“I don’t know,” she says. “I didn’t really get the impression that we were going to hit it off.”
“Oh, I make a terrible first impression,” I tell her. “Give me a chance to make a better one.”
She’s taking a long time to answer.
I wasn’t that big of an ass in her trailer or on the set, was I?
“Rodolfo’s?” she asks.
“Rodolfo’s at 8,” I tell her, “tonight.”
“I’m on set at 4, though,” she says.
“Yeah, I’m on set at 5,” I tell her. “I’ll talk to Dutch and let him know that you and I have a benefit or something tonight. He won’t mind.”
“He won’t mind that two of the major actors in the film are playing hooky with hardly any notice?” she asks.
“No,” I tell her. “Benefits like this can bring a lot of attention to a movie in production.”
“You say ‘benefits like this’ as if there’s actually a benefit,” she says.
“I’m sure there’s one somewhere in the city tonight,” I tell her.
“And he won’t mind that you’re going to a benefit and he wasn’t invited to it?” she asks.
That’s a fair point.
“I’ll tell him it’s an actor thing,” I tell her. “It’ll be fine. So, what do you say?”
She sighs again. “All right,” she says. “Should I meet you there, or—”
“I’ll send a car for you,” I tell her.
Normally in this scenario, the car I would send would be some rotten, beat-up piece of shit, barely staying on the road (when you tell someone you’re sending a car for them, they always think limo or upscale town car). Spoiling that impression is a rewarding pastime, but I owe Nick no less than three pieces of autographed Emma Roxy swag.
I’m really getting sick of the phone calls.
It’s not that I’m really so indifferent to Emma. She seems nice enough. She’s just not the sex-crazed, degenerate A-list wannabe that has been my type for so long.
“Let me get you my address,” she says.
“No need,” I tell her.
“What do you mean?” she asks.
“I’ve got your address,” I tell her.
“What do you mean you’ve got my address?” she asks. “I never gave you my address.”
“It’s on the new Mailboxes of the Stars tour map,” I tell her. “Fair warning, if your place doesn’t have a gate in front and walls or tall, sturdy fencing—”
“Walls?” she asks.
“…then I’d have something put up in a hurry. Once these weirdos find out where you live, if you don’t have a moat around your house, you never get any peace,” I finish.
“You really got my address off of one of those maps?” she asks. “How did they get the address?”
“Probably bribed someone that knows you,” I tell her. “It really doesn’t matter. So, reservation’s for 8; why don’t I have the car come get you around, say, 7:30?”