Ordinary Joe

by Jon Teckman

  ‘Nonsense,’ said Buddy, ‘I’m not the best tech guy in the world, but I do believe it is now possible to check e-mails on one of these things.’ He paused to pick my smartphone up from the table and wave it in my face. ‘And this,’ he added, pushing my memory stick into the top pocket of my dinner jacket, ‘you can take back into the office tomorrow. So open that bottle of champagne and pour us out a couple of glasses and let’s get this party started.’

  Buddy sauntered out of the lounge, tucking his shirt into his commodious trousers as he walked. Trapped in this luxurious prison cell with the sound of the joiners constructing the gallows hammering away inside my head, I forced the cork out of the bottle of Dom Perignon and poured two glasses. I knocked one of them back in one desperate swallow and was contemplating downing the other as well when I remembered that it was too much of this stuff that had got me into this mess in the first place.

  ‘For the life of me, I don’t see how a beautiful, talented girl like Olivia could jump in the sack with that schmuck,’ Buddy shouted from the bedroom, raising his voice but otherwise continuing our conversation as if we were still in the same room. ‘You I could understand, Joey – you’re a lovely boy. But her type just don’t go for regular guys like you, do they? Why can’t they ever see beyond the money or the looks? They just make the same freaking mistake over and over again. Beats me. She’s a sweet kid as well. Deserves better than to be dicked about by that prick …’

  He was interrupted by a gentle knock on the door.

  ‘Great, that must be her now. Can you get that for me, Joey?’

  I prayed that it was room service, but knew not too deep down that if there was someone up there, He had stopped answering my prayers a long time ago.

  Olivia stood in the corridor looking like every schoolboy’s favourite fantasy. She was wearing a simple but stylish red dress, set off by a small jewellery shop’s worth of hired diamonds and rubies, with matching red stilettos that gave her a couple of inches’ height advantage over me.

  She looked surprised to see me – and not too happy about it, either. ‘Well, if it isn’t Joseph A. Bennett, noted English asshole!’ she said as she pushed past me and walked into the lounge. ‘Buddy said he had a surprise for me, but he didn’t tell me exactly what size piece of shit he’d dragged out to see me.’

  ‘Please, Olivia,’ I said trying to placate her. The last thing I needed was for Buddy to hear what was going on.

  ‘Aw, that’s nice! You remember my name. That’s something, I guess.’

  ‘I can explain,’ I said, not totally sure that I could. ‘About the emails and the texts and everything, I mean. But not here, not now. Buddy will be out in a minute.’

  Olivia covered her face with her hands and drew her fingers slowly from her hairline to her chin where they slipped off and stuck together, pointing upwards, as if in prayer. There were tears in her eyes. I know actors are trained to be able to turn on the waterworks at will, but I had no reason to doubt that these were genuine – tears born of anger and confusion as much as sadness. ‘How could you treat me like that, English? I really thought something special had happened that night in New York, you know? Like we’d really connected. And then it was like you didn’t want to know me. Like you couldn’t wait to get shot of me. I deserved better than that, Joe. How could you do that to me?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Olivia,’ I said, and I meant it. ‘I didn’t mean for any of this to happen. That time we spent together in New York was unbelievable – literally, I could not believe it had happened to me. But when I got home, I couldn’t handle it. I just assumed that with you being a Hollywood superstar and me being an ordinary North London accountant we’d both forget about it and get on with our lives. I didn’t think for a moment you’d want to see me again – I mean, I’m not in your league. Then, suddenly, you were texting me and e-mailing me and I panicked. I couldn’t understand what was going on, especially as I didn’t know you even had my phone number or e-mail address or anything. I’m sorry, Olivia, truly I am.’

  I was throwing myself at her feet. It was for her to decide whether to stamp me into the thick pile carpet or show me some undeserved mercy.

  ‘I guess I stole them,’ she said, a trace of a smile appearing on her lips for the first time, as she thought back to that night in the hotel. ‘I knocked your jacket off the chair as I was leaving and your card fell out of the pocket and I kind of took it. I’m sorry. It was a dumb thing to do, but I’d had such a great evening and I didn’t want it to end.’

