Funny You Should Ask(50)

“Dying to get to know you better,” he says. “Now that you’re back in L.A., you’ll have to come have dinner with us. He’s a fan.”

“Of me?”

“Yes, you,” Ollie says. “He loves your writing.”

“Oh, that’s very nice of him,” I say.

“Not nice,” Ollie says. “Honest. Paul has absolutely exquisite taste. It’s why he married me.”

Gabe snorts.

Ollie ignores him. “He loved the Vanity Fair piece.”

When Ollie had decided to come out, he’d contacted me to write about it. I’d been proud of the article, even more proud that Ollie had trusted me with his story.

“I never thanked you for the flowers,” I say. “They were lovely.”

“Well-earned,” Ollie says. “It made my mum cry, you know.”

“Mine too,” Gabe says.

“Did she cry at the Broad Sheets one too?” I ask.

It’s sort of a joke, but there’s a long, terrible pause, and my stomach gives a lurch.

“She liked it,” Gabe says, not looking at me.

I realize immediately what that means.

“But you didn’t,” I say.

For a moment, I think I’m going to be sick.

“It was well-written,” Gabe says.

“Gabe,” Ollie says, voice quiet.

“Wow,” I say. “Wow. You hated it, didn’t you?”

He doesn’t respond, but he doesn’t have to.

I’m stunned.

Despite my conflicting feelings about what it had done for my career, I knew it was a good article. No. It was a fucking amazing article. It had been flattering and fawning and had made Gabe look like he was the only possible choice to play James Bond. It had shifted the narrative around his casting and though it hadn’t quieted all of the haters, it had certainly shut enough of them up. I wasn’t the sole reason that The Hildebrand Rarity had been a hit, but I had helped pave the way.

That wasn’t just my ego speaking. That was what numerous reviews had said. They’d pointed to my interview with Gabe as the reason they had gone into the film with an open mind.

And Gabe had hated it.

What the fuck was I even doing here?

“This was a mistake,” I say, getting up from my seat, wishing I could just drop myself out a window.

“Chani,” Gabe says, but I wave it off.

It hurts. It hurts more than it should.

The plane is small but there’s still enough space that I can escape to another quartet of seats in the back. I throw myself into the chair, arms wrapped tightly around my torso as if I can contain all the horrible, angry feelings roiling inside of me.

I lean my head against the window, watching snowy states fly by beneath us.

I’m furious and tender.

I hadn’t known it at the time, but the article was a trade-off. Attention and career stability in exchange for a certain kind of notoriety. A reputation. It had always seemed foolish—and pointless—to wonder if it had been worth it, when at the very least I had been pleased with the work. Even when everyone seemed to focus on the content of the article, I’d been proud of the writing itself.

But now, knowing that Gabe hadn’t even liked the article made the trade all the more difficult to stomach.

Just the latest in a long line of unexpected consequences.

After Gabe’s article, my agent had gotten a glut of requests from the people who represented the most promising up-and-coming stars. A few actresses, but mostly people wanted me to interview young, handsome actors. The implication was clear, and there was always an underlying quid pro quo to those interviews, but no one came right out and said it to my face.

Until Dan Mitchell.

The latest addition to the second Bond film, he’d greeted me with a lingering hug and kept trying to get me drunk throughout the interview, which he had insisted take place at the Chateau Marmont, where he was staying. I declined the drinks he offered and the conversation was awkward and stilted. It was clear that he was frustrated, and that frustration boiled over when I declined to go with him up to his hotel room to see “something cool.”

“Look,” he’d said. “Why don’t we cut to the chase? Let’s just go upstairs, and you can blow me. Okay?”

He’d had the temerity to wink when I stared at him in shock.

“It’ll make for a great story, and I can guarantee you that my dick is way bigger than Parker’s.”

I had left immediately, and shed no tears when he was released from the movie a week later due to “scheduling conflicts.” A diplomatic way to say he’d been fired.

At the other end of the plane, I can hear Gabe and Ollie talking. Their voices are low and slightly muffled by the deep, underlying humming of the engines and the wind. They’re talking about work—the upcoming press junket for The Philadelphia Story and something called MOTC.

“Are you going to be all right?” Ollie asks.

“Me? Oh, sure. When am I not all right?”

There’s a long pause.

“You don’t have to worry about me, Ollie.”

I can practically hear Ollie rolling his eyes.

“I’m okay,” Gabe says.

“Are you?”

“I am. Look at me, I’m in a private jet.”