“I guess so,” I said with a shrug. “Do you want the Szechuan chicken?”
“That sounds good,” Tom said.
“With lo mein, white rice, and an egg roll?” I asked. Man, I knew him well. Either that, or we ordered Chinese way too much. Looking at Mr. Wong, who was still staring at me patiently, I realized it was probably the latter. I talked to him more frequently than I talked to my own mother—and he barely spoke English.
“Yeah,” Tom said again. “Thanks for picking it up. I’ll see you in a few minutes.”
The line went dead, and my stomach growled again. I ordered quickly and didn’t refuse when Mr. Wong, who must have been a mind reader, silently passed me a little bag of crispy noodles to munch on while I waited.
*
“Dinner has arrived!” I panted, pushing open the door to my apartment and catching my breath after climbing the four flights of stairs. If I hadn’t gotten this apartment at a very reduced, rent-controlled price (my dad’s cousin Josie had lived here for twenty years before I moved in, and I was lucky enough to share her last name—therefore, somewhat illegally, her rent-control reduction), I definitely would have insisted upon a building with an elevator.
“Hi, Claire.” Tom emerged from the bathroom, drying his hands on a towel. His shirt was half tucked in and looked like he’d been sleeping in it for a week. He looked every bit the part of a stereotypical struggling novelist. “You’re home.”
“Finally!” I exclaimed, setting the brown bag of Chinese food down on the kitchen table and thinking how cute he looked. The maternal instinct in me wanted to tuck his shirt in and spray it with wrinkle releaser. The sex-starved twenty-six-year-old who had been writing about one-night stands for the last forty-eight hours wanted to jump him. My stomach growled and reminded me to put off both alternatives until after I’d eaten. “What a day!”
Tom crossed the room and kissed me on the top of my head.
“Thanks for getting dinner,” he said. He sat down at the table and started unpacking the contents of the bag, which Mr. Wong, who was not only a mind reader but also apparently a mechanical engineer of Chinese food, had assembled perfectly. “Can you grab me a Coke?”
“Sure,” I said. I grabbed two Cokes—regular for Tom, diet for me—from the fridge and set them down on the table. “I’m just going to wash up, then I’ll be out in a sec.”
“Sure,” said Tom, his mouth already full of lo mein noodles. “Grab me a napkin too, would’ya?”
“Yeah,” I said, reaching under the sink. I grabbed a handful of paper napkins from the cabinet and put them on the table. “I’ll be right back.”
With Tom hungrily slurping lo mein behind me and the crispy noodles doing very little to fill the growling hole in my stomach, I hurried to the bathroom, flicked the light on, and closed the door behind me.
I washed my hands and looked at myself in the mirror carefully. I’d long stopped cursing the freckles that were splashed across my nose and both cheeks. I used to hate them—they didn’t quite seem to go with my wavy, hard-to-tame blond hair—but now I thought they were sort of cute. Even if Tom said they made me look like a teenager. At twenty-six, I was anything but.
I sighed and went into the bedroom to change into my favorite University of Georgia T-shirt and a pair of jeans. Stripping off the black A-line skirt and H&M boat neck tee I’d worn to work that day, I frowned as I caught a glimpse of my pasty white shape in our full-length mirror. In the past few months it seemed my thighs had started to thicken, and I’d added a few inches around the waist. Sure, I’d probably put on only five pounds or so, but when you’re just five feet tall, every pound seems to show in triplicate. Of course, not one ounce had distributed itself to my breasts. Story of my life. I was still holding strong at the A-cup level.
Maybe the added cellulite in my thighs and pounds around my waist, which were really only noticeable with my clothes off, were the culprits for Tom’s seemingly waning interest in me. Geez, didn’t I know better? “You’ll never find a man if you don’t keep up your appearance.” My mother’s voice echoed in my head, as it often did in times of crisis. Easy for her to say. She did an hour of aerobics and an hour of Pilates each day. Of course, she had little else to do. Mortimer, her third husband, was a retired surgeon with one hell of an investment portfolio. He’d insisted she quit her job immediately after she married him, and she had happily agreed.