  I poured her a glass of champagne, topping up my own at the same time. ‘Can we talk about this properly later?’ I said. ‘We don’t want a scene in front of Buddy, do we? He’s trying to keep the lid on all of this for your sake, so can we pretend that nothing’s happened and talk about it later, when we’re on our own? Can we act like we’re just friends – acquaintances, actually – for now? Can you do that?’

  Olivia stepped closer to me, so close that I could feel the luxurious scent of her expensive perfume marching up my nostrils, attempting to encircle my brain and take it hostage – again. ‘I am a Golden Globe-winning, Academy Award-nominated actress,’ she said, her passion and pride etched into every syllable. ‘I can pretend to be anything you fucking want me to be.’

  ‘Hi Olivia, angel!’ Buddy boomed, storming back into the room trussed up like a Thanksgiving turkey. ‘You look fantastic. Great to see you kids getting along so well. I told you I had a surprise for you, didn’t I? You know, honey, I still reckon this guy’s the real star of the movie. The things he did with those finances – beautiful! There should be a new category at the Oscars – Best Original Tax Deal!’

  ‘Oh yeah, Buddy, very funny,’ Olivia said, snatching her glass from my hand. Somehow she had managed to arrange her features into an expression that could be interpreted by Buddy as a friendly grin but simultaneously displayed to me the depth of her anger and hurt.

  ‘Are we ready to go?’ Buddy asked, knocking back his glass of champagne in one slug. Olivia and I took one last small sip from our glasses and placed them back, still half full, onto the table. Buddy helped Olivia on with a small, entirely decorative jacket that barely covered her shoulders and we made our way out of his suite. From the lobby, we were ushered by a doorman into a black Jaguar limousine, the three of us squashed into the back seat – half for Buddy, half for Olivia and me. Olivia placed her right hand on my left thigh and gave it a squeeze. I gripped the edge of the seat and looked out of the window at the passing light show. It was going to be a long evening.

  We emerged from our short journey to the cinema to face the flashing of bulbs and yells of photographers, journalists and fans. Most were for Olivia whose name could be heard echoing around every side of Leicester Square. A few photographers recognised Buddy and satisfied themselves with grabbing easier shots of the larger, slower moving target. I was painfully aware of the sensation of having a crowd of people assessing me down their lenses, instantly identifying my lack of celebrity and lowering their weapons, like Quakers on a firing squad. I lived to face another day as Olivia made her way serenely along the red carpet, pinned in the photographers’ gaze like a rare butterfly, while Buddy simultaneously tried to protect her and grab any spare attention for himself.

  We were hustled through the cinema and shown into a small private green room where trays of delicious canapés sat untouched on a side table while waiters scurried around making sure that our glasses were never empty. I was struck by how bizarre the celebrity lifestyle must be – constantly flip-flopping between being gazed at and pointed out by crowds and then locked away in hiding. They were like mating giant pandas, wanting to be left alone to get on with their lives, but forced to perform to the galleries whenever their public demanded. It was a Faustian pact: you can have the money and the glamour and everything that goes with it, but in return you will forfeit your freedom. Why would anyone take that deal?

  Buddy set to work clearing the buffet of food and entertaining the s
mall ensemble of invited guests – ordinary people like me with some connection to the film or its distribution in the UK or the cinema where the screening was taking place – with his lurid tales of Hollywood excesses, all of which were preceded with a knowing ‘Now, don’t tell anyone else this, but …’ before divulging some intimate and probably untrue secret about a household name or fellow producer. I was glad that Olivia and I were standing right with him or he might have included his take on ‘The Bennett Affair’ within his repertoire.

  Eventually we were called through to the auditorium and shown to our seats at the front of the circle as the rest of the cinema stood to applaud us. Well, Olivia and Buddy at least. Olivia sat between Buddy and me and, as the lights went down and the opening credits began to roll, I felt the now familiar sensation of her hand – her left one this time – resting on my right thigh and staying there as if it was settling in for the night. Her little finger was dangerously close to my groin and I had to keep pushing myself back in my seat to avoid any accidental contact being made – accidental on my part that is.

