We sat in the second row with a couple of Harry’s producer friends from Paramount. Across the aisle, I saw Ed Baker with a young woman who appeared as if she could be his daughter, but I knew better. I decided not to say hi, not only because he was still a part of the Sunset machine but also because I never liked him.
Mick Riva took the stage, and the women in the crowd started cheering so loudly that Celia actually put her hands over her ears. He was wearing a dark suit with a loose tie. His jet-black hair was combed back but just slightly disheveled. If I had to guess, I’d say he’d had a drink or two backstage. But it didn’t seem to slow him down in the slightest.
“I don’t get it,” Celia said to me as she leaned in to my ear. “What do they see in this guy?”
I shrugged. “That he’s handsome, I suppose.”
Mick walked up to the microphone, the spotlight following him. He grabbed the mic stand with both passion and softness, as if it were one of the many girls yelling his name.
“And he knows what he’s doing,” I said.
Celia shrugged. “I’d take Brick Thomas over him any day.”
I shook my head, cringing. “No, Brick Thomas is a heel. Trust me. If you met him, within five seconds, you’d be gagging.”
Celia laughed. “I think he’s cute.”
“No, you don’t,” I said.
“Well, I think he’s cuter than Mick Riva,” she said. “Harry? Thoughts?”
Harry leaned in from the other side. He whispered so softly I almost didn’t hear him. “I’m embarrassed to admit I have something in common with these shrieking girls,” he said. “I would not kick Mick out of bed for eating crackers.”
Celia laughed.
“You are too much,” I said as I watched Mick walk from one end of the stage to the other, crooning and smoldering. “Where are we eating after this?” I asked them both. “That’s the real question.”
“Don’t we have to go backstage?” Celia asked. “Isn’t that the polite thing to do?”
Mick’s first song ended, and everyone started clapping and cheering. Harry leaned over me as he clapped so Celia could hear him.
“You won an Oscar, Celia,” he said. “You can do whatever the hell you want.”
She threw her head back and laughed as she clapped. “Well, then I want to go get a steak.”
“Steak it is,” I said.
I don’t know whether it was the laughing or the cheering or the clapping. There was so much noise around me, so much chaos from the crowd. But for one fleeting moment, I forgot myself. I forgot where I was. I forgot who I was. I forgot who I was with.
And I grabbed Celia’s han
d and held it.
She looked down, surprised. I could feel Harry’s gaze on our hands, too.
I pulled my hand away, and just as I corrected myself, I saw a woman down the row from us stare at me. She looked to be in her midthirties, with a patrician face, small blue eyes, and perfectly applied crimson lipstick. Her lips turned down as she looked at me.
She had seen me.
She had seen me hold Celia’s hand.
And she had seen me pull it back.
She knew both what I had done and that I had not meant for her to have seen it.
Her small eyes got smaller as she stared at me.
And any hope I had that she did not realize who I was went right out the window when she turned to the man next to her, probably her husband, and whispered in his ear. I watched as his gaze moved from Mick Riva to me.