The Assistant Ch 03

“I want an exclusive with

Entertainment Tonight

,” says Andrew, Matt’s evil publicist, on his cellular phone. “Damn it, I said

ET

. That’s right,

ET

.”

I’m in a limousine with Matt and Andrew; we’re on our way to a private screening of a new film on Fifth Avenue. Andrew insists that Matt should attend more movie premiers. “It’s cheap publicity,” he says. “Whatever,” retorts Matt. I, for one, am excited about attending a premiere, for I have never been to one. I went shopping with Bianca this afternoon and bought a sexy red dress made of silk at Barney’s. I feel like a femme fatale in it. Matt and I are sitting on either side of the limousine, facing each other. He’s looking at me and smiling brightly. He looks so handsome in his brown suit and black tie with little smiley faces on it. I laugh a little at the silliness of his attire.

“Mr. Steiner doesn’t want any interviews,” Andrew continues, “but he has agreed to an exclusive with

Entertainment Tonight

.”

Matt is still looking at me, and instead of looking away in self-consciousness, I look back at him and ask, “What?”

“Nothing,” he says flirtatiously.

“I don’t like it when people stare. It makes me uncomfortable.”

“Really? Okay, I won’t stare. You look very pretty in that dress, by the way. Very sexy, actually.”

I feel my cheeks turning as red as my dress. “Thank you,” I stammer.

It’s been two days since Penelope, the model Matt had a brief liaison with, left for Paris, and I’ve been thinking a lot about what Matt said that day. I don’t like the fact that he has brief sexual encounters with women. I think he has a problem with intimacy, I mean, what else could it be? But what else is there to expect from a gorgeous actor, for God’s sake! Still, I cannot love someone who’s obviously afraid of relationships. One thing is certain though: I don’t think I’ll ever tell Matt how I feel about him.

Andrew finally gets off the phone and tells Matt that he has arranged an interview with

Entertainment Tonight

. “I have arranged it for after the movie,” he adds.

Matt looks at him with annoyance. “Why?”

“What do you mean ‘why’? This is good publicity. You have a new movie coming—”

“It’s November, and the movie won’t be out until spring,” Matt says roughly.

“Yeah, but still, you could use some publicity. You’re a little too private, Matt. And that’s a big no-no in this business. Besides, I work in PR—it’s what I do.”

“I hate interviews,” Matt says, “and I hate journalists. With the exception of Karla, of course.” He smiles and winks at me.

Andrew glares at me as though I were some sort of intrusive troll. I glare back at him. Andrew doesn’t intimidate me anymore. If truth shall be told, I think he has a crush on Matt. I’ve noticed that he gazes at Matt with an intense and adoring expression. Also, he is sitting a little too close to Matt. Matt doesn’t seem to notice. Good.

We arrive at the red carpet. The paparazzi take pictures of Matt as soon as he steps out of the limousine. Andrew and I are standing behind him, like two overprotective bodyguards. I may be his friend behind the spotlight, but tonight I am merely part of his entourage. The glare of the lights is blinding me. The celebrities walk confidently on the red carpet and wave at the paparazzi. I prance around the carpet as though I’m a movie star in my own right. This is very exciting. Never been to a movie premiere before!

This is the best thing that could happen to an aspiring entertainment columnist. This is the kind of exposure I have hoped for since college. I’ve always been fascinated with the entertainment industry. I have a great deal of knowledge in this field—I’ve been collecting biographies and articles on celebrities since I was a kid. Let me say right off that it is not the glamorous lifestyle that fascinates me (though it certainly doesn’t put me off either), it is the art form itself. I admire entertainers for their dedication to their craft. It amazes me how celebrities willingly sacrifice their private lives in favor of their careers. But then again, judging by the admiration and treatment they receive, I don’t think they mind said sacrifice so much.

In the theatre, we watch a movie that critics refer to as a “dark comedy.” I see the darkness of the film, but not the comedy. I sit next to Matt. Andrew is probably preparing the interview with

Entertainment Tonight

. Matt and I are finally alone. Well, almost.

The theatre is silent. There’s only the sound of the movie.

As we watch the movie, Matt gingerly puts his arm around my shoulders. I glance at him. He smiles earnestly and kisses me on the forehead, which causes me to swoon. God, I wish we were on a real date!