My stomach growled, reminding me of my original objective. I wriggled into my T-shirt and jeans, smoothed my flyaway blond strands, and, resolving to ignore my reflection for the time being, hurried back into the kitchen to join Tom at the table.
But Tom was already sitting back at his computer, his arms crossed over his chest, staring impassively at the screen. His plate and fork, still covered in remnants of noodles and vegetables, sat in the kitchen sink. His empty can of Coke stood vigil at his spot at the table.
“Thanks for picking up the food, Claire,” he said absently. I stared at the empty box of lo mein noodles that stood in the middle of the table, as if I might have some use for the three or four strands that clung to the inside of the cardboard container. “It was great.”
I clenched my teeth and helped myself to the meager portion of chicken and white rice that he apparently hadn’t been hungry enough to eat.
I didn’t need to eat that much anyhow, I reminded myself. I definitely needed to drop a few pounds. I looked down at my stomach, which growled insistently at me again. So actually, Tom had done me a favor, right? He was inadvertently aiding my diet.
As if to second the motion, he burped complacently, uncrossed his arms, and started typing.
*
I was still poring over pages and pages of Cole Brannon clips hours later, after Tom had turned in for the night.
“I’m just really worn out,” he explained. “I’ll see you when you come to bed, babe.”
I struggled to keep my eyes open as I read by the light of the table lamp. I was starting to feel annoyed at Cole Brannon, not because he didn’t sound like a nice guy (on the contrary, he sounded surprisingly great in his interviews), but because he was now single-handedly depriving me of sleep and time with Tom.
Not that anything was guaranteed anymore in my time with Tom. But tonight might have been different. You never know. Maybe day 30 was the charm. I crossed my fingers at the thought, which temporarily made it impossible to turn the pages.
I sighed and returned to reading about Cole Brannon. I was already reading the final interviews, ones he had done just a few weeks ago, and the screen of my laptop was filled with pages of questions for him and notes to myself about topics I hoped to cover the next morning at brunch.
All the papers and magazines seemed to love him. The Boston Globe ran a piece by columnist Kara Brown last month that started like this:
He’s larger than life, and in person, Cole Brannon is no less impressive than he is on-screen. He holds doors like his gentlemanly character in Friends Forever, laughs at my admittedly poor jokes with the cheerful politeness of his character in A Night in New York, and makes intense eye contact with all the skills of his Goodnight Kiss charming rogue.
He grins and scribbles his name graciously as giggling teenage autograph seekers approach the table, and he takes more than a few seconds to chat with each approaching fan.
“I wouldn’t be where I am without them,” says the Boston-born Brannon with a self-effacing shrug. “The day I stop signing autographs will be the day I start worrying about the future of my career. I’m just so grateful that people like my work.”
He certainly sounded nice. But, I reminded myself, he was an actor. It was his job to be able to convince you that his personality was whatever he wanted you to believe.
A short item from MSNBC addressed the recent buzz about Cole Brannon’s rumored romance with a married actress:
While rumors of a budding affair with Aussie actress Kylie Dane persist, Cole Brannon denies them.
“She’s a lovely wo
man, and I’m proud to call her my friend,” Brannon said. “But it’s ludicrous to suggest that there is anything more between us. She’s married, and I would simply never cross that line.”
He sounded genuine, but he was an actor, and rumors get started for a reason. But perhaps it wasn’t true—I would give him the benefit of the doubt, as I tried to do for everyone I interviewed. It was only fair. No doubt he would expect a question about Kylie Dane in every interview he did now, anyhow, so he’d be prepared for my nosiness.
This may not seem very journalistically sound, but in a way I regretted that I would have to ask. I was a firm believer that a celebrity’s personal life should be, well, personal. That was what I hated most about my job—that I had to ask things that were really none of my business. Personally, I didn’t care who was dating whom and who was sleeping with whom. But many of our readers did. And as much as I hated having to look at someone over coffee and ask who they were sleeping with, and whether they were cheating on their wives or husbands, I knew it came with the territory. It was part of being famous. And oddly, the more fame someone achieved for his or her personal exploits, the more fame that person seemed to achieve on-screen or on the Billboard charts.
