Page 4 of All That Remains
"Try again," I chuckled. "Lanvin." There was a suspenseful pause in which he squinted up at me.
"Atriumph." The poncey bastard sipped his drink. “What’re you having?”
Patron, I wanted to say; but I'd sworn off tequila because last year was amassivetequila year for me.
"Water.”
Later I caught up to him and told him to make that water vodka. Within seconds he ushered me to a bar outside the dining hall and a small redhead pressed a chilled glass into my hand. Dozens of familiar faces beamed at me every two steps. The halls were teeming with bodies. Streams of inane conversation entangled me. Big laughing mouths, revealing so many radiating veneers I felt like I was being papped all over again.
Live music and disembodied voices led us to the ballroom. On the way in I kissed more cheeks than I could count, regretting that I always tried to act so European in LA—two kisses per person. Any less and I cursed myself for being vulgar.
At our table I spent a while catching up with the man of the hour. Edgar Stern, father of my manager John Stern. Right away I clocked he was wearing an insanely rare Rolex Daytona from the 60s, valued at more than the cost of a moderately sized house, putting my little vintage Submariner to shame. We discussed my golf game and the merits of Napa Valley wine. He insisted Napa had produced one of its best Cabernet vintages last year, and that it ought to go down in the history books as far as he was concerned.
He told me he’d been closely appraising the region longer than I’d been alive. I told him I’d like to learn more about it. Told him I’d only recently discovered an obsession with Moscato and was looking to learn more about wine of all regions and forms.Following which, he promptly invited me to his summer home in Sologne for a crash course in June. I accepted with profuse thanks before rising and schmoozing with attendees at the surrounding tables. People it’d be too awkward to sit by without greeting. Meghan Trainor was the first target. She embraced me with a squeal.
Later I weaved a path among the galaxy of round tables, astounded by the megawattage gracing the building. Half expecting the place to spontaneously combust with the star power on display. And they’d pulled out all the stops. Idle live music between scheduled events. Bottomless champagne. Expensive party favors. Extraordinary cuisine.
The room was dimly lit until the speeches began, but I made out a purple ambiance round the stage and loads of ornate flower arrangements. The heavy fragrance wafted across the room anytime the doors opened or closed. The rest of the space was lost in a haze, peppered with tiny blue lights like radioactive fireflies.
I met Ringo Starr as he arrived, since I'd slipped back into the entry hall for a breath of fresh air. He proved to be a man of few words who graciously took his leave before I could interrogate him further. Then there was Peyton Smith, the plastic pop princess, who was dressed tremendously and on an inadvertent collision course with yours truly. Through sheer willpower and maybe a little muscle memory, my body found a split-second means by which to evade her.
Since our 2011 split, she’d gone scorched earth, writing countless scathing tunes about the perils of our botched relationship and what an impotent dick I was— pun intended. Just my luck, they’d all invariably gone on to be smash hits. Although, the hype around her music seemed about as authentic as the synth overpowering her tepid vocals. And the humiliation I’d suffered at ceremony after ceremony as she racked up awardsand tossed artfully veiled shade my way during speeches was unaccountable.
Granted, it’d given me far more exposure than I could’ve otherwise dreamt of, but for all the wrong reasons. Infamy was not a place I desired to make home. The lonesome, inhospitable alleyways of villainy were not for me. I was not a heel. I wasn’t the sort of bloke who could cunningly spin negative publicity to his advantage, making the most of being detested or gossiped about. I was too forthcoming for PR games. My whole life, I’d prided myself on being benevolent and authentic like my mother. A vocal ally for women and other marginalized groups, both public facing and behind closed doors.
Above all, I genuinely meant no harm, so couldn’t stand to be painted the philandering dickhead—no matter how much crisis management for Invicta insisted womanizers were hot. Undoing the damage Peyton had inflicted on my reputation was the first tall order of my solo discography, and I suspected it wouldn’t be the last. In any case, I mostly avoided her because it was tacitly understood we were to remain no-contact. It was better for her brand.
Later I noticed everyone was wearing red, and it took longer still for it to dawn on me that it was Valentine's Day. I’d clocked the date earlier that morning and forgotten almost as quickly. The last V-day I’d ever give a fuck about had come and gone and preceded a massive blow to my life in 2016. That night he and I had made love like dogs, which always led to us fighting the morning after. Then came weeks of remorse—for the mortifying gay sex, not the fighting—bickering over culpability. Who wanted it more. Who’d manipulated whom. It eventually progressed into a chilling silence until someone dared break. He never broke first, so I was always the one to grovel. And it sickened me how rewarded I felt whenever he warmed to me.