The film is called

Cupid Is Crying

and the story is about a happily married man who is seduced by his sexy mother-in-law. The marriage is going well, and the relationship between his wife and her mother seems normal. But for some reason, the mother-in-law seduces the man. She is very persuasive and determined. She walks around the house naked (she lives with the married couple) in front of him when her daughter’s not around, calls him at work, speaks seductive words to him, accosts him in the shower—anything to get him into bed. There’s a disturbing scene in which she pours menstrual blood into his coffee. Apparently, it’ll put him under her spell. After several weeks of intensive seduction, the man finally gives in. He abandons his wife and falls madly in love with his mother-in-law. He even proposes a move to Paris with her. But she doesn’t want to move to Paris. “Okay,” he says, “we can live here. We can buy a house in the country.” She says no. She doesn’t want to move in with him. She doesn’t want him, period. She tells him this. The man looks perplexed. “What’s going on?” the man asks.

To which the mother-in-law replies: “I am not in love with you. It was a ploy. It was all a ploy. I wanted to know if it could be done. I wanted to know if I could seduce my son-in-law.”

“And?” the man asks.

She says: “And I was able to seduce you. It was easier than I thought it would be. I am pleased with my achievement: you have fallen in love with me. Well, sonny, I hate to disappoint you, but I cannot reciprocate your affection. I would never do such an abominable thing to my daughter. She knows about all this. In fact, this was all her idea. She wanted to test your fidelity. And you failed. You failed miserably. I’m sorry if I have hurt you. But did you really think I would drop everything and leave with you? Did you really think that?”

His wife and mother-in-law abandon him. His heart is broken. A realization slaps him abruptly in the face: he is alone and unloved. Wallowing in sadness, he shoots himself in the heart, a proclamation of the emotional pain he had endured when his mother-in-law, the woman he’d fallen madly in love with, seduced and then left him.

Ugh, what a depressing story. I may not be a film critic, but I give it two thumbs down. I try to hide my disappointment.

When we get up, I ask Matt if he enjoyed the movie.

“Not really,” he says. “Did you?”

I shake my head. “I thought it was too dark.”

He asks if I could join him at a cast party at the director’s house. He says the party will be held in a brownstone on West 77th and Columbus Avenue—a few blocks away from where I live.

I accept the invitation.

At the party, Andrew immediately mugs Matt. I walk straight to the living room and sit on a leather couch with a glass of Chardonnay in my hands. This is a nice party, very small and intimate. Most of the furniture here is made of marble and leather. There are a few famous guests at the party—including the cast members of the movie. There are several reporters taking pictures and talking to the celebrities. Matt is getting his picture taken with two other actors, one of whom is the star of

Cupid Is Crying

. I am alone on the couch. Nobody wants to talk to me. I feel like the invisible woman.

“Hi, Karla,” says a female voice from behind.

It’s Amanda, my work crony. “Hi,” I say, smiling.

She sits next to me. “I am so glad you’re here,” she says. “I’m bored out of my mind.”

“So am I.”

Amanda looks as breathtakingly beautiful as always. She’s wearing a silk shirt, a cardigan and black trousers. Her make-up is flawless and her blonde hair is pinned into a bun. I feel inadequate next to her.

“Make some chitchat,” she demands.

“Um . . . okay. How’s work?”

“No, not about work. I know I’ve said that we should get together once in a while and discuss work, but not tonight. Let’s talk of other things.”

“Okay.”

For several minutes, we talk about the film and the actors in it. We both agree that the movie sucked. We then touch on other topics such as the difference between nineteenth century authors and the ones of this era. But suddenly, her expression changes. She leans forward, looks at me intensely and says, “You’re having a hard time finding work as a journalist, right?”

I’m a little confused by the sudden change of subject, but I answer, “Yes.”

“Okay.” She pauses for a moment. “There’s something I have wanted to ask you—”

“What is it?”

“—but I don’t know if I should.”

“Why not?”

“It’s kind of personal.”

I blink several times. “Go ahead and ask.”

She licks her lips and says, “My question is: why don’t you just write an article and have it published? What’s holding you?”

I don’t answer right away. No one has ever asked me that before. “I’m . . . afraid . . . I guess.”

“What are you afraid of?”

“I honestly don’t know.”

“Yes, you do. Tell me.”

There is something pushy and controlling in the way she tells me this, and I don’t like it. I take a gulp of Chardonnay, wipe my mouth with a napkin and say: “I’m afraid of rejection. And I’m terrified of becoming a failure. My father expects me to succeed at all cost. He says he knows my full potential, but I’m not sure I believe him.” I put my face in my hands and let it all sink in. I hadn’t confessed this to anyone until now. I feel strange about having made this confession to someone I barely know.

