The Year of Living Famously (22 page)

“I loved
Normandy,
” he said at one point. He spoke this sentence in a hushed tone, slipping it between, “It usually takes six to eight weeks to special order the chair,” and “I can throw in free delivery for you.”

“Thanks, man,” Declan said, heartfelt.

Within fifteen minutes, we'd picked out our fabric for the chair and bought it, along with eight more pieces. Delivery was arranged for the tables, and they'd call us about the chair. It was at this point I noticed the store had filled up with people, and yet no one was doing much shopping.

“I will personally call you and take care of everything,” the sales guy said, now the picture of efficiency and attentiveness. “You will not have to worry about this. You have my promise.” As he gave us this earnest speech, his eyes caught on something at the front of the store, and he squinted. “What the…?” he said almost under his breath.

Declan and I turned. Outside were hordes of people.

“For fuck's sake,” Declan said. “Let's get out of here.”

But we couldn't move two feet outside the door. Immediately, we were swarmed by photographers, guys with video cameras and people yelling for Declan's autograph. Declan tried signing one or two, but then others pushed themselves toward us, nearly pinning us to the side of the store.

Declan threw his arm around me and pulled me into his chest. “We don't want anyone to get hurt,” Declan said. “Thanks for your support, but it's time for everyone to go home now.”

“Please,” I said. “Let us through.” I could feel people pulling at my clothes. I could hear the fast
click, click, click, click
of cameras.

“Let them be!
Now!
” I heard behind us.

I turned to see our furniture salesman looking very red in the face and ready to hurt someone. “The police are on the way, so move!”

A few people scrambled at the word
police
, but the paparazzi didn't budge. They'd heard these threats before and knew they couldn't be arrested for taking a photo on the street. The video cameras kept rolling, the photographers kept shooting. “Declan, Kyra! Give us a break!” one of them yelled. “Just smile, for Christ's sake!”

I wished I could. I often wondered if I had given in easier, if I had forced myself to be a media whore, if I had always smiled for the cameras, maybe the whole thing would have died. They might have gotten tired of us. But at that moment, I felt irrationally panicked, as if this crowd of people might crush us, swallow us whole.

Soon, a few jaded cops shoved their way through the crowd. “All right, break it up. Let's go,” one of them said.

The crowd parted reverently, and the cops led us away from the store. “You all right?” they asked us.

“Fine, fine,” Declan said. “We appreciate your help.”

“You should have your own security.”

“We do, but we didn't think we'd need it today.”

“This is just my opinion, sir,” one of the cops said when we reached the car, “but I wouldn't leave home without them.”

E
ver since the
Kate
article, I had tried to avoid reading the press about Declan, about us. For one thing, there was simply too much of it. For another, most of it was fabrication. Yet I changed my mind one night, about a week after the nominations.

Dec and I went to dinner at a tiny, upscale Chinese restaurant. There were two photographers outside the restaurant. How they knew we were going to be there, I had no idea.

“Mr. McKenna!” one yelled, apparently trying the polite approach. “How about a picture with Kyra?”

Declan, ever obliging, stopped and told Adam and Denny it was okay. He put a hand on the small of my back. My body and smile were both stiff as the cameras flashed.

“No more,” Adam said after a few seconds. He stepped in front of us and hustled us into the restaurant.

Even when we were seated at a secluded corner table it was hard to relax. Adam and Denny were already devising
an enthusiastic plan to get us out the back door, but like sand in a beach house, the photographers tended to accumulate, and we knew we probably wouldn't escape without more attention. Within the restaurant, there was also the staring by other patrons, the ingratiatingly nice waiter with the screenplay in his bag if Dec wanted to see it, the overly deferential manager who was always watching from across the room.

We were halfway through our kung pao chicken when the manager came over and told us that Todd Wilmingham, the director, and his wife were in the restaurant and wondered if they could stop by to say hello. Declan beamed and nodded vigorously. He'd always wanted to work with Wilmingham.

Soon, they were leaning over our table, both extremely nice and extremely normal. I wondered how they'd managed it, when Declan and I had felt, as a couple, rather abnormal lately. Todd was a slightly overweight man with thick black hair and a chubby, cherubic face. His wife, Pamela, was a tiny woman with pencil-straight brown hair. She wore a small wedding ring on her left hand, the diamond rather dull, the setting an outdated bicolored affair. It was obvious that this had been her original ring. There was something so sweet about the fact that she wore it, rather than trading up for a multi-carat monstrosity.

