Page 91 of Dark Ugly Places

Jason leans back and drinks. “You’re paranoid. This city makes people paranoid. You need to relax.”

“Relax?” Bambi whispers. “How exactly am I supposed to do that?”

A woman approaches Jason and asks for his autograph. Bambi cringes as Jason takes a pen from a nearby server and signs a slip of paper for her. She glows and seems like she wants a selfie but then nervously shuffles back to her table, giggling, where her friend is waiting.

Bambi’s insides squirm. He loves this. Once, she loved it too, and she used to get butterflies in her stomach each time they stepped out in public together. At first, the visibility was good for her. She booked more jobs and even became the Sports Illustrated model of the year. She made money and started gaining fans and followers, her social media taking off almost overnight. After all, she was dating the most famous actor in Hollywood, whose face was on every billboard and who had a string of hit films, awards, and media attention any actor would dream of. It was the perfect setup for her, too.

Then Jason began hopping from set to set, and his career took off. A few hits later, and it seemed they couldn’t go anywhere without people recognizing them and asking for photos. They were the golden couple of Hollywood.

Tonight, though, they are not quite so safe as before. Bambi scans the steakhouse, full of tourists and out-of-towners desperate for a look at just one celebrity before they fly back to Nowhereville. They sit and gawk at them from afar, her marriage on display like some kind of ticketed exhibition. She can’t shake the feeling that fame itself is insidious, like a magician’s trick—a strange illusion concealing the obvious truth from everyone.

“Jase? OMG, I thought that was you!”

A slender man in skinny jeans and an oversized blazer approaches them, drink in hand. “I was like, is that Jason Redfern?! I thought he was in Europe making a movie!”

Jason rises and shakes hands with the man, whom Bambi soon recognizes as a producer from one of his earlier films. “How are you, Steven?”

“Oh, I’m swell, thanks. New production underway. Scorsese film. Matt Damon is starring. A real ball buster production. I’m not taking another bath for that art house shit.”

“You still trying to finish that script?”

“Which one? The sleepy drama? Oh! Honey, no. I put that thing to bed.” He leans in and rests an arm on Jason. “Tell me, is it true what they’re saying? The press are relentless with it, aren’t they?”

“No. Of course it isn’t true.”

“Of course it isn’t. Just that LaMonte is all high and mighty with her women’s hotline and shit. She’s really become a voice of the times, you know? Speaking out against old Hollywood. She’s saying all sorts of things, and the news is loving it, aren’t they?”

Jason smiles aggressively, and Bambi’s stomach pangs with nerves. “I wouldn’t know. I don’t listen to the cunts on the news, Steven.”

“Oh well, of course. Cunts. The lot of them. I know. It’s insane, though, isn’t it? And I hear the studio is out for blood, huh?”

“No, everything is fine. It’s a misunderstanding. Nothing happened.”

Steven cringes exaggeratedly and, for the first time, acknowledges Bambi. “He’s good, isn’t he? Always has been a good actor.” He chuckles and sips his drink, spilling some on the restaurant carpet. He winks at her and laughs. “But he’s not that good.”

“Like I said. Nothing happened.” Jason repeats.

“Oh, I know, silly!” Steven replies. “I’m only teasing. News travels fast around here. Anyway, I sure hope they don’t cancel your contract. I’m sure they won’t. I’m rooting for you, big guy.”

“Thanks, Steven.”

Air kisses. Steven swings himself back to the bar. Bambi’s skin crawls watching him go.

A flock of servers arrives, hot plates held aloft sizzling with butter and steak. They position the food before them, and Bambi surveys it contemptuously. “Is there anything else I can get for you this evening?”

A pause. Bambi starts to say something, but Jason cuts in, jabbing something white beside the steak with his knife. “What the fuck is this?”

He flips over the item, revealing a hard red shell, a firm little thud on the plate.

Jeremy leans in, a terrified expression on his face. “Oh dear.” Leaning closer, he realizes. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Redfern. I’ll have them remake it at once.”

“What is this? Some kind of sick joke?”

“Yes, of course, sir. I’m so sorry.”

“That’s a fucking lobster, isn’t it?” He grins widely, his bright teeth flashing.

“Yes, my sincerest apologies, Mr. Redfern. I cannot imagine what they were thinking.”