Amanda is silent.

I say, “I have connections. I know someone who writes for the New York Observer. And I know that all I have to do is write an article and have it published. Become a freelancer or something. But I’m terrified of the outcome.”

There’s an awkward pause.

“Well,” Amanda ventures, “I know that most journalists start out as freelancers and make a lot of money that way. It surprises me that you haven’t done that.” She looks at the saddened expression on my face. “Oh, God, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you feel bad, I—”

“It’s okay,” I interrupt. “I’m glad you asked me. In fact, having confessed this to someone has made me feel better. And I thank you.”

Amanda smiles uneasily.

As we sit in silence, Daniel Stevens, Matt’s geeky co-star, waves to Amanda. She rolls her eyes and says, “You’ll have to excuse me. His highness needs me.”

I nod empathetically.

I resent Amanda for bringing back such unpleasant feelings. I hadn’t thought of them for quite a while. I know all about becoming a freelancer, but I’ve been afraid—or rather, petrified of rejection. I don’t have the courage to write an article, the mere thought of it makes me shudder with dread and anxiety. How could something I love overwhelm me so much? There are times in which I hate the thought of becoming a journalist, but then I realize that that’s not true, that I simply don’t want to lose my father’s admiration and respect. He believes in me, and I don’t want to disappoint him. I have had days during which I’ve been disconcerted and depressed because of this. Sometimes I feel like there are two people inhabiting my body, that I have multiple personalities or something. There’s Karla: the aspiring journalist. And then there’s Karla: the gutless loser, the wimp. But I don’t dwell on it anymore. In fact, I haven’t had time to think about it lately. I have a new obsession: Matt Steiner. Now,

he’s

the one that throws me into a state of intense turmoil. But if I were honest with myself for a moment I’d realize that I am rather enjoying this new obsession.

I’m on my third glass of Chardonnay. This party is boring. I don’t want to be here anymore. I feel unwelcome in this place—celebrities don’t associate with regular people, at least not the ones at this party. I wish I could go home. There’s nothing remotely interesting here, and I do mean

nothing

. Bored, I glance around the house and notice that Matt is staring at me from across the room. We smile at each other. I point to the empty chair next to my own and mouth, “Sit.” He obeys. His arm brushes against mine as he plops down on the couch. He has a tall glass of scotch in his hand and he’s chewing on the ice with a sexy grimace that makes my mouth water.

“I don’t like crowds,” he says.

“Me neither.”

“I’m antisocial,” he says, laughing a little, “and Hollywood actors can’t afford to be antisocial. Are you antisocial, Karla?”

“No, don’t think I am.”

He laughs affectionately.

“I take it you don’t like this party,” I say.

“Nope. It’s dull”

“I agree.” I take a sip of Chardonnay and look at all of him. “I like your tie.”

He beams. “You do? It’s my favorite tie. I had it specially made.”

“Really?”

“Yes. I like smiley faces; they cheer me up. It’s like magic. And I do know for a fact that my tie is magic.”

“I see,” I say, trying not to laugh. His tie is magic? What the hell is he talking about?

“Whenever I feel gloomy,” he continues, “I don my magic tie. It transforms me, Karla. It transforms me into a happy person. This tie turns sadness into happiness. It’s definitely magic. I’ve never experienced anything like it.”

As he rambles on about his magical tie I ask myself: Will I ever find a normal man? Here I am at a cast party having the most ludicrous conversation with the man I love. I want to burst into laughter, or maybe into tears.

As if reading my mind, he says, “No, I’m not crazy.” He laughs. “But I am strange.”

“I don’t think you’re strange,” I lie.

He leans his head against the couch and looks at me dreamily. “Yes, you do,” he says.

We gaze at each other.

He smiles softly and says: “I like you, Karla. I like you because you are sweet and sincere to a fault. Sincerity is a rare commodity these days, which is why I feel I can be myself around you. I really value our friendship.”

I’m touched. But I wonder what he meant when he said that I’m sincere to a fault.

“Karla?”

“Yes.”

“Would you like to join me for a stroll in the park? I don’t want to be here anymore.”

I accept without hesitation.

