I could tell by her spiel that she didn’t know who I was. In fact, I was sure I was the ninety-fourth person who’d heard this spiel today. I was just like everyone else.
I held out my hand and watched as she applied the cream in a little circle over my wrist. I feigned interest in the “silky texture.” I’d never known what to do with these women. What, exactly, was I supposed to feel, to say? Certainly, the skin on my hand wouldn’t test the same as that on my face. Was I the only one who knew this? I murmured something under my breath like, “Nice, very nice,” caught between whether I should leave politely or buy two hundred dollars’ worth of product to make her feel better, to make me feel ordinary.
“All the celebs are wearing this,” she said when I mentioned that I wasn’t sure if I needed any moisturizer. “Like Courtney Cox? She uses this all over her body. And that Kyra, you know she’s married to Declan McKenna, she came in last week and bought from me.”
“Really?” I glanced around, wondering if I was being filmed for one of those reality shows where they play jokes on celebrities.
“Oh, she always buys from us.”
“Is that right?”
I had become a sales technique.
Hypothetically, fame should have made me confident, even if I hadn’t wanted that fame. After all, there I was, regularly selling my designs for the first time, married to a movie star, having no worries about paying bills. I should have, hypothetically again, been walking taller, smiling gracefully at everyone I passed, feeling serene and self-assured. Alas, this wasn’t how it worked, at least not for me. Instead, I became more unsure of myself than I ever had been before. I lost the thread that kept me connected to the me I’d always known.
So much of my life was viewed at a distance. Not just by the reporters and the tabloids and the public, but by me, too. One night, for example, Declan and I attended a premiere for Paul Carlyle, Declan’s old acting coach, who had the starring role. Flashbulbs flamed as we got out of our town car. A reporter from Access Hollywood dumped the interview she was conducting and ran to us before any of the other reporters.
“How are you tonight, Declan?” she said. “And Kyra, this must be one of yours.” She gestured with her phallic microphone at my navy blue shawl-collar dress.
I nodded and greeted her by name. Dec started chattering away about Paul, how he couldn’t wait to see the film. He was so good at this, unlike me, while I noticed that I left my body in a way. I could see the other reporters huddling around us, shoving their microphones near us. I could see the evil red glare of the power lights. I floated higher and higher, watching it from above, watching the way I nodded at one reporter, laughed with another. I watched the way I stood, one foot in front of the other, my arms slightly away from my body, the way I’d been taught. And yet, gazing at it all, I had a hard time feeling it. I was unable to unite this life with my old, this me with the one I used to know.
chapter 29
On a Wednesday morning, about six weeks after the Oscars, I got up early before anyone was at the house. I threw on some running pants and a T-shirt and made my way to our workout room. Declan was in San Francisco for a few days, shooting on location for his new movie. I missed him, but finally it felt right to be alone in the house. And God did I need it. I would take a run on the treadmill, I decided, then get a little work done before the troops descended, and I would feel even better. I would feel more like your typical woman, your typical wife, your typical working gal.
To let in some air, I opened the doors that led from the workout room onto the pool patio. The waterfall made soothing splashing noises at the other end. I stretched, got on the treadmill and ran hard for ten minutes, letting the pounding of my feet beat away everything—the feeling of being under constant surveillance, the paranoia that someone close to us was leaking our plans, the perpetual bolstering of my confidence so that I could ignore the rumors about Declan, the odd out-of-body feeling my life so often had now.
It was an overcast morning, but all at once it started to rain. A gust of wind burst inside, sending my newspaper skittering across the floor, knocking over the near-empty water bottle. I closed the door and got back on the treadmill. I turned on the TV that hung from an arm near the ceiling and flipped through the shows that Declan had TiVo’d—History Channel specials on World War II, a sitcom that his friend Brandon had a small part on, some HBO specials. And of course there were the entertainment-news shows, which Declan had arranged to be TiVo’d automatically in order to check the coverage. I watched them occasionally so I could at least know what people were saying about us, about me. Were they, for example, claiming that I was an alcoholic? Or had Declan’s alleged infidelities forced me to gain fifty pounds? I felt better when I knew what I was up against.
