By all measurement, the most painful part of the night thus far was the endless limo ride from the hotel to the premiere.
Everything after that wasn’t as bad as I’d feared it would be.
There was the wildly uncomfortable exit from the car onto the red carpet, where doting boyfriend Caspian made somewhat of an appearance. It occurs to me somewhat later that he wasn’t going above and beyond, because he no longer has to. His plan is for us to have a very public breakup later tonight, so slathering on fake romance doesn’t really suit the part anymore.
After we’re welcomed by screaming and the light of a thousand suns in the form of camera flashes, I’m whisked off to the side with Margot and Nathaniel while Devon earns her big bucks.
It’s so very odd watching the circus of getting someone to pose for pictures of this nature. Hundreds of people are screaming his name, trying to get his attention. He has to angle himself in all sorts of ways to try to make sure the screamers’ needs are being met. Devon runs up periodically and whispers things to him or adjusts his tie to make sure he is looking his most movie star–ish, no matter what.
The entire spectacle feels endless to watch, and I can’t imagine what it’s like to actually experience.
Caspian stops to sign autographs and pose for selfies with fans lined up behind wooden barriers and the arms of police and private security called in to block for the event. I watch as other actors from the franchise arrive and start doing the same dance.
Other famous folk who I’m fairly certain have nothing to do with the movie but are here for their own promotion take the same walk, with slightly less zealous results.
It’s all so surreal. This is their lives. Caspian and all of them. This is their job.
Their job is weird as hell.
I’m led down the edge of the carpet as Caspian makes his way up to other members of the cast, and it’s here that a slew of managers and publicists and other team members all pile in together to set up group shots for the photographers in front of the mammoth movie posters and cutouts and other promotional materials littering the front of the theater.
Looking over, I realize I’m not the only companion banished to the outskirts of the carpet, and for the most part, most of us look far happier to be outcasts. There are a few who seem to be chomping at the bit to find a way into the edge of shots, and there’s even one girl who runs over as though she has something terribly important to tell one of the male stars of the movie. She’s quickly escorted back to the frays with the rest of us by one of that actor’s handlers.
It’s all such an odd experience, and yet it seems so perfectly choreographed. I don’t see how anything with this amount of chaos and the sheer volume of people involved could ever work in a well-oiled manner, but everyone seems very certain of the parts they’re playing in making sure that exact thing happens.
It’s honestly fascinating to watch as a bystander.
As the cast lines up in front of the television crews, those of us who are waiting for our respective actors to return are offered the chance to retreat inside, out of the glare of the burning portable studio lights, to grab a drink and take our seats if so desired.
It is so very desired. These shoes were a horrible mistake.
I’ll add it to my list.
From there, things are the picture of calm from where I’m sitting. I tinker on my phone and say hello to a few people who are either trying to spark conversation with someone, or who recognize me from my tabloid antics with Caspian. I’m as friendly as I can be, but mostly, I want to melt into the theater seat and be left to my own devices. Though I suppose I don’t have to go out of my way to make an impeccable showing as his girlfriend, given the way this night is destined to end.
It’s at least an hour before the actors start filing into the theater. They’re all brought in by their teams, the actors chatting and laughing away with each other, obviously glad to be reunited for the premiere tonight. I see more than a few famous folk I admire, and I want to shrivel up and die when I imagine them witnessing my evisceration in a few short hours.
Finally, finally, the lights go down, and each actor is taken to their respective seats. Whether it’s dark enough that he doesn’t feel the need to put on a show, or because he doesn’t care how out of love we appear now, Caspian is silent when he takes his seat between Margot and me.
The movie itself is actually quite good, although the parts where Caspian is in full-villain mode are less enjoyable now that I’ve seen him make those same terrifying expressions in real life.
When your date has too much in common with an intergalactic assassin, you know you’ve gone wrong somewhere in your life.
The movie ends with much cheering and applause that lasts forever. Nearly all of the actors look embarrassed to some degree as the lights come back on, and they take solace either in cracking jokes with their significant others or with members of their managerial squads. Caspian is talking with Nathaniel and one of the other lead actors, pointing out various places he wishes he’d stuck his landings better, or played off the brilliant acting of whomever else in a more organic way.
If he were anyone else, I would want to roll my eyes and gag at all the fake self-deprecation. But this is all par for the course with what I learned of Caspian during our genuine moments together. He seems honestly uncomfortable having had to watch himself on screen, and looks to have taken mental notes, much like an athlete watching back a game to learn from their mistakes.
