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Photography deals exquisitely with appearances, but nothing is what it appears to be.
–Duane Michals
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GWEN
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BAGATELLE IS A FRENCH restaurant in the Meatpacking District. The cobblestone streets are surrounded by high-end clothing stores, trendy restaurants, and nightclubs. There’s an elevated park built atop former railroad tracks I’ve taken engagement pictures in before. It’s less than ten minutes from their apartment and a known celebrity haunt.
As soon as we approach the entrance, the flashes go off and questions are hurled at us through the night air.
“Hey, Brent, is this your new girlfriend?”
“Gwen, what do you think about the allegations of assault?”
Brent puts his arm around me and we hustle into the restaurant, ignoring the questions, pretending to be annoyed even though we’re here to be seen.
The hostess takes us to our seat right away. The booth is near the middle—not so far from the windows the paparazzi can’t see us, but far enough away to make it look like we’re putting up an effort.
I can’t believe any of this fools anyone. It’s like a dog-and-pony show and I’m the pony. Or maybe I’m the dog.
We put in our drink orders and I glance around the space. It’s very white and gold. White walls, white ceiling, white tablecloths, and gold seats on the booths. It’s somewhere the glitterati go to see and be seen. It’s got the kind of clientele that’ll take one look at my dress and mutter to their companions, “So two seasons ago.”
I take a gander at the menu and decide I’ll have to order a salad. Not because I’m one of those girls that doesn’t eat real food, but because that’s the only thing on the menu less than twenty dollars. Unless I stick to a side dish, or maybe a dessert. It is tempting to order something from the “seafood tower” portion of the menu. For 420 dollars, those oysters better sing and dance and shower me with compliments before I eat them.
Brent leans over the table and takes my hand in his, giving me a small smile.
“I guess this is the part where we act like we’re totally into each other.” He pretends to consider me a moment and then grimaces. “It’s going to be so difficult.”
I laugh. “Flatterer.”
“Totally. But I made you laugh and they’re eating it up.” He lifts his eyes, tilting his head toward the front window, where the paparazzi are still watching us. As yet, there’s no one else entering or exiting the restaurant that they’d want to harass.
The waiter returns with our drinks and when Brent asks if I want to split the organic grass-fed truffle chicken, I agree. If he decides, he pays, right? Dammit, was that in the contract?
When we’re alone again there’s a moment of awkwardness and then Brent says, “Tell me about yourself.”
“What? Starlee didn’t already tell you everything about me?”
“Not really. Well, she sent over your whole biography, I think, but I couldn’t make myself read it. It felt invasive somehow.”
“It is weird. I’m sorry, I . . .” I don’t know how to finish that sentence. “I’m sorry you have to do this.”
“Me, too. But hey, it won’t be so bad. You seem like an easy person to kick it with. I can handle this for a few weeks.”
“I agree.”
He’s rather blasé about the whole situation, considering his job might be at risk. Not to mention his health and whatever surgery he needs to have.
I remember Marc and the circles under his eyes.
“How is Marc holding up in all this? Was he really bummed about Marissa?”
“Marc is a rock.”
“He looked a little tired or something.”
“He might be stressed about work, that’s usually what gets him riled up, but he can handle anything.”
I wonder if that’s why Brent can be so carefree. Because Marc is the one who picks up all the pieces. “How long have you guys lived together?”
“I moved in before the season started. I needed a place to live.” He eyes me speculatively before continuing. “The truth is that my long-time girlfriend broke up with me and I didn’t want to be alone. Is it emasculating to admit that?” A flash of white teeth accompanies the deprecatory statement.
“Actually I think it’s a sign of strength to admit to one’s weaknesses.”
Not to mention the elephant in the booth. He has one giant reason to feel emasculated, and it doesn’t have anything to do with his brother.
He pretends to wipe sweat from his brow. “Phew. I’m glad that went in my favor. I am starting to wonder if it was a good idea, though. I just made Marc’s life a little worse.”
“You didn’t hit on his girlfriend.”
“No.” He shakes his head. “Not at all.”
“You can’t control what other people do.”
“I know but it’s not the first time one of his girlfriends has hit on me.” He frowns.
“Really?”
“Yeah. I don’t understand it. It’s like they’re possessed. I know nearly every other man on this planet would probably chop off their left nut to be in my shoes, but it’s sort of creepy how people behave when you have even a modicum of fame. I don’t really know who I can trust.”
“Can’t trust the crazy chicken stalker.”
“Right? I thought Marissa’s article might get some of these people off my back. But it hasn’t. And now it’s affecting my job and sponsors and Marc and Dad’s company.” He grimaces.
“Are you worried about what will happen if this scheme doesn’t work and the Sharks decide to let you go?”
“Of course I am, but I didn’t do anything wrong, and the truth will come out, eventually. I didn’t even think it was necessary to get you involved but Starlee was freaking out. If, worst-case scenario, this doesn’t work, Marc will come up with a plan. He always does.”
No wonder Starlee is so much more concerned about Brent’s football career than he is. He has a backup plan. She doesn’t.
Our food arrives and the topic of conversation shifts back to our more personal experiences and relationships.
Brent spears a piece of the truffle chicken with his fork. “It gets harder and harder to find someone who likes you simply because you’re you and not because of your money or name. You know?”
“I do. You don’t know who’s real and who’s not. They only like you because of your fame or what you can get them.”
He nods. “Exactly. It’s one of the reasons my last relationship ended. But not because she was enamored of my success. She was sure that success would lead to our downfall.”
“Some people can’t handle it. Too insecure.” I know the feeling.
“It was hard for a while, after Bella left. Not long after that I started having health problems . . .” He trails off and his eyes flicker down to the table between us. There’s definitely more to his impotence problem than what he’s letting on. He clears his throat and continues. “That’s when I moved in with Marc. But now I’m wondering if that was a bad idea. I don’t want to drag his relationships down. It’s not fair that he keeps getting caught in my crossfire.”
“How many of his past relationships have . . .” I don’t know how to finish that statement, but Brent knows what I’m asking.
“A few. Not as blatant as Marissa.” He grimaces. “But it happened once in college, and then another time a couple years ago. It sounds weird, maybe, but I wish I knew how to stop it.”
I shake my head. “Marc seems like he’s a great catch. It’s their loss.”
“Marc’s the best. He’s only a few years older than me but he practically raised me after our mom died.”
“I’m sorry about your mom.”
He waves off my sympathy. “I was young. Marc remembers her more than I do.”
We continue eating and Brent changes the subject to football. I have a few seconds to process everything we’ve been talking about. I totally understand where Brent is coming from; I’ve been on his side of the camera.
But I also get the sense that the real reason he’s so blasé about all this drama is because Marc is the one who deals with the brunt of it. Marc practically raised Brent after their mom died. And when his relationship ended, he turned to Marc. And now Marc is helping him through all this drama even though he’s probably going through a rough time himself.
“And now that I’ve talked way too much about myself, tell me more about your photography. What made you make the shift into that?”
I give him canned responses and we continue talking and conversation is easy and Brent is fun to be with. He’s for sure easy on the eyes. But . . . there’s no spark. When he grabs my hand as we’re leaving the restaurant and the cameras are flashing, I feel nothing but kinship with him. When he kisses my cheek and opens the car door for me, it’s sweet, but nothing more.
He drives me home and when I run upstairs, I’m not thinking about Brent.
I’m thinking about if I’ll run into Marc when I go to the kid’s center.