I clicked on Access Hollywood and selected the show from last night. The trick to these things, I had learned, was to watch the first three minutes where they ran the teasers. If there was nothing about Declan or me there, the show was deleted.
Nancy O’Dell’s voice came on, highlighting their “top stories”—a Julia Roberts movie premiere, a benefit where Kendall Gold had spoken, and the death of a seventies radio star. Probably nothing on Declan, I thought, since they usually stuck him at the beginning. I raised the remote and was about to delete the show, when I heard, “And news about Declan and Kyra. Are they on the rocks? Is he in love with Lauren Stapleton again?” Across the screen flashed a picture of Declan and me with a cartoonish jagged line drawn between us, then video footage of Lauren and Declan at some premiere, probably taken before I ever met him.
I hit the emergency pause button on the treadmill and stood there panting while I fast-forwarded through the show. My heart beat hard against my ribs. It’s not true, I thought. You know it’s not true. But why did I feel so panicked? So fearful?
Finally, I found the segment. Pat O’Brien, looking rather pleased about this “big story” said, “Well, there’s word tonight that Oscar winner Declan McKenna and his wife, Kyra Felis, may be on the outs, and Declan might be reunited with Lauren Stapleton.”
I screamed and threw the remote against the mirrored wall. I watched as they showed a clip of Lauren at that first premiere I’d been to, saying, “I suppose we’ll always be an item” and stroking Declan’s hair. Then recent footage of Declan and me in front of a restaurant, me blinking madly into the intrusive light of the video camera while Declan smiled easily. Another shot of Lauren answering questions on a red carpet somewhere.
Over the clips, Pat O’Brien’s voice explained about Lauren and Declan’s past “relationship” and our “quickie marriage.” “Even people in Declan’s own camp tell us that trouble is brewing,” he said.
The next clip floored me, literally made me sit on the treadmill as if a crushing weight had fallen over my body. There, on the screen, was Liz Morgan with the words “Actress/Friend” below her face. Her frosty hair was blown straight, and she’d clearly had her makeup done professionally. She looked beautiful, despite the chagrined expression, as she said, “Kyra and Declan have fought about Lauren. I’ve seen them at it. It’s definitely a source of tension between them.”
Her face faded and was replaced by a shot of Pat saying something inane about how Access Hollywood would continue to follow the story, as if our fictional marital problems were something that needed to be covered like the war in Iraq.
Two hours later, Liz buzzed the gate of our house. She was scheduled to work for me that day, but I couldn’t believe she had the audacity to show. I went to the foyer, where Denny stood by the front door.
“You sure?” he said. He was a man of few words, but he had made it clear that he knew about her little interview. He didn’t hit women, he’d told me, but he would be happy to toss her in the trunk of his car and drive around for a few hours.
“It’s fine,” I said, although nothing was fine.
Declan had called from San Francisco shortly after I’d seen the show. It was crap, he had said, “complete fec
king crap.” I believed him, but I was so upset about Liz, so betrayed by someone I thought was a friend, that I felt wary about Declan, too. I told him how sick I was of all the coverage, how tired I was of having to always wonder whether I was being followed, whether Declan was doing something that would make it look as if he was cheating on me. He had to get off the phone then because of his morning call, and I was left feeling confused and raw.
Liz rapped on the door, which Denny immediately opened. He stood there a moment, staring down at her, probably fighting his desire to hog-tie her and drag her through the city by a rope. Finally, he grunted and moved aside to let her pass.
“Hi,” she said when she saw me. Her eyes were bright, wide. “Not working yet?”
“Just waiting for you.”
“Oh great, well. Mmm. What…ah…what are we doing today?”
“Are you kidding me?”
