The Year of Living Famously (10 page)

“He's a little feck, he is,” Colin said. Both he and Tommy let forth with their operatic laughs, punched Declan some more and kicked off their black boots.

It was the Evil Twins who indirectly caused the first real fight between Declan and me and made me realize that it's no fun being in a skirmish with Declan. Absolutely no fun. Not that I ever thought brawling with my old boyfriends was, technically, a walloping good time, but there was some satisfaction there. They would actually fight with me. Steven, especially, in his coked-up, alcoholic way would dramatically throw gin bottles and smash framed pictures. There was an order to our fights—the initial accusations, the yelling, the smashing, the crescendo and then eventually the promises to change and the electrifying make-up sex.

Declan, on the other hand, merely listened to me rail, announced that I was right, and promised that things would change. Where's the gratification in that?

The day the Evil Twins arrived, the four of us hung out on our balcony drinking beers and trading stories, but I could tell they needed guy-time, so I sent them off into the night and told them to have fun. At two in the morning, I woke up and started to wonder. At 4:00 a.m., I started to worry. By six, I was in an utter panic. It's the usual story—I called his cell phone and left ten million messages that progressed from a chipper, if slightly nervous,
“Hi, give me a buzz,”
to a bellowing,
“You asshole! If you don't call me to let me know you're okay, I'll call off the wedding!”

By the time he strolled in with the Evil Twins at seven in the morning, all of them reeking of cigarettes and alcohol and Mexican food, I was on the phone with the police
department, sure that he'd either been arrested for DUI or was in a body bag waiting for me to identify him.

The Evil Twins took one look at my bulging eyes and the prominent veins in my neck and ambled right back out the door to get coffee.

“Where the hell were you?” I screamed.

Declan paused, as if considering what the right answer might be. “Well, uh…” He stopped and began to yawn, but when he caught my expression, he clapped his mouth shut. “We went to the Whiskey,” he said, “and then some other bar on Sunset, and then we left and got something to eat at—”

“I don't care where you were!” I yelled, although I realized somewhere in the back of my mind that I'd just demanded that information. “I want to know why you didn't call me to tell me you weren't dead! I thought you were on the side of the fucking road!”

For emphasis, I picked up the coffee mug Declan loved so much, the one that had been his grandfather's, and hurled it across the room. (It landed short of the wall and bounced lamely on the carpet, not even chipping). And then I waited for Declan to pounce back at me. I was a boxer in a ring, having landed the first blow, waiting to take one myself.

But instead, Declan said, “You're absolutely right,” while he rubbed his red eyes in a desultory way. “I should have called. God, I'm sorry I made you worry.”

“You should be!” I said, still yelling, although there was no reason.

“I'm so lucky to have you,” he said, completely undefensive.

There was little else to say except, “Mmm, hmm. That's right. You
are
lucky.” I looked around, but there was nothing else in proximity that would break if I threw it. And then I looked at Declan, who was so hungover, it was painful
to gaze at him. “So anyway…” I said, itching for another point I could bring up, something I could shout about.

“You're the best, love,” he said, pecking me on the cheek before he hustled into the bathroom to throw up.

O
n the morning of the wedding, Margaux came to my room. We were at the bed-and-breakfast, where most of the guests were staying as well. I felt as if I was hopped up on speed. My eyes were too big when I looked in the mirror; I was too aware, moving too fast.

“What's going on downstairs?” I asked her. The B and B served breakfast in their sunroom, and I knew Declan was probably there, along with our thirty or so guests.

“The twins are in the kitchen bugging the cook, and Declan is pacing around the lawn.”

I peeked out the curtained window of my room, hoping for a glimpse of him, but saw nothing except the rubbery grass of the backyard.

“So are you sure you're ready to do this?” Margaux said. She flopped onto my bed and leaned back on her hands. She was wearing jeans and a white tank top over her too-thin frame, her fuzzy blondish-brown hair tousled around her head.