I mean, look at J-Lo and the whole “Bennifer” debacle. Or Colin Farrell and how quickly his bed-hopping (okay, and his sexy, lopsided grin) had catapulted him to stardom.
As a reporter, I simply couldn’t ignore the hottest gossip concerning an actor. I would ask the question as politely and unobtrusively as possible, eyes downcast, feeling guilty.
The actors, in turn, would act annoyed at my intrusion, but I suspected they were secretly pleased that the buzz around them was so prevalent that it would be part of our interview.
It was all part of the dance I did with every celeb who had graced our cover since I started working for Mod.
The last article in the series of clips was a small Page Six item:
Despite rumors of a romance with actress Kylie Dane, Cole Brannon was seen earlier this week canoodling with Italian model Gina Bevinetto in the VIP room at BLVD, then joining Rosario Dawson and Scarlett Johansson at the bar.
Yep, I thought as I put the final touches on my questions and notes and hit Print. He was unarguably the hottest star in Hollywood right now, and I was having brunch with him in the morning. I looked at his photograph and felt a momentary and very unfamiliar rush of excitement, but it disappeared just as quickly. It was definitely time for bed.
It was pretty much a given—crossed fingers or not—that there was no excitement awaiting me there.
How to Meet a Movie Star
I was at the Ritz on Central Park South at quarter to ten, fifteen minutes before the scheduled brunch with the hottest guy in Hollywood. I rubbed the sleep out of my eyes as I waited in the entryway to Atelier, the Ritz’s premiere dining room, and one of the chicest restaurants in New York. And by chic, I mean ostentatious. Pretentious. Showy. Froufrou.
I was surprised, in a way, that Cole Brannon would choose such a place to meet. But who could tell with celebs these days? Maybe his everyday, middle-class Boston-born persona had been replaced with that of a wealthy, caviar-loving Upper East Sider. It figured. I felt embarrassingly out of my element as I shifted from foot to foot and watched a parade of Gucci, Prada, and Escada float by.
I always hated meeting celebrities for meals. On the surface it seemed glamorous. I got to dine out at exclusive restaurants that I wouldn’t, in a million years, be able to afford on my own. Once the celebrity had glided in, twenty minutes late and often armed with a makeup artist, a publicist, and a personal assistant, our table would immediately become the center of attention, the glowing core of our own solar system. I’d be the object of envy for dozens of other diners who were no doubt wondering who I was, and why a plain girl like me was dining with Julia Roberts, Paris Hilton, or Gwen Stefani.
Then it became an exercise in futility. The actor/ singer/model in question would nearly forget I was there, even as I asked questions. Instead of making eye contact and truly having a conversation with me, the celeb would multitask like a pro: scanning the room to bask in the adoration of fans, checking pager and cell phone messages, sipping champagne, and whispering to either the personal assistant or publicist, all at once. I always felt like I was somehow intruding on their little private world, despite the fact that Mod’s corporate card was paying for the meal for this actor/singer/model and her entourage—and often a doggie bag of food which was, quite literally, for her dog.
So you can imagine why brunch with the gorgeous Cole Brannon didn’t excite me quite as much as it perhaps should have. I had no doubt that he would a) be late, b) arrive with an impressive entourage and possibly a model or actress he’d shacked up with the night before, c) be either hung over or simply too bored with me to answer my questions, and d) spend the interview trying to catch a glimpse of his perfect features in the backs of spoons, glossy undersides of serving trays, and the spotless silver carafes the busy waiters bustled by with.
I just wasn’t in the mood for yet another prima donna star this morning. But I had a job to do, and I had little choice but to do it.
Ten minutes after arriving at Atelier, I decided out of desperation that I would check in for our reservation and Cole Brannon could join me when he arrived. I was dying for a cappuccino, and I didn’t think he’d mind if I got a jump-start on my morning caffeine fix. I asked for a table near the door and watched the entrance intently, knowing that I’d see him when he came in.
