Funny You Should Ask(52)

Oliver puts his hand to his chest.

“And I was in love.”

It was a love that brought heartbreak—not then, not even when he came out to his family and friends—but years later when he told the director and producers of an upcoming film that he was gay.

And they told him, in no uncertain terms, that they’d never cast him to play James Bond.





Chapter

17


We go to dinner—a steakhouse with red leather booths and dim lighting and stone walls. It feels like I’m inside a classy hunting lodge, which I’m certain is the point. I’m just grateful that the mounted animal heads on the wall are at a minimum. The restaurant is mostly empty and the waiter seats us in a back room that’s set aside from the rest of the place, so we have far more privacy than we need.

It seems rude not to order meat.

I’m feeling surly and also get a whisky on the rocks.

At lunch yesterday, Gabe insisted that he was fine watching other people drink, and Ollie also orders a drink—an old-fashioned—but I’m still at risk of being disrespectful.

I know I need to be an adult about this whole situation. That I need to deal with my hurt pride, and get through this weekend without bruising any other tender emotions.

Instead, I mainline the whisky on an empty stomach and turn to Ollie.

“I should probably get a quote or two from you about the movie,” I say. “Since you’re here.”

“Of course,” Ollie says.

I look over at Gabe. “If that’s okay with you,” I say. “I wouldn’t want to write another extremely flattering profile that you inexplicably hate.”

So much for being an adult.

“I didn’t hate the article,” Gabe says, but I wave a hand at him.

“I’m talking to Ollie now,” I say.

I’ve moved from being passive-aggressive to just plain aggressive and I know it. I can’t help myself. The anger I feel is raw and covering a whole host of other emotions that I’m not ready to deal with.

“Why The Philadelphia Story?” I ask Ollie once I’ve taken my phone out and started recording.

“I’d been told it was a movie that could use an update,” he says.

It’s almost exactly what Gabe said to me. Apparently, it’s going to be one of their go-to press junket sound bites.

“Cute,” I say, giving Gabe a look.

He shrugs, not taking the bait.

“It’s a great play,” Ollie says, clearly trying to defuse the ever-growing tension. “It was always on my list of potential material, but Gabe was the one who thought we should do it as a modern remake.”

“You started out in the theatre,” I say to Ollie. “Any plans to go back?”

He exchanges a look with Gabe.

“Actually,” he says. “That’s one of the reasons I’m here in Cooper.”

I’d been so distracted by the private plane and the subsequent revelation about the Broad Sheets article that I hadn’t even stopped to think about why Ollie was chartering us to Montana.

“Better clarify that this is off the record,” Gabe says.

I don’t like his tone, nor his implication.

Still, I make a point of putting my phone away. Ollie is looking between us, clearly not sure how to proceed.

“I don’t know if you remember,” Ollie says. “But Gabe did a show on Broadway a few years ago.”

The tension at the table suddenly ratchets up to eight.

“Oh, I remember,” I say.

I’d known that this conversation was inevitable, just like I know I’m going to have to ask Gabe about the phone call. I just hadn’t expected Ollie to be the one to shine a flashlight on this particular elephant in the corner.

“She saw it,” Gabe says.

“I saw it,” I confirm. “I saw the who-ole thing.”

The whisky has made my tone a little loopy.

Ollie’s eyes are ping-ponging back and forth between the two of us.

“I see,” he says.

He doesn’t. He has no idea what we’re talking about.

“She came on opening night,” Gabe says.

Recognition dawns, and Ollie looks down at his phone.

“Oh look,” he says. “An important call.”

“Your phone didn’t even ring,” I say.

“I must take this,” he says, getting up from the table.

“You’re not that good of an actor,” Gabe says as Ollie walks away, his un-rung phone against his ear.

Gabe looks at me. I look back.

“So,” he says.

I hadn’t planned on going. When I saw that Gabe had signed on to play Karl Lindner in A Raisin in the Sun during his Bond hiatus, I had planned to completely avoid Times Square for the duration of the limited run.

Then I was sent a ticket. To opening night.

I hadn’t told Jeremy. He’d been working nonstop on his second novel and things had been strained between us for months.

Gabe was still married, but the gossip columns had made a big deal about the fact that Jacinda was not relocating to New York with him and was staying in London. According to everyone, they were either separated or days away from getting a divorce.

I told myself that the invitation meant nothing. That it was business. That maybe someone on his team thought I’d write something about it. That maybe Gabe didn’t even know I was coming.