Eight weeks in paris, p.25
Eight Weeks in Paris, page 25
So they were on the same page. “No, I haven’t. I have told myself I didn’t want to intrude on his privacy, and that I could not—I would not—force my presence upon him. But that was a lie, too,” Nicholas admitted. “I was a coward; the worst sort of coward. I couldn’t face him, so I stayed away.”
Zhao’s expression became a touch more honestly concerned. “It takes some courage to admit it.”
“No, this isn’t courage. It’s fear. I was badly frightened by the way the press reacted to our...liaison. Threats and abuse, insulting comments, disgraceful, horrible invectives. I ought to be used to them, and yet—” He broke off, summoning as much pathos as he could. “And yet the worst of it wasn’t concerned about me at all. They wanted to find a scapegoat, and Chris was the better target. I only wish I had spoken sooner.”
They wrapped up the rest of the interview in record time. Zhao shook his hand with a smile.
“Well played,” he murmured, so low that the mics could not catch his words.
Chapter Twenty-Two
WATCH: Nicholas Madden Comes Out Live On Tomorrow Night
“We are beholden to ourselves to try and do better”: Nicholas Madden makes impassioned plea for compassion and honesty, condemns invasion of privacy, comes clean about affair with costar Chris Lavalle
* * *
“You asshole.”
Chris lowered the screen of his laptop and started to laugh. After a moment he pulled his knees up, rested his arms on them, and put his hands over his face.
The whole setup was at once unreal and staggeringly clear. It was very much like Nicholas to come out in this manner—in a blaze of fury, with a righteous tirade against the press, The Throne’s production team, and the rest of the rotten, twisted world. Condemnation had never sounded so good as it did in his mouth.
When the job gave me a man to fall in love with.
God. Chris adored him. Nicholas wasn’t an easy man to love—he was too irritable, too ferocious, too prone to quick, outrageous judgement. Too grim, in a hot sort of way.
And yet Chris had seen beyond the fury and the thunder. The storm had seen to that. It had altered them, until they could no longer recognize who they were: their masks had been torn away, and all that was left was tenderness. He remembered, in vivid color and sensation, Nicholas’s hand brushing down his naked back; Nicholas’s mouth, smiling under his mouth.
There was no coming back from that.
Nicholas had hurt him very badly. Chris recognized that: he prodded at the edges of the wound and felt it slowly scarring over. But Chris had hurt him, too, had abandoned him in the worst moment, hadn’t stood by his side when it truly mattered.
Which left the question of what he was going to do about it. Nicholas had set one pawn into motion, and it was left to him to decide if he wanted to play.
He could call. He could wait. He could say nothing at all, and he could come clean on social media. None of these options were tempting. They lacked something...cinematic.
His phone chimed. Philippe Langlais’s name—he had been given his number at the end of their double-audition—was showing brightly on the screen.
Welcome to the team , it said, and then: The core cast is meeting for dinner next Saturday. It’s been ages since we were all together. You should come!
Chris hesitated. He picked up his phone. Langlais had been smiling and a little shy when they had met. The second he had picked up his script, he had transformed into a different man. His character was by turns cynical, suave, and vulnerable, and Philippe hit every beat without missing a cue. He was a stunning actor. Chris would have accepted the job for nothing but the privilege of working with him; the fact that his own role was captivating, the team friendly and engaging, and the project one he truly thought worthwhile, was turning the next year or so of his life into a genuinely exciting prospect.
He swiped his thumb across the screen. I’d like that.
The reply was instantaneous. Great! We’re having Thai. Meet up at Republique at 8?
See you then, Chris sent back, and had barely put the phone down before it pinged again. Incoming email. Priya Chaudhuri.
Chris’s battered heart gave a little thump. He wasn’t ready to speak to Chaudhuri. His respect for her had not lessened; he admired her profoundly. But his feelings towards The Throne were a tangle of resentment and grief, and he was neither willing to apologize to her nor prepared to accept her own apology. He couldn’t unravel his esteem for her work and character from the bitterness of the last few days before The Throne had wrapped up—his loneliness, his anger, his self-doubt and his worry.
