN
is already sneaking over the horizon when we return home, Nick, Belinda, and me. Belinda flops down on the bed, kicks off her shoes, and stretches, still reveling in her reflected glory.

Nick is drunk, drunker than I have ever seen him. There is a storm cloud growing in him, seething with electricity, his is a funnel forming, a black finger roiling, emerging just a little, so tentative, groping down, retreating, groping down again, farther, deeper, wind howling, it touches the ground, black, whirling faster, it grows, engorging, swollen and immense, it feeds upon the very air that it has sucked inside, cutting a swath of utter destruction in its wake.

Nick is standing at the end of the bed, holding the Oscar in his hand, not the genuine one waiting to be engraved, the stand-­in, how fitting, I think, nothing this night can possibly be real. He is staring at Belinda, and she is too drunk to notice the glowering wrath in his eyes. She manages to sit up, and tries to grab at the statue.