The Year of Living Famously (24 page)

O
scar night, it turns out, is really Oscar day. Declan and I were both up by six.

“Sleep?” I said to Dec, expecting to hear the now usual, “Nah.”

But he blinked at me and smiled. “It was brilliant. I didn't wake up once.”

We both worked out in our new gym—Declan on the StairMaster, me on the treadmill. I missed the mornings when I would run around the Venice canals and down the beach to watch the surfers. There was something pointless about a treadmill, something inherently frustrating, but I needed to feel my best today, so I trudged through the half hour.

At eight, Graham stopped by to wish Declan luck. “If you lose, just smile and clap,” he said, “but you should know I think you deserve the statue.”

The two men hugged. For the briefest of moments, Declan turned his head to the side and rested it on Graham's shoulder. It seemed as though Graham had become the fa
ther Declan always wanted—someone who was around, someone who was unconditionally supportive. Once or twice I had thought to point out to Dec that he paid Graham to act that way, but it seemed cruel, and I really did believe that Graham adored Declan just as much.

Graham left to do his own Oscar preparations, and within an hour after that, a team of aestheticians were at the house to give us calming facials, manicures, makeup jobs and a pedicure for me. Declan's stylist arrived next. I'd selected Declan's clothes for the evening—a black Armani suit with sharp lapels, along with a shirt and tie the color of heavy cream. The stylist, however, would make sure the tie was straight, the shoes buffed. She would help him decide about a handkerchief or maybe Declan's pocket watch from his grandfather.

While Declan conferred with his stylist, I was having a princess moment. A representative of Harry Winston had set up shop in our living room and was displaying millions of dollars' worth of diamonds. I could choose any of these baubles to wear for the evening. I would have to return them, of course, but that didn't make the decision any easier. Should I, for example, select the three-tiered choker or maybe the serpentlike bracelet that snaked up the arm? A tiara seemed too much, but I couldn't help trying it on. Finally, I chose teardrop diamond earrings and a platinum rope bracelet with inset diamonds. I resisted the necklaces, not wanting anything to compete with the circle-of-diamonds pin (also by Harry), which would sit at the shoulder.

At last it was time to get dressed and into the limo. “Ready?” I said to Declan, kissing him on the nose. We were in the foyer, and we were too dressed up and made up for any real contact.

“Yeah,” he said. “I think I'm okay. You look gorgeous, love.”

“You, too.” He was, quite simply, dashing in the dark suit, the ivory shirt, his golden eyes gleaming and expectant.

There were two stretch limos outside the house. We got in the first one. A few of the publicists, who would maneuver us through the red carpet and the many interviews, rode in the second limo. The other publicists were already at the Kodak Theatre.

Declan and I held hands, squeezing them every so often. “I can't believe I'm going to the Academy Awards,” I said.

“I can't believe I'm nominated,” he said.

The ride swept along at a fast pace. In no time, we turned onto Highland Avenue, only a few miles from the Kodak.

“Almost there,” Declan said. “Shit.” He started bouncing one of his legs, then biting his lip. He squeezed my hand again and again.

But then the limo ground to a halt. The divider slid down. Adam, sitting in the front with the driver, said, “Get comfortable. It's going to be a while.”

“Why?” Declan said.

“Traffic. Everyone's lined up to get to the entrance.”

“Well, how long?”

Adam conferred with the driver. “Could be an hour, maybe more.”

“An hour?” Declan sounded anguished. “Let's just walk.”

“You're not walking,” Adam said, sounding very much like a parent. “We can't cover you if you're walking. It's too crazy.”

Dec got on the phone and called the publicists in the other limo, who, in turn, called the publicists who were already at the theater, all of whom were adamant that he not get out of the car. They had to time his arrival exactly right so he didn't compete with the other big stars.

“Shit,” he said. “What are we supposed to do for an hour?”

“Call your parents,” I said. “We were supposed to do that anyway before we left.”

We spent fifteen minutes talking to Declan's parents and sister, but that still left lots of time.

“Let's call someone else,” he said, looking at his watch.

I tried Emmie's number. A man's voice answered. “MacKenzie?” I said.

“Hello, Kyra!”

“Hi. Is Emmie having people over?”

“No, just the two of us.”

“Oh.” I'd never known Emmie to have single men to her place. It was as if Britton was the only man who could fill that role, and if he wouldn't, then no one else would be invited. But apparently, MacKenzie was different.

Emmie got on the phone, thrilled to hear from us, flattered that we'd called. She talked to Declan mostly, and I'm not sure what she said, but he seemed calmer when he hung up. The phone rang again. It was the publicists who were already at the theater. Wait a little longer, they said. It was too early.

“Too early for what?” Declan said.

Believe us, the publicists said, you don't want to be early. Just trust us. So we sat there. By the time they gave us the okay to get out of the car, I was already exhausted.

 

Pandemonium reigned when we opened the door, making most of our previous red-carpet encounters seem like church socials. This red carpet was huge and glutted with beautiful people, shouting reporters and looming video cameras. Above us, balconies had been built to hold the reporters from the entertainment-news shows. Strangely, some of the reporters on the carpet had little stations where they had to stand, their names written on a card at their feet. It was as if these people were museum pieces. I liked that they couldn't move away from their card, couldn't rush Declan, but the yelling flustered me, and they were
all
yelling. “Declan! Kyra! Just one question! Please!” It didn't matter what they screamed, though, because Declan and I had lit
tle input in who we spoke to. That was the job of the publicists, who decided precisely who we would have a discussion with and for exactly how long.

