“Fine, great. Well, you know, the usual bullshit. I’ve got ten scripts to read, and one of my personal assistants mis-took me for David Spade and tried to attack me. Goes with the territory, right?”
“Does it?”
“Well, you know how it is with personal assistants. They’re loyal until you can’t get them an audition. I mean, how many has Declan gone through?”
“Declan doesn’t have a personal assistant.”
“Are you kidding me?”
“I don’t even know what a personal assistant does.” I went out on the balcony and sat in the sun.
“My God, they do everything.” Kendall ran down an exhaustive list of duties her PAs did for her, which included returning her phone calls, reading e-mail, answering fan mail, buying her underwear and protein bars, picking up her dry cleaning, making her travel plans and coordinating her household staff.
“But look,” she said, “I didn’t call to talk about PAs. I called because of that dress you wore in Malibu. Are you selling it anywhere?”
“I wish. No, I made that for myself.”
“Would you be willing to make one for me?”
I sat up straight. Did I just hear Kendall Gold asking me to make her a dress? “Of course,” I said.
“I’ve got this charity luncheon at Tom and Rita’s, and I thought it would be perfect. Half fifties-suburban, half Studio 54.”
I laughed. She’d described the dress perfectly. “I’d love to make one for you. When is the luncheon?”
“Well, that’s the hitch. It’s next week. Is that too soon?”
I calculated everything I would need to do—get her measurements, cut a new pattern, find the material, beg the factory to make it for me ASAP. One week was technically and entirely not enough time.
“I can do it,” I said.
I was still on the balcony—scribbling notes, sketching Kendall’s dress—when Declan came in.
“I’m out here,” I yelled.
When he came though the doorway, I jumped up. “Guess what? Guess what?”
“You’re cooking dinner?”
I scowled. He knew I never cooked, and yet he was always making light of it, which sometimes made me wonder. Did he wish he had a more stereotypical wife, one who would clean instead of calling Angel Maids, one who would whip up steak tartar instead of speed-dialing sushi takeout?
“Kidding, love,” he said. He dipped his head down and put his forehead on my collarbone, his arms around my waist. “What’s your news, then?”
I pushed him back slightly so he could see my face. “Kendall Gold asked me to make a dress for her!”
“What?” His face was elated. “You’re kidding? Which dress? The slip dress with the satin straps, or maybe that draped one with the bias cut?”
When I met Declan, he could barely distinguish between the words sleeve and hem, and yet here he was talking bias cut with me. I hugged him again.
“No, the fifties one with the Pucci print that I wore to Graham’s.”
“God, that’s brilliant!” He lifted me off my feet.
When he set me down, we heard a strange whir and then a series of clicking sounds. We both looked to the alley below the balcony. A man stood there with a camera and a black bag slung around his body.
“Hey, there!” Declan called down to him.
The photographer let the camera drop for a moment. He had a sharp, pointed face like a ferret, but friendly eyes. “How about a smile from you two?” he said.
Declan looked at me. He shrugged in a “what do you think?” kind of way. He appeared pleased with this development. I shrugged back.
We turned to the street and put our arms around each other. We smiled wide for the photographer.
That was a mistake.
Anyone who has lived in Manhattan knows that where there is one cockroach, there are others. Declan and I soon learned that the same axiom applies to photographers.
Two days after that first photographer appeared in our alley, we found three more outside our front door.
Declan was thrilled. “Hey, what’s this?” he said in a happy voice. We had just stepped out onto the front stoop. I blinked at the bright false sun, tightening my arms around myself in the surprising chill.
Declan was dressed in new black Joseph Abboud slacks that Graham’s assistant had bought at Graham’s instruction. Declan had to “stop looking so MTV and start looking more old-school movie star,” Graham had said. Graham’s specialty was molding an actor into a persona. Declan, he had decided, wouldn’t dress in skull caps and baseball shirts like that other Irish actor, and Graham had put the kibosh on Declan’s own jeans and loose, oversize shirts, too. Rather, Graham had decided that Declan would wear crisp white shirts and Italian leather shoes and soft-as-silk pants. He would be a throwback to James Cagney and Spencer Tracy.
