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Reaching the hotel entrance with no questions more difficult than “How are you liking LA?” Alessandro immediately found his friend, Mohammed Bittar. Mohammed wore a pair of loose black pants that tightened from knee to ankle, a baggy white-collared shirt unbuttoned halfway down his chest, showing a cluster of silver and gold pendant necklaces, and a Celtics baseball cap. The green cap highlighted his hazel eyes. He shook Megan’s hand and kissed her cheek at the same time. “You’re the reason I couldn’t get ’Sandro back to LA!” he said.
“It was more like a school full of acting students,” Megan pointed out.
“And a manager who was very, very angry with me at the time,” Alessandro added, hugging his friend. “I am so happy for you, Mo. You will win tonight. I feel it.”
“Thanks, bro. Come meet my friends, Megan.” Leaving Alessandro in his wake, he tucked Megan’s arm into his and pulled her forward. She was introduced to several beautiful people, some dressed to kill, others in more subdued outfits that tagged them as producers rather than actors. In minutes, Megan found herself at Mohammed’s table, champagne in hand, while the huge ballroom around them—bigger than the one Ellen had donated to the Studio—filled up with a talking, laughing, kissing crowd. A TV camera sat at each corner of the stage, pointed toward it, but Megan could relax for now, as they were clearly not running.
A bell rang, cameramen appeared at their instruments, and the last of the guests rushed to their seats. Intro music that might have been the beginning of an epic movie began to play, the cameras turned on and swept the crowd, and a voiceover said, “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the twenty-fifth annual Ravello Awards! Please welcome Board President John Egan and Contest Chair Didi Ravello!”
“Oop,” Megan said to herself. A woman in her midfifties, with long black hair worn over a stunning red strapless gown, glided onto the stage, helped by a nondescript man with heavy jowls and a tight tux.
“What is oop?” Alessandro whispered while they kept on clapping.
“That’s Kane’s ex-girlfriend,” she whispered back. “She’s the reason he got famous.”
Alessandro looked at her. “Is it awkward?”
“No. She has no idea who I am. I just hadn’t made the connection with the award name.”
“Thank you, thank you!” Didi was saying, raising her hands so the applause died down. “I cannot believe that twenty-five years have gone by since my father told me his germ of an idea for this award. Thanks to his work and the creativity and drive of every single person in this room, in this town, in this industry”—she paused for cheering and more applause—“Dad’s foundation has now been able to give more than two hundred million dollars to emerging movie makers throughout the world. Thanks, Dad!” She raised a glass that sat on a table behind her to the ceiling. “To Salvatore Ravello.”
The audience obediently repeated her words, then were invited to sit. As people Megan had only seen on big screens began to parade in front of her, announcing finalists and winners of each category, her favorite parts—apart from seeing what everyone was wearing—were the clips they showed from each movie. With fewer awards than other ceremonies to hand out, each clip was longer, giving a good feel for what the movie had been trying to say. Even Megan, a complete newbie, had to admire the craftsmanship in each film.
When Anupam Kher read out Mohammed’s name as Best Director and then Didi herself announced that his movie had won for best film, Megan yelled herself hoarse, despite knowing the man for less than two hours. Mohammed leaped, literally, onto the stage, forgoing the stairs for a hip-cracking parkour move three feet from the floor. His producers followed more sedately, and together they hugged and whooped.
Back at their table, Megan again saw that ecstatic side of Alessandro, this time in his hollering after Mohammed. If the cameras caught him, his reputation as a moody hottie was shot. He didn’t look like he cared.
Didi closed the ceremony while Mohammed was still on the stage. Megan wondered if the TV broadcast had caught his final shout of joy. The crowd laughed, and everyone began to find their way out at the back of the room. Alessandro instead took Megan’s hand and went forward to the stairs on the stage’s right-hand side.
Several people milled about there, assistants and crew and the like, Megan supposed, and no one came down the stairs right away. And when they did, it wasn’t Mohammed but Didi. And the first person her eyes landed on was Megan.
“By God,” she said, pointing at her. “I wouldn’t have believed it until I saw you with my own eyes. Megan Fielding, all grown up!”
Megan had been almost grown up when Didi had met Kane. Also, they had never met. “Did you know what I looked like when I wasn’t grown up?” she asked, smiling.
“Of course! Your brother went on and on and on about all of you.” Didi circled her hand, laughing. “And in any case, you’ve got the Fielding looks. I would have known any one of you anywhere. It’s nice to meet you in person.”
Megan gave her outstretched hand the requisite gentle squeeze. Close up, Didi was just as beautiful as she was in front of the lights. She carried her small crow’s-feet and laugh lines with the same insouciance as the diamonds on her fingers. “It’s a pleasure to meet you at last, Didi.”
“Bro!” Mohammed yelled, almost knocking Didi off the top step as he tackled Alessandro, forcing him to step away from Megan to take Mohammed’s weight and save the women from getting trampled. In his absence, Megan became aware that she and Didi were the center of attention. Cameras began flashing. Automatically, Megan smiled her biggest five-hundred-watt Fielding smile.
“There it is,” Didi said approvingly. “Phew. You know how many dental sessions I had to do to get a smile like your brother has naturally? And you inherited the same damn thing. It’s not fair. It really isn’t.” She pouted.
Megan had to laugh at her difference in tone from a few minutes ago, when she’d controlled the entire room. “If my brother was a fool enough to let you go, then I think you won.”
“You’re so sweet.” Didi patted her arm. “And now another Fielding has come to Hollywood. Will you stay this time? Not going to run back to Bahston and find a spouse?”
The cameras flashed like crazy. Was Megan blushing? Maybe the flashes would bleach it out. “Um, no. No spouse in my plans. Not—no.”
Where the hell was Alessandro?
“Oh, but I forgot your young man! Where is he?Dov’è, Signor Rosselli?Dov’è, amore?”
“Sono qui,” Alessandro replied, emerging from a crowd and looking a lot more rumpled than when he’d gone into it. “Onore, Signora.” Didi offered one cheek and then the other for Alessandro to kiss.
“I’ve been wanting to meet you,” she said in English. “Why haven’t you done an Italian language movie? I can’t find any work you did beforeAll the Things!”
“That is because there is nothing to find,” he said. “I only began acting when I got to America. Believe me,” he went on with a self-deprecating smile. “That is better for everyone.”
