Authors: Alison Sweeney
“Sophie. What happened last night?” He doesn’t
sound
mad. I sense a trap.
“What do you mean? Nothing happened.” I wouldn’t say it was the most romantic date or anything, but still… it’s not like we had a raging fight either.
“You passed out on your sofa… Before the show was even over.”
“I saw it. I was just so tired I couldn’t keep my eyes open.” I can sense denial’s armor springing up all around me.
“Sophie, you were drunk. You passed out cold.”
I am so glad he’s on the phone because this conversation face-to-face would be unbearable.
“So? I had a bad day and I wanted some wine. I was not
drunk
.”
“I just hate when we fight, and I have to tell you, we seem to always argue when you’re drinking too much.”
“Since when did you become such a prude?”
“God, Sophie. I have tried really hard not to say anything, but last night has happened a few too many times lately. And I just wanted to discuss it with you—when we can both be rational.”
“Well, now’s actually not a good time for me. I’ve been putting out fires all day, and I just found out that I have to head over to
The Tonight Show
.”
“I think this is important.” The sensitivity in his voice makes it sound extra grave, but I ignore the shivers it sends down my spine.
“Well I guess I’m just not in the mood to be ‘rational’ right now. I’ve got a lot going on, and working through my presumed shortcomings is going to have to go to the bottom of the list.”
“We were supposed to go over paperwork for the Tribe of Hope committee last night. That deadline is coming up.”
Of course the Tribe of Hope committee takes center stage again. I return the turkey wrap and pickle to its original bag
and toss it all in the trash can. I’ve lost whatever appetite I had.
“I
know
what the deadlines are, and I’ve been working on the guest list and have some other publicists lined up to help us.”
“Well, Sophie, that’s what we needed to go over last night. It’s great that you have it all organized, I don’t underestimate you, but we need to get that info to them so the whole event is set up right.”
“So you only came over because of the event. Not to see me?” When did I become my mother? And can crucifying him for changing the subject make me any more of a hypocrite?
“You know it’s not like that.” I’d finally shaken his calm demeanor, but just barely.
“Then what
is
it like, Jacob?!” Tru leans back in her chair to catch my eye through the doorway. She makes a “cool it” gesture, which is a gentle warning that my rising voice is carrying into the hall.
“Never mind, Sophie. Just forget it.”
“Already forgotten.” And I honestly don’t know who has hung up on whom.
The
Tonight Show
taping provides the perfect opportunity to leave the office early and head home to shower and regroup before the show. The retreat is doubly welcome, as I am still so agitated by my conversation with Jacob that I doubt I could focus on much else behind my desk. And Tru needs to witness no more meltdowns.
Refreshed, I arrive at the NBC studios in Burbank right as Billy is being escorted into his dressing room. He is already out of hair and makeup and appears charged for this last-minute appearance, as if it has been scheduled for weeks.
“How’s it going?” I ask. “Are you all ready?”
“Yeah. I was telling the producer some of my stories of growing up in Texas, and she loved it.”
“Perfect. I spoke with the film’s PR department. They are thrilled for you to talk about shooting in Prague, but they don’t have any clips we can use. I got a few behind-the-scenes photos.”
“Yeah, I can wing that. We had some pretty crazy fight scenes that were tough to shoot.” This is my first big show appearance with Billy. And I am relieved to see that he seems very comfortable. There are some extremely successful and famous actors who freeze up with anxiety before live audience appearances. They’re totally fine in front of a TV or film camera, shooting something that millions of people will see, but not in front of a studio audience of two hundred and fifty tourists. Honestly, I couldn’t do either. I get stage fright making a toast at Thanksgiving.
Jay Leno himself knocks and comes in to chat with Billy before the interview. We’ve met a few times, but it’s always nice to see how friendly he is, and I think it sets so many people at ease to have them meet or catch up with him informally first. Billy immediately reminds Jay of his last appearance here, when apparently a wildlife trainer’s Amazonian snake got out of hand while Billy was still on the sofa. They laugh over the unscripted comedy that followed and then talk cars a bit before Jay goes to finish getting ready for the show.
