Chapter Five
Chapter Five
Max emails me my new three-month Black if you do it right, it’s real life. Yes, you have to be able to steady your hands and operate a slightly complicated mechanical device, but I’m only a pair of eyes when I’m behind a camera. It isn’t Lilah anymore, at least, I don’t think it is. I’m a bird on a wire, the great big glasses billboard in The Great Gatsby , watching the world. It’s like Barbara Kopple said: I don’t create the tension.
And suddenly, it’s okay that I’m silent and aloof and smart. People like those qualities in a filmmaker that they dislike in women; they don’t wonder what I’m hiding (nothing) or why I’m strangely quiet (I’m having a thousand conversations in my head).
Then Thursday comes around, and I’m standing on a blinking tarmac in front of the first private jet I’ve ever laid eyes on, tranquilized by antianxiety medication. It’s still mostly dark out—deep blue sky, too many runway lights. Disorienting. Tightening my grip on my suitcase handle, I train my handheld camera on the plane and get my first real shot of the film: A slender gray-white jet, blackened sky, nobody around except hired help and orange-shirted Ignition staff. Arthur’s ridiculous, isolating wealth in a single image.
See? It’s real. It might be a movie, but that doesn’t make it fake.
“You have to climb the stairs to get on the plane.”
I click pause on my camera. Arthur stands next to me, dressed in an Ignition sweatshirt and thick, patterned sweatpants. It’s the first we’ve seen each other since our all-out, smackdown brawl, and I half expect him to cut me down to size right here on the spot. You think you’re too good to be my fake unethical sex-friend? Au contraire, American swine, I have dated and dumped twenty physicists-turned-models since we last spoke.
But Arthur only holds out his tiny to-go espresso cup toward me. I frown; he shrugs. “Suit yourself,” he says, finishing the coffee.
My camera hangs from the strap around my neck as he leads us to the stairs. When I’m greeted by a man in a prim blue suit—and his polite “Miss Graywood”—I turn to Arthur, who smiles innocently. The plane is beautiful, clean, and very empty. “Are you planning on murdering me now that we’re alone?”
“Rude.” Arthur moseys down the carpeted aisle to a plush leather chaise lounge and leans his hip against it. The top of his finger-combed blond hair almost hits the low ceiling. “If I wanted to murder you, you wouldn’t be riding on the Bianco family jet. Paper trails.”
I glance at the attendant behind us, who looks like he couldn’t care less, as Arthur sits down, long legs spreading apart, taking up way too much space. I take the love seat across the aisle from him, trying to keep my elbows and knees away from the fancy screens and switches, and watch as he thoughtlessly clicks through buttons on his armrests. I should be filming him, but my preflight nervousness might screw up my hands. Best to wait until we’re in the air.
“Where is everyone?” I ask.
“Holmes is flying out with Max on Sunday, along with Faust if he’s well enough.”
“How long do you think Faust will be out?”
He tilts his head. “Shouldn’t you be filming my answer?”
Shit. “I’m just wondering.”
“Ah, you’re building your narrative.”
“Wow, big word.”
“Great word. Big in racing. Never heard it before?”
“I have. Just didn’t think you’d know it.”
“Tsk, tsk, love,” he says. “I’m the cocky one, not you.”
My face warms. It’s like he knows exactly how to turn my internal thermostat all the way up. “It’s three whole syllables. I didn’t think you had it in you.”
Arthur’s cheek slopes in with amusement. “Three is nothing. This mouth can handle a lot more.”
An eye roll isn’t enough. “An-y-way,” I singsong, “answer the question.”
“Regrettably,” he sighs, “I wasn’t blessed with great looks, pristine sportsmanship, and psychic abilities. Best to get your footage while I am driving.”
“Because you don’t think you’ll be traveling the rest of the season? Doesn’t that make you worry what Leone will think if Ignition benches you again?”
Arthur holds my stare for a moment, a glimmer of anger curling in that sharp smile of his, but then he seems to put it away and rest back on his humor. “Well done. That’s an important lesson to learn about F1.”
