Chapter 11 #2
I walk down the corridor to the hotel stairs, my steps slightly impeded by the dress, which fits tightly around my legs.
I’m wearing a pair of Alison’s heels, the ones she wore to her prom: low stilettos with nude straps criss-crossing up my ankles.
They feel secure enough, but I’m not a big heels person so I still don’t feel totally confident.
I grip the banister as I descend, concentrating so hard on not falling that I don’t really look up until I’m halfway down.
And when I do, I see him, waiting in the lobby in full black tie, looking every inch the incredibly famous person that he is.
A few people look over at him as they pass, trying to figure out whether who they’re looking at is actually Avi Kumar or someone else.
My breath catches as he looks up, his eyes locking on mine.
He’s seen me dressed up before, but nothing like this. We’d go to concerts, sometimes, with other people from the bar. Plays, occasionally. But I’ve always been a black-top-and-jeans kind of person.
‘Hey,’ he says, when I reach the bottom of the stairs. ‘You look… incredible.’
‘Thanks,’ I say, feeling more than a little awkward about the fact that I’m wearing his girlfriend’s dress.
As he offers his arm, I find myself taking it. At least partly for the stability it provides.
We descend the steps and get into the waiting car, a thrill passing across my skin as he takes my hand to help me in.
‘I’d usually attend this event with Sam, my publicist,’ Avi says. ‘And maybe even some security. But Sam’s on holiday and I thought it might be a bit less weird for you without men in black suits following you everywhere. So, no security tonight.’
I blink. I didn’t even think about this. Had no idea having security for something like this was normal, let alone expected.
‘Thanks,’ I say. Because he’s right – though it might’ve been comforting to have a barrier between us and everyone else, I don’t need anything else adding to how strange this experience is about to be for me.
For the first few minutes of the car journey, I sit in silence. But then the apprehension of what we’re about to do overwhelms me to the point where I need to talk. Need to say something – anything – to distract myself.
‘So,’ I say, clearing my throat. ‘Is an Olivier on your list?’
‘What do you mean?’ he replies, frowning a little.
‘You know,’ I say. ‘The list. I thought everyone had one.’ Mine is in a notebook in my parents’ garage somewhere – written in glitter gel pen as part of a manifestation exercise Alison had me do when I was fourteen.
She wrote down what kind of house and family she wanted; I wrote down all the awards I wanted to win.
When she saw it, she rolled her eyes and told me I was probably going to end up living alone with several cats.
Which, to be honest, as long as I made it in the meantime – didn’t sound like a bad proposition. I like cats.
‘Lara,’ he says. ‘I have literally no idea what you’re talking about.’
‘The list of awards you want to be up for, at some point in your career.’
‘Oh,’ he says, frowning a little. ‘No, I don’t think so.’
‘Why not?’ I press, confused. Avi was always amazing on the stage.
‘I don’t know,’ he says, and something about his tone has me looking up. Catching his eyes, which suddenly betray a level of vulnerability I didn’t expect. ‘I think that kind of stuff – stage stuff – is probably out of my range now.’
‘What do you mean?’ I ask.
‘The films I’ve done,’ he says, an expression crossing his face that I can’t quite decipher.
It looks… sad. Which is strange, considering we’re talking about his glittering career of blockbuster film after blockbuster film.
‘That’s what people expect from me now. I have to keep up an image.
And it’s all I really get sent any more.
Honestly, Jackson is the most interesting role I’ve had in ages and I had to fight with my agent to take it over an action film he wanted me to do instead.
So I don’t think those kind of opportunities will come my way and if they do, I shouldn’t really take too many of them. ’
He pauses for second. ‘Sometimes you just have to stay in your lane, you know?’ And he says it confidently, like it’s a script he’s rehearsed. But I can see beyond it – to the emotion underneath.
‘I think you’re great on stage,’ I say quietly. ‘And I think you can get in whatever lane you want to.’
He’s silent for a few seconds.
‘Thank you,’ he says.
But when I look up, I can see from his expression that he’s only saying it, that he doesn’t believe me. But before I can say anything else – before I can find a single word – the car slides to a halt.
We’re here.
The awards are being held at the Royal Albert Hall, but I can’t see any of the building right now.