It irked me a little when Declan had come home wearing such an outfit, boasting that Graham had paid for the whole thing. The clothes were great—it wasn’t that—and the charity of the situation didn’t bother me. On the contrary, I think I had a strong sense, even then, that Graham, as well as many others, would make scads of money on Declan. What rankled was that if anyone should be selecting clothes for Declan, it should be me. Graham may not have even known that I was a designer at that point, but the new clothes felt like a slam somehow.
Anyway, the morning of the three photographers, Declan was wearing one of his new outfits, while I was in running pants and my old faded jean jacket. I had only gotten out of bed to walk Declan to his car. Our time had become that scarce. I so rarely saw him that in order to spend time together, I walked him to the parking lot, or he sat on the edge of the tub when I took a bath at night. Moments together had become as precious as pearls.
So I was blinking furiously in the sunlight when we saw those photographers. “Hey, what’s this?” Declan said, and they shouted, “Declan! Declan!”
They didn’t know my name yet, or they didn’t care, and either way that was fine with me.
At my side, Dec preened. These photographers signified that what was happening to him—the acclaim from Normandy, the ridiculously huge advance he’d just gotten for a new film, the multiple offers that were pouring in—was real. These photographers, inadvertently, told him that he deserved the reviews and the new, massive money we had in the bank. I thought to remind him of that other axiom—Never believe your own press—but in his case, the press was true. Declan was fantastic in Normandy. He did deserve millions of dollars for feature films and car commercial voice-overs.
But within days those three photographers turned into six. Then they morphed into a pack of ten. And soon, they weren’t just lingering outside our apartment. They followed Declan in his car. They shot us sitting outside at Cow’s End when we could find time for coffee. I tried running from them once, when we turned a corner and saw them lurking, but I tripped and skidded onto my knees on the asphalt. Those bloody scrapes on my knees stuck with me for weeks. Every time I looked at them I felt like hunted prey.
In New York in the evening, I had always left my lights on, my curtains open. I really didn’t think anyone would take the time to watch my dim form from across the street. But now in L. A., I was always drawing the curtains, peeking out for the familiar shape of a telephoto lens.
As I said, at that point it wasn’t me they wanted, which was relieving and yet vaguely insulting. They wanted Declan. They wanted shots of him buying a paper, saying hi to someone on the street, and putting gas in his car, just as bad as they wanted those red-carpet shots, those photos of him pumping Brad Pitt’s hand, the ones of him mugging with Geri Halliwell.
But even though it wasn’t me they wanted, I was affected. It was hard not to be. When I walked out of the house, when they were still waiting for Declan to appear, they would shoot a few desultory shots of me, for something to do. I didn’t know their names, like Declan did. I didn’t see their presence as anything more than an uninvited guest at the foot of our marriage bed. Y
et still I knew they were there. I couldn’t help but set my face in a somewhat nice expression. I couldn’t help but throw my shoulders back, and affect nonchalance as I threw my vintage Margaret Smith bag onto my other shoulder. Like never before, I noticed my own posture, my expressions, my movements, my car with its layer of dirt, my black Versace sling backs that were fading at the toe, my halter dress that had produced a black thread dangling from its hem, my too-faded navy running pants, my sand-caked Nike shoes, my fake Gucci sunglasses, my brand-new zit on my cheekbone, my eyebrows in need of waxing, my chipped fingernail polish.
I was always aware of the photographers, and therefore, I was hyper-aware of myself. It was as if the Kyra of old, the one who’d lived in Manhattan and been content with her small life, was watching the new Kyra, and unsure what to make of her.
chapter 17
The pictures that were taken in those initial few weeks cropped up first in the tabloids, then in In Touch magazine, then in Us Weekly, and eventually they spread to other glossies. Every day, Graham’s assistant sent over a packet of Declan’s press clippings from the previous day. At the beginning, Declan and I went over them together in bed. We spread them out around us, like pirates with their booty. We exclaimed over this picture and that caption; we laughed at the ones where he looked overexcited, his eyes wide; we groaned at the ones where he’d been snapped with his mouth open like a caught fish.
