24
That afternoon I felt considerably improved and became living proof that when you drink, you borrow happiness from tomorrow.
Here I was, half the day wasted, and only now able to shower and leave my room.
John and I rode back to his house and picked Jen up for lunch, and ended up shopping downtown.
I purchased a new watch and a pair of shoes to put a pep in my step, and got stopped for photos by so many fans I couldn't tell whether I was going or coming.
When the paparazzi began to tail us, we booked it back uptown and ended up at a low-key café in their neck of the woods, where I ordered more breakfast and refused to remove my sunglasses.
Halfway through, I pulled my phone out and felt a pit in my stomach when the notifications weren't the ones I’d hoped for.
Earlier I told my mum and a few friends I’d landed the role, even though I was forbidden to, and the only texts I saw were their well wishes and demands for a callback.
"That's like the sixth time you've checked your phone since we got here,” Jen said, through a mouthful of corned beef. “And that's not counting how much you looked at it downtown."
"Hey, look, mind your business, woman," I grinned.
"I know what he's looking for," John piped up.
"Ugh, here we go..."
"Then tell her, unless you want me to."
"Alright, alright," I conceded. Jen perked up, all ears. "I saw him."
"Oh, c'mon! You can't just leave me hanging like that?! When? Where? How?"
"You didn't even tell me, by the way. I've been dying to know too," John added, facetiously. He couldn't care less and was only feigning interest to ally with Jen and annoy me. I cleared my throat, then took a sip of water with my pinky up. Jen threw a sprinkle of salt at me.
"Heyyyy...." I said, blowing it off my toast with a frown.
"Alright, children, cut it out before I take both your phones!" John demanded, grabbing her wrist to stop a second attack. He bit her hand before letting go.
"It was great, honestly," I smirked and shrugged. "I ended up at his place—"
"Really?" she breathed, eyes like saucers. "What's it like? He any different?"
"Sooo different," I said. "But then...so familiar as well? A lot hadn't changed, yet a lot had, y'know?"
"Right, right, okay...what else?"
I glanced over into both their eyes for a moment, unsure of how to proceed. I needed to steer clear of spilling where things had ended up, meaning he and I in his garden making out beneath Mila's nose. So, I pivoted.
"I met Mila!"
"Hearst?" John balked.
"Mm-hm."
"He's dating her?!" Jen asked. When I nodded, she said, "Woah...good for him! She's gorgeous, right? A total babe."
"Yeah..." I shrugged.
John eyed me but didn't press the issue.
"So, what's she like?"
I shook my hair out, then tied it into a bun at my nape to buy time. I was grateful my aviators were still in place, working well to hide my frustration.
"She's, uh... stunning, obviously. Really tall, bubbly, friendly. Blonde. Part German or something."
"Well-fit," John said, in a mocking British accent.
"Of course."
"She more beautiful in person?" he asked.
"What's it to you?" Jen spat.
"Hey, just curious. Y’know most people look worse in person than they do on camera, with all the filters and airbrushing and whatnot. We talk about this all the time." He threw his hands up in surrender.
"Yeah...it was about the same," I said. "She looks, uh, exactly the way she looks on TV, I guess. Nothing too crazy.”
“No acne? Awful skin texture?”
“No, her pores were marvelous. Skin was clear. It was only weird seeing them together, I guess."
"Why?"
"Duh, why do you think?" John interrupted with a smirk. "Because he called dibs first. You know how Rafe is."
"In that case, who hasn't?" Jen muttered. "I'm sure half the world has called dibs on Mila already."
"No, actually, not me," I spat. "Not interested."
"No?"
"Not in the least. Not my type," I slipped, but reeled back before anyone else could detect my disdain.
“Oh-kay…” Jen said, raising her eyebrows at my awkward terseness.
A fan attempted to approach our table, but was scolded by a waitress.
I felt guilty so I got up and went to her table and took a few selfies with her family, using it as an excuse to escape the conversation.
The girl's dad thanked me and gave me a firm handshake, and my hand throbbed for several moments after I left them.
When I returned to our table, Jen was leaning over to watch something on John's phone.
It was a seminar he'd attended yesterday on the evolution of the music industry since its inception.
A snoozefest if you asked me. Once I sat, he enlightened us as to the main points of discussion, before Jen brought the conversation back around to the matter of Rila, as she so lovingly referred to them.
I nearly barfed at the cringe portmanteau, marveling that I’d refrained from vomiting during my hangover only to upchuck my breakfast at the sound of their names combined. Before I could voice my grievance, the ever-reliable John piped up with his own special brand of distaste for the word.
