The Year of Living Famously (28 page)

“Look, this isn't really your fault,” she said.

Yeah, you think so?

“I'm seriously sorry about this.” Amy Rose bit her lip and gave me an apologetic look. She moved a little closer. “It's just that I know you're the one keeping him away from
me. I know that when you get out of his life I'll be the one living here with him. You see what I mean?”

You fucking freak
is what I wanted to say. Instead, I said, “Sure. Well, why don't I leave now and you can just wait for him.”

She chuckled again. “Do you think I'm stupid?”

No, just deranged. Or, as Dec would say, “unhinged.” “Of course not.”

She took a deep breath, her hands moving again in her pockets. “I'm sorry to do this.” She took a step forward, then halted. “I'm
really
sorry.”

She charged at me then. Her hands came out of the pockets, and I saw a shiny silver blade. Incongruously, I thought,
She doesn't have a gun?
I was relieved for a half second before I saw her arm jutting toward me with the knife. I rolled over on the couch and jumped to a standing position. Her arm was buried deep in the couch, but she dug the knife out.

“Please don't make this so hard,” she said like a doctor trying to give a six-year-old a tetanus shot.

I took a step back, ready to run for the kitchen or the front door, but I had backed into another one of our new end tables. She was only two feet from me. She shifted her hand position on the knife and held it tightly in her raised fist. She charged again. In that instant, I caught a glimmer of the wine bottle at my feet. I ducked to pick it up, making her crash into the end table and miss me again. Before she could turn around, I grabbed the bottle, raised it high and brought it down hard on her head.

M
argaux had heard enough through the phone to call the LAPD. They were at the house, along with the ambulance, within minutes. Amy Rose woke up when the paramedics leaned over her to check her pulse. She blinked when she saw the commotion in the room.

“Ma'am,” one of the paramedics said, “do you know where you are?”

She turned her head until she saw me. Then she began to sob.

It took hours to sort everything out. The paramedics treated Amy Rose for a possible concussion, then took her to the hospital for observation, the scream of their siren echoing down Mulholland Drive. The police questioned me and collected evidence, and by that time, Declan had arrived home via a chartered private plane.

“Kyra,” he said, running into the living room where I sat on a chair next to a policeman. His eyes were anguished and red. He pulled me to my feet and hugged me tight. “Are you all right?”

I nodded. “I'm fine.”

But when everyone left thirty minutes later, I told him, “I can't do this anymore.”

We were still in the living room, and I sat curled in Declan's arms. It was the only place I wanted to be, and yet I knew this was also where so many others wanted to be. And those others would always intrude on our lives one way or another.

“We'll beef up the security system,” Declan said.

“We already have a state-of-the-art system and it was my fault I didn't set it.”

“We'll have overnight guards.”

“Dec. Listen. I want fewer people in our lives, not more.” I burrowed my face deep into his chest, breathing in the scent of him. It brought tears to my eyes.

“Well, we'll do something else.”

“What?”

There was an awful silence.

“Are you going to quit being an actor?” I asked.

“What? No, but—”

“And I wouldn't want you to. It's just that…It's just that I don't want to live like this anymore.”

“And I'm saying we'll make some changes.”

“Will it change how many people are constantly in our house? Will it stop the paparazzi from hounding us? Will it really change anything?”

Another painful quiet.

“It won't matter, hon,” I said. “It won't stop people from always wanting something from you, always being all over us.” I squeezed my eyes shut before I could say my next words. “I think we need to be apart, at least for a while.”

His body froze. “Don't say that.”

“I think we need it. I think
I
need it.” I thought of how I'd been able to live with ease for that day in New York.

“Look here.” He held me slightly away from him and stared intently in my eyes. “We're not giving up on this. I won't let you.”

“I just want to be away from this for a while.”

The anguish in his eyes flared. “You can't just move out.”

“I don't want to, but I have to. I love you, baby. You know that, but I'm so tired of this.”

“Then go with me somewhere, someplace we can talk. We'll have a holiday together, some space. You owe that to me, love. My God, you can't leave me.”

“Where would we go? There are always people around.”

“Hong Kong, Tibet, Peru, I don't care. Shit, love, I'll go to Minneapolis. You pick. We won't tell anyone. And we'll try to sort this out. Just give me a week, all right?”

I stared at his brown tousled hair and the gold of his eyes, thinking that only one year ago, I had met him in that casino. Only one year.

