We took our drinks and our stacks of papers to a sidewalk table. It was vividly sunny. Because we both wore sunglasses, I couldn’t see his eyes.
“Now?” I said, holding the New York Times.
Declan rubbed his jaw. He took a sip of his coffee. “Fuck, that’s hot.”
“Honey.” I leaned over and took the coffee away from him. “Can I look?” I was bursting to read the reviews.
“All right, love. You look. Tell me if there’s anything I need to see.”
“Got it.” I gave a sharp nod of my head, like a sergeant who’s just received an order from his major. I flipped and found the section I needed, then flipped again, looking for the review.
“Oh boy,” I said when I saw the headline.
“What? What? Is it bad? It’s horrible, isn’t it?”
I skimmed the article, my pulse pounding faster.
“Read it,” I said, handing it to him.
Will Oscar Come Calling?
Normandy is the gut-wrenching chronicle of William Huntington, an upper-class British soldier who learns lessons about humanity and acceptance when he’s made to fight alongside American troops. This could be trite stuff, but Declan McKenna, an Irish actor new to American films, plays the part of Huntington to sheer perfection. We laugh with him when he’s a cad, we feel enraged for him when he loses his best friend, and we can’t help but bat away a tear when he discovers what awaits him after he makes his way back to his brigade…
…Adapted from a quiet novel of the same title, which was only released in the U. K., Normandy should bring a wave of Oscar nominations, not only for the infamous Kaz Lameric, who poured so much of his directorial soul (and his own hard cash) into this film, but also for newcomer McKenna, whose acting is subtle and yet complex. He paints a harrowing individual picture of war and heroism, which calls to mind Tom Hanks and Daniel Day-Lewis.
“I’m subtle and complex?” Declan said. He waved the paper around like a winning ticket at the horse track.
“You’re harrowing!” I said.
“Shit. Holy shit.” He bounced in his chair. He gulped the coffee, seeming not to notice the scalding heat this time. “Find another one.”
I leafed through Variety.
A Gloriously Bloody Mess
Normandy, Kaz Lameric’s long-delayed epic, takes on culture clashes, politics and friendship during the Normandy invasion and ends up a gloriously bloody delight. In short, posh Brit William Huntington, played by Irishman Declan McKenna, takes an assignment to deliver a message to an American general—a task that seems to him cowardly and distasteful—but his journey to the American troops and back is anything but spine-less. The film, which was more than three years in production, falls somewhat short in the history department (example, one of the American soldiers is wearing eyeglasses that weren’t stylistically born until the 1960s, and a visit by General Eisenhower is premature since he wasn’t at Normandy until many days after the invasion), yet this is still a richly impressive and densely realized work that opens the eye and mind to the often overlooked aspects of a soldier’s life. By far the best performance in the film is delivered by McKenna, who has the wit and charm to play the early hapless soldier, and the exceptional range to play a man changed and aged after only five days. He surely deserves an Oscar nomination.
Declan put the paper down and gazed at me across the table. “Holy shit,” he said again.
“Yeah,” I said.
We read through the rest of the papers as fast as we could. Without fail, they all praised Declan.
“What do I do now?” Declan said. He sat amid a pile of newspapers. “I mean, what am I supposed to do now?”
We were both so excited that we were looking around at the other patrons, looking back at each other, looking at the papers.
“I feel like we should tell someone,” I said. “Let’s call your parents.” We’d planned a trip to Dublin to visit them soon, but I still hadn’t had much contact with them.
“Good,” Dec said, seizing on the idea. But then he glanced at his watch. “It’s Friday. They’ll be at the pub.”
“We have to do something to celebrate! Is there a pub open around here?”
We glanced up and down Washington Boulevard with its surf shops and convenience stores and restaurants. Many of the restaurants were closed until lunch.
“I got it,” I said. I gathered up the papers and led Declan to a convenience store where I bought a bottle of champagne. We brought it to the beach and popped the cork.
“I hope we don’t get arrested,” Dec said, drinking from the bottle and passing it to me.