  ‘I‘ve already seen this goddamn movie like a dozen times,’ Olivia whispered in my ear as the action started. ‘And it ain’t no Sullivan’s Travels! Why don’t we sneak out and find some more champagne. Somewhere we can talk properly.’

  I shook my head. I would have been happy to avoid having to watch the film again but I was determined to avoid being alone with Olivia if I could possibly help it. Besides which, the chances of sneaking out of there were next to zero. We were pinned in the middle of the row and any movement Olivia made would be closely watched by a small army of attendants hired to look after her every need. I turned my head and fixed my gaze on the screen. After a few moments, I felt a final, slightly huffy breath in my ear and Olivia turned her face as well.

  When the film ended, the audience rose as one to offer the makers and stars the obligatory spontaneous standing ovation. Buddy, Olivia and I were ushered out of our seats ahead of the throng, protected by a phalanx of PR and security men. I was desperate to get away from there – from her – but I was trapped both physically by our entourage and also by the fear that if I did slip away now, I would leave Olivia alone with Buddy and her confusion over my identity would almost certainly be cleared up.

  So, once again, I silently acquiesced, marching out through the cinema to the waiting car and taking my place alongside Buddy and Olivia with the only uncertainty now being around which of her hands would find contact with which of my thighs. For this journey I sat in the middle of our little gang, with Olivia’s left hand back on my right thigh and Buddy’s enormous ham-like right fist slapped down painfully on my left.

  Once inside the Café Royal, Buddy led us past the bouncers into the sealed-off inner sanctum reserved for the most important guests. We sat down at a crescent-shaped banquette arranged around three sides of a table and Buddy whistled up some champagne. A couple of guys I recognised as working for Printing Press Productions in Europe approached our table and Buddy invited them to join us, ordering more champagne to make sure that no one would go thirsty.

  One of the men sat down on my right while the other sat on the far side of Buddy, with Olivia beautifully framed in the middle of the group like a solitary rose in a field of thorn bushes. ‘Good evening,’ the man next to me said in impeccable English, offering me his hand, ‘I am Georges Lafitte, Head of Legal, Europe, for PPP.’ His statement carried an implied question, backed up by a raised eyebrow, silently asking ‘And you are?’

  My first thought was to wonder whether PPP also had a Head of Illegal Europe, but then I realised I had a bigger problem: how to introduce myself without Olivia, who was pressed up next to me as close as it was possible to be without being officially engaged, hearing who I wasn’t.

  ‘Very nice to meet you,’ I said, ignoring his inquisitive eyebrow. ‘Du champagne?’ I added, using up pretty well all the French I knew.

  ‘Merci,’ Georges said, correctly assuming that I understood at least one more word. ‘And you are?’

  ‘I’m sorry?’ I said, wincing and cupping my ear to suggest there was something about the noisy room or his accent that made it difficult to understand him from a range of three feet.

  ‘I didn’t catch your name,’ Georges replied with more than a hint of exasperation.

  ‘Oh, I am sorry about that,’ I said.

  ‘What is your name?’ he persisted, sounding like Maurice Chevalier playing a Gestapo officer. He looked quizzically towards Buddy, perhaps wondering why he had brought the village idiot with him, but fortunately Buddy was deep in conversation with his other colleague. Unfortunately, this left Olivia in the middle of the group with no one to talk to, trying to listen in to both conversations at the same time.

  I leaned a little closer to Georges and mumbled ‘I’m Joe Mumble, from Askett Brown here in London. I was involved in pulling together the finance for the picture. What did you think of the film, by the way, Georges? Isn’t it excellent?’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ it was Lafitte’s turn to apologise. ‘Joe …?’

  ‘Oh, that’s OK,’ I replied, sounding more like an imbecile with every utterance, ‘no problem.’

  ‘No,’ he said, his voice rising in irritation, ‘I didn’t hear your surname.’

  ‘That’s a shame,’ I said, turning away from him. ‘Why don’t we talk to Olivia? I’m sure she’s far more interesting than me.’ As I turned, I became aware that, rather than creating a smokescreen to hide behind, my attempts at obfuscation had drawn everyone’s attention to our conversation. Olivia and Buddy were both staring at us, trying to see what had caused the raised voices at our end of the table.

