The Decent Proposal (25 page)

And then it happened. The honks and gestures, as it turned out, were
not
due to her bad driving, but to Angelyne, who
pulled up next to them at the next light in her pink Corvette. Richard and Mike looked over in unison, as if they were starring together in a music video, and Angelyne—who was significantly older than in her billboard days but still unmistakably herself—winked at them before taking off up Fairfax with a flash of metal and a screech of rubber.

They looked at each other, delighted. It had felt like a benediction.

THERE WAS A
spacious patio in front of the DGA Theater on Sunset ideal for the flamboyant celebration required of a film premiere, especially if this flamboyance had to be obtained at bargain rates. Much grander, more classic venues lay to the north on Hollywood Boulevard (the Egyptian, the Chinese, the El Capitan), but for a movie like
Fight on a Flight
, whose budget had been cobbled together from “independent,” nonstudio entities and the sale of distribution rights in foreign territories, the DGA offered a smaller, cheaper, yet perfectly respectable alternative for the U.S. distributor footing the bill. By the time Richard and Mike arrived, a crowd had gathered on the terrace of the Coffee Bean across the street and on the sidewalk behind a velvet rope. In the center of the patio a half-scale jet dominated the space, the words
FIGHT ON A FLIGHT
! stamped across its nose in big block letters. Mike led the way toward the will-call table, which had been done up to look like an airline counter. Behind it, a busty woman dressed as the platonic ideal of a flight attendant (tight skirt, perky cap, scarf tied tightly round her throat) checked their names and handed them two laminated “boarding passes” to the show. A second flight attendant told them to enjoy their
fight
, while indicating the way past the rope with her thumb and two fingers.

“Wow, they really went all out on the airplane theme, huh?” said Mike, accepting a tiny pair of plastic wings from a man she
guessed was supposed to be a pilot, though his bushy mustache, skimpy costume, and sultry demeanor made him look more like a pilot in a porno.

“Want me to pin you?” he asked her huskily.

“Uh, I'm good,” she said, thrusting the wings in Richard's direction. “He'll do it.”

The pilot slunk away, while Richard fumbled with her lapel.

“Now isn't this
romantic
,” purred Keith, who had glided behind them without a noise.

“Oh, Keith, you have
no
idea,” Mike purred back, before taking pity on Richard, who was getting nowhere with the plastic button. “Here, let me do it.”

She pinned it herself.

“Sorry,” said Richard.

“No worries. I'm pretty sure I already asked enough of you for one night.”

Keith looked from one to the other, intrigued. “What on earth did I miss?”

“You don't want to know, Keith,” said Mike. “Well, you do. But we aren't going to tell you.”

Richard shook his head at her, but he was smiling.

“I know, I know,” said Mike. “I'm incorrigible.”

Just then the crowd erupted in a cheer. A hulking figure had emerged from a stretch SUV: Duke Rifferson, the star of the show! He answered the screaming multitudes with a low, rumbling growl. (In the TV promos that had been airing for a week or two, he made the same noise while squaring off with the lead terrorist in the cargo hold, and then delivered the film's tagline:
You're gonna feel a little turbulence
.)

“OMG, he's so effing hot.”

Richard turned: it was Keith's plus one, Raoul, who Richard knew from prior meddling was only a friend. In fact, Keith
confessed once to Richard that they weren't even
real
friends, merely
social
friends who relied on each other for company at bars and clubs, where the hypersexualized jargon and exaggeratedly effeminate mannerisms Raoul apparently felt were required to maintain his good standing as a gay man were less jarring than in moments like this. Richard threw Keith a commiserating glance, wondering for the hundredth time why his business partner didn't have a boyfriend.

Raoul tore open a miniature packet of peanuts acquired from another “flight attendant” wandering the area. He watched, practically drooling, as Duke bent over to shake a child's hand, visibly straining the seat of his tuxedo pants.

“That's right,” he stage-whispered, shoving a handful of peanuts into his mouth. “Put on a show.”

“All right,” said Keith, wresting the peanuts from him. “Ah'm cuttin' you off.”