“Drivers swap out often?”
“How well a driver competes comes in second place to his narrative.” He pauses. “Or should I use the word ‘story’? I’d hate to confuse you.”
“I can keep up.”
“We’ll see. You haven’t filmed me driving yet.” He grins. “I think I like that you don’t know anything about F1. It’s like teaching a baby how to walk.”
I take a deep breath. “Arthur, that is the definition of infantilizing.”
Another host comes by for my breakfast order, and I pick the faux-egg sandwich over a vegetable hash while Arthur graduates to fiddling with the air conditioner above him. He has so much energy. He’s always twisting buttons or tapping his fingers or bouncing his leg. I can see why he hates the media, beyond disliking the articles written about his heiress-dating drama. Arthur’s mouth might be a knife—smooth-talking and sharp-smiling—but the rest of his body gives so much away. He’s full of tells, or body language that seems like tells, by-products of needing enough energy to operate a vehicle going two-hundred-plus miles per hour.
And people are quick to judge a documentary subject based on leg bouncing and resting bitch face. Give an interview where you didn’t sleep well the night before, and look “twitchy”? You can’t be trusted, you’re the villain, enjoy this academically dense hate-review from a random electrician in Alabama. Forget the finer details of your own memory and get reamed by people googling the story after the fact? Oh well, you should’ve known your life better than that; faceless internet hobgoblins are going to comment “you’re fake!” on your social media forever.
That’s why I try so hard to get it right and document the truth. I don’t feel bad about asking Arthur to star in my movie, but I guess he’s being… slightly brave by doing it.
When there are footsteps at the front of the plane, Arthur’s attention snaps right over, firework fast. “Good morning,” he says brightly as a small woman appears. She’s older, around the same height as me, with a graying mousy bun and head-to-toe cherry-red athleisure on.
“King,” she says gruffly, not casting one glance my way.
“King?” I whisper once she’s gone to the back.
That one corner of his mouth hooks up. “Nicknames are big in F1.”
“And you’re… oh, no way.” I let out a groan. “Who decided to call you King Arthur?”
“My mum—”
“Your mum .”
“Who’s an Arthurian professor out at Cambridge.”
“Oh.”
“And that’s Merlin,” he laughs. “My physiotherapist.”
“You’re kidding. Nobody would call a nice old woman that.”
“Merlin is not a ‘nice’ old woman. She’s demonic. Lovely, but evil.”
After Merlin comes Arthur’s personal manager, Delaney, a slender Black woman in a mint-green pantsuit that matches the charms in her goddess braids. She’s wearing strappy heels on a plane, and I kind of love her for it. Then there’s Arthur’s race engineer, Cameron. He’s a lanky white guy, maybe in his late twenties, with light brown hair, a surplus of ghostly freckles, and the strings of his oversized black hoodie tied into a bow around his neck. They both say hi to me—I’d chatted with Delaney once or twice in Glory Run, since getting plane tickets had required yet another background check.
Then, in strolls a man who I know instantly, without having to ask, has to be James Hawke. The older Ignition driver is wearing dark jeans and a white shirt, and the way his brown hair is neatly parted and styled makes him look one hundred percent more like a plastic action figure come to life, molded cheekbones and white-toothed smile included. He flicks his sunglasses on as he weaves to the back of the plane, exchanging nods with Arthur and squeezing his shoulder as he walks by.
We’re finally told to prepare for takeoff. The pilot is talking through weather patterns between here and England when Arthur notices my fidgeting. “You good over there?”
Why, why , does he have to notice so much about me? Nobody else does. I don’t know when I closed my eyes, but I squeeze my lids shut tighter, as if I can block Arthur out and the rest of the world with him. “I’m fine. I’ve just, you know. Planes.” I leave out an explanation about what overstimulation is and how I’ve never left the continental United States and—
As if summoned into action by my aerophobia, the plane jerks forward, and I can’t breathe quick enough to stop myself from whimpering. Arthur starts to get out of his seat, but I wave quickly with the hand that isn’t death-gripping my phone. “No, stay there. I—I don’t want anyone to notice.”