The tables were spread far apart, and the soaring ceiling gave the room an airy feeling. The dark wood and tan fabric melded together in classy (a little nondescript if you ask me) harmony. A myriad of colorful modern art, clearly as expensive as it was bright, lined the walls. Expressionless waiters bustled back and forth, nearly running, while the wealthy patrons tittered lightly, using precisely the correct silverware from their selections of roughly a dozen utensils. My manners were nowhere near that advanced. After the primary three utensils and the salad fork, I was lost.
Acutely aware that my pale pink Zara shell and black Gap pencil skirt had no more place here than I did, I slunk down in my chair and tried to blend in with the artwork. Unfortunately, it was much more colorful and exciting than I was at the moment.
When Cole Brannon still hadn’t arrived at 11:00, my cappuccino was gone, and my good humor was wearing off. Celebrities often strolled in a bit late, but a whole hour? When I’d given up a weekend with Tom to slave over a last-minute interview and profile? I’d been all ready to give Cole Brannon the benefit of the doubt—especially since he’d actually sounded nice and down-to-earth in the overwhelming majority of clips that were now emblazoned on my brain—but this was testing my patience. It was becoming increasingly clear he was just another prima donna star, making a reporter wait while he took his sweet time primping, or sleeping off a hangover, or whatever he was doing. I took out my cell phone to dial Cole’s publicist, Ivana Donatelli, who had set up this meeting, but I was put through directly to her voice mail. Apparently, she wasn’t up either.
Five minutes later, after I’d grumpily waved away yet another attempt by the obsequious waiter to bring me another cappuccino, my cell phone rang. The caller ID said “Unavailable.” I was sure it was Ivana calling back.
“Hello?” I snapped, knowing that my voice must have sounded almost as peeved as I was beginning to feel.
“Claire?” The male voice wasn’t the one I was expecting, but it sounded vaguely familiar all the same. It was far too deep and husky to belong to Tom. But there was something about the way he softened the r sound in “Claire” that rang a bell.
“Yes . . .” I said slowly, still trying to place the somehow familiar intonation.
“It’s Cole.” He cleared his throat, and I could feel my eyebrows arch upward in surprise. “Um, Cole Brannon,” he clarified, as if I might be receiving calls from another man named Cole. Well, this is a first, I thought huffily, squaring my shoulder
s in annoyance. I’d never actually had a celebrity call me himself to cancel, or blow me off, or whatever it was he was about to do.
“Hi,” I said. I couldn’t think of anything else to say other than Where the hell are you? But that wouldn’t be appropriate, now would it? So I bit my tongue and waited.
“Are you here? At the restaurant, I mean?” His voice sounded just as sexy as it always did through the Dolby Surround Sound of theaters, but it wasn’t softening me up much.
“Yes, at Atelier,” I said grumpily. “I’m at a table near the door. By myself.” I stressed the last part. “Where are you?” Just because he was a gorgeous movie star, it didn’t mean he could stand me up.
“Oh my God.” Cole Brannon started to laugh. Despite myself, the deep, resonating chuckle made me relax a bit. “You’ve been here for over an hour!”
“Yes, I have,” I said rather sternly, hating that I loved his deep voice. I reminded myself that I was supposed to be annoyed at him. Then it hit me. “Wait, how did you know that?”
“Because I’ve been sitting two tables over from you the whole time!”
To my horror, I suddenly realized that the laughing wasn’t coming just from the phone but from a man in a baseball cap, also sitting alone at a table several feet behind me. The cap was pulled low over his eyes, and I hadn’t given him a second glance when I’d arrived at the restaurant fifteen minutes early. Celebrities were never early, so I was sure I’d beaten Cole that morning. I hadn’t given the restaurant more than a cursory glance.
“Hang on, I’m coming over,” Cole said quietly, and I heard my cell phone click off. For a second I couldn’t move, and I continued to hold my silent phone to my ear, frozen in embarrassment. By now, my cheeks were fully ablaze, and I wondered if I’d ever felt dumber. (The answer was no, in case you were wondering. This was pretty much the height of my stupidity track record.)