“Kyr.” She took a few steps toward me.
“Don’t,” I said. She froze. I crossed my arms over my chest. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me that you came here today.”
Tears filled her blue eyes. “Kyra, I’m sorry. You won’t believe how it happened, and I didn’t say anything that wasn’t true, I just said—”
“You said Declan and I fight about Lauren!” I uncrossed my arms, shouting my words.
“Well, you do. That one time—”
“That one time we were talking about whether I wanted to design a dress for her. We weren’t fighting about her and Declan being together!”
“Right, and I didn’t say that,” Liz said softly.
“You made it sound just like that, and you know it.”
She wiped a tear away from her eye with a hot-pink fingernail. “If you listen to what happened, I’ll know you’ll understand. See, I met this guy who’s an associate producer on Access Hollywood. We got to talking, and he also used to be a producer on Manny & Me, you know that show on Fox?”
I didn’t answer.
“Well, anyway, he said that if I would give him a quote about you guys, he would talk to the Manny casting director about me.”
“You sold me out so you could get an audition? My God!” I covered my mouth with my hand; a churning nausea filled my stomach.
“I didn’t sell you out, I just said something that was true.”
“Get the hell out of here.”
“I’m sorry, sweetie.” She rushed to me and wrapped her arms around my shoulders.
I stood woodenly, refusing to return the embrace.
“I’m so, so sorry,” she said, “but you don’t know how hard it is to break into this business. I just needed an in. I need a start somewhere. It’s been so easy for Declan. You don’t get how hard it really is, and I didn’t mean to hurt you, I just wanted—”
“Oh my God,” I said, a thought dawning on me like a frying pan to the face. “Are you the one who’s been telling the paparazzi where we’re going?”
“What? No!”
“Have you been selling me out all this time? Giving info to the press about what restaurants we’ll be at, what parties? Is that how you’ve been making money?” The nausea churned harder in my stomach, causing me to want to double over. Instead, I pressed my hands into my belly.
“I did not do that!” Liz yelled. “I swear, Kyra. You have to believe me!”
“Go,” I said, quiet now.
“No, honey, listen for a sec.”
I shoved her away. “I listened. Now get out.”
Liz shook her head, as if it was me who failed to understand the situation. And in some ways, I guess she was right. I understood so little anymore.
I called Bobby late that night. I’d thrown myself into work all day, letting the deadlines and phone calls and all the people around me wash away thoughts of Liz. But now, finally, with the house silent, I sat huddled against the headboard, lonely and miserable.
“She’s a conniving bitch,” Bobby said about Liz. “Forget her.”
“How can I forget?” Sometimes, having a guy for a good friend just wasn’t the same as talking to another woman who understood the obsessive workings of the female mind.
“She’s out of your life now, hallelujah.”
I was silent. I couldn’t be celebratory about losing a friend.
“And don’t worry about that Lauren rumor,” Bobby said. “That’s just wacked.”
“I know.”
“And you’ll probably hear some stuff tomorrow about Declan and Tania. Also crap.”
“Wait, what are you talking about? Why would I hear something tomorrow?”
Bobby represented Martie Schafer, who was playing the role of Declan’s mom in the new movie. I’d always imagined Martie as a serene older woman, but it seemed she was as gossipy as a thirteen-year-old, because she was always calling Bobby with catty stories from the set.
“I guess Tania and Declan went out to dinner tonight,” he said, “and people have been talking for a while, but it’s bogus.”
“What do you mean people have been talking for a while?”
“It’s just the PR machine cranking up, trying to generate some publicity, saying Declan’s having an affair with her, the usual bullshit.”
I knew it was bullshit. I knew this as a logical, educated woman, but still I mumbled an excuse, hung up quickly with Bobby and dialed Declan’s cell phone. It went right to voice mail. Eleven o’clock. Could he be asleep already? Or was it possible he was with Tania?
