The Year of Living Famously (15 page)

“Oh, Christ, love,” Declan said when he came home at seven that night. “This is fecking hideous. It's brilliant.”

“I know!” I said, pleased that he got the concept.

I poured us wine into two mismatched ceramic chalices, one red and gold, the other a lurid green.

Two nights later, we had a Christmas Eve dinner for Bobby, along with Liz Morgan and her husband, Jamey, and Brandon, Declan's friend from acting class, with his wife, Tara, the woman who had sent me to Fred Segal that first time.

Bobby thought my crappy decor was “fucking awesome.”

“Leave it to you to turn super kitsch into super keen,” he said, handing me a bottle of merlot. “How are you?”

Bobby and I had a moment alone because Declan had run out to the store to pick up paper towels. He'd worn a baseball cap and sunglasses, even though we hadn't seen many photographers for the last day or two. It seemed that even the paparazzi celebrated Christmas.

“I'm great.” I kissed Bobby on the cheek and poured us wine. “Did Kendall say anything to you?”

Kendall used to be one of Bobby's clients until she defected to CAA but they still kept in touch.

“She loved that dress,” Bobby said. He hitched himself up on a stool, jingling the bells that I'd hung around the base. “She's been talking you up everywhere. I think you and Declan are going to be the new power couple.”

“I don't want power, I just want to have someone buy my designs.”

“You're going to do it, Kyr. Just grab the bull by the horns and run with it.”

“Thanks for the encouragement. Now where's your date? Stella, was it? Or Kris? I can't remember.”

Bobby dated a revolving series of women who were nearly impossible to remember. They were all gorgeous, all in their twenties, and Bobby seemed attached to absolutely none of them.

“It was supposed to be Kris,” he said, “but I told her to go home to Kansas.”

“Why?”

“I didn't want to lead her on by bringing her here and making her think we were spending Christmas together for a reason.”

I started to set out cheese on a green-painted wood board that had a grimacing snowman in the corner, who looked drunk or possibly just ill. “So you got an attack of the conscience,” I said.

“Exactly.”

Declan came in and hugged Bobby, clapping him on the back. “Merry Christmas, you tosser,” Declan said.

Liz and Jamey arrived next.

“Wow,” Liz said, blinking. Jamey's eyes darted about the room as if he was in a fun house and expected someone to jump out of the shadows.

Brandon and Tara were there shortly after. They were both clad in cashmere sweaters. They brought a bottle of Dom Perignon and a large box of chocolate truffles from K Chocolatier in Beverly Hills.

“My, my,” Tara said when she walked in. She pursed her lips and shifted her bag to the other shoulder. “This is quite the place.”

I could see that they had expected so much more. Certainly from the house—Declan was a movie star now, after all—but also from the decorations.

“Kyra is Captain Christmas,” Declan said.

“Yeah, she does up her apartment like this every year,” Bobby added. “She's legendary in Manhattan.”

“Ah,” Tara said, still clutching her box of truffles.

I tried to explain. I told them about my collecting over the years. “It's not supposed to be beautiful. It's just…” What was the word? I looked around at the apartment. It had looked fantastically trashy an hour ago, now it just looked like trash. “Fun…” I said, finally, my voice tapering off.

“Absolutely,” Liz said. She glanced around. She nodded. “I get it. I love it.”

I squeezed her hand. I liked her more and more all the time. Bobby had been my only real friend in town, and since
Normandy
came out, I'd spent hours with him on the phone deconstructing what was happening with Declan, telling him about the photographers and the weird letters that continued to arrive from Amy Rose. (
We should be married as soon as you get rid of her,
the last one said. Amy Rose always called me “her” or “that woman” in her missives. In another letter, she'd written,
Thought you would want to see a recent picture of my parents.
Paper clipped to the letter was a photo of side-by-side tombstones.) But Bobby had helped me to try and laugh at the letters. He got the fame thing. He'd lived on the fringes of it for years. He understood the paparazzi, the press. He gave me advice on avoiding them, and told me different tips to pass on to Declan about handling interviews. But Liz was more of a regular girlfriend. We got coffee together; we ran through the halls to borrow a purse or a book.

“Right,” Tara said, finally relinquishing the truffles into Declan's hands. “It's really…interesting. I love it, too.” She was obviously trying to suck up but doing a poor job of it.