Those were good days. True, the photographers were always around, and yes, we had only minimal time together. But Declan had found the success he deserved, and my own career was finally kicking into place, at least for the week I was working on Kendall’s dress.
I found the perfect fabric. It was lighter than what I’d used for my dress, the Pucciesque print even more splashy. Rosita worked her magic overnight from my sketches, and she got Victor to cut the fabric in two days. I’d decided to sew the dress myself, and I worked on it constantly. I had a purpose now. I was designing, and I would make some money on it. There is no better feeling than doing something you love and getting paid for it.
I called Kendall Gold when the dress was done and scheduled a fitting.
Her place was in Bel Air. I pulled up to the black iron gates, which stretched skyward, and gave my name to the person whose voice came over the intercom. The gates slowly opened, and I drove up a long brick driveway until I came upon Kendall’s house. It was a huge yellow stucco home with a wavy, Spanish-style roof. Despite its monstrous size, the house had an inviting, happy look about it.
Kendall herself came to the door, dressed in gray workout shorts and a white tank top.
“Hi!” she said, giving me a hug. “I’m so excited to see it!”
She led me into the foyer. My shoes clicked on the Spanish tiles. Above my head, an iron chandelier about as big as a tractor wheel hung from the high, high ceiling.
“Will this work for our fitting?” Kendall said. She took me into the living room beyond the foyer, which was decorated with yellow walls, slouchy, slip-covered sofas and rattan tables. Sunlight streamed from open French doors, a huge pool and veranda beyond them. The effect was casual, elegant.
“Perfect,” I said. “Are you ready to see it?” I had forgotten to attempt nonchalance; instead, my voice came out high and fast.
Kendall clapped her hands and nodded, even though this couldn’t have been a unique experience. The top designers in the world had made gowns for her.
I slowly unzipped the garment bag. As I did this, I experienced a pang of nervousness. I loved the dress. I thought it was exquisite, but what if it wasn’t the dress she remembered? What if she despised it?
The zipper snagged on something and stuck. “Now, I can make alterations if you don’t like it,” I said, my hands tugging frantically.
“Sure, sure,” Kendall said. Strangely, she sounded as excited as I felt. “And I swear, I’ll tell you if I don’t like it. Believe me, I’m honest to a fault.”
I finally jerked the zipper free and removed the dress, holding it out.
She squealed. “It’s fantastic! Brie, come here!”
“Who’s Brie?” I said.
“My assistant. Can you believe that name?”
A girl who looked about eighteen stepped into the room. “Wow!” she said when Kendall showed her the dress. “Cool!”
“I’ve got to try it on,” Kendall said.
She stripped off her tank top, dropped her shorts and slipped the dress over her head. I was used to seeing people naked for fittings, but I was overly aware of the fact that this was Kendall Gold that I was seeing naked. She was at least five foot seven and had large, tanned breasts (implants, perhaps?), but there was something pixie-ish about her. Besides the breasts, she was whippet thin, and then there was that frothy gold hair and the impish personality.
The dress fell onto her frame and draped over her shoulders perfectly. It hugged her breasts and her waist just the way it should, and flared flawlessly around her hips. The oranges and yellows of the fabric complemented her sunny coloring. A circle pin of fake diamonds—I had brought boxes of them from New York—glittered from the center of the waist. Kendall skipped to a mirror hanging on the wall and squealed again. “I love it! Now, who should I say I’m wearing? I saw from your business card that you go by Kyra Felis, not Kyra McKenna, right?”
“Right,” I said. I couldn’t stand the thought of giving up my parents’ name.