“What are you talking about?” I said, skittering around the room.

“You know. Do you want to do this so fast?”

I froze with my hand on the closet door, then spun around to face her. “Are you kidding? You
know
I want to do this. Why are you asking me this now?”

She shrugged and picked at the bedspread.

“Is it Peter?” I'd been friends with Margaux long enough to know that she often projected her worries, her concerns, her neuroses on to other people and their situations. We'd had fifteen years of friendship at that point, fifteen years since Margaux first cozied up to a bar stool near mine and gave me her story.

It was Christmas Eve, and we were both home from college in our junior year. We'd grown up only blocks from each other, but because she'd attended private schools and I public, we'd never met. I had gone to the bar that evening after the solitary celebration Emmie and I shared. Emmie had four brothers, and often we went to one of their places for the holidays, but she wanted to stay home that year. Having nothing better to do, I walked into the chilly night and landed at the corner bar, sitting on a stool, eating peanuts, making sporadic conversation with the bartender.

I was just about to leave when Margaux burst in. “I'll have gin and tonic,” she said to the bartender, throwing her slouchy brown purse on the bar.

“Lemon or lime?” he said.

“Neither, and now that I think about it, hold the tonic, too.”

The bartender gave her the drink. She took two gulps and turned toward me. “I hate my family.”

I would later learn that her dad was a meek science professor at a private boys' school in the city, and her mother a perpetually depressed, passive-aggressive woman who said
little, but was able to make scores of people unhappy. Her mother was the one with the money, having inherited it, and so the whole family kowtowed to her.

“Bad night?” I said.

“My mother is a freak. She wears her perfect dress and her perfect smile, but she's seething underneath, and we all tiptoe around her, hoping she won't blow. My father doesn't say a goddamn thing!” She took another sip of her drink. “Bad night for you, too, huh? Your parents are assholes, right?”

Before I could say that it wasn't so much bad as uneventful, maybe lonely, she was off again, complaining about her sisters and her paternal grandmother who all catered to her depressed, wealthy mother. By the end of the night, when Margaux had calmed down, I would tell her why I was there alone. I would tell her about Emmie and my parents' accident.

Margaux and I moved from there right into a best-friend situation, as if our friendship had been sitting on the corner of 92
^nd
and 5
^th
waiting for us to find it all along. She would go from college to traveling the world and finally to law school, where she would meet Peter, her Chinese husband, who was a brilliant man and an amazing dresser but had little sense of humor. I would attend my master's program and struggle with my designs. We would grow into adulthood together. But Margaux always had that same tendency I'd noticed that first night, to assume her problems were shared by most of the world.

So now, in my room on the morning of my wedding, I said, “What's up with Peter?”

“He's not coming.”

“What?” Peter was supposed to fly in that morning, in time for the afternoon ceremony.

“He's got post-trial motions due. He says he can't get away. I'm sorry.”

“It's okay,” I said, which was absolutely true. Peter and I hung out when we had to because he was married to Margaux, but we would never have been friends without that connection. “I'm sorry for you,” I said. “I know you were looking forward to getting some time alone with him.”

“I was looking forward to getting pregnant!” She swiped away an angry tear. “How in the hell am I supposed to get knocked up if he's not here for me to have sex with?”

Silently, I wondered what kind of father Peter would be since he was never around. I sat next to Margaux on the bed. I rubbed her hand.

“We've got issues,” she said.

“Then why are you trying to get pregnant?”

“Because it could change everything. I know that sounds crazed, but I think if we had a baby, everything would have to change.”

“Maybe it should change
first.
”

Margaux looked at me with a forlorn face. She had green-blue eyes that seemed as if they might spill over with more tears any minute. “I'm sorry,” she said, starting to cry in earnest now. “I'm such a bad friend. It's your wedding. My God! Why didn't you tell me to shut up?”

I smoothed her hair. “Don't worry about it.”

