In the posters, Paul’s handsome face was half hidden under a mask of circuitry, and his torn shirt revealed a chiseled chest and abs. He was holding a gun that was equal parts candelabra and laser teeth-bleaching kit. Nicola was grateful they were only going to watch five minutes of it.
At the drop-off point, Paul and Gaynor simultaneously started fussing with their wardrobe, and Nicola followed suit. The security guards opened the door on her side, and Nicola realized she was going to have to be the first person to get out. Her insides clenched a little.
She felt Paul’s hand on her shoulder.
“Relax; this will either be fun or over before you know it,” he said gently, then added, “Is it okay if I hold your hand while we walk?”
Nicola and Gaynor answered at the same time, except Gaynor said no and Nicola said yes.
“That settles it,” laughed Paul, pushing past Nicola and exiting the SUV. He stepped out, and immediately the screaming of the crowd went from unpleasant to jet engine. He turned, smiling, and extended his hand. Nicola took it, and very carefully stepped down from the car onto the swirling maelstrom of the red carpet.
Their trip to the doors of the Chinese Theatre seemed endless. Gaynor had said it would be five minutes, but it felt like an hour. First they stopped in front of the screaming mass of photographers. Gaynor expertly, silently placed them side by side. She gently kicked one of Nicola’s feet slightly forward and turned her right hip. She leaned in and whispered to Nicola, “Eyes and teeth, big smile, and work them left to right. Just copy Paul.”
Paul never let go of her hand. He wasn’t crushing it, and it felt reassuring. She saw him maintain a completely unchanging smile as he moved his head, and only his head, from left to right so that all the photographers got their coverage, and she followed suit.
Gaynor appeared at her side.
“Time for some solos,” she said brusquely, pulling their hands apart and leading Nicola out of the range of the photographers.
When the photos were all done, Gaynor reunited them.
“Okay, boss, what’s the plan?” asked Paul, very businesslike.
“Two electronic only. We have to do ET, the stupid movie’s Paramount, and then let’s do something flirty with the gay guy from MTV. Two minutes each. And don’t even make eye contact with the print press or you’ll just feel sorry for them and stop.”
“Well, they have been standing in the hot sun for about an hour waiting to talk to me,” said Paul.
“I don’t care if they just won a gold medal in the Special Olympics,” hissed Gaynor. “No eye contact, no stopping!”
Nicola tried to be a complete wax figure during the two interviews with the fawning reporters from ET and MTV. She smiled along with Paul’s answers, nodding occasionally, constantly aware that Gaynor was hovering just out of camera range and monitoring her every move. Sweat started to run down her back, and she felt her composure slip. She prayed it wasn’t darkening her dress. She finally understood why people Botoxed their sweat glands.
During both interviews, Paul dodged questions about her identity, deftly changing the subject while keeping his hand on the small of her back. Nicola just smiled and channeled her teenage self as she gazed at him with a reasonable facsimile of love.
As soon as Gaynor abruptly ended the final TV interview, Paul muttered “Thanks” to the interviewer and turned away, guiding Nicola through the final stretch of red carpet. To their right, an army of pleading print journalists and chubby bloggers waved recorders and notepads in their direction.
Remembering Gaynor’s words, Nicola fixed her eyes on the door of the theater and walked toward it. She couldn’t see what Paul was doing, but she assumed he was waving at the fans piled against the security fence to their left. Their screams sounded both higher and louder than was humanly possible. Occasionally, they grew so sharp that she winced involuntarily.
At the doors, a guy in an expensively bland suit stepped forward and shook Paul’s hand, ignoring Nicola completely.
“Thanks for coming, Paul,” he said with an arched nuance that indicated that he hadn’t expected to see him there.
“Sure, man, no problem,” said Paul, taking his hand back and stepping around the guy in one fluid motion. As soon as the doors closed behind them, the noise from outside subsided.
“Well done,” barked Gaynor, materializing next to them out of nowhere and startling Nicola. “Who wants popcorn?” she asked, before laughing outlandishly and saying, “Popcorn … ha ha ha, that’s a good one. Let’s go to our seats.”
Paul stopped short. “How long do we have to stay, Gaynor?” he whispered. “And which exit do we take to get to the car?”