somehow this means Dr. R doesn’t die either, and everybody keeps making strangers happy, and all the children get to keep their dads.
CHAPTER 21
AT A DINNER , following a film screening, I am introduced to a man with long, flowing hair who is wearing a kaffiyeh. He looks like the world’s campiest terrorist, but he’s actually a movie star with a storied reputation, much of it here, at the Chateau Marmont hotel. In the candlelit garden we sit next to each other and talk and he admits later that every single thing he tells me is intended to translate as “I’m not like you’ve heard I am.”
It works. Because it’s true. This is GH.
GH is supposed to be really good-looking (“Of course,” my father would say “he is
supposed
to be really good-looking”). But I don’t see it. I see something … softly wounded, like distressed velvet. A touchable sadness he has.
Later I say: “You didn’t try to shag me that night.”
“I respected you too much.”
“Oh my God,” I answer, offended, “you only want me for my mind.”
“Don’t be daft!” he replies, “I only want to fuck ya!” He is the saddest man who’s ever made me laugh uncontrollably.
He calls from a remote island where he’s preparing for a role. Thus far it has been a barrage of texts, poems broken up into thirty little pieces. When he calls, it is because it is 5 a.m. and he has a yearning to hear “Skeletons” by Rickie Lee Jones. I cue it up and play it to him down the line. He takes a deep breath.
“I’m probably going to spoil it now. I’d probably better hang up now, Em, before you stop liking me.”
I don’t check in with Dr. R on this. I trust my gut, and tell GH, next time he texts: “I’m not going to get romantically involved with you. I think that you might hurt my feelings.”
The reply is instant: “Ugh, just got a wave of nausea at the idea of ever hurting your lovely feelings.”
Then he lands back in L.A. and is on the way over to my house.
It’s raining very hard and he almost kills himself on the drive over texting his thoughts as he drives.
“Stop texting.” I snap. “Just get here!”
“I just thought it would be safer if I remained your textual suitor.”
He walks in the door, head bowed, paralytically shy. He is ashamed, because he comes bearing his own dinner, a Stouffer’s low-fat lasagna frozen meal, trying to drop pounds for a role. He puts it in my freezer and forgets to ever eat it.
I make tea. We watch an old movie. Then we watch the rain for a long time. Then Junior creeps on the bed and GHintroduces himself (“Hello, love”). Then I show him unseen pictures of James Cagney. Then there is nothing left to show him and it’s well past midnight, so we decide to try to sleep. We lie in silence awhile. Even Junior holds his breath.
And then, with the feather-green darkness pressed against the windows, he puts his filthy fingers on my scrubbed hope face and says, in a tone that falls somewhere between optimism and regret: “If I kiss you, it’s all over.”
And then he does. And then it is.
CHAPTER 22
“I’VE BEEN SEEING SOMEONE you would probably consider inappropriate,” I tell my sister.
“A neo-Nazi?”
“No.”
“You didn’t get back with Simon?!”
I’m getting impatient. “No.”
Her voice becomes dark. “Not Russell Brand? Tell me it’s not Russell Brand.”
Since he is neither a neo-Nazi nor Russell Brand, the family is OK with GH, who is on a film set again.
Lonely in different time zones, we send the moon back and forth to each other. “Did you get it?” I ask.
“Yes, baby.”
Whenever he comes home from making a movie, he brings me back strange things. My L.A. girlfriends, the ones who have been here too long, snipe, “No diamonds?” and I explain I wouldn’t wear diamonds, never have. “Yes, but he doesn’t need to know that.” “He knows that,” I say, andunderstand myself, whilst the gossips are asking, “Why is he
with
her?” Why
CHAPTER 21
AT A DINNER , following a film screening, I am introduced to a man with long, flowing hair who is wearing a kaffiyeh. He looks like the world’s campiest terrorist, but he’s actually a movie star with a storied reputation, much of it here, at the Chateau Marmont hotel. In the candlelit garden we sit next to each other and talk and he admits later that every single thing he tells me is intended to translate as “I’m not like you’ve heard I am.”
It works. Because it’s true. This is GH.
GH is supposed to be really good-looking (“Of course,” my father would say “he is
supposed
to be really good-looking”). But I don’t see it. I see something … softly wounded, like distressed velvet. A touchable sadness he has.
Later I say: “You didn’t try to shag me that night.”
“I respected you too much.”
“Oh my God,” I answer, offended, “you only want me for my mind.”
“Don’t be daft!” he replies, “I only want to fuck ya!” He is the saddest man who’s ever made me laugh uncontrollably.
He calls from a remote island where he’s preparing for a role. Thus far it has been a barrage of texts, poems broken up into thirty little pieces. When he calls, it is because it is 5 a.m. and he has a yearning to hear “Skeletons” by Rickie Lee Jones. I cue it up and play it to him down the line. He takes a deep breath.
“I’m probably going to spoil it now. I’d probably better hang up now, Em, before you stop liking me.”
I don’t check in with Dr. R on this. I trust my gut, and tell GH, next time he texts: “I’m not going to get romantically involved with you. I think that you might hurt my feelings.”
The reply is instant: “Ugh, just got a wave of nausea at the idea of ever hurting your lovely feelings.”
Then he lands back in L.A. and is on the way over to my house.
It’s raining very hard and he almost kills himself on the drive over texting his thoughts as he drives.
“Stop texting.” I snap. “Just get here!”
“I just thought it would be safer if I remained your textual suitor.”
He walks in the door, head bowed, paralytically shy. He is ashamed, because he comes bearing his own dinner, a Stouffer’s low-fat lasagna frozen meal, trying to drop pounds for a role. He puts it in my freezer and forgets to ever eat it.
I make tea. We watch an old movie. Then we watch the rain for a long time. Then Junior creeps on the bed and GHintroduces himself (“Hello, love”). Then I show him unseen pictures of James Cagney. Then there is nothing left to show him and it’s well past midnight, so we decide to try to sleep. We lie in silence awhile. Even Junior holds his breath.
And then, with the feather-green darkness pressed against the windows, he puts his filthy fingers on my scrubbed hope face and says, in a tone that falls somewhere between optimism and regret: “If I kiss you, it’s all over.”
And then he does. And then it is.
CHAPTER 22
“I’VE BEEN SEEING SOMEONE you would probably consider inappropriate,” I tell my sister.
“A neo-Nazi?”
“No.”
“You didn’t get back with Simon?!”
I’m getting impatient. “No.”
Her voice becomes dark. “Not Russell Brand? Tell me it’s not Russell Brand.”
Since he is neither a neo-Nazi nor Russell Brand, the family is OK with GH, who is on a film set again.
Lonely in different time zones, we send the moon back and forth to each other. “Did you get it?” I ask.
“Yes, baby.”
Whenever he comes home from making a movie, he brings me back strange things. My L.A. girlfriends, the ones who have been here too long, snipe, “No diamonds?” and I explain I wouldn’t wear diamonds, never have. “Yes, but he doesn’t need to know that.” “He knows that,” I say, andunderstand myself, whilst the gossips are asking, “Why is he
with
her?” Why
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