The Year of Living Famously (11 page)

L
ydia, one of my New York friends, called the day after the
Normandy
premiere. She had given birth three weeks before, and although I'd been leaving messages, this was the first time we'd spoken since she'd become a mom. She was mostly elated, she said, but she was exhausted and overwhelmed, too.

“Sometimes, I just want to throw him across the room,” Lydia said, “and other times, like when I watch him sleep, I could cry because I'm so overwhelmed with love.”

“I feel that way about Declan,” I said.

“Which part? The throwing across the room or the crying with love?”

“Both.”

There was silence. “I think it's a little different,” she said.

“Maybe.” But I didn't think so. I was as proud of Declan, as enamored with him, as if I'd created him myself.

 

A couple of days later,
Normandy
had its official box-office release. On that Friday morning, Dec and I got up early, knowing the reviews would be out. We bought every
newspaper we could find on our way to the coffee shop. Since my work at the fabric show had ended the day before, I was back to taking care of loose ends, glad to have a purpose.

“I'm dying to look,” I said to Dec as we stood in line and ordered, an espresso for me, a regular black for him.

“I feel sick,” he said.

He was a little pale that morning, the way he got when he was truly nervous. He'd been running on a high since the premiere. I had loved the film, everyone at the premiere had loved it, but Declan knew that his wife and the people who attended it were
supposed
to love it. They were supposed to tell him what he needed to hear. Now, he wanted the official nod from the critics.

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.

“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
.

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 sorry, 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.