From the theater, we’re led back outside, past the flashing cameras and to our car, and I’m suddenly trapped in a tiny space filled with intimidating animosity. As we make our way to the premiere party venue, Caspian says absolutely nothing as loudly as a person possibly can.
He occasionally checks his phone, responding to various texts and other alerts, completely ignoring my presence. I finally pull out my own phone and see a few missed texts from CiCi, asking how things are going.
If I make it out alive, I will consider myself very, very lucky, I reply.
Traffic is particularly horrid, but I guess that’s to be expected when hundreds of people are leaving a theater and heading to the exact same location across town. Expected, but not particularly forgiven, because it’s making this car ride last longer than anyone should ever have to suffer through such uncomfortable silence.
Actually, uncomfortable would be a welcome step up from whatever adjective applies to this mess.
Once again, after the initial walk up, most of us are separated from our partners and brought inside, where a raging party is already in full swing, even without the guests of honor. I’m tempted to find the nearest dark corner and hide there until my beheading, but after the third tray of food passes my way and I remember I haven’t had anything to eat since lunch, and it’s now pushing midnight, I am reminded of CiCi’s advice from my first Caspian outing.
I decide I’ve earned a lobster puff. Or twelve.
When the actors do start appearing, I realize part of what held them all up is that most of them appear to have changed into more party-appropriate clothing, compared to their previous tuxedos and gowns.
This is the first time tonight I haven’t been able to control the annoyance on my face.
If I’d known I could have changed, I would have gone to great lengths to accomplish it. Facing what’s about to be unleashed on me while wearing these godforsaken shoes and with my contoured jumblies hanging out isn’t doing anything for my mood at all.
“Fuck it,” I mutter to myself, and grab another puff.
Caspian finally appears, now clad in a more casual suit, sans tie.
Oh, sure. He gets to be dressed more like himself to drop the hammer, while I look like I’m about to strut off to the prom. I have no doubt he was well aware I could have brought a costume change and elected to leave that information out.
Or, judging by the look on his face when he spots me, he knew it would be pointless to let me take the time to change. I can actually see him shift out of whatever he was feeling a second ago and into the dead-eyed, icy glare of the Evil Cas character.
His expression is clear: I’m not going to be standing here much longer.
Oh god.
It’s one thing to know something like this is coming, days and even weeks in advance, and try to make my peace with it.
It’s another thing altogether when that thing is barreling down on you with a bitter stare as gaggles of actors and managers and agents and waiters and god knows who else stand a few feet away.
I can’t tell if I’m hallucinating or just trying to do whatever I can to delay the inevitable, but I swear he’s walking in slow motion as he makes his way over to me.
A thousand things jump into my head. Am I supposed to cry? Look gutted? Beg him to keep me to make him look better in front of his associates? Fight back and act like an aggressive bitch, so he looks like the victim? If I stand here and take whatever is about to come my way with a stiff upper lip, will he just keep going until I finally crack?
I wish I had asked for clarification as to what’s expected of me, but somehow, I doubt he would have been particularly forthcoming with instructions.
Millennia later, it seems, when he finally reaches where I’m standing, I mentally kick myself for not going to the dark corner. I doubt he would have actually gone to the trouble of dragging me back into the center ring for our bout.
I try to look as composed as possible, but my hands are shaking. Squaring my shoulders and pulling in a breath that is 90 percent shudder, I look up at him and brace for impact.
“Well, then,” Caspian says, his eyes resembling the blankness of a shark’s as it circles its prey in the water.
Now that the moment is here, I may not have a say in whether I cry or not. I can feel the burning sensation in my throat already.
His dead stare is broken for the briefest instant, and I see a sliver of real emotion on his face. I’m close to a full-fledged panic attack and am barely holding it together as it is, so there’s nothing left in me to try to decipher the look.
“Clara,” he says, his voice low. It doesn’t have the same virulent animosity or cold tone as everything else he’s said to me over the last few days, and I don’t know what to make of it. If he’s trying to inject humanity into his performance so it’s believable to everyone around us, he’s doing a good job, because even I’m thrown off balance by it.
Suddenly, whatever the emotion was disappears, and he does the last thing I would have expected: he reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone.
Is he...is he going to record this or something? Have we devolved so far that he wants evidence of the massacre?
He looks back up at me, even more irritated than before, if possible, and then back down at his phone.
I don’t know what he’s looking at, but somehow, this is worse than him preparing to verbally maul me in public. I’m tempted to scream, “JUST DO IT ALREADY!” but I can’t pull in enough air to get my voice above a squeak, even if I wanted to.
