Room for Love (24 page)

“I will call Lucas,” he says when I ask. “Right now. It's early in L.A.”

Completely awake now, I go into the living room and plunk down on the couch. Lucy smiles up at me, happy to have company. I flip on the tube and walk around in my underwear picking up old newspapers and magazines that have been accumulating since before I got here and make a pile to keep and a pile to trash. Under the Sunday
Times
from six weeks ago, I find a videotape that's been rented ever since.
Jesus Christ, he can be a flake,
I think. The phone rings.

“Luke will do the story,” Stefan says, very serious. “His people never told him they were considering it.”

“No way. They told us they passed on our request to him weeks ago.”

“Yes, he will call his publicist now and you will hear back from him in the morning.”

“Stefan, I love you. You're the best.”

“Do you want to come over?”

“Tempting, Stef, but I'm living with someone.”

“I didn't know.”

“It's pretty recent,” I say and pause for a moment, waiting for him to ask for details, but he doesn't. It always was all about Stefan. “Good night, Stefan. You're a god.”

“Good night, Fluffy,” he says. He always called me Fluffy, with a maniacal grin on his face and a little shake of the head. Hard to believe I used to love this lunatic.

When I sleepwalk into the office the next day, Steve hugs me. Warmhearted as he is, Steve never hugs me. He never hugs anyone. “I don't know how you did it,” he says, “but you did it. Smith called this morning. I guess Benton's publicist called him in the middle of the night frantic because Luke is dying to be on our cover and he didn't know if we still wanted him. Apparently he told his publicist”—Steve lowers his voice to mimic Luke's famous drawl—“‘
Flicks
is my audience, man. It's where I want to be. Especially when it comes to this movie, this little miracle that means all the world to me.' Jacquie, you're the best.”

Before I can respond with false humility, Sam interrupts. “Uh, well, I've got some news, too.”

Now what? She probably won the lottery.

Her face glows as she announces, bouncing up and down, “I'm, uh … prego!
Enceinte!
Yup, bun in the oven!” Total silence surrounds us. “It was a mistake,
obviously,
but we are so excited. It's only been a month, so we're not really supposed to tell anyone, but the thing is we decided to get married before I start to show too much, just to preserve the natural order of things—and because my mom insisted!” She throws her head back hysterically. “So we're doing it right away, two weeks from Saturday, in this little restaurant in our new neighborhood. Everything's changed.
C'est fou, je sais!
But exciting, too,
n'est-ce pas?
You'd better all still be able to come. We're sending out invitations, like, tomorrow, but I wanted to let you all know.” She finally stops talking and bouncing and bows her head. I feel like we should clap or something.

“A pregnant bride. How totally
Kill Bill
of you,” Chester finally says, and he and Steve take turns patting her back while she giggles and squeals. An eerie sense of déjà vu creeps up over me.

“Well, uh, back to work!” Steve says. “We've got an issue to put to bed, and, Jacquie, you're interviewing Luke Benton in two days at the Maritime. He'll be in town doing long-lead press for the movie, so you don't have to go to L.A. [Translation: Thank God we don't have to come up with the cash to fly you there.] Get on the phone with Arjay to see if he's available to shoot him. If not, call that British chick who shot Penélope Cruz for us.”

“I'm on it,” I tell him, fired up again. I check my e-mail, hoping that Clancy has gotten back to me. I filed my commitment-phobia piece yesterday and haven't heard a peep. I think it turned out great. Our “love expert,” this kooky and very witty shrink appropriately named Joanne Love, psychoanalyzed people like Jack Nicholson in
Carnal Knowledge
and Michael Caine (and Jude Law) in
Alfie.
It was classic: She said that the character in Wong KarWai's movie
Days of Being Wild,
a ladies' man who throws out his lovers like yesterday's teabag, had probably been rejected by his mother. She hadn't even seen the movie, and that's exactly what happened. Anyway, I'm proud of the piece and eager to hear what Clancy thinks.

I e-mail Anthony, asking him to please fly in for the weekend of Sam's wedding. He'll still be shooting in Chicago—the shoot keeps getting longer—but I figure he can take one Saturday off, and I'm dying to see him.