“Okay,” I said.

 

I chose Quogue, an odd-sounding place on Long Island, technically part of the much talked about Hamptons. But the village of Quogue was tiny and unassuming. It had no Armani or Prada stores, like East Hampton; it had no main drag filled with cutesy shops and cafés like West Hampton. Quogue had an inn, a liquor store, an overpriced grocery store and the beach.

I had been to Quogue when I was in my early twenties when I rented a share there. At the time, I was gravely disappointed with the place—we were so far from any of the happening restaurants or bars; there was nothing to do—but now, that was exactly what I wanted. Since it was the end of May, before Memorial Day when the annual pilgrimage to the Hamptons really began, I was able to find a rental on the beach that was an old Coast Guard station
converted into a house. From the pictures and details on the Internet, I could tell it had three bedrooms, a wraparound porch, a dune deck and, blessedly, its own private beach on the Atlantic. I booked the house over the Internet using the name Kyra Franklin (Emmie's last name).

We told no one of our plans. We simply said we were leaving for a week, that we wouldn't be available by phone or fax or pager or e-mail. This news was received with much shock, as if we'd confessed to enslaving small children in our basement. Wouldn't we call in once a day? they asked. No, Declan said. He wouldn't be around, wouldn't be reachable. Luckily, the film could spare him for seven days while they shot the scenes that concerned Tania Murray and her onscreen family. Alicia, my rep, was understanding—I think she'd sensed that I was near my cracking point—but she said I had patterns that needed to be approved for copies of the Oscar gowns, which at least ten department stores planned on carrying. I told her I trusted her to do it, zipped up my bag and shut off my cell phone.

We booked a private plane right into Westhampton Beach. We had the charter company arrange for a rental car, which was waiting for us on the small landing strip. We thanked the crew, got in the car and drove away toward our little house in Quogue, where no one knew us.

When we got there, the house was just as I'd imagined. Sparsely but cleanly furnished with wood floors, antique furniture and white walls. The focus of every room was the beach. We called the local store and had our groceries delivered. I paid for them at the front door, wearing a big, straw hat, just in case, but it seemed that we had finally gotten away with it. We'd finally scored a cache of time just for ourselves.

We slept in late in the mornings. Our master bedroom had its own porch with two chaise longues, and we read our books there every morning until we were hungry. I
ate pickles and peanuts. Declan made Irish oatmeal as thick as cement. We began cocktail hour promptly at three, then made late lunches. I sipped a crisp sauvignon blanc and Declan had a beer. We brought our meal out to the dune deck, suspended above the crash of the ocean. We played cards, we talked about little things we'd missed from each other's lives lately. We napped before dinner, a little drunk from our happy hour. Sometimes the nap included sleep, other times not. We made late dinners, we walked the beach barefoot, we laughed together for the first time in months.

Dec and I did not talk about the separation I'd suggested. I think he was hoping it would float away on a salty ocean breeze. I must have been pining for the same thing, because little by little the rest of the world receded. I felt normal again. I felt as if I was in an average, happy marriage. Maybe weeks like this were what we needed.

The only person I called that week was Bobby. I used my cell phone from the deck one day while Declan took a walk. Bobby was supposed to have a big meeting at William Morris—something
huge
he had said, something that could get him promoted—and I wanted to wish him luck. He wasn't there, but I left him a message about Quogue, about the house, about how happy I was.

On our last full day, it was hot and gorgeous. Declan started happy hour a little early and promptly fell deep asleep on a chaise longue. I decided to get more sun before I went back to L. A., where, strangely, I spent most of my time indoors. I took two magazines and went over the dune to the beach. I lay down a towel and flopped onto my stomach, just another girl in a bikini and straw hat. I untied my bikini to get some sun on my back. The gown I planned on wearing to an upcoming premiere was backless. I paged through
Vogue
and
Vanity Fair.
When the print began to
make me drowsy, I took my hat off and rested my head on my arms. The heat sank into my body, into my mind. It filled all the empty spaces. I sighed and closed my eyes.

Soon, I heard the sound of a helicopter, one of the many that shuttled people to and from their beach homes.

But then the
thwack, thwack, thwack
of the blades became undeniably closer, until it sounded as if it was almost on top of me. The sand started to whip. I got up and turned around to figure out what was happening, and my untied bikini top slid off with the movement.