“It's bloody great,” Declan said, his voice defensive on my behalf.

“It's perfect,” Bobby chimed in.

But it didn't help. The forced jocularity and apparent dis
taste of Brandon, Jamey and especially Tara were evident throughout dinner. I could almost hear Tara telling her friends tomorrow how sad it was that someone as amazing as Declan had to be married to someone as pedestrian as me. In a bout of passive-aggressiveness, I gave her the tiniest helping of mashed potatoes. I restrained myself from spitting in them.

I escaped to the bedroom at one point to phone Emmie. She'd refused my invitation to come to L. A. for the holidays, saying somewhat secretively that she had “plans.” It made me think that she had no plans at all and simply didn't want to travel. I offered to fly to New York for a day or two, even though Dec wouldn't be able to get away, but Emmie insisted that Declan and I spend our first Christmas together. I had felt guilty for days, wondering if she was alone in her apartment, but she had called earlier when I was out, leaving a phone number I didn't recognize.

A man's voice answered.

“This is Kyra Felis,” I said. “Is Emmie Franklin there?”

“Well, of course she is,” the man said. He had a smooth, cultured voice that sounded familiar.

“Who is this, if you don't mind me asking?” I said.

He chuckled. “Emmie didn't tell you?”

“She said she was visiting friends.”

“That she is. This is MacKenzie Bresner, Kyra.”

“MacKenzie! Oh my God, how are you?” As far as I knew, MacKenzie was married and living near Saratoga Springs, surprisingly close to where Emmie was raised.

“How is your wife, MacKenzie?” I asked.

He cleared his throat. “She died about six months ago.”

“I'm so sorry.”

“Yes, so am I. But Emmie is keeping me company.”

“Oh. Well, that's…that's wonderful. Is she there?”

Emmie quickly got on the phone, as if she'd been standing next to MacKenzie the whole time.

“Merry Christmas!” she said.

“Emmie,” I said, ignoring her greeting. “Do you have a boyfriend?”

“I have to run, darling,” Emmie said, but then she did something I'd never heard before. Emmie giggled.

It was enough to make my Christmas a happy one.

T
he day after Christmas, only a few days before we were to leave for Dublin,
Us Weekly
ran a photo of Kendall wearing my dress on its “Hollywood ‘Have to Haves'” page. I was thrilled about the coverage. The problem was, I was unsure how to capitalize on it.

This time I called Graham. He'd told Declan and me that he wanted to be informed of everything we did in our lives, adding that he would always help us in any capacity that he could.

“Nice clip in
Us,
” he said when I reached him. The man missed absolutely nothing.

“Thanks. Look, Graham, I know you work for Declan, but I wanted to ask you a favor.”

“Shoot.”

“I need a sales rep to sell my clothing. I know a few people here in the fashion biz, but they're pretty low profile,” I said. I filled him in on Rosita and Victor. “Basically I'm wondering if you might have any contacts I could talk to.”

“I know fashion about as well as I know Russian, but I'll make some calls.”

That afternoon, I was contacted by three freelance sales reps. When I was back in Manhattan I had tried, unsuccessfully, to get a rep to work for me. These people usually took on ten to twelve designers and made the rounds of the boutiques, department stores and trade shows trying to sell their clients' lines. Now, even though I didn't have a collection ready, I had three who were willing to consider me.

Suddenly, I was a flurry of activity. In order to see what they would be selling, and, therefore, to decide if they wanted to work with me, I had to have a collection, or at least a few items and sketches for the rest. Meanwhile, our trip to Dublin was looming. This was the first time I would meet Declan's parents, and I was nervous.

I scrambled to put together the line. I spent an afternoon in the fashion district picking out new material for what I'd started to call the “Kendall dress.” I'd decided that I would make that dress in at least four other colors and fabrics. I called Rosita and Victor and begged them to clear their schedules. Then I called the plant manager, who promised to make me samples immediately. Next, I had to decide what else would go in the line. Whatever the garments were, they had to complement the Kendall dresses. I sketched and sketched; I pulled out my old dolly and draped fabric every which way, until I came up with an A-line skirt that would be made in a stiff, white cotton covered with geometric black shapes and the circle pin on the hip. And pedal-pusher pants with jeweled cuffs. And light blouses that tied at the waist. And long, thin clutch purses with a circle-of-diamonds clasp.