“Who the hell cares?” I took a gulp and nearly coughed up champagne foam. “You’re ‘subtle and exceptional’!” I yelled.
“I deserve an Oscar nomination!” Dec shouted.
We passed the bottle back and forth and finally lay back on the sand, letting the sun shine happily upon us.
An hour later, we walked back to our place, tipsy and lazy and floating on Dec’s new success. We decided we would take a nap, then have a late lunch at C&O’s on Washington, followed by shopping at Fred Segal (where I wanted to use some of the money I’d earned at the fabric show to buy Declan a celebratory present).
By the time we got back to the apartment, there were eighteen messages on our machine and another ten on Declan’s cell phone. Some were from friends who had read the reviews, a few were from newspaper reporters, and most were from Declan’s agent, Max.
“Christ, you’d think he’d be happy,” Declan said, listening to the fifth voice mail from Max.
“Why? What’s he saying?” I was sitting on the couch clipping the reviews from the papers.
“He’s in a bloody panic.” Declan shook his head and dialed a number. “Max? It’s Declan,” he said. “Yeah, well thanks, I thought they were great, too, and…” He trailed off, nodding as he listened to Max. “Why would I need a publicist? Hmm. Okay.” He listened some more, pacing around the living room. “Right. Well, I think that’s premature, don’t you? I’ve got you for that.” Another pause. “Well, if you think so. I’ll make some calls on Monday.” More pacing. “Today? I suppose so.”
Eventually, he got off the phone and sank onto the end of the couch. I had most of the reviews cut out by then and arranged in a pile on the coffee table.
“He’s hired a PR firm for me,” he said.
“Wow. That’s incredible. But shouldn’t Kaz and the movie do that?”
“Too small a budget, and Max says he’s got more requests for appearances than he can handle.”
“What do you mean, appearances?” I said, folding a newspaper back into order.
“TV shows, I guess, like The Tonight Show.”
I dropped the newspaper and looked up at him. “The Tonight Show?”
Dec nodded. His eyes were big and unblinking, as if his pupils had suddenly been dilated. He looked slightly scared.
“Oh my God!” I leaped over the papers and jumped into his lap.
“I can’t believe it,” he said, “and Max thinks I should get a manager. He says it won’t be just about blind auditions for me anymore. He says I need a manager who can produce for me and think more globally about my career.”
“So you’re going global?” I teased, nibbling on his earlobe. “I think we should celebrate that.”
He growled and kissed me, and soon we were half-naked on the couch. But then Dec’s cell phone rang. We ignored it. It rang again, and again.
“Christ,” Declan said, raising himself off me and looking at the display on the phone. “It’s Max. He’s never going to stop.”
He flipped open the phone. “Yeah,” he said. He nodded while he listened to Max. “I will, I will,” he said. “Yes, I’ll do that right now.” He sighed and sank back onto the other side of the couch.
“You are not going to leave me in this condition, are you?” I said. My bra was hanging around my neck and I had only one leg of my running pants on.
“I’m so
rry, love,” Dec said. “Max says I’ve got to call these managers today and get interviews with them, and then talk to the PR person he hired.”
“Okay, you can do that in five minutes.” I pulled him by the hand back to my side of the couch. “I’m fast when I have to be.”
“God, you make me crazy,” he said, the weight of him falling on me again, his lips on my collarbone. The sun was streaking in the sliding glass doors. The apartment was deliciously hot.
But then the phones started ringing again. Both of them this time.
I laughed. “The sex gods apparently want us to wait.”
“They’re such arseholes,” Dec said, reaching for his cell phone and looking at the display. “Max again.”
I got up and showered. I cleaned the apartment while Declan’s phone conversations went on and on.
Finally, he took a break. “This is mad,” he said. But he looked thrilled, standing in the kitchen shaking his head.
I went to him and kissed him on the nose. “I am so happy for you. Now, can we go to C&O’s? I’m starving.”
“Love, I can’t. Max has already set up two interviews for me, and I’ve got to meet with those managers. You’ll have to go without me.”