I held a hand up to protect myself from the sand that was now stinging my skin. There, hovering above me, was not one helicopter but two. Men with telephoto lenses hung out of each, snapping pictures of my now topless body. I grabbed at one of the flapping magazines. It tore off in my hand, leaving me with only a flimsy page. I tried to cover my breasts with it. I reached for my towel, but it flew away in the fierce winds of the helicopters blades.

“Declan!” I screamed, but I didn't know if he could hear me over the ferocious rumble of the engines. I ran toward the stairs that would lead me to the house, but the helicopters got lower. The sand swirled furiously around me until I couldn't see where I was going. I was disoriented and panicked, screaming for help, lost in a sea of sand, and yet somewhere a realization dawned.

Bobby. It had been Bobby all along.

It was Bobby who'd done this, who was leaking our comings and goings to the press. He was the only one who knew where we were. The only one who I'd never suspected. He was my friend.

Crying now, I kept running in the cloud of sand. Where were the stairs? My feet slipped out from under me, and I went down, face-first, in the sand. I felt an arm lift me up. I fought against it. Was it one of the photographers somehow? But when I stood up, I saw it was Declan.

“Let's go!” he yelled. He pulled me until we found the stairs. We ran up them, and then Declan began sprinting toward the house. “C'mon,” he yelled when I didn't chase after him.

The helicopters had an even better view of us now that the sandstorm had died down and we were on the deck. They hovered above us, shooting, shooting.

“Kyra, c'mon!” Declan screamed.

But I only walked calmly, still covering my chest with a now lifeless magazine page.

D
eclan fought against my decision. He suggested counseling, but I reminded him that there were no therapists who specialized in celebrity acclimation. He offered to move to another house in L. A., somewhere more secluded, but we both knew they'd find us eventually. Declan said things would improve now that we knew it was Bobby who had been telling the paparazzi where we'd be, but I knew if it wasn't Bobby, it would be someone else, and after a while Dec stopped arguing against that fact.

We both knew that Declan was on the upswing of a very long career, one he wanted desperately, one filled with an absurd amount of fame and acclaim. It was a life filled with an extraordinary amount of people. There was always a potential that one of them would be another Bobby, and even if every staff member and family member and friend was perfectly trustworthy for the rest of our lives, the hounding by the press wouldn't stop. It might lessen without the leaks, but it would never cease. And I simply didn't want that life any more.

“It won't ever get better,” I said. We were in our bed, and I was curled up in a ball, facing him. My eyes felt heavy and grit-filled. My throat hurt from talking, from crying. “No matter how much I love you, I can't do this every day.”

“Don't,” he said, not bothering to wipe his own tears that
tracked from his golden eyes down his cheeks and into the corners of his mouth. But I noticed that he had run out of answers.

 

For most people, I imagine that moving back into the room where you spent your childhood would be either mortifying or comforting. For me, it was neither. I moved my clothes and my design work into Emmie's place. I found a new rep in Manhattan (Alicia would continue to represent me in L. A.), and I hired a new assistant. I was glad to have a place to go, relieved to be back in New York and thrilled to be alone. But something was off. Emmie, for example, was often in upstate New York with MacKenzie. She tried to spend more time in Manhattan after I moved back, but I didn't want to disrupt her new life, and I was lousy company. Margaux was always back and forth from Denver to New York with her new job.

But it wasn't that I missed Emmie or Margaux so much; I missed Declan. He was home for me—not L. A., not even Manhattan anymore—and I'd lost my home.

 

I think Bobby finally figured out that I knew. His text messages had gone from
Where the hell are you? Miss you,
to
Kyr, call me,
to simply
We have to talk.

I sent him just one—
Fuck you.

Then about a month and a half after I'd moved back to Manhattan, he left a message on my cell phone.

“Kyr,” he said, “it's me.” His voice sounded heavy, old. I wondered for a moment if someone had died. “I'm in town visiting a client. I know you're probably here in the city, so just meet me, will you? I'll be at the lobby bar of the Royalton at six. I'll wait for an hour. Come talk to me, okay?”

I considered waiting until 6:55 just as a means of tor
ture, but I was ready to confront him. There was no sense waiting. At 6:05 I walked up the steps of the Royalton Hotel and into the darkened, modern lobby. Along the left side were groupings of funky tables and chairs. Blue light shone from discs in the floor. And there, seated on a white cloth chair was Bobby. He wore a white shirt, the cuffs rolled up, and black pants. His legs were crossed so that one leg rested on his knee. He had a drink in front of him that looked untouched. He glanced at his watch, then around the lobby. His eyes reached the door, and he stood abruptly when he saw me.