I stayed up late to get it all done. I got Rosita to make the patterns and, as promised, the plant manager pushed through the designs in a few days. I chattered to Declan
about this fabric and that pattern. He offered to wear the dress when he went on
Conan
if it would help me. We packed for Dublin and checked our tickets and talked to Graham about how to get to the airport without photographers following us.

On the day we would leave for Ireland, I showed my line to the three different sales reps. I was tense and edgy, like a kid dressed up as a reindeer, ready for the Christmas play.

But to my surprise, it was easy. Almost too easy. Every rep wanted to take me on. They barely had to look at the garments to decide this. I went with Alicia, the one who had the most questions, the one who said that she didn't like the cuffs on the pedal pushers. She seemed the person who would be most honest, and honesty was a trait that I sensed would become more and more scarce in our world.

 

I called Emmie again as I waited for Declan to get home and our car to arrive. I hadn't been able to get ahold of her since our Christmas phone call, and I wanted desperately to talk to her before we flew to Dublin.

This time she answered. “Hello, hello,” she said, her elegant voice chipper, the way it used to be.

“Where have you been?” I settled onto the couch, surrounded by my new red matching luggage and Declan's duffel bag, which he refused to toss, even though we had money now to buy him better stuff.

“My dear, why do you sound like a warden?” Emmie said.

“Why didn't you tell me before that you were dating MacKenzie Bresner?”

“Oh, dating.
Please.
You don't date at my age.”

“What do you do then, become sex buddies?”

“Kyra!” Emmie said in her fake-shocked voice. Then she chuckled. It was very hard to shock Emmie, although I'd
been trying most of my life. “We are old friends who are spending some time together,” she explained.

“Does he have an apartment in the city?”

“No.”

“So, does he come and visit you?”

“Yes.”

“And so,” I said, “is he sleeping in your room or mine?”

“That's enough of this conversation, I'm afraid. I don't kiss and tell.”

“Then you are kissing him!” I stood with my finger pointed to the sky. I was triumphant, like a lawyer on cross-examination who's just gotten the witness to admit where the body is buried.

“Aren't you supposed to be on your way to some Irish hamlet?”

“His parents live in Dublin.”

“Ireland is one big hamlet,” Emmie said. “Now, just find me some twelve-year-old Tullamore Dew and call me when you return.”

I checked my watch after we hung up. Declan still wasn't home, and the car service wouldn't be there for ten minutes. I dialed Margaux's home number. No answer. I tried her at work.

“You're there,” I said when she picked up.

“You know me,” she said. “Typical lawyer—I came back the day after Christmas. What's up with you two? I can't turn a corner without seeing Declan's face these days.”

“I know. It's nuts.”

“Well, I'm not complaining. I've been milking the fact that I was at your wedding. My clients think I'm so very hip now.”

“You've always been hip.”

“True,” she said. “What else is up?”

“Emmie has a boyfriend. MacKenzie Bresner.”

“What? That is so unfair!” I could almost see her throwing a file at her big office window.

“How do you figure?”

“Emmie is getting laid at age eighty-three by a brilliant author, and I can't even get my husband to sleep with me!”

“No luck with the baby thing?”

“You have to have sex to have a baby thing.”

“Right. Sorry.”

“Oh, don't be. Tell me something exciting to take my mind off it.”

“Well, we're supposed to be on our way to the airport.” I got up from the couch and peered outside for the car service. Shit. Three photographers, back from holiday leave. They were chatting up a young woman who I'd noticed outside a few hours ago. She wore faded baggy jeans and a purple T-shirt. I knew that the moment we stepped outside, the photographers would drop their friendly banter with her and spring into action. Despite myself, I went into the bathroom to check my makeup.

“Have I given you my tips on Dublin?” Margaux said. After college, Margaux had floated around the world, searching for herself, for some direction in her life. She was forever sending postcards from Paris, Rome, New Delhi, Sydney. She had lived in Barcelona for a short while with a painter named Miguel. She had marooned herself on a Greek island for a few months with an American roommate named Casey. Margaux was, without a doubt, my travel guru.

“Hit me,” I said.

“Okay. Here's the deal. Everyone says to stay out of Temple Bar—it's a neighborhood, by the way—but the fact is it's a blast. You've got to get drunk around there at least once.”

“Got it.”

