As I walk the rest of the way out of the building, I fail in my effort not to allow myself to think about the real reason I’m not so thrilled about Emma.
The reason is very simple, though the answer to alleviating the problem is impossible: she’s on her way up and I, well, I just got the brush-off from a whole group of women who even three years ago would have been generally assaulting me with undergarments.
It’s not that I really miss having women throwing their panties at me—I was always concerned about the hygiene involved—but the fact that that time may be drawing to a close is a depressing one.
Emma: she’s 20.
I’m not old by anyone’s standards, but at 29, it’s starting to look like my ”young actor” days might be behind me, not to mention my steamiest roles. There’s always the late-30s rebound that can last a long time—especially if you’re Sean Connery—but I don’t know if my career can handle the in-between.
If this keeps up, I’m going to have to start taking parts with a modicum of substance, and frankly, I’ve been doing fluff shit for so long that I’m not even sure I could hack it in a substantive film anymore.
The reason I’m fine with teasing Emma, but not interested in her beyond the role of plaything, is that she’s my up-in-the-face reminder that I’m not the new, exciting actor anymore—and I never will be again.
There’s nothing left that I can do to surprise anyone. I could get arrested with a rifle in a brothel and people would just chalk it up to frustration over a flagging career or drugs or some kind of midlife crisis or some combination of the three.
For Emma, everything’s in front of her. Me? I’m feeling more and more like I should just write my memoirs and get out while I’m still relevant.
I’m in actor limbo: I’m too young to be beloved, and I’ve been in the business far too long to be considered a rising star.
I probably shouldn’t hold Emma so personally accountable for that, but I do.
It is what it is.
Chapter Three
Dinner for Two
Emma
So I’m here, sitting at the table that Damian reserved, and I’m checking my watch.
I would call him, but the number he used to call me earlier came up as private. I might do what he did and simply give Dutch a call, but I don’t have his phone number, either.
I’m starting to wonder whether this is some kind of prank.
“Hey, I’m sorry I’m late,” Damian says, rushing around to the empty chair across from me. “I got a bit caught up looking into something.”
“What were you looking into?” I ask.
“Hershel Hansen,” he says. “It’s nothing. Don’t worry about it.”
“Hershel Hansen?” I ask. “You mean that computer guy?”
He seems irritated by the question.
“Anyway, I’m sorry I kept you waiting,” he says.
“I’m just glad that you came at all,” I tell him, and point toward the front of the restaurant. “Yo
u see the people waiting for a table?”
“Yeah,” he answers.
“They could see me, too,” I tell him. “You wouldn’t believe some of the gestures and mouthed words I’ve been getting from those people, sitting at this table alone and eating nothing but the breadsticks they keep bringing out. You know, I think the worst part is when they’re refilling the basket and I’m stuck here with just my water to keep me company. I was really starting to fear an uprising.”
“I’m really very sorry,” he says. “So, before we get to dinner, I was wondering if I could ask a favor of you.”
“What’s that?” I ask.