“Well, from what I hear, Raoul,” said Richard, “you might have a shot with him. Not that I have any
real
insider information.”

“Nah, I'm pretty sure he's not smart enough to be gay
and
pretend he isn't,” said Mike.

“Mike, I think that's the
nah
-cest thing you ever said.” Keith beamed at her.

“What can I say? I'm simply overflowing with love tonight, right, Dick?”

Mike batted her eyelashes at Richard, who shook his head again. A few minutes later, he and Keith joined a separate line for those walking the red carpet, which was at the far end of the patio. Much to Raoul's dismay, they couldn't bring their plus ones with them. The procession was reserved for those directly involved in the film, as well as those celebrities whose presence added to the fanfare. A publicity assistant with a headset jammed over her frizzy hair herded them
into a corral-like staging area bounded by low metal barriers. Richard felt like a bucking bronco about to be released into the rodeo, and looked nervously ahead of him at what lay in store.

As it turned out, the red carpet was neither red nor a carpet: it was more of a gray tarp meant to look like a runway, with a dotted white line running down the middle. Enormous white lights had been installed on temporary posts running the length of the gauntlet, and they were so bright—even from a distance—as to nearly blind him. It reminded him of a construction site lit up at nighttime, and he realized that all the cracks and crags, the minute imperfections that existed inside regular human faces, would be washed away in any photos snapped under such bright lights. But in person, it made for a garish rather than a glamorous effect.

Behind the carpet stood a canvas wall he knew was called the “step-and-repeat,” adorned by logos for a beer company and discount clothing store that had nothing to do with the movie, but must have helped pay for the premiere and after party. Richard had to admit that these corporate symbols took something away from the supposed stateliness of the elegantly dressed figures parading in front of them, though he couldn't blame the step-and-repeat entirely: from what he could hear while inching closer to the front of the line, it was pure chaos out there.
Fight on a Flight
featured a number of cameos from action stars young and . . . less young, and the fans who had shown up to see them were apparently the rabid kind who rent their hair and shrieked when their idols came into view.

“Sounds like the Beatles out there,” he muttered to Keith, who smiled sickly in response. The photographers weren't making things any better: they kept screaming out celebrities' names for a head turn or a better angle (“Bruce!” “Jackie!” “Over here!” “Com'on, Sly!” “Gimme a smile, Arnold!” etc.). Before
he had time to really process all this—he wasn't ready, he wished they'd warned him!—he was pushed into the light, Keith stumbling after him.

The photographers closest to them rested their cameras on their shoulders, assuming a posture of indifference it was impossible not to take personally. Then Richard made the mistake of looking directly into one of the lights, and for the next few seconds he couldn't see a thing. Someone grabbed his hand and pulled him farther down the tarp. He blinked, and heard a few photographers ask, “Who are
they
?” And then he heard Mike shouting from the great beyond, “They're producers on the movie! Rising stars! Get a shot while you still can! Woot!”

The photographers chuckled, and snapped a few photos out of goodwill. “Do a pose!” Mike shouted. He and Keith did an ill-coordinated fist bump, which got a few more flashes. The hand, which Richard could now see belonged to the harried publicity assistant, pulled him farther down the line until they reached a bottleneck caused by the three Chrises (Pratt, Evans, and Pine) monkeying around at the end of the carpet. The photographers all scrambled to get a better shot of these hunky hijinks, and instead of waiting, Richard casually jumped the barrier between the carpet and the patio, where no photographers were blocking his way. He helped Keith over after him.

His first red carpet experience was over.
And probably my last
, he thought. Richard knew that if he said this aloud, Keith would protest and tell him not to be such a pessimist, but was the notion of his Hollywood “career” coming to an end even all that depressing to him anymore?

Mike and Raoul joined them.

“So that happened,” Mike said.