“The Irish put sausage in everything, which will be weird at first, but it makes all their food taste better, so just eat it.”

“Done.”

“And lastly, don't talk about politics. They know so much more than we do, even about American policies, and you'll never get them to shut up once they start.”

“Excellent.” I heard Declan's key in the door. “Gotta go,” I said.

“Kisses to Declan,” Margaux said. “And luck of the Irish to you.”

 

When we got outside, we struggled with our bags. I had massively overpacked as usual, and Declan was trying to carry his duffel, while pulling one of my little red suitcases with wheels, and balancing my new Prada bag on top of it. I labored behind with my big suitcase.

The photographers ran to us and began clicking off shots. They were only a foot from our faces, making it hard to see around them. In the round, warped glass of their lenses I could see my own fun-house image. I tried to smile but lost my grip on my luggage. When I bent down to grab it and readjust, two photographers leaned with me, shooting me from that angle. I straightened up and matched Declan's stride, yet still the photographers hung with us, getting off one shot after another, walking backward—an art form they've perfected—their lenses rarely farther than ten inches from us.

“Hey guys,” Declan said to the photographers. “How about a little help?”

They laughed and kept shooting.

“Seriously,” Declan said, sounding annoyed with the paparazzi for the first time. “Give us a fecking break.” It was bright out, and we were sweating in the sun.

The driver of the town car popped out of his seat and began assisting us.

“Declan! Declan!” one of the photographers called. “Where are you headed?”

“Oh, we'd never tell,” Declan answered.

“He's going to Ireland.”

Who said that? Both Declan and I swung around from the car. The woman in the purple T-shirt, who'd been talking to the photographers, stood slightly to the right, wearing a pleased little smile. She had long brown hair that looked as if it needed a trim, and she wore frosty pink lipstick.

“Isn't that right?” she said. “You're going to visit our family in Dublin.”

I glanced at Declan. How the hell did she know about Dublin? On the Internet, there were a few unofficial Declan McKenna Web sites, which had all sorts of random information. Had our trip to Ireland somehow made it onto one of them?

“Well, I'm visiting
my
family,” Declan said. His voice was laden with feigned pleasantness.

“Our family,” she said with eerie simplicity. She didn't blink. Her eyes were dark, dark brown, almost as if she had no pupils.

“What's your name, then?” Declan said.

“Amy Rose.”

It took a second for the name to click, but then it reverberated in my head like a gong. Amy Rose. The woman who'd written those letters. I'd been trying to take them in stride, to laugh at them the way Declan and Bobby did, but the sight of her terrified me. I took a step closer to Dec.

“Can I sign an autograph for you?” Declan said.

“Oh, I've got that already. I'm here to go to Dublin, too.” She gestured toward her feet, where a small, brown
leather bag sat waiting. She apparently traveled much lighter than I.

No one seemed to know what to do or say. The photographers got off a few shots of her, then lowered their cameras and watched the exchange. The driver stood near the trunk, frozen.

“Well, we'll take you along next time,” Declan joked, but I could hear the strain in his voice.

She took a step toward him. I flinched.

“Let's go then,” the driver said. He slammed the trunk and shooed Declan and me into the car. He nearly dived into the front seat and started the engine. We looked out the window and saw that Amy Rose had moved closer to the car, a creepy smile on her face.

“Go,” I said to the driver. “Please go!”

 

When we got to the airport, the gate agent read Declan's passport, then glanced up with a look of interest.

“Mr. McKenna,” she said. “It's such a pleasure to have you flying with us today.”

“Thank you,” Declan said.

I stood next to him, holding out my passport, which the agent ignored.

“I loved
Normandy,
” she gushed. “It was so visually stunning, and you were magnificent.”

“Thank you very much,” Declan said, and I could see the strain of the Amy Rose encounter starting to dissipate under her praise. It took that little for him.

After rambling on about
Normandy
for another few minutes, the agent finally deigned to take my passport and finished checking us in. Then she called a porter to escort us to the first-class international lounge. I had never known that airport porters existed, and I had never traveled first-class before, so this momentarily lifted my spirits, too.

The lounge was lovely—muted tan walls, groupings of gray chairs and couches, an array of food and drink. If the room had been in someone's house it would simply be a nice living room, but plopped in the middle of LAX, it seemed like a palace ballroom.