As Todd and Dec talked about Todd's upcoming movie, Pamela touched my shoulder and murmured, “Hey, I wanted to tell you to ignore that piece the other day in the
Star.
It's complete bullshit. You look fantastic. Don't ever let that stuff bother you.”

I blinked, felt inordinately stupid. “I'm sorry?”

She put a hand over her mouth for a second, then took it away. “Oh, God. No, I'm sorry. You didn't see it? Well, it doesn't matter. You should never read that junk anyway.”

“What? What did it say?”

She shook her head. “Total junk.” Soon, she and Todd were saying their goodbyes, leaving Dec and me alone, leaving me to interrogate him about the
Star
article.

“It was rubbish,” he said. “Some crap about you gaining weight.”

I laughed and felt relieved. “I never gain weight.”

“Exactly.”

But that night, I went into Dec's office and flipped through the stack of media clips that Graham was always sending over.

Finally, I found it.
Kyra in Depressed Funk over Declan's Infidelities,
it said.
Gains Thirty Pounds.

I sat on his big leather office chair, the well-oiled wheels sliding backward. Declan's infidelities? This again? I couldn't help but read it.

There were some vague allegations about Declan “playing around on the set and off,” but no names were mentioned. Accompanying the article was a horrible photo of me that must have been taken from below. In it, I'm glancing downward, accidentally compressing my chin, making my face a looming hot-air balloon. I look cranky, depressed and ready to eat my way through a large stuffed pizza. There was another picture there, too, one of Dec kissing Tania Murray. It had been taken on the set of their movie, but of course the caption didn't say that. I had to wonder—why did these articles about Dec and other women keep popping up?

“Is this anything I should be worried about?” I said to Declan, marching into the bedroom. I threw the paper on the bed.

He picked it up and glanced at it. “Of course not.” I heard him fighting irritation.

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah, I'm sure. Are you sure you're not gaining weight?”

I tried to act pissed. I shot him a nasty look.

“C'mere, you nutter,” Declan said.

I climbed into bed and onto his lap. “I wish they would stop saying things about us that aren't true,” I said. “I don't like these people prying, and I can't stand having to share you with everyone.”

He sighed, rubbed his hand over my thigh. “What can I do? I'll do anything.”

I threw my hands up, which made me feel as if I was the actress. “You know I'm not one of those people who wants to be famous. It's obscene to me. It's surreal. I never wanted this.”

“I did,” he said softly. “It's different than what I thought, but I'll never pretend I didn't want it.”

I pushed myself off his lap. “Is that true? Did you always want
this?
” I grabbed the paper and shook it.

“I won't be one of those people who works the first half of their life to be famous and then works the rest of the time not to be recognized.”

“You wanted this?” I repeated.

He nodded.

I looked away, as if he'd caused it all.

 

Declan came home early from the set one day and ran to my office, where Liz and I were going over a list of calls I needed her to make. Uki worked silently in the corner, as usual.

Declan beamed in that way of his that said he had good news.

“What?” I said. “Is it the Oscars? Did you find something out?”

“No, no. Well, it is about the Oscars, but not like that. The Oscars are like a bloody state secret. No, I've got a little Oscar surprise for you, love.”

“Ooh,” Liz said. “I love surprises!” She put down the sheet
of paper she was holding and turned to face Declan as if he was the first act in a play she'd come to see.

“What is it?” I said.

“Well…” Declan paused dramatically. “I've been asked to ask you if you'll make an Oscar dress for someone.”

“Oh my God!” I jumped off my chair. “Who? Who? Not Kendall?”

He made a pleased little smile. “No.”

“Well, who? I mean, who would ask you instead of me?” I tapped my pen on my hand. And then it hit me. In Declan's new film, Meryl Streep had a cameo. “Oh Jesus, is it Meryl Streep?”

“No. It's not that big a deal.” Declan laughed. “It's Lauren.”

I sat down and stared at him. “What did you say?”

“Lauren. You know. She called me on the set today and said she didn't have our home number, and she wanted to ask if you'd make her something for the Academy Awards.”

I was silent for what seemed like a full minute. “Lauren,” I said finally. “Lauren Stapleton.”

“Yes. Look, love, I know she's not one of your, er, favorites, per se, but hey, it's a great opportunity, right?”

“I am not making a goddamn dress for Lauren!”