“Yup,” said Richard. “Somehow it managed not to live up
to even my extremely low expectations.” He glanced around him. All these trappings that had enticed him from afar looked downright dingy, now that he could see them properly. Rocky himself was standing not quite twenty feet away, but he was disconcertingly short and old in person. Richard found to his surprise that he had no desire to go up to him. What would be the point? There was no way to have anything approaching a substantive conversation in this environment. It was all so
stupid
, so
unimportant
. He still loved movies, but what he really loved was
watching
them, dissecting them, discussing them, not—it was time to face the fact—making them. And yet what the hell else would he do if not this? He was about to suggest they find the bar when he happened to glance back at the red carpet.

A new figure had appeared.

Elizabeth was the harried publicity assistant's one mistake. After collecting her ticket, she had stood at the entrance, uncertain where to go, when a sweaty hand grabbed her by the elbow and guided her to the red carpet queue. “Wait here, it won't be long,” the curly-haired woman had told her, turning away and barking into her headset before Elizabeth could say a word.

The assistant thought she was an actress who had RSVP'd, but as it turned out, the actress never showed. Elizabeth thought she was lining up to get into the theater, and when she saw where the line led, she figured everyone had to cross the red carpet. For someone who had never been to a premiere before, this made perfect sense.

Richard caught sight of her the exact moment she stepped into the lights. She was dressed in pale purple—violet, or maybe lilac—in a gown made of the thinnest material, and cinched by a belt that obviously hadn't come with the dress, but which was the perfect accessory to showcase her figure. The dress was strapless, and cascaded inward from the bust, underneath the belt, and out again over her hips in a perfect hourglass, with a
modest train trailing elegantly on the floor. Her hair had been professionally treated to lie flatter than usual, and it tumbled down one side of her face in gentle, undulating waves: the Latina version of Venus on the half shell, Sophia Loren by way of Veronica Lake. A small white orchid peeked from behind her left ear. She smiled nervously. Bright red lipstick highlighted her perfect teeth, and bold black eyeliner brought out her soft brown eyes.

The only person behind her was Duke Rifferson, the grand finale of the procession, who made no attempt to hide his appreciation of her backside despite the waifish model hanging off his arm. The photographers, who were done with the Chrises by this point, all jockeyed for position around her. One of them whistled.

“Who you wearing, darling?”

Elizabeth blinked. She couldn't see a thing, and wasn't even sure the comment had been meant for her.

“In the purple! Miss Vavavavoom. Who you wearing?” the photographer repeated.

“I don't know,” she replied to the abyss. And this was true. The dress was a vintage purchase at a Beverly Hills boutique; there was no name on the label. The photographers laughed, snapping hundreds of useless photos, yelling “Babe!” and “Angel!” because they had no idea who she was, though they had no doubt she was someone special.

Before long they moved on to Duke Rifferson and his girlfriend, with whom they would be occupied for a while. There was plenty of time for Elizabeth to join the others before going into the theater. She saw Richard first, waiting with Mike, and Keith, and some other man—Keith's boyfriend, she guessed—and even though she sensed she'd overdressed for the occasion
yet again
(was Mike wearing
jeans?
), she knew that this time she'd made a good impression.

“How did you get on the red carpet?” Raoul hissed at her by way of introduction.

“Oh! I thought everyone . . . I don't know. They just put me there, I guess.”

He almost spat at her.

“Well, I'm not surprised. You look amazing, Eliza
beth
,” said Keith, looking her up and down.

“You look awesome,” Richard supplemented, even though he wasn't so sure. She sort of looked like she was wearing a costume; she looked nothing like herself. And yet he had to admit she was pulling it off.

Elizabeth smiled at them gratefully. “Well, don't tell
me
,” she said, gesturing to Mike, who was looking at the ground.

“What do you mean?” said Keith.

“You didn't tell them?” asked Elizabeth.

Mike shook her head, fascinated by her shoes.

“Mike put all this together.” Elizabeth pointed to her head, and Richard watched her finger trail downward, past her breasts and waist, coming to a rest on her hip. “She called me up a few days ago and took me out on Sunday. She put together the whole thing: the dress, the shoes, the makeup. She even booked an appointment with a hairstylist. Who was great, by the way,” she added to Mike.