My senses are assaulted by a million camera flashes going off in my face, all at once.
Voices shouting, asking me to look at them.
Asking me what my name is, why I’m here.
I can’t get my bearings for a second – my nervous system is entirely unable to process what’s happening.
I tense up, freezing in place. I hadn’t expected it to be so instant, so overwhelming.
Fuck, I think. The first pictures of Avi and I together – instead of me gracefully emerging from a car and smiling towards the cameras – are going to be of me looking like a deer in headlights.
Trying desperately not to trip on my way up the carpet.
But before I can panic completely, before I can start to wonder what I’m doing here and climb back into the car, Avi’s hand finds mine.
And normally I’d feel strange about this, might even pull away. Because it’s too friendly, too close. Because his girlfriend lent me the dress I’m wearing and she’s been impossibly gracious about the fact that I’m here instead of her. But in this moment, something inside me relaxes.
‘Avi!’ They start shouting. ‘Who’s this? Your new co-star? What happened to Sienna?’
He ignores all of their questions, steering me masterfully up the carpet, beyond the barriers to the main press line of interviewers and official photographers. Stopping to smile warmly and wave to a few of them as we pass.
‘Okay,’ he says, when we reach the edge of the press line. A fresh wave of Oh, my God rearing up as I look at them. ‘The move for this is: as short an answer as you can give, as big a smile as you can manage, then on to the next. Okay?’
‘Okay,’ I say, but my voice shakes and betrays my concern, because he stops for a second instead of moving me forwards.
‘I can take the lead for the first few, if you want,’ he says. ‘Introduce you. Answer their questions. Then you can follow me.’
And I almost nod. But then a new strength surges up, a determination to show what I’m made of. Sienna might be gone, but I still have something to prove – to Alessandro, to myself. I want to do this right and not lean too much on Avi. I want to stand on my own two feet.
‘Thanks,’ I say. ‘But let’s just take it as it comes. I’ll be fine.’
‘If you’re sure…’ he says, still sounding apprehensive.
‘I am,’ I reply, quickly, before I can change my mind.
We make it through the first couple of interviewers, my throat drying up with each new person we approach.
But it goes fine and the questions are short – about who we want to win tonight and how excited we are to be here.
I manage to get out a few names and Avi moves us on.
I start to become a little more confident in my answers. Start to relax.
But as we reach the third reporter, my heart rate starts to increase.
She’s a representative from Teen Vogue, about twenty-two years old with butterfly clips in her hair.
She’s smiling, but I’m immediately intimidated by the gaze she levels at us, a warning that she means business.
There’s something about her that feels more intense than the people we’ve spoken to so far.
Like she might, without warning, go for the jugular.
And then I realise where this is coming from: I watched a video recently where she brought up a musician’s dating life on the red carpet, forcing them into a corner of answering it and admitting that they were seeing the person there had been rumours about, before their publicist intervened and pulled them away.
She addresses us both, and I nod and smile, trying to keep it together.
She has nothing on you, Lara, I think. You have about thirty Instagram followers.
And it gives me some momentary comfort. She talks to Avi first, which gives me a few seconds.
But then she turns to me and starts asking questions, and I find myself suddenly feeling like I’m staring down the barrel of a gun.
‘Sorry?’ I ask, my throat closing up.
‘I said, could you tell us a little bit about why you’re here?’
‘Uh…’ I say, my mind completely blank. Silence falls for a few seconds and her expression starts to turn confused. Shit. ‘My name is Lara Francis,’ I manage to choke out. ‘I’m in a film.’
Oh, my God. You sound like you’re introducing yourself on the first day of school.
‘Um, okay…’ she says, her tone a little sarcastic, and my stomach drops through the floor.
‘It’s a brilliant film.’ Avi cuts in before my panic can truly take hold. Thank God. I kick myself for needing to rely on him, like I just vowed not to. But I do, in this moment – I’m way out of my depth. Like, fathoms away. In the centre of the ocean, with no boat.
‘Really great,’ I agree, stupidly.
‘Directed by none other than Alessandro D’Arienzo,’ Avi chimes in again.
And he talks for a few moments about the film while she gives me side glances, still clearly more than a little confused about how incompetent and entirely unprepared I seem. Then she turns back to me.