She brusquely wiped her eyes with her fingers. “All right. Enough of that. You're getting married today!”

“I know!” I shot up from the bed and back into my speed-addict mode. I dug in my suitcase for my earrings, but then remembered my mother's blue handkerchief I wanted to wrap around my flowers, and I ran over to my other bag and started rooting around for that.

“Kyr,” I heard Margaux say from the bed.

“Yeah?” I had just remembered my new lacy, white La Perla underwear. Where was that? Had I unpacked it already?

“Kyr, stop,” Margaux said.

I swung around. “What? What?”

“You're going to be a stunning bride, you know that? And you and Declan are going to live happily ever after. You're going to be the ones who do it.”

“I know,” I said.

Margaux shot off the bed and hugged me.

 

You've probably seen the wedding photos already. It was that asshole photographer who sold them to the magazines.

He was a short little guy, who was insistent in terms of price and his “vision” for the photographs. I didn't care about his height, of course, and I took the insistence in stride, assuming that he, like Dec and myself, was trying to make a living at his art. I wanted to help him out, and honestly, I didn't care what angles he shot the photos from. Yet later I would see him not so much as short and insistent but as a Napoleonic, wheedling, opportunistic prick. He showed us the proofs about four weeks after the wedding, and he actually sent all the photos we picked out, but the negatives were absent. When Dec hit it big with
Normandy,
the Napoleonic photographer stopped answering my calls. A few weeks later, the photos appeared in three magazines.

So, you've probably seen the shot of me walking down the aisle with Emmie, who was leaning heavily on her cane and dressed in an ivory cashmere sweater and a long golden skirt I'd designed. You might have seen the shot of her leaning in to kiss my cheek and whisper in my ear, “My sweet-heart, my little girl, I want you to always hold on to the love you two have. Hold on very, very tight.”

You've probably also seen Declan standing by his best men, the Evil Twins, all three of them handsome in rented black tuxes, the twins with green-and-yellow-plaid bow ties I couldn't talk them out of. And you've probably seen
Margaux, as my matron of honor, and all the guests like Bobby and Aunt Donna and Declan's agent, Max. Although I was horrified when those photos were splashed across the magazines, I secretly hoped that people at least liked my dress, with its gathered chiffon bodice and silky, flowing skirt. I hoped everyone noticed how happy we were in those photos, how our eyes gleamed bright, our smiles stretched wide.

The photo I often study most is the one of Declan and me during our first dance on the lawn. In the background, you see our friends—Emmie holding Bobby's arm for support, Margaux laughing with the Evil Twins, Liz Morgan and her husband—but most importantly I hope you see how blissful we were as we looked into each other's eyes, how content. I stare at that photo often because I am now acutely aware that it was one of the few moments of peace Declan and I had before the circus invaded our lives.

A
fter the wedding, a whole new kind of busyness set in. We had a short honeymoon at the B and B in La Jolla, where we talked of little else but the wedding and the shenanigans at the reception. (Like Margaux getting rip-roaring drunk and propositioning Tommy. In the bathroom, I had to convince her that her plan to get “knocked up” by the carrot-topped Tommy and then trying to pass off the baby as her Chinese husband's wouldn't be prudent.) When we got home, we had thank-you notes to write, we had unpacking to do, we had backloads of laundry to haul to the basement washer.

We also had to devise a plan to dig us out of debt to the caterers, the band, the B and B and, of course, the Napoleonic-asshole-photographer-who-would-later-betray-us. In order to do this, Dec's friend who managed the Groundlings theater gave him a job working the box office. For my part, Rosita helped get me a freelance gig at one of the fabric trade shows downtown. Mostly, I stood behind a booth of suede swatches and looked pretty, but I
felt happy to be anywhere near the fashion world, happy to be contributing incomewise, happy to be married. In the downtimes, I sat behind the booth and scribbled menu items for a Thanksgiving dinner for Declan and me. I thought about Christmas coming up in a month, how I would decorate the whole apartment with all the kitschy holiday crap I'd collected over the years.