After work, Alicia, who has been crashing with me a couple of nights a week since Anthony left, Lucy, and I hit the couch for a Luke Benton DVD marathon. Benton started out acting in a film based on a screenplay that he wrote himself,
Sick from the Start,
which was basically his life story, about a poor kid from the South working three jobs to support his ailing mother and two younger brothers. Years earlier, when Benton was seventeen, he'd been discovered in a diner by a scout who thought his ragged features put pretty boys to shame, and had been drawn into a world of money, drugs, and adulation that transformed him into a monster. He became one of those model brats the gossip pages adore, trashing hotel rooms, throwing very public hissy fits, and sleeping with and dumping every starlet and socialite from Madison Avenue to the Champs-Elysée. He crashed and burned by twenty-five, when he suddenly disappeared. It turned out that he had moved into the big beach house he'd famously bought for his mom in North Carolina, stopped drinking and started writing a screenplay, and, at twenty-eight, reemerged with
Sick from the Start.
And the world said, “Whoa, Luke Benton can act. And he can write.” From then on, he's worked steadily. He got married (and divorced and married again), had a couple of kids, got divorced and married again (this is not a man who fears commitment), and has taken on about one film a year. My sister and I are watching the whole collection, or at least those we haven't seen before. Anthony calls during an intense moment in his first big-budget film,
Rage,
where Luke is confronting his father (played by Clint Eastwood) about how he wasn't there for him as a child and it's his fault that he has grown up to be a bitter, uncaring man just like him. When the phone rings, my throat is tight and sore and ready for the unlocking of the floodgates.

“Hey, baby,” Anthony says. He sounds like he's in a hurry.

“What's up?” I ask, distracted. I motion to Alicia to pause the film. I grasp my hands together at my chest, pleading. She shakes her head, but hits Pause anyway.

“Babe, gotta run. Mikey stole a car and we're in hot pursuit, but I wanted to check in. Probably won't call later.”

“Okay.”

“Got your e-mail about the wedding. Can't do it. Things are too hectic.”

“But it's just one night. Literally take the red-eye after work on Friday and go back on Sunday morning. It will be so easy. I miss you.”

“Me too, beautiful, but I can't do it. This shoot is insane. Imagine if I missed this stuff.”

“That's why you have a second camera.”

“It's not like that, babe. I'm the producer, too. I can't just leave. Look, gotta talk to you about this later. Shit, gotta go.” He hangs up and my lip starts to quiver. Alicia's looking at me and I wish she'd go away.

“Wanna go to Sam's wedding with me?” I ask her.

*   *   *

We're shooting Luke Benton at the Maritime Hotel's swanky outdoor bar, which is decorated with potted trees and Chinese lanterns. I get there early with my photographer, Arjay, to check out the place. While he and his assistant run around looking for the best spot to set up, the hotel manager escorts me up to Luke's empty suite. I sit down in the sleek, understated living room and look through the doors at the massive bed, where the movie star I'm going to interview spent last night. It looks as if it's been swallowed by its fluffy white duvet and matching pillows. Above the bed hangs a tasteful painting of a woman's bare derriere.

Luke Benton does not look like your typical handsome actor. He's forty-one and has an odd face that for some reason you can't stop looking at—more Owen Wilson than Jude Law. I don't find him attractive, but I like watching him on screen. When he flings open the door, though, and strides through it in a black T-shirt with a Ziggy Stardust decal and ripped jeans, I feel his entrance like a wave that rips me suddenly off my feet. In person his deep-set, sloping gray eyes and unusually large, toothy mouth are sensual, his towering height impressive, his presence magnetic. I guess this is what they call star quality. He is extremely attractive: striking, comfortable in his skin, the kind of guy you'd have really good sex with, then throw on clothes and run out tousled for beers and Chinese food.

“You must be Jacquie,” he says, with a musical, slight Southern drawl, holding out his hand as he makes his way toward me. “Please excuse me for being late.” He takes my hand and it tingles.

“No problem at all,” I say, wishing myself out of my stupor. I've met hundreds of actors. Why am I acting like an ass? He throws himself down on the couch, right next to the spot where I'd been sitting, and pats the place where my butt should be. I sit. Someone knocks on the door.