We both look behind us. Cameron has headphones in, James is thumbing through a paperback, and Merlin has an Ignition beanie pulled low over her eyes, chin drooping down. Delaney is the only one who feels our eyes on her, and she gives us a polite smile before tapping the sticky note on the back of her laptop. Noise-canceling headphones in , it reads. Scream if you need me.
I’m close to doing just that when the engine begins to drone. Arthur reaches toward me and mouths, Phone , and I’m jumpy enough to hand my personal one over without a second thought, and then there’s another scent besides the plastic plane weirdness. Arthur’s scent, fizzy, floral, and indecipherably familiar as he tinkers around on my phone for a terrifying minute, then passes it back my way. Connected to the jet’s Wi-Fi.
Then my phone buzzes with a single text.
Hi.
I concentrate on those two tiny letters. Block out the sounds all around me, the sensation of nothing beneath my feet other than metal and luggage.
Hi , I text back.
I downloaded an encryption app for you, by the way. Keeps people from looking at our texts.
Could they do that?
Come on, Graywood. You’re on Bianco wifi. Use that big mind of yours.
This is the first we’ve danced around the uncle-team-movie topic since our conversation at the dive bar, and I wish I had my camera on. But I don’t, and I’ve been curious about Arthur’s motives for bailing on his uncle without trying to talk to him first. Although family means everything to me, I’m aware that Arthur and I come from different worlds. There are only two types of movie sports childhoods: the overworked prodigy—uncomfortable to linger on, avert your eyes from their absent parents—or the marginally talented rich child, spoiled with the best coaches—not very bootstraps, roll the next clip. We love sports success until we learn how it was born, because inside every great athlete is a child who started too young, somehow.
And because it’s either sob on a plane or continue this conversation with Arthur, I give in to my curiosity and keep texting him.
Is that why you want to go back to Leone so bad? You want to get away from overbearing family?
Good question. You ever drive a Leone?
Arthur.
Right. They’re the best cars. Golden arrows, we call them. Go so fast it feels like you might die if you botch it, but you’re a better man for surviving. I need to get back to that.
Huh , I type back.
I steal a peek at him. Maybe I was wrong about his tells, since Arthur’s face is perfectly calm. He’s settled back in the chaise, one long leg bent, the other stretched out, clean white sneaker dangling off the edge. He doesn’t look like an adrenaline addict plotting ways to strap back into a single-seat death trap. He looks relaxed. Well, the Arthur version of relaxed: fingertips drumming on the back of his phone, bent knee swaying back and forth, corners of his mouth tucked down, ready to pounce.
My phone vibrates.
Like what you see?
Ugh. How did he catch me looking at him? His eyes didn’t leave his phone.
Not really.
That was a long stare. You need to be more subtle if you don’t want the love story narrative.
I reply with a . Then,
It’s the movie maker stare.
Hot.
Ha.
You trying to figure me out, Graywood?
I know you already.
Go on then. I love to hear about myself.
Ahem , I type out.
Pro athlete. Close to thirty, so tri-life crisis. In-your-face confident (overcompensating?). Sexually explicit (overcompensating?). “Better to reign in hell than serve in heaven” vibes.
Arthur stares at his phone for a good thirty seconds, then texts back.
I’m going to live til 90?? Wow.
I swallow a giggle.
Probably had a saltburn/succession childhood.
Are those movie titles or did you just cast a spell on me?
Have you *ever* watched a movie?
How do I say this…
David Cronenberg?? Lynch???
We’ve lived very different lives.
Wouldn’t call yours living.
Arthur lets out a low laugh, and I peek again. He’s smiling.
I suck on the inside of my cheek, oddly triumphant, and type out, What about me?
Oh, you want me to do you now?
Forget it.
