Before I can finish, the car comes to a screeching halt, throwing me forward in my seat. I briefly flash back to the night I lost Samuel.
The car hurtling toward us.
Samuel swerving to miss it.
Then the car hitting a tree, and Samuel’s body flung through the windshield.
The rest is still a blur. The call to Paul. The panic about what to do.
I press my hand to my chest, trying to control my breathing, when Paul looks across at me. The air feels like it’s being squeezed out of my lungs and I take short, sharp breaths.
I’m safe here.
I’m safe.
But I can’t seem to shake the panic as I unbuckle my seatbelt. When Paul leans forward and opens the door, lightbulb flashes start going off.
“Just keep your head down and let’s get you in the restaurant,” Paul shouts over the paparazzi screaming my name.
By the time I’ve settled into the round booth at the back of the restaurant and exchanged pleasantries with Alfonso, all I can think about is grabbing a stiff drink—or anything stiff for that matter. The waiter comes by and Paul and Alfonso decide to split a bottle of red, while I get stuck holding a Sprite.
I scan the room for the waiter, who has been burning a hole in the back of my head ever since I walked in. People always think they are being subtle, staring when I’m not looking, but it’s a feeling you get—knowing somebody’s watching you. I finally catch sight of him and take the opportunity to excuse myself, lifting the napkin from my lap and placing it on the table as I slide out of the booth. Rob, sitting at a table across from us, gets up. But I motion with my hand for him to sit back down.
I catch the waiter next to the swivel door into the kitchen, out of view from the main dining room where all the guests are seated. “Hi,” I say.
The waiter, dressed all in black, looks like he’s just stepped off the runway. His chiseled jawline, messy dark hair, and gaunt figure is all the rage in Milan and Paris right now.
“Hi,” he responds, sliding his hands into his pockets. He looks briefly at me before looking away and then back again.
“I need your help.” I stretch my hand out and lean against the wall beside him. “My team has me on this no carbs, no alcohol diet, and after the day I’ve had, I could really use astiffdrink or two. What do you say? Help a guy out, brother-to-brother?” I gently tap him on the shoulder and lift a brow.
Another waiter, balancing four plates on his arms with an assortment of sushi rolls, exits the flapped door. He pauses briefly when he sees me, eyes wide, before continuing forward. I snap my fingers to recapture the attention of the waiter in front of me before digging into my pocket to pull out a couple of fifty-pound notes. I reach over and slide them into his trouser pocket.
“When I order my next drink, would you be sure the barman free pours some Belvedere in?” After a quick nod and a smile from him, I start to return to the table, but then think better of it and turn back. “Oh, and this is our little secret, okay? No need to put it on the bill.”
He pauses before nodding reluctantly, bringing a smile to my face.
Good boy.
Paul and Alfonso are deep in conversation about the nuances of the film industry, which frankly, I have no interest in. Especially now that I finally have a proper drink. I open my mouth wide to swallow the last mouthful, the ice cubes clinking against my teeth. Vodka is far from my preferred spirit, but it’s the easiest to get past Paul’s ever-watchful eye. So it’s a small sacrifice to make.
Setting the glass down, I reach for another slice of sushi with my chopsticks, but pause, seizing the chance to take stock of Alfonso in a moment where he’s not watching me. There is akindness in his green eyes as he laughs off Paul’s pointed remarks. His navy button-down shirt complements his cropped salt-and-pepper hair and olive skin, giving him a distinguished air. The remnants of his boyish good looks tell me he would have broken a heart or three when he was my age.
My gaze lingers a bit too long, and his head suddenly turns toward me. He looks at me, then down to the Dragon roll where two pieces remain, my chopsticks hovering near one. I nod at him to take the other, as Paul swoops in and grabs the one I was about to pick up.
Typical Paul.
“So, what spoke to you about this book so much so that you wanted to use it to launch your career?” Alfonso’s hand covers his mouth, making his words barely audible.
It’s so rare I’m actually asked for input into my own career choices that I’m briefly taken aback—both by Alfonso’s question and by Paul not immediately jumping in to answer on my behalf.
“Well, the most important thing for me, is to be taken seriously as an actor,” I say, unsuccessfully attempting to scoop up some of the black miso cod with my chopsticks. “To not go down the predictable route. I want to go against the stereotype, play a really gritty role people wouldn’t expect, and the main character in the book is exactly that.” I finally get a grip on the piece of the cod with my chopsticks and lift it up to my mouth.
Alfonso nods and smiles, resting his elbow on the table and cupping his chin in his hand. The way he looks at me gives the weight of my words even more importance, like they’re not only being heard and acknowledged, but also understood.
A warm feeling rises inside of me.
So,thisis what it feels like to be respected.
