Chapter 11 #3
‘Sounds like you might be one to watch,’ she says and, if I’m not mistaken, it still sounds a little bored, like she’s already tired of talking to me and wants to move on to the next more interesting person.
And to be honest, I can’t blame her. I’d be bored of me right now too.
‘Could you tell us a bit more about your look?’
‘I’m not sure I can, actually,’ I say, without thinking.
I can’t remember the designer Sienna told me about.
The reporter laughs, as if she can’t quite believe how terrible at interviews I am.
I scramble to say something, fast, so she doesn’t think I’m a complete idiot.
‘I can tell you that my shoes are my sister’s prom shoes. ’
She laughs again, and this time it sounds more genuine. Like I might be in on the joke.
‘True couture, then,’ she says. I nod, feeling a little more confident now.
‘And the dress, I remember – it’s Prada. Sienna Marsh lent it to me.’
And I’m proud of myself, for a half-second.
For getting a full sentence out, for answering the question.
For remembering the designer. But then I see Avi’s face and realise what I’ve just said.
Something sparks in the interviewer’s eye as I mention that name.
And my stomach drops. That was probably the worst possible thing I could have said.
‘Sienna Marsh,’ she says. ‘Interesting.’ She turns to Avi, who tenses up infinitesimally at my side. ‘And what does Sienna think about the fact that you’re here this evening with Lara instead of her?’
Shit, shit, shit.
I hardly dare to look at him, worry spilling through me.
But Avi just shifts slightly, as if stepping into professional mode. A smooth glaze coming over his eyes, which is a little terrifying.
‘Sienna couldn’t make it tonight,’ he says.
‘And I’m very happy to be here with Lara.
She’s my co-star and we’re here to promote our new film.
Nothing more than that.’ He looks at me and the interviewer opens her mouth, as if she’s about to press further.
But he shuts her down immediately. ‘Now if you’ll excuse us, we have a few more interviews to do. ’ He moves away and I follow.
‘I’m so sorry, Avi,’ I mutter under my breath as we walk down the carpet. ‘I bet you wish you’d come with Sienna now instead.’ But he just places his hand gently on the small of my back, sending a ripple of sensation across my bare skin.
‘Lara,’ he says. ‘Sienna didn’t even want to come. And besides, I’m glad you’re here with me.’ And something in my chest flutters as he says it.
We do a few more interviews, which thankfully pass with no huge disasters, apart from one slightly unfortunate moment where the interviewer asks me about my favourite part about being on-set.
After saying the obvious – about it being a pleasure and a privilege to work with Alessandro and Avi – I somehow get it into my head that I need to say something innocuous to avoid any further questions about Avi, so I end up talking at length about the fact that they have a great array of fruits at catering.
The interviewer’s polite smile definitely starts to falter halfway through: I’m not sure he’s ever heard anyone being so effusive about melon.
Eventually, we make it to the final interviewer, a well-dressed man reporting for a TikTok channel who asks me what my three favourite films are.
This is my wheelhouse, I think, and I reel off three films by some of my favourite directors, getting overexcited talking about them.
He’s a huge film buff too, so we have a really interesting discussion.
And when I look up at Avi, waiting for him to answer, I think I catch him smiling.
And I think I know why – I used to have those kinds of conversations with him.
Used to watch films with him, even. We’d set up a projector in the bar and hang out after Saturday shifts sometimes, locking up a couple of hours after closing.
Analysing the line delivery together. Thinking that could be us one day.
And it is us, now, I realise with a jolt.
Just not in the way I would’ve expected.
I watch him answer too, calling on some of the directors I mentioned. But also talking about some action films. I wonder if that’s part of his branding, if his agent has told him to show an interest in action movies so he keeps getting those roles.
Before I know it, we’re through the press line and I start to relax. But then I see we’ve actually reached the worst part.
The photographs.
A line of cameras not unlike the one that greeted us when we got out of the car stretches ahead of us. Photographers crowding behind metal barriers. Shouting names, calling for people to pose differently. My heart migrates to my throat.
‘I’ll go first,’ Avi whispers. ‘Just follow my lead.’