  ‘What’s the problem, guys?’ said Buddy.

  ‘Oh nothing,’ I replied, smiling weakly. ‘We’ve just been doing the introductions. I take it you know Georges, Buddy, seeing how you work together? And this, of course, is Olivia Finch and I’m Joe from Askett Brown here in London. So that’s all sorted. Now, let me see if I can find a bloody waiter and get us all another drink. Don’t know about you lot, but I’m parched.’

  I rose quickly and edged my way around in front of Georges, desperate to get away for a few moments. As I passed in front of him, I heard Buddy explaining that my name was, in fact, Joe West and that yes, I had been a bit over-worked lately. I looked around and was relieved to see Olivia already in conversation with the other Frenchman.

  I found a waiter who delivered another couple of bottles of champagne and then we sat chatting for some time, involving Olivia in the conversation as much as possible, while Georges Lafitte still eyed me as one might an escaped lunatic and Buddy held forth to his colleague. Olivia seemed diffident and shy – very different to the sparky, intelligent, interested girl I’d met in New York. Her responses to Georges’ questions were monosyllabic and childlike, often preceded by a girlish giggle as if whatever he had just said had displayed wit and insight of Wildean proportions. It took me a while to understand that she was back to playing a role – that even off-screen she had to pretend to be someone she was not. The straightforward, uncomplicated Hollywood starlet paid large sums of money for her beauty and style but nothing for her brain. For the second or third time that evening, I found myself feeling sorry for her. All that success, all that acclaim. And all that misery.

  Just after midnight, Buddy called across to me. ‘Hey, Joey, these guys reckon they can get me into the casino next door. Would you mind seeing Olivia back to the hotel? You can take my car if you like.’

  ‘Actually …’ I started to protest but Buddy had no time to hear what I had to say.

  ‘Excellent!’ he confirmed over the hubbub of the party crowd. ‘Look after my girl.’ He gave Olivia a peck on the cheek and disappeared as unobtrusively as a man of his size and volume ever could, one arm slung over a shoulder of each of his French friends.

  We collected Olivia’s jacket from the cloakroom and stood at the threshold of the club, waiting for Buddy’s driver, feeling just the
faintest of breezes on our faces. The usual media scrum was in position on the street outside waiting for Olivia to come out and give them a few poses. ‘Hey,’ Olivia said, smiling, ‘why don’t we walk back to the hotel? It’s only a few blocks, isn’t it? There must be some kind of service entrance to this place we can sneak out of to avoid those guys. A walk through London at night – wouldn’t that be romantic!’

  Also bloody dangerous, I thought, but before I could point out all the obvious objections to this course of action, Olivia grabbed my hand and started to drag me away from the main entrance. We found a fire exit next to the lifts and went down a flight of concrete steps into the basement. There were a few cardboard boxes lying around, but otherwise the exit was clear – we pushed our way through the fire door and out into the service bay. The ragged collection of various coloured dustbins and empty linen cages was in spectacular contrast to Olivia’s casual glamour, but she seemed to enjoy picking her way through the rubbish, taking off her stilettos and tiptoeing carefully around any obstacles like a child let loose in an adventure playground.

  ‘Are you OK?’ I asked at one point as she stumbled and almost fell.

  She replied with a carefree chuckle. ‘I’m fine, English, this is fun! I wasn’t always Olivia Finch, Hollywood superstar, you know.’

  We strolled through the cold night air, Olivia’s arm threaded through mine, carefully stepping over or around the human detritus that littered the damp pavements. Olivia knew London from the movies where double-decker buses and black cabs driven by cheery Cockneys made their way up and down uncluttered roads, past famous landmarks all arranged within thirty feet of each other. This was different. All around us, wild-eyed escapees from Dante’s Inferno leered out from dark doorways, reeking of fags and filth, posturing for trouble. For the second time that day, I felt the bile of my cowardice rising as I hurried Olivia along, cursing myself for exposing her to such danger. She was made of sterner stuff, though. When one young thug of indeterminate gender lunged in front of us, spilling their cider so that it splashed perilously close to Olivia’s $1,000 shoes, she neatly pushed them back from whence they came, answering their vitriolic complaints with some choice obscenities of her own.