He hit open email timidly.
Her message was short, and to the point. It had, as far as he could tell, been written by Chaudhuri herself, not jotted off by an assistant. She expressed herself in reserved though sincere terms, making direct apology for her thoughtlessness and oversight. She was not interested in making excuses for herself: instead, straightforwardly, she made amends for his loneliness, his exclusion, and his neglect at the hands of The Throne’s production team. You deserved better, Chris.
How much of this was due to Nicholas’s intervention? Chris did not know, and did not care to know. It was enough that Chaudhuri felt a keen sense of obligation and of loyalty towards her cast: whatever production might say, she had done what she believed was right.
Chris was not such a fool that he thought himself blameless. He should have spoken out. He’d had the platform for it. He had an advantage over Nicholas, of being already out; and having long come out of the closet, had comforted himself with thoughts that he had nothing to fear. He should have stood by Nicholas when society had shone its spotlight upon them. He had failed to recognize his fear. He had thought he was being forsaken, and he had taken his anger and he had nourished it, until it was the easiest thing simply to turn away for good.
Privilege and prejudice were tangled up together, a hopeless labyrinth of good intentions and sorry mistakes. Everybody was to blame.
Chris laid aside the laptop with a sigh. He was...tired. Winter was driving him out of himself. He wanted spring, and the warm long sun-drenched days of August. Whether that was the August to come, or the August that was past, had yet to be determined.
Antoine had offered to be his date to the January premiere. Chris had appreciated his concern, but that would send rather the wrong message. As Antoine had appeared in the press as his potential live-in boyfriend before this mess with Nicholas, it was even odds he’d be dubbed a serial cheater before the end of the night.
It was something he thought he wanted to do alone. Face the cameras with his brightest smile and a metaphorically lifted middle finger. Put on a real show.
Who you present as on the red carpet is just another role. Nicholas had been gifted with prescience when he’d said that.
Or he’d been trying to warn him. Nicholas, whom the tabloids so loved to portray as a stuck-up jackass on a short fuse, knew the dangers and the pitfalls of failing to publicize oneself in the correct manner.
Chris pressed Play on the video again.
A proper story is in itself a miracle. Nicholas’s face was dark and grave. He’d grown a beard again. He was dressed, impeccably, in a black suit and a white shirt. He looked damn good, and he knew it.
A proper story.
Don’t cower and hide and wallow in your own doubts and self-condolences. Only show up, and do it with style.
* * *
The limo wove slowly through the early-night traffic of the boulevard, gliding past purring cars and curious onlookers. Up ahead, a gigantic crowd had formed around the tall building of the cinema; they swarmed around the red carpet, craning their necks, pushing forward to catch a glimpse of the stars. Cameras flashed. Even through the tempered windows of the limo, the noise from the crowd was a muted roar. Some of them had placards. Love You!!! these read, and WE STAND WITH—the rest was lost in the chaos.
This was not the first time Chris had walked the red carpet. After two years of doing Paris Fashion Week, the dread of treading on that hallowed ground and posing for photographs had pretty much faded.
“Nearly there,” his driver remarked. “You ready?”
Chris hummed, nodding, and pocketed his phone. “All fired up.”
“Good for you, man.”
And then the limo slowed, then stopped; and Chris pushed open the door, and stepped out.
The noise hit him first, a slamming wall of bruising voices and shouts. Then the flashing, throbbing lights. And then the sheer scale of the thing—the immense, glittering facade of the building, and the soft red velvet underfoot, and the realization that this, this moment, this instant, was what it had all been building to. This was the peak of the mountain.
He had, briefly, considered going low-key with his outfit. Then he’d thought better of it. No: he had flouted convention and tradition and opted for an electric-blue suit, over a white shirt embroidered in silver fleur-de-lys. A little extravagant, a great deal elegant, a real twist on the expected. Also makeup, because fuck you. Antoine’s favorite artist was a master with a smoky eye and a magician with the highlighter wand. He looked really goddamn good.