The premiere for
Normandy
was imminent, too, only a few days after Thanksgiving, although Declan was expecting even less from this film than the recently released one with Lauren Stapleton. (That movie had completely tanked at the box office, which saddened me on behalf of Declan yet made me maliciously gleeful when I thought of Lauren.)

No matter what Dec said about
Normandy,
though, I was looking forward to it, because for the first time, he had the lead role.
Normandy
was a World War II movie that was actually made before the film with Lauren, but wasn't released until later because of concerns about the political climate in the U. S. and whether the public would embrace a war story. The director, Kaz Lameric, is a big-name Hollywood director, but for some reason he had a hard time getting a studio interested in the film. He'd put up a large sum of his own money, took a risk on a relative unknown like Declan, spent years making it, and now the movie was finally opening.

In short, life had returned to blissful normality following the wedding. I've gone back and counted the days. There were sixteen days when we were like anyone else—planning the holidays, worrying about money, juggling our opposite schedules. I can't say that everything shifted massively when
Normandy
came out, but certainly that was the cataclysmic event in our lives. Did we sense it even a little as we got ready for the premiere that night? Did I notice any
tremors in the earth as I applied pink lip gloss with a tiny wand? Did I feel it even a little as I put on my vintage 1940s dress with the atomic print, which I thought might be perfect for the event? Did Declan know when he came behind me in the mirror and kissed my neck?

I think the answer, unfortunately, is no. But I wish we had wondered that night. I wish we'd had some inkling that it was all about to change. Because I might have stopped worrying about my shoe choice. I might have taken one last look around the apartment before we left so I could remember the basic, boring,
wonderful
life we had just started to create.

 

The premiere for
Normandy
was similar to the one for Declan's movie with Lauren, in that the red carpet was rather short (it was also rather orange-looking and thin, too), and although there were photographers and reporters and a few curious fans lined up outside the theater, it wasn't out of control.

Maybe it was simply that Declan and I were slightly more used to the flashing cameras, the shouted questions, the occasional scream from a fan. I felt perfectly comfortable in my atomic-print dress, knowing Lauren and her oatmeal skyscraperness weren't about to swoop in and insult me.

Declan, too, had prepared better for this premiere. I noticed that he had answers ready for the reporters. Yes, he said at least fifteen times, it was a privilege to work with someone like Kaz Lameric. It was an experience he'd never forget. And yes, it was an honor to play the part of a heroic World War II veteran, and then he'd quip, “Although I wasn't so thrilled to be playing a Brit.” That got smiles from the reporters, while I stood to his side, chuckling each time like a trained monkey.

This time, no one asked who I was wearing, but that was fine with me. It was Declan's night, and I was content in the background.

We were shown to our seats in a special section of the theater. Kaz Lameric was already there, and he and Declan hugged and thumped each other on the back enthusiastically. Declan introduced me as “his wife,” which made me stand taller. I loved it when he said that. I was throwing around the word
husband
like crazy, too. I whipped it out in grocery stores (“Can you please give me a little more turkey? My husband goes through it like crazy”) and whenever people complimented me on my ring (“My husband chose it himself”).
Husband
was a magical word, I'd discovered. Simply say it, and I perked up like a cut flower placed in water.

Kaz Lameric and I made brief conversation before the movie started. He was a shorter, powerful-looking man with gray hair combed back and thick, black eyeglasses. “Kyra, it's lovely to meet you,” he said, holding my hand lightly but looking into my eyes with an intensity that was gripping. “And let me tell you something about your husband.” That word again. I nodded eagerly and leaned toward him.

“The movie is better than they think,” he said, “and
he's
better than they know.” He nodded sagely at Declan. I could see that the rumors about Kaz's magnetism were true, but I found his spin doctoring a little sad. There weren't big hopes for the movie, after all. It seemed as if he was trying to convince himself.