"Ugh, please don't. I hate when people do the name thing."
"Oh c'mon, it's cute. Admit it!" she laughed.
"No, never. After living through the whole "Bennifer" thing—"
"Don’t forget Bradgelina..." I added.
"Don't either of you sit there and try to tell me TomKat wasn't cute!" Jen huffed.
I had to concede to that one. Although the relationship between Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes had gone down in flames, the name was pretty sick.
"Yeah, but Rila sounds like..."
"Something you say when you think something is stupid," I drawled, earning a snicker from Jen.
"You guys are rude."
"Are we even pronouncing it right?"
"Dunno, I'm stumped."
"Oh I know, it’s pronounced: who gives a shit? Can we move on now?" John said, belching.
"How'd things go, anyway? With Roman?" Jen asked.
"Yeah, uh, things went pretty well," I said, unable to suppress a smile. "We were supposed to meet at a coffee place, but too many people recognized him. So we just went back to his place and chilled."
"What's it like?"
"Really sick, actually. The house is all one level. And it has an unbelievable yard that trails three stories up into a mountain. I'd kill for a yard like that."
"So...did he tell you why he quit?"
"Didn't come up actually."
"No?” She cocked a brow. “That would've been the first thing I asked.”
"Makes sense," I laughed. "But there was just like...so much to talk about, to reminisce over…to set straight. We, uh, couldn't fit it all in. She came by unexpected and sort of cut things short. But that just leaves more for next time."
"Next time? Nice…” Jen beamed. “Well, I'm happy for you, Rafe. You deserve this. I know how badly it affected you that you two hadn’t spoken in so long."
“Thanks, mate.”
"Mending bridges, maturing... that's the way to go," John remarked.
"Yeah, it felt good to clear the air."
"When you hanging out again?"
"Dunno,” I shrugged. “Soon, I hope."
***
After lunch, we all went golfing with John’s father and a few of his colleagues.
Then finally the three of us ended back up at my place watching Antiques Roadshow in the lounge.
When 8PM hit, the Winstons, fellow Brits, stopped by with champagne and cake.
It was some sort of surprise celebration to congratulate me on the new miniseries role, which I wasn't supposed to tell anyone about yet. Damn, they worked fast. My mate Ezra made a showing as well, and now all I could think whenever I looked at him was how jealous Roman had been at the mere mention of his name. He’d brought along his niece who was just a few years younger than me, and who would undoubtedly be stirring up trouble. She always did.
Late as ever, Grimmy—radio host and another fellow Brit—showed up declaring it was his last night in town, so he wanted to get me drunk.
That was forever his M.O. He’d given me my first drink many moons ago, and we’d often been caught staggering out of bars together in downtown London.
The paps relentlessly spun stories that we were lovers.
To be fair, some of the photos were rather compromising.
He was openly gay and I was deeply affectionate, so rumors of our affair were particularly difficult to dispel.
No matter, as we’d only grown closer through the years, despite the viciously homophobic gossip.
Gathering in the dining room, we ate catering from a local steakhouse and later had a mini dance party with karaoke and booze.
"To Hollywood and casting couches!" Grimmy toasted us all, swaying atop a chair—his hair limp and unkempt. "I've heard allll about how you landed this role, Ralph Rawlings…" The room erupted in laughter and I wiggled my eyebrows suggestively.
Later he and I sat around the island in the kitchen and talked about his flight home the next morning.
He hopped up onto the counter and sat cross-legged, his socks too close to my face for comfort.
I told him about a friend's Yorkie who'd been sprayed by a skunk a few days ago, and how the odor was still there today.
I showed him the text where she said they were on their tenth bath, but the reek had barely budged.
"I heard the smell is like...chemically binding," I muttered.
"I wonder if it's the hair, y'think? If it sticks to the hair more than the skin? What if they shaved all the hair off? Problem solved!"
"I know, right? Seems like you'd be able to just wash it off the skin."
"Speaking of hair..." he drawled. "Say, when's the last time you ran that mop under some hot water?! Bloody hell if it ain't greazzzy!" He lifted a few strands and let them flop back onto my face.
"Great," I retorted. "Thanks, mate. Way to make a girl feel special."
He burst out laughing in that ridiculous way only he could. A big English guffaw.
"I'd pay to run a brush through that thing!" he tossed over his shoulder, spinning around in a complete circle where he sat. I craned to steer clear of his flying feet and nearly toppled off the stool.