Andrée was a little way away, breathtaking in a backless burgundy pantsuit and Louboutin heels. Perhaps alerted by the shouts of his name—who wouldn’t be? they were loud—she turned to look at him; then held out her arms, and Chris went easily, stepping into her embrace and slipping an arm around her waist.
“Hello,” he said, kissing her cheek.
“Hello, you.” Andrée angled her head against his shoulder, directing a blinding smile at the nearest cluster of cameras and smartphones. “So you decided to come. It was even odds with us if you’d show up at all.”
“And miss the opportunity of looking this fabulous? Not a chance.”
She laughed, head thrown back. She was fantastic at this, an old pro. She worked the cameras with a wink and a smile. “Come on,” she murmured. “They’re waiting for us.”
Chris tried, and failed, to be casual about it. “Has...Nicholas arrived?”
She cast him a smoldering look. “Yes, as a matter of fact. He’s asked me the same thing, and looked very disconcerted when I said you weren’t there yet. He’s inside, posing for more photos and answering probing inquiries about his recent... social appearances.”
“Oh, Lord.”
Andrée’s grip tightened on his arm. “So are Chaudhuri and the Hendersons. Listen—”
“It’s alright.”
“It shouldn’t be. You were treated like dog shit.” She grinned cheerfully at a group of fans, who collectively squealed and held up their phones, flashes popping. “It was rotten of us all. I’ve heard about The Long Winter,” she added, with a neat, sharpish swerve. “Good for you.”
“It looked like an intriguing prospect,” Chris demurred.
Andrée laughed. “You’ll be an expert at this yet. Come on—I’m freezing in this godforsaken suit.”
“You do look good, though,” Chris noted.
“Granted. I always do.” She slipped her hand into his, and led the way into the cinema.
It was grandiose inside, all red velvet and gilded staircases. The auditorium, Chris knew, was a grand structure with multiple balconies, plush seats, and a star-studded sky. The air was noticeably warmer now, almost uncomfortably so. At the foot of the stairs stood the cast of The Throne, in various arrangements of black tie and silk dresses; likewise Chaudhuri, and the Henderson siblings.
Chris, it seemed, was fashionably late.
The journalist who, holding up a microphone under Chaudhuri’s nose, had been asking pressing questions, left off with a theatrical gasp when Andrée and Chris joined the group. Then there was much exclaiming, and air-kisses, and all smiles: the five months they had spent apart had done enough to smooth over the awkwardness of their last few days together, when the entirety of the cast had suffered from Nicholas’s bad mood and Chris’s airy introspection.
“Chris! My man! It’s good to see you!” Jason’s broad shoulders tightened the excellent line of his suit.
Reggie was wearing a patterned silk waistcoat threaded through with blue roses. “My dear.” He bussed Andrée’s cheek. “It’s been too, too long.”
“It’s been less than a month, Reg,” Andrée said dryly. “I saw you at the after-party of O, Hero before the winter holidays.”
Nicholas, by the time Chris had done away with the attention pressed upon him long enough to look for him, wore a grim expression. He also looked extraordinarily good-looking. His black suit was impeccably cut, his beard well trimmed, his dark hair cut close. Chris smiled. The months that had elapsed since their last encounter—since those last few bright afternoons in late August, when Nicholas had looked miserable and broken-down and sad—felt suddenly inconsequential.
Nicholas now seemed...calmer. Kinder to himself. He looked like he’d been eating. Something inside him, which had so tormented him, had gone quiet and dormant.
“Hi,” he said.
“Hey.”
Nicholas’s glance cut down, and Chris was thankful, all of a sudden, that he had gone with the blue suit, and foresworn the usual black tie. There was hot admiration in Nicholas’s gaze.
“Mr. Lavalle—a few questions?”