How did you put it before? I don’t think about you enough to hate you.
Goodbye.
No no I’ll play.
Across the aisle, his thumbs barely make a sound as he types out what must be the longest message in the history of phones. Then—
You’re 24. American. Young, pretty, and in denial about both. (Very American, by the way. Puritanical creatures, all of you.) Recently dramatically dumped, appropriately emotionally scarred. Too clever for your own good. Likes to fight. (Masochist?) Thinks making documentaries absolves you of media sin; should have gone to law school. Disconnected from your body, which has manifested in a frankly bizarre but entertaining hatred of sports. Would love to see you sloshed and shirtless on a table.
My stomach twists, an empty scattering, and the sensation is not at all from the flight. Is Coyote Ugly the only movie you’ve seen , I text back, ignoring the rest.
Well yes. I had to learn about Texas somehow.
It takes place in NYC.
Alas, that must be why I haven’t seen you on a table yet.
I can’t help it. I laugh, and Arthur’s head turns in the corner of my eye.
My phone vibrates.
You look less like you’re about to pass out. Need anything? Liquor? Mile-high club membership?
Look at that. We’re up in the air, and I don’t want to die. I fumble for my bag and pull out another anti-nausea pill, popping it with a gulp of soda water.
Nope. All better.
Good , he texts back, and for a second, I forget who he is. I just read that one word— good —and the casual caretaking does a lot more for my quote-unquote Puritanical sexuality than whatever blunt-force flirtation he deployed in front of Max. Good is what someone says when they care if you’re not good. If they think about you.
Which is silly. Arthur isn’t that worried about me. This is his basic human decency kicking in.
Thanks for the distraction
Behind me, there’s a tinny buzz as a partition slides from one side of the plane to the other, shutting us away from everyone else. “Don’t get cocky again. I always watch movies on long flights, and whoever sits here has to put up with it,” Arthur says as he presses a button on the remote, dimming the lights. “Pull your window shade down.”
I do, and the second I’m not faced with clouds, the rest of my plane anxiety vanishes. I cuddle back into my chair and pull my knees up to my chest. Out of nowhere I’m bone-tired, fatigue replacing the two-week-long panic attack about Max and Sarah and perfectly planning our secret-movie plot and how to keep my life from crumbling between my fingers, like an old film reel deteriorating from vinegar syndrome. Too much heat or humidity triggers a chemical reaction in the cellulose acetate and turns film into an acid that breaks itself down.
Relatable.
“Before you ask,” Arthur says, “I am willing to watch a documentary. One. For research.”
“Really?”
“Sure. Can’t remember the last time I have.”
My tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth. Nobody willingly offers to watch nonfiction with me. Regular people like Arthur prefer big, splashy films with character arcs and special effects. Kino-Pravda doesn’t seem like his cup of tea.
He nods to the screen. “Have you seen this one?”
“Oh. Um.” I peer at the screen, then stop. Literally. Every cell in my body suspends as I notice something at the bottom of the streaming service, a little screenshot with a long gray line below the movie that Arthur’s currently on: Grey Gardens .
I force my face to remain casual as I say, “I love this one.”
Arthur presses play. The first moments of Grey Gardens spill across the screen. I lean my head back and let the tragedy play out in front of me, my pulse still racing.
It’s a beautiful documentary. Big Edie and Little Edie, mother and daughter, the cats and the clothing and the Kennedy connection. It’s up there in my top-ten list, right between Sans Soleil and Don’t Look Back , one of those rare films I could watch a thousand times and catch a new piece of dialogue with each viewing. I’ve always wondered what kept them stuck in their estate after the wealth had withered up—the delicate psychology between two people trapped in a broken fantasy world. That, to me, is how you film politics, the upper class, any of it. Keep your mouth shut and your camera on as the interesting people dance.
It’s hard to pay attention to them today, though. Back when Arthur had been on the loading screen, I saw that he’d recently watched the documentary I’d made about the congressman.
All the way, from beginning to end.