“Kyra Felis, it is.” She twirled around so that the skirt lifted and swung. “Kyra Felis, you are fabulous!”
I watched Kendall Gold, movie star, spinning around in a dress I’d designed, and right then I felt fabulous.
“So how is Declan handling all the press?” Kendall asked me. We were seated at the island of her kitchen, having tea from two mismatched mugs. The kitchen probably could have held fifty people, but with its pine furniture, Spanish-tiled floor and wide bay window it exuded comfort and charm.
“Declan loves it,” I said. “This is what he’s always wanted.”
“And you?”
I sighed. “I’m happy for Declan, but I’m having a hard time with it. I don’t like the feeling of being watched all the time, and the paparazzi make it hard to go anywhere.”
Kendall nodded. She was back in her tank top and shorts, her wavy blond hair in a ponytail on top of her head. “Are you starting to do the separate-entrance thing?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, you know, there’re tons of ways to manage the paparazzi. That’s really what you have to do. Use them when they can help you, avoid them when you need to be on your own.”
I must have looked confused, because Kendall kept talking. “For example,” she said, “you’ve got to start picking the spots you go based on the way they handle celebrities. Go to the places that have VIP rooms, or the ones who will let you come through the kitchen door. You know, go to Mr. Chow’s and Spago. Those are cliché, but they’ll help you out. Or another trick is that you and Declan can leave separately and arrive separately, too. That cuts down on the photographers. You scatter them. You can also get look-alikes to act as decoys.”
I put down my mug and stared at her, shaking my head. “This sounds like espionage.”
She laughed. “It is in some way, I suppose. But it’s what we signed up for. You can’t complain about getting something you wanted. You can only learn how to control it to your advantage.”
“I didn’t sign up for it.” I noticed, vaguely, that I sounded like a child forced into a soccer game.
“Are you going to keep designing clothes?” Kendall asked.
Her question surprised me. “Of course.”
She lifted her eyebrows. She sipped her tea. “Well, you’ve got real talent. And you married Declan, who’s a celebrity now. If I were you, I’d learn how to roll with it.”
Kendall was right. I had married Declan, I had signed up for better or worse, and I should make the best of our new life.
I started smiling more when we saw the papar
azzi. I didn’t complain when our sunset walks were photographed by at least four people who scurried around us like vermin at our feet.
But it became tougher, because Declan now had fans, real live people who wanted to know him, love him, for better or worse, just like me. He’d been getting bags of fan mail since Normandy opened. Since I had so much more time on my hands, I’d been reading the mail and sending out the head shots with his autograph, which seemed to be what most people were after. But the bags got larger, and then the letters got stranger. Women started sending nude photos of themselves (“We should send these to the twins,” Declan said), and a few people claimed to be his long-lost sister, cousin or uncle who could use a little help with their cash flow. And then he started getting letters from Amy Rose.
Dear Declan, the first one said, I’ve watched you through the curtains with that woman…
“‘That woman? That woman?’” I said. “What the hell is this?”
Declan took the letter from my hand and read it, chuckling. The rest was about how much she loved Declan. “She’s full of it,” he said. “Graham warned me about these people. They latch on to some celebrity and get attached.”
“Yeah, attached is one way to put it.” I moved to the window and peered out onto the alley. No sign of anyone, but was she lurking out there in the shadows? I yanked the drapes closed.
A few days before Christmas, Graham called the apartment.
I assumed that after our usual pleasantries I would hand the phone to Declan as I normally did. But Graham said, “Kyra, I’m glad you answered.”
“Oh?”
“Yes, I was calling to talk to you.” He had a deep, raspy voice that always made it seem as if he was calling from a jazz club, a whiskey in hand.
Graham and I were on pleasant terms. I respected his work on Declan’s behalf—it certainly seemed as though he was working very hard, an impression that would never be sullied—and I think he respected the relationship Declan and I had at the time. Still, Graham never called to talk to me.
The Year of Living Famously Page 12