Now that it’s clear Billy is not stressed or unprepared for the interview, I head out to schmooze with the other publicists and talent bookers I recognize in the green room. Also, I must confess that Billy looks incredible in slim, black trousers and a sea-blue shirt that highlights his eyes. My mouth is literally watering. And it doesn’t help that he kept glancing at me and sharing all these private looks. Believe me, I am
not
making that part up. He is definitely flirting with me tonight.
Finally having run out of safe people to make small talk with, I head back to the danger zone—I mean Billy’s dressing room. I walk in as he’s getting his mic put on. Which means his shirt is pulled up as the technician strings the wired mic up under the shirt to discreetly clip it on his collar. And the glimpse of his gorgeous abs makes the temperature in the room go up ten degrees.
“Looks good,” the audio guy says before heading out.
You have no idea
.
I must have kept staring, because when Billy catches my eye, there’s a smirk on his face, but then he winks at me as he passes, following the stage manager out onto set.
Of course Billy’s interview is a hit. He has the studio audience in the palm of his hand the whole time, telling funny stories about shooting his latest movie and then being so charming during the commercial breaks, taking pictures with fans in the crowd.
After the show Billy stays to sign a few autographs for crew members and visitors with backstage access. Because he’s always polite and endearingly modest, I can see why everyone around Billy feels loved and important. As one woman fairly
swoons over him agreeing to pose in a picture with her, he meets my eyes and gives the faintest eye-roll, which the fan doesn’t notice as she helplessly rambles on about all of his movies she’s seen. Finally, the mob in his dressing room thins and I walk him out to where his limo is waiting.
“Are we still on for dinner?” he casually asks as we pass from harsh studio lighting into the early evening light. I didn’t know if he even remembered his offer. He hasn’t said one thing since we talked about it earlier.
“Sure.” I sound way more relaxed than I feel.
“Cool.” And he walks past me to the driver’s side of the limo. I’m only waiting a few moments when he comes back around the car toward me. And then the car starts to pull away.
Reading the confusion on my face, Billy smiles.
“Well, he’s not really hired to wait for me to eat dinner, right? I figured you could give me a ride home afterwards. That’s okay, isn’t it?” He reaches over and takes my briefcase, and with his other hand now at the small of my back he starts leading us through the main entrance to the guest parking lot.
Well, that was a tad presumptuous, but somehow Billy is pulling it off. I unlock the Beemer by remote when we’re a few steps away. Billy aims for the passenger seat and I rush to help him toss some empty coffee cups and papers left on the seat into the back.
Good impression, Sophie. Now he thinks you’re a shameless voyeur
and
a slob
.
Getting to the restaurant is easy. It’s truly around the corner, but in LA everyone drives everywhere, however close. Billy uses the short ride to check his voicemail messages, so I have a couple moments of quiet to gather myself together. But I don’t
have any great realizations or anything. All I can think about are ridiculous things like should I reapply my lip gloss or is that trying too hard?
Inside the dimly lit bistro, the hostess asks Billy if we wish to sit up front by the small jazz band or somewhere more quiet and intimate in the back. Before my head can vote for music’s welcome interference, the hostess is leading us through the restaurant to a small table for two all the way in the rear. It’s hard to ignore that we are in a really private, dark—dare I say, romantic—area of the restaurant.
Billy orders a round of celebratory champagne and with only a cursory glance at the menu asks that a few appetizers be brought to the table right away. I look slowly over my menu, focusing on the lyrical French phrases, trying to quiet my nerves. I can’t help thinking about how Jacob always orders things from the menu that he knows we both like, so we can sample each other’s meal.
“Sophie? Know what you’re gonna have?” He has that smirk again on his face, as if he can tell that I’m hiding behind my menu.
“I always think I’m going to order something different when I come here, but then I end up getting the exact same thing.”
His smirk becomes something bigger, like I just told him my favorite sex dream.
“I always get the filet. It’s the best,” I defensively explain, so he realizes I always get the best thing, not because I’m boring.
“So tell me about yourself, Sophie Atwater. What do you do for fun?”
“Um… well, I love my job.” At his non-reaction I quickly continue, “I do! I know it sounds lame, but it’s fun, exciting, and there are a lot of perks.” Eek. I didn’t mean to imply
him
! “You know, like going to great concerts and shows… and stuff.”
“Yeah? What was the last band you saw?”
