“I guess,” she says. “I don’t like that you got my address from—”
“I got them from Dutch,” I tell her, “your name and your phone number. I guess directors have access to that kind of thing. Anyway, so, 7:30 sound good?”
“Yeah,” she says hesitantly. “That’ll work.”
“Great, I’ll see you then,” I tell her and hang up.
Okay, so maybe I’m less indifferent toward Emma than I let on.
I used to be really into that whole doe-eyed-in-the-face-of-a-major-motion-picture-set look—yes, believe it or not, that’s an actual, distinct look—and attitude, especially the way I could always play the role of mentor to my generally young, often voluptuous pupil. Over the years though, I don’t know if it’s cynicism or what, but I’ve grown tired of all the naiveté.
I don’t know if Emma’s necessarily naïve, but she’s close enough to it that I shouldn’t be interested in her, but what can I tell you?
Still, with that naiveté comes an increased possibility that she’s not down so much for the dressing room booty call. She seems like a proponent of the phrase, “Let’s make it official.”
What is that phrase anyway? What does it mean?
Let’s make it official?
That’s when all the demands start and the sniping and the interference with my personal and work lives and having to walk by the newsstands that have pictures of me and whoever, making some claim that we’ve just had a major fight—which may or may not be true—and might be breaking up—which is almost never true until she, whoever “she” is, sees the headlines—and that’s something I’d really like to avoid.
Regardless, I’m in a position where I may finally be able to get Nick to forget my fucking phone number.
It’s a spiritual quest, really.
Maybe over dessert I can see how Emma feels about a three-way. Nothing says noncommittal like proposing that your first sexual act be one with a third person. Nothing says, “Don’t date me unless you’re into some casual, possibly freaky shit” like proposing it on the first date, more so, I would think, when she doesn’t know that it’s a date.
Not that this is a date.
No, this certainly isn’t a date.
I’m just getting a couple of things signed so Nick can take his autographed shit and go fuck himself with it.
There is a particular reason that I have a bit of a sour taste behind whatever attraction I have toward Emma, but it’s not worth mentioning here. It’s a personal tic and it really has nothing to do with her.
Anyway, Kieran comes back into the dressing room, saying, “Hey, I guess they’re going to need this room in a couple of minutes. They’ve got another interview.”
“They don’t have two rooms?” I ask.
“If they do,” he says, “they’re going to other people.”
“Did you get the reservations?”
“Yeah, that’s the thing,” he says.
“What’s the thing?” I ask.
“They don’t have anything until 9:30,” he tells me.
“Call them back and drop my name,” I tell him. “I already told my guest that we’d be dining at 8.”
“Yeah, I did drop your name,” Kieran says. “That’s why I was able to get reservations for tonight. They were going to put me down for sometime in January before they knew I was calling for you. I really wouldn’t worry about it.”
I scratch my chin.
“That was quite the ball of sympathy you dropped in my lap right there,” I tell him.
“What do you mean?” he asks.