“Come in!” Luke hollers, and a room service waiter wheels in a tray with a bottle of water and a plate of fries on it.

“I ordered fries,” he tells me as the waiter places them on the coffee table in front of us. “My last vice, and I cling to it with relish. Want some?” He picks one up off the plate and places it between my lips. My cheeks become very hot as I chew. Luke bursts into a grin. “Mmmm,” he says. “So good.”

“Yeah, I'm a sucker for greasy food myself,” I say, taking another. “And salty food. And sweets … Should we talk about your movie?” Luke eloquently analyzes
Bad Rap
and the politics that led him to take the part in a no-budget independent film by a first-time director. His passion is contagious, and forty-five minutes fly by, both of us animated and laughing often. I only have fifteen minutes until we have to go downstairs to the photo shoot, so I throw out some quick questions about earlier projects, his writing, his three-year disappearing act, and even a couple of more personal inquiries about his relationship with his two daughters and his very public recent marriage to a French actress half his age. He doesn't hold back at all and seems happy to share an intimate side of himself with me.

At one o'clock on the dot, Luke's publicist bursts in and asks us to wrap things up; we've got to get shooting. Behind him, in sweeps Luke's wife, Celine Devereaux, as stunning in person as on screen but much thinner. Her waist is about as big as my ankle. “Baby, baby, baby, I
meeessed
you!” she howls, launching herself feverishly at Luke, who's still seated next to me, wrapping her legs around his waist and shoving her tongue down his throat with complete disregard for me and the other onlookers in the room. I hastily snatch up my digital recorder and purse and rush out the door.

The bar downstairs is buzzing. The makeup artist has set up her table and is perched in a director's chair, impatiently wiggling her foot. Arjay has placed white Chinese lanterns artfully above a table and is taking Polaroids of his assistant in various positions around it. Smith, the publicist hired by the studio to promote the movie, is there chatting up Steve, who has turned up for the occasion, and the love of Smith's life, Foofy, is hobbling around looking for scraps of designer bar food.

“Foofy, come here!” Smith shouts, digging a treat out of his pocket. “We're about to get this party started.” He throws his arms up when he sees me and rushes over to plant kisses on the air next to each of my cheeks. “Hey, doll, you look gorgeous! How was it?” I assure him that the interview went exceptionally well. We squeeze each other tight, in silent acknowledgment of the triumph we've managed to pull off together.

During the photo shoot, Celine has a hard time staying more than three feet away from Luke. At one point he's leaning against a photogenic wall posing for close-ups and she's crouched on the floor at his feet with her arms wrapped around his legs, gazing up at him rapturously and whispering the mantra
je t'aime je t'aime je t'aime je t'aime
into his kneecaps. While the makeup artist is refreshing Luke's face, his publicist approaches the besotted ingenue and whispers something into her ear and she's whisked off, only after she's jumped onto Luke's lap and buried her face in his neck and cooed, “I weell meeess you so mooosh, mon bebé. Ce n'est qu'un
fitting.
I weell be back by four o'clock. I loooooove you.”

“Love you, too, angel,” he tells her, as she scampers off to the limo waiting to escort her.

When the shoot is done and we're packing up, Luke's publicist approaches me and says, “Jacquie, Luke would like some more time with you.”

“What do you mean?”

“He said you were rushed out of the interview earlier and he'd like to give you more time.” I'm surprised: I considered the interview fairly indulgent, but I'm also touched and tell him I'd be happy to continue our conversation. I let Steve know I'll be staying, and Luke and I say our goodbyes. We stand silently side by side in the elevator as it rises slowly toward the fifth floor, where we get out and make our way back to Luke's room.

We take our places on the couch and I pull out my recorder and turn it on. “All right, so tell me more about this movie. What was it about a guy leaving prison that hooked you?” I say, not really knowing how much is left to be said.

“You know, it's a project I'm very proud of. The idea of starting over, of leaving behind destructive patterns and trying to be a better person, strikes something very deep inside of me. I've reinvented myself so many times.” He's sitting about a foot from me on the couch and staring right into my eyes. I wonder if he thinks I'm pretty.