Put on the spot, I try to think of a band people are talking about in the office. Who did Tru say she went to see recently? Some random ska band—no, that’s not the impression I’m trying to make. I think back on all the talk shows I visit—I see musical acts perform all the time. Why am I trying so hard to impress him with the “right” answer?
“Last time I had a client on
The Tonight Show
, Prince was the musical guest. He performed outside, and the NBC PR chick invited me to stand with her at the front of the audience. He totally had the whole crowd in the palm of his hand. That was pretty cool.”
“Prince, huh? So you’re a classic eighties kind of girl?” I wasn’t sure how to take that. I mean, I totally love eighties music. But maybe that’s a bit cliché. He’s from Texas… if I say country music, that’s too obvious… I don’t want to seem like I’m trying too hard
or
have an immense desire for acid wash and big teased hair.
“I love Kid Rock.” Okay, maybe I don’t “love” him, but I do like his music. I try to think of some actual songs to add validity to my claim. Why didn’t I just say Springsteen?
“Now we’re talking.” He effortlessly deepens his good ol’ boy accent. “He’s doing a concert here next week for the new album.”
“Oh yeah, I’ve heard it’s an insane tour—that he totally rocks.” I don’t know, it seems like a safe enough thing to say. I’m trying to keep up my enthusiasm here. “We rep him at the agency. The music division is always raving about him.”
“Really? You think you could get me tickets?”
“Definitely. No problem. I’ll email someone now.” Which I proceed to do while he gets the waiter’s attention and orders us another round of drinks.
A couple hours later, I am slightly more than pleasantly stuffed on delicious food and definitely buzzed off a pair of martinis. Billy has been keeping the conversation light and easy, but there’s a little hum through my nerves at the way he occasionally brushes my fingers with his as he makes a point. And the ridiculously sexy way he keeps eye contact with me, like he’s never going to let me out of his sight.
I wish I could’ve enjoyed the feeling of Billy’s complete attention without the nagging at the back of my brain—never letting me fully forget that what I’m doing is wrong. I had two more drinks than was wise just to try to get Jacob out of my head. And I’m starting to feel a little bipolar here. Because when Billy excuses himself to use the restroom, I can practically see the devil on my left shoulder and the angel on my right, each begging me to do the “right” thing. Devil-Sophie reminds me of how neglected I’ve felt the last several months. That it’s not like Jacob has asked me to
marry
him or anything. And that I haven’t done anything bad anyway. It’s not like Billy and I have had “sexual relations.” Yet. And then Angel-Sophie pleads with me to leave, reminding me that I am in a committed relationship, that Jacob has been nothing but honest with
me from the beginning, that I owe him the same. For the record, Angel-Sophie, in her prudish
Little House on the Prairie
smock, is not gaining any ground on Devil-Sophie, in her Pussycat Dolls getup.
Yes, I’ve got myself a well-deserved guilty conscience. Even two strong dirty martinis can’t completely eliminate that feeling. Because, believe me, I try. As we get up to leave, and I feel the weight of Billy’s unfamiliar arm over my shoulder, I am reminded of a faint drowning sensation. Being with Billy is exciting, sexy, and thrilling to my toes, but the fact that I am cheating on Jacob makes me feel cold and clammy all over. But wait—I am not “cheating” on Jacob. I am having a work dinner with a client. It happens all the time. For that matter, Jacob has work dinners with females all the time too. This does not qualify as cheating.
Or so I try to unsuccessfully convince myself.
Distracted, and only half-listening to Billy deal with the valet, I wait in the passenger seat of my own car. I turn to my “chauffeur,” about to protest as he pulls out onto the road. Without even looking at me, he says, “It’s easier for me to just drive than explain the directions.” Which frankly, I’m relieved to hear. I would hate for him to think I’m so hammered that I can’t drive. Not to mention how embarrassing that would be. But obviously, he doesn’t care how much I drink, a lovely relief from the judgment I feel from Jacob. Happy to have found one clear weakness in Jacob—his constant harping on my intake of alcohol—I can finally relax a little, the Devil-Sophie encouraging my feelings of righteous indignation. Who is Jacob to tell me how to live my life? He makes me feel like I’m an alcoholic,
for God’s sake. I mean, seriously, it’s not like I wake up at 8
A.M
. and start gargling with vodka.