His phone lights up in his hand, and he looks away, pursing his lips, frustration clearly building. He looks at me again, shaking his head before he puts his phone to his ear and...
Walks away?
Uh.
Now what the hell am I supposed to do?
Is he coming back?
Do I make a run for it?
Vomit on my feet-strangling shoes?
Burst into tears now and hope they dry up before he returns?
I’m frozen in place, watching him speak with great annoyance into his phone as he finds a dark corner of his own to take the call. I don’t know who is on the other end of the line, but I don’t feel particularly grateful to them for winding him up even more.
Suddenly, Devon is in front of me, still rocking her amazing multicolored dress. “Clara!” she says, reaching out to hug me.
Okay, so she’s one of those people.
I hug her back, hoping my shaking hands aren’t detectable.
“Are you having a good time?” she asks, grabbing a glass of champagne from a passing tray.
“I am,” I lie. “Thank you for asking! How about you?”
It’s nice to see the debilitating terror hasn’t dulled my manners.
“I’m ready to get back to the hotel and out of these bloody shoes,” she says, taking a powerful swig of her drink. I get the feeling it’s to dull the aching in her feet more than anything.
“We have that in common,” I say with a genuine smile of solidarity. “By the way,” I add, realizing I won’t have the chance to make casual conversation again in a matter of minutes, “I’ve been meaning to say all night that you are wearing the hell out of that dress. You look fabulous.”
She giggles. “I can see why Cas likes you so much. You really are as charming as I’ve heard!”
Oh, hey, an emotional punch to the chest. Neat.
“I don’t know who I need to pay for all that good press,” I say, “but if I figure it out, the check is in the mail.”
“You are such a delight,” she says, reaching out to take my hand. Yup, she’s definitely a toucher. “I’m so glad I finally got a chance to meet you before we head back to London. Have you made any plans to come visit? Maybe for the holidays? I’d love to set up some tours for you if Cas is working while you’re in town!”
Now my stomach really hurts, and I regret every single lobster puff. “Well, uh, we haven’t really finalized any plans yet,” I fib, knowing damn well what my final plans are to be. “But when we do, I’ll make sure he lets you know?”
“Absolutely, please do!”
Over her shoulder, I see Caspian making his way back, staring at his phone while somehow managing to navigate the crowds. Either that, or he’s Caspian Tiddleswich, and people just hop out of his way.
I cringe inwardly and look at Devon, sipping on her champagne, and think I can’t imagine a more painful audience for what’s about to happen. It’s one thing to be yelled at in front of a bunch of actors who have barely looked at me twice, but it’s quite another to be torn down in front of a woman I am genuinely beginning to like.
But, in the end, I suppose that’s the point.
I want to excuse myself and run off, meeting him before he can get to where the two of us are standing, but with his damnably long legs, I know I wouldn’t make it if I tried, especially since I’m wearing shoes that have effectively hobbled me.
I can’t help it—I look down at the floor, shifting uncomfortably.
“Hey, Cas,” Devon trills, “hell of a party! Can I get you anything?”
“Thank you, Devon, no,” he says, before adding, “Actually, if I could have a moment with Clara?”
I look up. Maybe he doesn’t want someone he cares about having a front-row seat for my smiting.
“Of course!” Devon says, trilling again. “I’m off to find the bar.” She holds up her empty champagne glass. “I can do better than this.” She winks at me and reaches over to give me another hug. “I do hope I see you in London, Clara. Enjoy the party!”
She skips off, leaving Caspian to his task.
“I didn’t say anything to her about visiting,” I blurt out. “She brought it up, and I said we hadn’t made any plans, that’s all. I know you won’t believe that, but I didn’t—”
He leans down and kisses me on the cheek, pausing to whisper, “Clara, I’m so sorry.”
I’m so stunned, I leap back a good two feet. “Excuse me?”
He steps forward and leans in, so I can hear him over the commotion of the party. “I know it wasn’t you who sold out the senator. I truly am so very sorry. I swear to you I’m not going to embarrass you here. You have my word.”
I stare at him, quickly shaking my head, certain I’ve had some sort of aneurysm and misheard everything he’s just said.
Before I can open my mouth to respond, the actor who played the leader of the space resistance pops over and introduces his date, one of the women who had been trying to hop into the peripheral of the red-carpet photos.
Caspian reaches down and takes my hand, looking down at me with heartless conviction before turning his attention back to his friend.
I look down at our hands, then up at him, and back down again.
With my free hand, I yank a glass of champagne off a tray and start drinking.