I dialed his number again, and again. I was compulsive, crazy. I wouldn’t stop. Over and over, I hit number one, my speed dial for his phone, and listened to his voice—Hey, it’s Declan. Leave a message. Hey, it’s Declan. Leave a message.
I got up from the bed and began pacing the bedroom. Why would his cell phone be off? Was he avoiding me? Did he have something to hide? Something I’d been too willing to blame on the press?
I tried watching TV but couldn’t concentrate. I thought about calling Margaux, but it was two in the morning in New York. Taking the phone, still dialing obsessively, I went to the kitchen and began eating random bits of food from the fridge. I went to the workout room and walked slowly on the treadmill, all the while hitting that speed dial with relentless precision. Hey, it’s Declan. Leave a message.
When he called an hour and a half later, I was back in bed, nearly through a bottle of merlot. “Why the hell has your phone been off?”
A pause. “What?”
I knew he had heard me. He couldn’t have not heard me, because I practically screamed my words. So I stayed silent.
“I had it off on set,” he said, “and we went right from there to dinner. I just forgot.”
“You forgot,” I said accusingly. What, exactly, I was accusing him of, I wasn’t sure. I only knew that my suspicions had simmered and boiled and turned into a churning rage.
“Yeah, I forgot.” He sounded slightly pissed off now. “I’m tired. What’s this about?”
“You know what it’s about!”
“Christ, Kyra, just tell me. I really don’t need this.”
“And I do? I need to be stuck here in L. A., reading rumors about Lauren and hearing about you having dinner with Tania?”
“Who did you hear that from?”
“Bobby,” I said, getting up.
“Jesus, Bobby again.”
“Yeah, Bobby again. He’s the only friend I’ve got here. Who do you expect me to talk to?”
I heard him breathing. “Of course you’re friends with Bobby. I’m glad for that. I truly am. It’s just that this is all such shite.”
“What is?”
“Whatever you’re accusing me of!” Now it was his voice that rose. “I’m not having an affair, Kyra! Not with anyone. I love you. You know that! I went out to dinner with Tania to talk about the scene tomorrow.”
“And what will the papers say about that?”
“Who the fuck cares what the papers say?” he bellowed.
We went on like that for half an hour. I had finally p
ushed him enough that Declan, who was never a fighter, who always told me I was right and left it at that, was screaming right back at me. We’d finally become the couple they had painted us to be in the papers.
Two days later, I went home to New York for the funeral of one of Emmie’s best friends, Ruby. Ruby had been a gorgeous old woman—tall and willowy even as her face creased and crumpled. She was a decade older than Emmie and had been her mentor at the first literary agency where she’d worked.
Because of his filming schedule, Dec wasn’t able to go with me and so there were only two photographers at LAX, and when I got to LaGuardia at midnight, there was no one. No photographers, no reporters, no personal assistants, no bodyguards. I loved it.
I went straight to Emmie’s. There was a note on the kitchen counter in my side of the apartment.
Welcome, darling. I wanted to wait, but I’m too sad about Ruby to stay awake. In the morning…
In my old room, my double bed was still there (Emmie didn’t “believe” in twin beds), and it was still covered by the crazy pink-and-purple quilt I’d made during college. I’d washed it so many times that it was thin and soft as silk. I stripped off my clothes and crawled under it. The hum of the city lulled me like a mother’s song. I fell into the hardest sleep I’d had in months.
In the morning, I woke early to find the city impossibly quiet. I peered out the window and saw that there had been a freak April snowstorm, the city now buried under a blanket of fresh snow. People always run for the cover of their homes when there’s a big snow in Manhattan. They use umbrellas to keep the snow away, then they get to their apartments and stay there, letting the restaurants and shops go quiet. But I immediately found a pair of my old boots in Emmie’s closet and went out to Central Park. My boots skidded through the wet, unshoveled snow. Tree limbs hung heavy with white; icicles clung to the bottom of park benches.
The Year of Living Famously Page 23