And he steps forwards, for a few photos alone. Smiling at the cameras easily, angling his body to most accurately show off his suit. I realise for the first time this evening that we match; the blue detailing on his lapels is the exact same as the one on Sienna’s dress.
After a few more photos, he turns and moves to the side, beckoning me over. I stumble over my dress as I’m walking towards him and freeze. Waiting for the cameras to flash in my face.
‘Breathe,’ he says to me quietly, apparently noting my nerves. Turning his face away from the camera as he does so, so they won’t pick it up.
I look into his eyes, their intensity burning into mine, and do as he says – a deep breath in through my nose, out through my mouth.
It helps. As does the hand he places gently on the small of my back.
His contact a grounding force as he steers me to the middle of the carpet and we turn towards the cameras.
They flash and I blink a few times, adjusting. Avi’s hand stays in place as he poses. The flashes becoming slightly less terrifying the more they go off. Responding to the calls of ‘Over here!’ and ‘Look this way!’, my body in sync with Avi’s as we look in each direction in turn.
We do it again and again on several different markers down the carpet and then it’s done.
He walks towards the edge of the carpet, reaching back to take my hand.
‘You did great,’ he says, his voice low – and a few weeks ago, it would have made me feel strange to hear that from him.
I might have found it patronising, even.
Told him I didn’t need it. That I could do this on my own.
But right now, it just makes my heart thump a little harder against my chest. I’m proud of myself.
Once we’re inside the hall, my panic subsides a little. There’s less shouting in here. Fewer cameras. The chaos dulled down to a low hum. Just people – a lot of people – milling around. Avi moves quickly through the crowd and heads straight for the bar, grabbing two glasses of champagne.
I take a sip, the liquid fizzing against my tongue.
‘Don’t stop – we’ve got work to do,’ Avi says as I think about leaning against the bar.
And the next twenty minutes are a blur of faces as he introduces me to everyone he recognises: the director of his most recent film; a producer who owns a company that exclusively funds scripts written by women, who says she’ll let me know if there are any projects coming up; a few actors whose faces I recognise from films. And all of it trips me up initially.
But then I see how familiarly everyone interacts with Avi and the sheen dissipates – they’re all normal people too.
Like me. Like he was, once. But I’m definitely not going to think about that right now.
The call to take our seats sounds and we wind our way down the aisle. Avi whispers to me, his voice low as the lights dim. ‘After the show, do you want to get out of here? We could skip the after-parties. I’ve got an idea for something more fun we can do.’
I lean in, my heart pounding. A part of me still wondering how – exactly – I ended up in this situation: next to Avi Kumar, at an awards ceremony.
‘Sure,’ I reply.
The awards pass quickly, the joy as each honouree gets up on-stage apparent on their faces, their speeches clearly carefully rehearsed.
I glance at Avi a few times as they step up, his expression inscrutable.
Once the last person has collected their award and we’re invited to head over to a nearby hotel bar, Avi meets my eye before declining politely.
‘We have an early call time tomorrow,’ he says, before taking my hand and heading over to the bar to sneak a half-empty bottle of champagne when the waiter’s back is turned.
I baulk slightly as he takes my hand, my skin reacting to his touch as his fingers close around mine.
No one notices his theft and we slip out of a side exit, out of sight of the cameras.
We walk down the street and cross the road, heading for Hyde Park, the entrance opposite, with the Albert Memorial rising up above us.
All intricate arches, the golden statue reflecting the streetlights.
As I look up at it, a wave of sobriety hits me and I start to wonder whether it might be better for me to go home.
This evening has already been a success.
But he hands me the champagne bottle and I take it, unthinking.
And then – before I can really realise what he’s doing – he starts climbing the fence to the park.
‘What the fuck are you doing?’ I ask as he climbs it easily – it’s only waist-high, so it’s not a huge feat, but it’s still definitely trespassing.
‘Pass me that, will you?’ He gestures for the bottle through the fence.
‘Avi, I’m not doing this. This is illegal. And besides, it’s getting late,’ I say, having huge second thoughts about what I might have agreed to. His excuse from earlier reminding me that we actually do have an early call time tomorrow. ‘I should probably go home and get an early night—’
‘Come on, Lara,’ he says, a challenge in his tone. ‘What’s life without a little risk?’