I told him how nice it was to meet him and took my seat next to Declan. When the movie started, I was thinking about the fabric show, and what time I'd have to get up the next morning. The opening credits didn't help—white letters on a black screen, while classical music, which was haunting and fairly sleep-inducing, played in the background.

I was rooting through my purse for lip gloss when I
heard a collective gasp from the audience. I looked up to see the opening shot—a panoramic view of a battlefield littered with bodies of soldiers, while one British soldier stood alone. Slowly, the camera closed in on him, on Declan, and his weeping face.

Declan's voice, in a British accent, filled the theater.
Five days can change a man,
he said.
It can rip from his life what he holds most dear, and yet those days can teach him something. Powerful lessons he might never have learned.

The camera swept away, the image of the battlefield twisted and swirled and was replaced by a scene of joking British soldiers preparing to leave for the shores of Normandy. Declan's character, William Huntington, is quickly established as the smiling, laughing life of the party, the one the other soldiers respect and emulate. He is shallow, the early scenes show, and somewhat haughty and quick to judge people, but a good guy underneath.

The happy scenes quickly end when the troop tries to reach the shores of Normandy. William's best buddy, Randolph, is killed, along with many others, a loss that turns William violent and angry. After much bloodshed, they finally make their way to land, where William is sent off by his commanding officer to take a message to an American general. William resents the assignment, which he sees as making him simply an errand boy. He wants to stay with his platoon and fight, but the commanding officer insists. William stomps off into the French countryside, handsome and angry.

It was at this point I dragged my eyes away from the screen and glanced at Declan, because the man on-screen didn't look like my husband. I looked back and noticed how his face was scrunched up in an irritated, British sort of way. I had assumed, by that time in our relationship, that I knew every expression Declan possessed, but I barely recognized the man in that shot.

I turned to Dec again. “You're amazing,” I said. “I'm in awe.”

Declan's face broke into a huge grin. “You like it then?”

“It's stunning.”

This wasn't some statement made by a wife to bolster her husband. The film was shot beautifully, and the editing was perfection—the touching scenes lingering, the battle scenes choppy and harsh. Most of all, Declan was unbelievable. He was evocative, he was gorgeous, he was real. The movie with Lauren hadn't allowed him much range. I'd had no idea how fantastic an actor he was.

The movie continued. Trials and tribulations abound while William tries to locate the American regiment. When he does, the Americans encounter gunfire, and William is forced to fight side by side with the foreign troops. Without the men he was trained with, he feels lost, and he has to learn to rely on the American men. In a particularly poignant scene, William puts himself in the line of fire to save Tim, an American who had befriended him. Unfortunately, he fails to save him, and Tim dies in his arms. William, himself, suffers a shoulder wound, which he nurses as he eventually makes his way back to his own unit. When he reaches them, he finds that they have all been killed. He would have died as well if he hadn't been sent on that mission.

The movie ended where it started—with William's voice-over, while he gazes at the sea of bodies, wondering about the randomness of life and the lessons that one is sometimes forced to learn. The last shot of William's face tugged hard at my insides, not because my husband was weeping on-screen, but because it
wasn't
my husband. Declan had transformed himself, somehow. He was William Huntington. He was a heartbroken shell of a man.

When the lights went on, I covered my face.

“What is it?” Dec said, putting his arm around me.

I didn't want to cry, but I couldn't help it. Partly it was the movie, the staggering losses that William went through, but partly it was Declan, too. I was so proud of him, so unbelievably proud I thought I might combust. I couldn't believe I was married to him.

“Tell me,” Declan said. “What do you think? Did you like the ending?”

“You were amazing,” I said.

“Yeah?” His golden-brown eyes were glittery, excited. I knew how much this meant to him. Although he wanted fame and fortune, it wasn't as important as critical acceptance.

I glanced around at the rest of the theater and saw a number of people dabbing at their eyes, saying, “Oh, my God.” I think I knew then that Declan would get everything he wanted.