“What about Fred Segal? I want to buy you something ludicrously overpriced.”
Dec looked at his watch. “How about I meet you there at six? In the café?”
“Deal,” I said.
On my way downstairs, Liz Morgan popped her head out of her apartment. “Kyra!” she yelled. “Declan’s reviews. They’re amazing!” She was wearing a suit in an angry red-orange color with a horrible boxy cut. In her hands, she held a copy of Variety.
“I know,” I said. “We can hardly believe it.”
“Where’s Declan? I’ve got to congratulate him.”
“He’s on the phone. He’s got a million things to do today.”
“Well, tell him I’m thrilled.”
“I will. Do you have time to get lunch at C&O’s?”
“Oh, honey, I wish. I’ve got this audition for a commercial. I’m supposed to be a businesswoman with constipation. What do you think?” She twirled around in the angry, boxy suit.
“Perfect,” I said honestly.
I spent a lazy lunch eating outside and scouring the papers for any other reviews of Normandy. I still had hours until I had to meet Dec at Fred Segal, so I drove to Abbot Kinney Boulevard and spent a few hours strolling. I liked the street with its antique stores, trippy little clothing boutiques, pizza stands and vegetarian restaurants. I bought a large old hatbox papered in blue-and-white toile so we would have some place to keep Declan’s reviews. I put it in the trunk of my car and headed to Fred Segal.
I was a half hour early to meet Dec, so I ordered a glass of wine and called Bobby from my cell phone.
His assistant answered, but he put me through right away.
“Kyr,” Bobby said, “I’ve been meaning to call you all day. The buzz about Declan is off the hook.”
“I know. Can you believe it?”
“No, I mean seriously off the hook,” he said. “Everyone over here is talking about it, and you better tell Declan that I’m calling him soon. William Morris wants him.”
“But he’s already got an agent. He has Max.”
Bobby scoffed. “Max is two-bit. Declan needs to be with a big-time agency now.”
I squirmed uncomfortably in my chair. “I don’t think he’s going to make changes like that anytime soon.”
“Are you kidding, Kyr? Everything is going to change for him. It’s a whole different ball game.”
“Not necessarily.”
“Trust me on this. I know what I’m talking about.”
I took a sip of my wine and didn’t say anything.
“Look, I don’t mean to freak you out,” Bobby said, “but don’t be surprised if Declan’s not around much anymore. He’s going to be pulled in a lot of different directions.”
“Jesus, Bobby. It’s a movie! Just a movie. And he was great in it. He’ll have some different opportunities now, but we’ll take it one day at a time.” I glugged more of my wine.
“All right. Whatever you say. Hey, what are you doing tonight? I can get out of here in about fifteen minutes. Want to have a drink?”
“I’m meeting Dec, but thanks. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
“Tell Declan I’ll be calling him, too.”
After I got off the phone with Bobby, I ordered another glass of wine for myself and one for Declan.
Six o’clock came and went, and still Declan wasn’t there. The café was full by then. “Would you like to at least order appetizers?” the waitress said, annoyed, no doubt, that I was commandeering the table only to swig sauvignon blanc by my lonesome.
“No thanks,” I said. The thought of food was wholly un-appealing. It would sober me up.
As six-thirty neared, I pulled Declan’s glass of wine toward me and dialed his cell phone number. It went to his voice mail.
At six forty-five, I paid the bill and drank the last of Dec’s wine. Feeling light-headed and drunk and pissed off at being stood up, I wandered through the stores. I was in a destructive mood. I fingered a hand-blown glass bowl with a price tag of six hundred dollars. I was torn between smashing it or buying it.
Behind the counter, the clerk was watching a small TV while she folded linen napkins. I was about to turn away, when something caught my eye. I focused in on the TV’s tiny screen, and saw my husband’s face.
chapter 15
I was sitting on our balcony, another glass of wine in front of me, when Declan bounded noisily into the apartment.
“Kyr!” he yelled. “Kyra?”