Dec looked shocked that I'd raised my voice, and his eyes shot to Uki, then Liz.

“Could we have a second alone, you guys?” I asked them.

Uki bustled from the room. Liz said, “Oh, sure. No problem,” and followed.

The minute the door closed, I spoke to Declan. “What makes you think I'd make a dress for that bitch?”

He sighed a little and sat on the arm of the couch. “For fuck's sake, Kyr, I thought you'd be happy.”

“Happy? You thought I'd be happy to make a dress for someone who's been nothing but rude to me?”

“What's she actually done, then?”

“She called my dress
homemade
for one thing. And she treats me like shit.
And
she clearly has a thing for you.”

Dec scoffed. “She does not. You know that ‘dating' thing of ours was just for the media exposure.”

“Maybe for you.”

“No, for both of us. Trust me, Lauren does not have feelings for me. And whether you like her or not, I think this is a great break. You're always saying that gowns are your favorite pieces to design. If you get Lauren wearing your dress, you'll get a lot of exposure.”

I slumped back in my desk chair. He had a point.

“Why don't you at least call her and see what she's looking for.”

“
I'm
not calling
her.
” I sounded like Queen Elizabeth asserting proper protocol.

“Then let me have her call you. You can make up your mind after you talk about it. I really don't think you should pass up this chance.”

I sat silently. “Fine,” I said at last. “Have her call me.”

Liz came back in my office a few minutes later. “What are you going to do?”

“I either take the moral high ground and say no because I can't stand her, or I look at it as a business opportunity and ignore the rest.”

Liz sank onto the small couch I'd put under the window. “You have to go with your business, at least while you're still trying to make it. You've got to do anything you can.”

“I suppose.” Absently, I picked up a pencil and drew a few lines of a sketch.

I didn't know if I would work with Lauren, but the concept had given me an idea.

 

That same day, I called Kendall Gold. I had spoken to her a few times since I delivered the dress to her, mostly thank
ing her for talking me up around town. She always took my calls, was always wonderful to me. True to form, she got on the phone immediately that afternoon.

“Kyra!” she said. “How are you? And how's Declan? Tell him congrats for me.”

“I will. He's getting nervous but he's thrilled.” I was in my office and for once I was alone. I got up and kicked the door closed.

“The Oscars are a crazy time,” Kendall said. “It's taken me this whole year to fully accept that I won. Now I'm just glad to be attending and partying—nothing else.”

“Have you thought about what you're wearing?”

“Have I thought about it? Of course I've thought about it. I've obsessed about it.”

“Any decisions?”

“I never make a decision until a day or two before. Basically, my stylist and I get a few dresses from designers we like, and then, on the day before, we try them all and pick.”

I took a deep breath. “Want to add another designer to your list?”

She gasped. “Would you make something for me?”

“That's why I'm calling.”

“Oh, Kyra! You made my day! I wanted to ask you, but I figured with Declan getting nominated and you probably making your own dress you'd be too crazed.”

“No, I would love to do it. Actually, I've been asked to make one for Lauren Stapleton.”

“Eh,” Kendall said, sounding distinctly unimpressed.

“My sentiments exactly, but I'd like to design for other people, too. If anyone is interested, that is.”

“Well, you know I am. And honey, you're hot property now. Not only are you a designer in your own right, but you're married to an Oscar nominee. Do you know what
that means in this town? There are a million women who'd die for you to design for them.”

I felt a swoop of nausea. “I only want to design for people who really like my stuff. Not because of Declan.”

“Oh, don't get all pissy. You're dazzling in your own right.”

I laughed. Kendall had a way of simplifying everything and making you feel wonderful at the same time.

“Now, I know for a fact that Hannah Briscoe and CeCe Springfield are both looking,” Kendall said.

“Really?” I stood up and paced the office. Hannah Briscoe was a film actress, who looked like a very thin version of Marilyn Monroe and always dressed like a lady. No jeans and T-shirts for her. She would be perfect for my designs. CeCe Springfield, who had starred in one of the Best Picture–nominated films, was young and trendy, but I could go that way, too. Couldn't I? For a moment, I doubted myself, my abilities. I was really only talking to Kendall, after all, because I was married to Declan.

“I've got both of their numbers,” Kendall said. “Let me call them first, and if it's okay, I'll pass them along to you.”

“Oh, Kendall, you're a godsend.”

“No problem. Just make sure you design my dress first.”

I stopped my pacing. “Deal.”