Halfway into my third drink and my second go around the room, I was laughing at everything that came out of Corden's mouth no matter how insipid or vile. No matter the spittle that accompanied it, nor the perspiration beading at his temples. Later I greeted Chrissy and John, Miley and Patrick, before running into Sam Smith and spending a few moments at his table. His performances of “My Funny Valentine” and the soul-stirring “Stay With Me” were my favorite of the evening so far.
"There you are!" Jen said, as I made my way back to our table for the fourth time, and to gather my fourth drink. For some reason, I couldn’t sit still. "We were getting worried. Your drink’s getting stale," she winked.
"Had to make the rounds."
"By all means," Stern Sr. said, inclining his head, then resuming a conversation with a couple of bigwigs seated at an adjacent table.
"All play, no work..." John muttered, staring down into his glass like he’d found something revolting in it.
Later we sat through a few hollow speeches, the first by the President of the Academy, and later a few drawn-out performances. I couldn't keep my eyes off my phone. Jen tapped my screen to let me know I was missing something. I looked up to see Corden take the stage. He was ace at extempore speeches, so I didn't worry too much that he'd drank half his weight in champagne and might abandon his train of thought. He talked about the new late-night show and how his idea for a segment calledCarpool Karaokewas initially ill-received. He then ended with a light roast of the guests in the front row. Stallone was not a happy camper.
Finally, John’s father was honored with the Merit Award presented by the President of the Academy himself. His nose dripped as he gave a heartfelt speech from a few sheets ofcreased paper. Tonight, he wasn’t the formidable kingmaker I knew him to be. He was unequivocally human.
3
Suddenly Corden’s voice was at my ear, breath hot with tequila. The tequila I’d denied myself for months. He was speaking through gritted teeth, so it took a while to decipher what he’d said, but when I did, the words induced violent palpitations. I knocked over my glass and vodka splashed down my chest, trickling onto my lap.Fuck’s sake. I was on my fifth round and it was beginning to show.
I scanned the room, and despite all the moving bodies, spotted him with ease. The sea of tables parted to provide an unobstructed view, like I’d shook the staff of Moses. His blue tux jacket glowed in the low light, a beacon at the end of my tapering vision. He looked like a trillion bucks. The confidence I’d previously had in my stylist’s more subtle choices dissipated. We’d agreed the collarless white button down would be cutting edge. I’d also gone for the full black jacket and trouser. Roman had gone more formal, opting for a bowtie, a matching silk pocket square—the works. Shit, I was already comparing us.
There was a woman with him, probably a manager, but for now, no one else. As usual, he was an island. Lone and unspeaking. Watching his surroundings with a nervous vigilance. I waited, expectingherto arrive. Issuing forth in that leggy, showstopping way. A stone-cold fox. Tawny haired and pale eyed. I expected she would take the seat at his opposite side, with that haughty possessiveness she often exhibited onsocial media. She was an Instagram model, after all. Her entire purpose was to be seen and envied.
At the mere thought of her, I overheated, the flush traveling down my spine then back up to scorch the tips of my ears. She never appeared, and I was grateful, as seeing him after two tormenting years had winded me. I tugged my collar from around my throat and swallowed dryly. He was here. In the flesh. Seconds ago, I had no clue whether I wouldeversee him again, now here he was, mere yards away. Why? This wasn't exactly his scene. What the hell was he trying to prove?
A quick recline in my chair ensured I was covered, since I intended to study him without being spotted. My eyes strained with the effort, as the lights in his area were dialed down for ambiance, but I refused to forfeit the opportunity. His hair was dark and relatively long, since it always grew quickly. The sides were artfully faded from what I could see, and the front was slicked back. Unlike mine, his hairline was neat and symmetrical. Months ago, he’d shaven it all down to a buzz cut that hardened him, and I’d marveled at how good he looked bald. It was a move implemented as the final nail in the coffin of his Invicta days, and it worked. Tonight, he looked reborn.
This wasn’t Rome, this wasRoman. Nothing felt familiar. He was dark, inscrutable. Mafioso. A rockstar with an enormous record deal and a ring on every finger. A faultless wardrobe. From what I could see, he still worked with our old stylist for major events, and she hadn't failed him yet. But there was something else I couldn't quite fathom. Disdain? Superiority? He’d always been vain, so I ruled that out. It must've been confidence. Newfound confidence, particularly after that crazy debut on the Billboard Hot 100, blowing Invicta's chart record out of the water in a single effort. Part of me was proud, but the rest had begun to view him as competition.
With him out of my life, he was dangerous. More than I’d anticipated. He’d always posed a threat of sorts, usually more insidious. The sort of risk inherent in growing close to someone afflicted by violent rage. But now he posed a danger to my career. In the months to come, everything I did would be held under a microscope for his having done it first. We would be compared by every opinionated stan and media publication in pursuit of a hot take. And in that case, someone must always wind up on the losing end. For the life of me, I couldn't imagine him losing.