We stroll around Riverside Park for a few minutes. The wind hits our faces as we sit on a bench near the river, just like the night we went to the art gallery. It’s very cold tonight and I’m shivering. The air smells of dry leaves. Matt looks straight ahead at the river and is quiet. I stare at the river flowing by and wonder why he likes it here so much. I know he’s mentioned something about wanting to be alone, but why does he bring me here? I mean, the view of the river is beautiful, but there’s also something somber and mysterious about it. I look at him. His blue eyes look vacant and forlorn. Perhaps this is some sort of spiritual escape for him. Or perhaps this place reminds him of something—or someone. He looks as though he’s in some other world—he’s here, but not in spirit. I don’t know if I’m making any sense, I guess my thoughts are rambling a little because of the cold weather.

After about thirty minutes of silence, I say, “I wanna go home.”

He doesn’t answer.

“I’m freezing.”

He remains silent.

I sigh. “I’m going home. It’s almost midnight and I’m tired.”

“Don’t,” he finally says. “Please don’t leave. I don’t want to be alone.” He sounds vulnerable when he says this.

“But I’m tired. And it’s cold. I have very dry skin, especially around my hands. See?” I show him my hands. “The coldness makes them dry and brittle.”

“You should wear gloves,” he says absently.

At the risk of annoying him, I hum, “Baby It’s Cold Outside.”

“Cut it out,” he says.

Agitated, I grind my teeth maniacally.

“Stop it,” he says, laughing a little. “You’re making me nervous.”

“Sorry.”

I look around the park. This is a dark and deserted area—there is not one soul walking around here and there are no street lamps in sight. We could easily get attacked and killed and no one would be able to rescue us. This thought scares me.

“Doesn’t it scare you to come here alone at night?” I ask him.

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because I know I’m safe here. Besides, I am not alone. I have you.” He looks at me and smiles meaningfully. The sweetness in his tone would’ve captured me if I weren’t freezing to death.

I try to look at the stars in the sky, but the bitterly cold weather does not allow me to concentrate. My suede jacket is not warm enough for this kind of weather. What shall I do? Out of desperation, I rest my body against Matt’s. I want the warmth of his body to protect me against the cold. He puts his arm around my shoulders, which makes the situation seem less awkward. I feel safe and warm in his arms. I bury my face in his neck and close my eyes. His masculine scent is captivating. I could easily drown in the smell of his skin. Suddenly, as if driven by an involuntary force, I kiss his neck. Then I kiss it again. And again. I kiss it several more times. I am unable to stop. I

don’t

want to stop.

Matt is silent.

I slowly unbutton his jacket while I kiss his neck. I slide my hand under his shirt and caress his chest. I stroke the back of his neck with my other hand.

He’s still looking straight ahead at the river.

I softly kiss his ear and caress his torso. As in automaton, my hand makes way to his trousers and proceeds to caress his crotch. I am both appalled and delighted to find that he’s got an erection. I am momentarily frozen with wonder.

I’ve given Matt Steiner an erection!

His breathing is shallow now. “You smell lovely,” he murmurs. Finally, he puts his hands on either side of my face and kisses me so hard I gasp with sheer pleasure. His kiss is passionate and strange at the same time—his hunger is almost uncontainable. Amid the kisses, I marvel at my tour de force: I have seduced Matt Steiner. We continue to kiss as he tries to undress me with one hand.

My breasts roll free when he removes my bodice. He traces one nipple with his cold fingers as he kisses his way to my breasts. A tantalizing shiver runs down my spine as Matt takes one nipple into his mouth. He bites the nipple, which causes me to wince at first. Then I toss my head back, enjoying the sharp yet gentle sensation of his bites.

What am I doing? I can’t do this. I know there’s a very good reason I shouldn’t be doing this; I forget what it is. There’s something unsettling about all of this. He only has sexual relationships—he’s said so himself. I pull away.

“I should be going,” I say abruptly.

“But—”

“I’m leaving.” I put my bodice back on and walk away.

“Wait! Let me walk you home.” I look back at him. His eyes look disappointed.

When we arrive at my building, he tries to kiss me on the lips, but I stave him off with both hands.

We look at each other in silence. He looks sad and lost, like a child starving for affection. I take a deep breath and walk slowly toward the door.

“Karla! Wait!” he shouts.

I turn to him and say, “What?”

He doesn’t respond.

I throw out my hands and repeat, “What?”

Still he says nothing. He simply looks at me expectantly.

“I don’t know what to say,” I tell him, “except that I can’t sleep with you. I can’t allow it to happen. I’m sorry for what happened in the park. I shouldn’t have tried to seduce you.”