Like the Golden Globes, there was a wall of photographers here, but this one somewhat resembled the Berlin Wall before it fell—formidable and imposing. The photographers shouted our names; they shouted questions—
How do you feel tonight? Can you believe you're here? Who are you wearing?

Between the overwhelming amount of people and lights, not to mention the heat and the fact that I hadn't used the bathroom in over two hours, I started to feel light-headed. It was all too much. But I kept that smile taped to my face; I remembered not to smush my arms against my body; I remembered to put one foot in front of the other and follow Declan down the carpet.

We were being interviewed by
Entertainment Weekly,
and photographed by a certain section of the wall of photographers, when the reporter suddenly went wide-eyed. I turned to find Kendall Gold.

“Kyra!” she yelled. She pulled me into a tight hug. “What do you think?” She twirled around in her pink dress. The low back was achingly sexy and the halter neck showed off her tanned, toned shoulders. Her hair was twisted up in an elaborate updo.

“You look gorgeous,” I said.

“Dress by Kyra Felis!” she announced to the crowd, striking a pose with her arms outstretched.

The cameras flashed crazily. “Let's get you two together!” the photographers yelled. We posed, and I felt inordinately proud. My own fashion publicist must have seized the moment, because within minutes, she was at our side looking sweaty and harried, but with CeCe Springfield, Hannah Briscoe and Lauren Stapleton (along with all
their
publicists)
in tow. “All these dresses were designed by Kyra Felis,” my publicist announced.

The photographers responded, hungrily shooting film, but I couldn't smile, couldn't even respond, because Lauren
wasn't
wearing my dress. Instead, she had on a skin-toned gown with an ugly asymmetrical wing on the front, which, I supposed, was intended to be postmodern.

Before I could say anything, Lauren had beaten me there. “Oh, I'm not wearing Kyra's dress,” she said mischievously.

The reporters and photographers near us seemed to sense something good on the horizon, and they all went silent.

“No, I'm wearing Mehta Vamp,” Lauren said, naming a new designer who had been written up recently in
Bazaar.
“I had to go with a true professional for the Oscars.”

I blinked. I licked my lips. Had she just said that? She had not only insulted me, but she'd insulted Kendall, Hannah and CeCe, who had worn my dresses. The photographers began snapping their cameras again, the reporters began shouting, most asking if there was a “feud” between Lauren and me. I glanced around for Dec, but he was standing four feet away with a reporter from
People.

Kendall Gold stepped in front of Lauren, elbowing her out of the way. “The only feud going on today,” she said, “is the war between good fashion and bad. Here's a sample of the good, boys.” She pulled CeCe, Hannah and me close to her. “Smile big,” she whispered to me. “I mean really flash those teeth.”

So I did. And the cameras went wild for the four of us pushed together and beaming. By the time I turned around, Lauren was being hurried away by her PR people.

After that encounter, I was ready to get inside the theater and maybe hide in a bathroom stall for a few hours, but instead, Declan and I gave what seemed like a thousand more interviews, posed for a million more pictures.

At one point, we were close to the huge glut of screaming fans that was held back by black barricades. “Declan! Declan!” they yelled. They held out his photograph and felt-tipped pens. They clicked their disposable cameras. I noticed a couple of women crying.

“C'mere, Kyr,” Declan said. He took my hand and rushed us through a line of security men toward the fans. I glanced behind and saw Denny and Adam running after us, speaking into their radios, looking concerned and pissed off.

“Are you sure?” I said. I wanted nothing more than a vodka tonic and my seat in the theater, and the truth was, the intensity of these people scared me. Why did they love Declan so much when they didn't know him?

“Just for a second, love,” Declan said. “It only seems fair.”

I nodded. It was only fair that I do what Declan wanted at that moment. It was his night.

The fans went wild when we reached them. They shoved their photos and pieces of paper into Declan's hands, begging him to sign. More cried. They surged forward toward him as if one body. They yelled, “I love you! I love you!” Declan autographed anything they put in his hands. He was used to it by now; he could sign his name in a second and move on to the next. I stood by his side, smiling as kindly as I could, trying not to be freaked out by the whole spectacle.

“Kyra!” I heard from my left. “Will you sign this?” I could see a pair of arms outstretched over the barricade, and I could see in those hands a copy of the article that had been written about me in
Kate
magazine. Not my favorite, but what the hell, I thought.

I moved from Declan's side, and took the article from the woman. She wore a purple floppy hat pulled low over her forehead. “There you go,” I said after I'd signed it.

She pushed the hat back, and instead of taking the mag
azine, she grabbed my wrist. Tight. I realized then that this woman was familiar. It was her dark, dark eyes and the frosty pink lipstick.

“You're…” I said.

“Amy Rose,” she replied, giving me an eerie smile that only barely lifted the corners of her mouth. I suppose the woman's heart-shaped face would have been pleasing to some. She had a small chin, wide cheekbones and those large, dark eyes. But to me, she looked devilish, evil.

I tried to pull my hand away. “Excuse me.”

She held firm to my wrist. I felt the sharp, jagged edges of her nails pinching my skin. “I've got to tell you something,” she said. “It's time for you to go.”

“What—”

“That's right,” I heard an authoritative voice say from behind me. It was Denny, thank God. “It's time for her to go.” He grabbed me by the shoulders and wrenched me away. I glanced to my right and saw Adam urging Declan away from the crowd.

“That was Amy Rose,” I whispered to Declan when he reached me, but he was already on to another interview.

 

By the time we got to the doors of the Kodak, I was a mess.

“What? What is it?” Declan said, finally catching on to my stricken expression.