I heard him tromp into the bedroom, then the bathroom. I stayed silent, fixing a steely, you-asshole expression on my face. Finally, he peeked his head out the sliding glass doors.
“I am so sorry, love,” he said. “You have every right to leave me for good, but please, please don’t.” He walked around the table to my chair and sank to his knees, clasping my hands.
I stayed silent, watching him. He looked freakishly alive and legitimately remorseful at the same time. His hair was a little crazy, his eyebrows furrowed and…did he have makeup on?
“Look,” he said, “I’ve been in meetings all day with managers. And I have to decide which one I want to go with. I have to decide. I mean, do you get that? I’ve never been the one to decide anything since I was in this business. You just beg people to take you on, and they say, ‘We’ll see.’ But here are these guys who’ve worked with everyone, asking me to work with them.”
A little flame of happiness flickered at his news, but I mentally extinguished it. “So what does this have to do with the fact that you stood up your wife?”
“Okay, get this. After I met with all these managers at Max’s office, I went to the Entertainment Tonight set and…” He got off his knees and stood up with his hands outstretched, as if he were singing the last number of a Broadway musical.
Again, that flame of excitement. “And?” I said.
“I did an interview!” He opened his hands wider.
My heart leaped for him. I wanted to squeal. But I couldn’t let him off the hook. “And?” I said again, a little testier this time.
“And my cell phone died, and then after I left, I had to meet the publicists. They were making all these plans. It’s crazy what they’re saying, and the time just got away from me. I’m so sorry, love. I truly am. I wish you could have been with me.”
“Yeah, me, too,” I said sarcastically.
“I’m an egregious arsehole. I don’t deserve you. Please forgive me.”
I sighed. I pined for Steven, who would defensively throw a lit candle at my head. “I saw part of the interview.”
“You did? What did you think?”
“You were handsome and charming,” I said grudgingly.
“Thank you, Kyr. And I honestly am sorry. Will you forgive me?”
I crossed my leg and swung i
t back and forth, turning to stare out at the ocean. “I’ve got one question for you,” I said. “Did you meet Mary Hart?”
As an adolescent, I hadn’t watched much television, since Emmie didn’t own a set, but I had a junior-high friend named Colleen, who’d been strangely fascinated with Mary Hart. It had something to do with the rumors that the sound of Hart’s voice could send dogs barking and electrical equipment malfunctioning. Whenever I was at Colleen’s house, we watched Entertainment Tonight, and held Colleen’s little terrier in front of the TV to see if he’d go insane. The poor dog was annoyed, but never suicidal.
“I met her briefly,” Declan said.
“What’s she like?”
“Unbelievably, scarily positive. I wonder what she’s like at funerals.”
“What about her hair?”
“Rather like a helmet, but quite nice.”
“And what did you tell her about your love life?”
“Well, I didn’t tell her anything, she didn’t do the interview. Some bloke did. But I told him that I had a wife who was a brilliant fashion designer and the sweetest, most adorable woman on the planet.”
I stood up. “All right, now you can take me to dinner.”
On Monday, Declan hired a manager named Graham Truro. Graham had started his career as an assistant for a very young Robert Redford. He eventually rose to the role of Redford’s manager, and later took on everyone from Goldie Hawn to Brad Pitt. Graham looked more like a school principal than a Hollywood manager. He wore suits that appeared to have been bought off the rack at Target and ties that were perpetually stained with coffee. He was balding like a monk, and he had a large red nose, which made me wonder if he put too much Kahlua in his coffee. And yet Graham Truro had shrewd eyes and, I would later learn, an even shrewder mind.
Graham’s skill was not just in handling actors or considering what projects might be good for them. No, the skill Graham Truro was known for was being able to chart the potential trajectory of a star and being able to take that star even higher. He mused over what role a star should have next, then packaged that movie and made sure the star got it. He glad-handed and wheeled ’n’ dealed and sold his soul to get his stars the roles, the movies, the images he thought they deserved.
The Year of Living Famously Page 10
