Funny You Should Ask(32)
Much speculation has been made over The Hildebrand Rarity’s decision to cast Gabe, when his Tommy Jacks co-star seems a much more natural fit. And even further gossip about how the casting choice has driven a wedge between the two co-stars.
The opposite is true.
I experience firsthand the lack of animosity and competition between them. Gabe is thrilled to be attending the Shared Hearts premiere to support his friend, speaking at length about how talented Oliver is.
Like me, Gabe has been watching him on the BBC for years, as Oliver all but grew up in front of us. And this new film is just further evidence of how his talent has evolved. It’s a delight for the senses—a glass of champagne in movie form.
“He’s a legend,” Gabe tells me. “Watching him on-screen can be an out-of-body experience, but acting next to him? That’s the education of a lifetime.”
As a longtime fangirl of Matthias’s Darcy (yeah, I’d choose him over Firth or Macfadyen—fight me), it takes everything in my power not to swoon at his feet when Gabe introduces us.
“It’s a good thing he’s playing Bond,” Oliver says. “He’ll finally be able to show the world that he’s more than just a pretty face.”
“I’m only pretty when I’m not standing next to you,” Gabe makes sure to add.
I feel like Melissa Williams must have on the set of Tommy Jacks, with two of the hottest men in Hollywood, each playing the other’s wingman.
While the two of them catch up—it’s been almost six months since they’ve seen each other last, doing press for Tommy Jacks—I just stand there, trying not to hyperventilate at the absurd, wonderful comedy my life has become.
I don’t catch the slightest whiff of jealousy. They’re genuinely happy to see each other, and when Oliver’s responsibilities at the premiere are finished, he invites Gabe—and by proxy, me—to join him at the after-party.
We’re swept away to a nearby restaurant, where the entire place has been reserved for us. For Oliver.
He holds court, charming us all, and I drink one too many of the bespoke cocktails that are circulating—drinks that each have an orchid or a real silk umbrella or a Swarovski crystal–encrusted swizzle stick.
The whole evening is delightful and luxurious and Gabe is the ultimate platonic date.
“How crazy is this?” he asks me at one point, as if this is new to him as well. As if it still dazzles him.
It’s hard not to be enamored with the future Bond.
I’m aware, the whole time, that I’m breathing rarified air. That I’m beyond lucky to be spending my evening listening to Oliver Matthias and Gabe Parker talk about their favorite movies and actors they idolize. That they are wearing designer suits and my dress is safety-pinned to my bra. We’re not even the same species, but tonight, they’re letting me pretend that we are.
Chapter
11
“He’s going to try and fuck you,” Jo said, putting the finishing touches on my face. “Though, I wouldn’t take it personally.”
That was Jo in a nutshell. If good or exciting things happened to me, I shouldn’t take it personally. It wasn’t me—it was circumstance. The job at Broad Sheets? They were just doing my old professor a favor. My relationship with Jeremy? Being with me was easier than trying to date in L.A. The Gabe Parker assignment? Everyone else was probably busy and it would be impossible for me to screw it up.
Jo and I weren’t really friends.
We were roommates who gossiped viciously and used each other for favors.
It wasn’t healthy, but I didn’t have anyone else besides Jeremy.
My friends from high school had either lost touch or moved away and my friends from undergrad had gone home or stayed in New York. I hadn’t been close to anyone in grad school besides Jeremy. I saw my family, but that wasn’t the type of relationship I needed the most. I was alone in L.A., unsure of how to be an adult in the city I’d grown up in.
Jo was jealous and demanding. She didn’t like Jeremy at all.
“He wears his jeans too tight,” she’d say. “That means he’s insecure about his dick size.”
She would try to get me to confirm or deny those statements and called me prudish when I declined to discuss the size of my boyfriend’s penis with her.
But she could do a smoky eye better than anyone I knew and I needed to look amazing tonight.
“You’ll have to tell me all the details,” she said. “I bet he’s a total freak in bed. Celebrities always are. I heard one story about that former child actor, Don What’s-his-name, who has his bodyguard pick up women at clubs and take them back to a hotel suite. When they get there, they have to sign an NDA, then they have to shave off all their body hair before they can even go into the bedroom, where he’s lying on the bed wearing headphones. They can’t say anything, they just have to hop on and fuck him while facing away. When he’s done, they leave. No talking at all.”
I would have dismissed that story as another one of Jo’s bullshit “secrets of Hollywood” except I’d heard exactly the same thing from someone who didn’t even know Jo.
“I don’t think there will be any story to tell,” I said. “I’m not his type.”
She rolled her eyes. “Guys like that aren’t having sex with you because they’re attracted to you,” she said. “They do it because they can. Because they know you want it. And that’s what gets them off. Their type is anyone who can stroke their ego. And they care way more about that getting stroked than their dick.”