I walked toward him, watching how he put his hands in his pockets, then pulled them out again. He shifted back and forth on his feet. He was nervous—a confirmation.

I noticed a few glances from other patrons in the bar, a murmur of “Isn't that…?” but I didn't care the way I normally would. I stayed focused on Bobby's face.

“Hey there!” he said, trying a cheery tone. He moved forward to hug me. When my arms remained at my sides, he took a step back. “Want a drink?”

I shook my head no.

“Well, sit down.”

I considered him for a moment, then sat on the edge of one of the white chairs.

He took his seat. “Kyr, listen, I—”

“Why?” I said quietly.

His eyes roamed my face. “Uh…”

“Why did you do that to me?”

“What…What do you mean?”

“Jesus, Bobby, don't play dumb. At least give me the courtesy of admitting it.”

“Okay, well in my defense, I—”

“Is there a defense to this?” I said incredulously. “You know how much I hate the press and the photographers.
You listen to me tell you how it makes me crazy, you listen to all my plans, and then you go and sell that information to the paparazzi? What is
wrong
with you?”

“I didn't mean to—”

“Are you taking drugs or something? Did you need the money for that?”

“It wasn't the money,” Bobby said, shaking his head.

“What then? How can you possibly explain—”

“I'm in love with you,” he said. He stared at his drink, as if he'd like to dive into it.

We sat. Seconds ticked by. People at the next table began to sing “Happy Birthday.” Bobby continued to gaze at his cocktail.

“When?” I said softly. “I mean, how long?”

“In some ways, I think it's always been like that, but I didn't recognize it until you married Declan. He's a great guy, don't get me wrong, but I couldn't stand seeing you with him. It was making me insane. And then when you told me at the Globes that he was your best friend. God…” He trailed off. He looked up and finally met my eyes. “That killed me.”

I sat back in the chair and put my head in my hands. Finally, I looked at him again. “You thought if I saw how nuts Declan's life would always be, I'd leave him?”

A small nod. “I knew you already hated the fame, so I reconciled what I was doing by telling myself I was helping you. I was showing you what you were in for over the next thirty years.”

I laughed, a harsh sound. “Well, it worked, didn't it?”

“I can't stand what I did. I don't know how it happened. I mean, at first, I leaked a few things. Then you were hanging tough, so I did it again. The more I saw you with Declan, the more it was making me nuts. I felt like I'd never had my chance with you, and if I could just get that chance.
If you could just see that it was never going to change with Declan. I kept slipping things to the press—I didn't want to hurt you, I only wanted you to understand what your life was going to be like. And I guess, well…it just got away from me.”

“That's one way to put it.”

“God, Kyr, can you forgive me?” He reached over to touch my hand, but I pulled it away.

I stood up. “I don't know, Bobby. I don't know about anything anymore.”

 

I've heard people say that after you've suffered a loss, night is the worst time. For me, it was the mornings. Mornings used to be a time of promise, a clean slate. But now, the mornings were when I remembered. For the past seven or so hours I would have lost myself in sleep, in dreams, where Declan was still by my side, and Bobby was still one of my dearest friends. And yet when I awoke, the reality hit like a sharp, hard stab to my chest. I would sit, stunned, on the side of my bed, willing myself to start breathing again, forcing the tears away.

I often called Declan when I woke like that. It was early in L. A. but he picked up the phone because he knew it was me.

“Come back, love,” he'd say, his voice sleepy, sad.

“I can't.”

“Bobby won't muck things up for us anymore.”

“It's not just Bobby, you know that.”

Silence. He couldn't argue with me about that. Bobby had made things worse, but he hadn't created the situation, and it was one that wouldn't go away. Although I was photographed occasionally now, it was nothing compared to being with Declan. The combination of the two of us, constantly at premieres and dinners with other actors, constantly in the scene, would always draw attention, and it was that ever-present attention I couldn't bear.

“I just miss you,” I said.

We would sit on the phone quietly then. I squeezed my eyes closed and pretended he was next to me. I conjured up his golden eyes and his strong arms with the freckles that danced across them. I imagined those arms around me.

People told me time would heal, that my separation from Declan would get better as the days and months went by. But it seemed that getting better would mean I would always know—even in sleep—that Declan was no longer at my side, and I thought that sounded worse.