“Yes, alright,” Chris said, and turned his back deliberately on Nicholas. The interviewer faltered for a moment; she had clearly intended to speak to them both. Still, impervious, she rallied.
“May I say, you look gorgeous. This blue! This is your first ever movie premiere. How are you feeling?”
“It’s extraordinary. Overwhelming, too; I’m not used to that sort of attention,” Chris lied, laughing, and the dialogue devolved into pretty platitudes for a few minutes before the young woman—who stood a little in awe of Nicholas and spoke with a strong French accent—went in for the hard question.
“Your costar—Nicholas Madden,” she corrected, breathfully, into the mic, “has given an interview last month with Tomorrow Night—well, everyone has heard of it. Any comment you’d like to give?” Her tone was teasing.
“Well,” said Chris. And then: “No.”
She blinked hard. “No?”
“Nothing that shouldn’t be said behind closed doors instead.” He smiled, charmingly. He was very, very good at charming smiles. Nicholas could stand there and glower for the rest of the night if he wished to; Chris was off flirting and bantering his sweet tongue away.
Nicholas’s hand brushed his shoulder. “We are going in.”
“Oh, already?” The young woman pouted. She held on to Chris’s wrist. “Surely you can spare us a few minutes.”
“You’ve had more time than you were slated to,” Nicholas said flatly. This close—he was standing behind Chris, his arm half-stretched out across his back—his voice was low and somber, with a touch of imminent doom. “Chris?”
“They won’t start without us,” said Chris. “And I am having such fun.”
Nicholas’s exasperated eyes met his. And that was mind-blowingly familiar—that displeasure, that dark flare of anger. He had never looked so good. The first time Chris had felt that slow-burning fury was at the start of all things, on the Place Colette. Nicholas’s disapproval could have broken rocks.
Chris gave him a melting look.
Cameras flashed and flamed behind them. Nicholas’s hand rested lightly against the small of his back. Each press of his fingers was a small spark of light.
“Chris,” he repeated, his voice low. “Come.”
Chris’s hand made its way, quite by chance, to the breast of Nicholas’s suit. His fingers dug in, creasing the smooth blackness of the fabric. “Alright,” he said softly. The flare of the cameras was burning hot against his cheek.
They climbed the staircase together. Chris looked back one last time, and nearly stumbled at the sight of the horde of cameras and microphones aimed in their direction. Nicholas steadied him, almost caressingly. His hand slid down to Chris’s hand, and then it was the easiest thing in the world, after all that had occurred, after all the grief and the pain, simply to lace their fingers together.
It occurred to him that the story they had started tonight would make its way into tomorrow’s tabloids in much revamped detail. Celebrity Twitter must be lighting right up. The thought of it made him grin.
“Christ, you’re a menace,” Nicholas muttered.
“Had you forgotten?”
“Not for one fucking moment.” Nicholas gave his hand a squeeze. “Come on, danger.”
The auditorium, well lit and well crowded with the fans who’d scored a premiere ticket, welcomed them with breathless applause. They were the last to arrive. Their seats were together—why should they not be?—in the VIP section, and as they sat an usher handed Chaudhuri a mic, pointing to the stage.
She was wearing a floor-length gown of shimmering white-gold, her hair a gorgeous fall of black tresses over one shoulder. She looked poised, confident, and as wholly at ease in front of a thousand avidly watching people as she was on set, calling for silence. The mic crackled in her hand.
“Hello!”
The auditorium responded with resounding applause. She laughed, motioning for it to die down.
“What a beautiful evening! We’re very thankful for the extraordinary welcome you’ve offered us tonight, in such a gorgeous place as this is. We’re incredibly thankful that you’ve all bought tickets.” Laughter. “The movie you’re about to see has been a long labor of love and effort. Our crew has worked beautifully and wholeheartedly, over the span of months, to offer the best cinematic experience you could wish for—thank you, they deserve applause—stand up, all! Take a bow!”
The cast stood and waved, laughing, and the great auditorium exploded with applause.
