Chapter 47: Gutter Toast

Chapter 47: Gutter Toast

Empire Leicester Square, London. July 2009.

Nowhere in the world did I feel more unsafe than in a public restroom. Despite my aversion, however, I couldn’t always avoid them. They existed to fulfil a need. It wasn’t always my decision when I had to visit them; they were just an inescapable station in the circadian rhythm of my chosen lifestyle. 

In other words: when you gotta go, you gotta go.

As soon as I stepped into these filthy little dungeons, the cheap fluorescent lights started flickering.

“To the left, Bas! That’s your best angle!”

“Look here! Give us a smile, love!”

“Whip it out, Bas!”

“Stag again? C’mon, when are you gonna let us have some juicy gos already?”

À propos to my analogy comparing Half-Blood Prince’s red carpet premiere to a bloody loo, it was absolutely pissing down rain. London for you.

Fedex was far from negligent. Regardless of whether I bothered paying attention to weather reports, she always had her ear to the ground, and eye on the sky. I let her keep the umbrella all to herself, though.

It was more important that she stay dry. She had a lot more work to do than I did.

Fat dollops of drizzle drenched me. The pelting rain dissolved all the product I’d wasted on my hair, and fell in rivulets down my neck and over my shoulders, soaking into my carefully curated outfit. 

There was something about expensive fabrics versus nylon or polyester that made it a lot more absorbent. With every drop that fell on me, it seeped into my threads, making the clothes cling tightly to my skin. 

I turned my head and cast my glance down the celebrity procession line. 

It was rude to peer into the stall next to yours, but I peeked on reflex. Don’t judge me, you’ve done it, too.

Calling them child actors still would be a misnomer, so the young adults reprising their roles as the various Hogwarts students and members of the Harry Potter clique were remaking their debut after what seemed like ages. 

Most of the girls certainly were enjoying the limelight. Happily heeding the paps’ directions to show off their frocks and gowns. Evanna Lynch and Karen Gillan, in particular, were garnering attention. Luna, as expected, had become a massive fan favourite. Ginny wasn’t far behind on the polls either, especially after Karen’s recent announcement that she’d be the newest companion of the newest doctor. Don’t ask Amy Pond who.

Some of the other actresses were pouting. Not for any spurned feelings, but because in the era of the duck-face, it was all too common. The blokes, on the other hand, were far less fussed, and a lot more mussed. They ribbed and elbowed each other, without a care for creases or wrinkles. Half of them awkwardly took their photo ops like they were expecting to get their passports done after this. Smile for duck’s sake.

 Felton at least was behaving properly. Dark suit, coiffed hair, even a little accessorising. I finally felt like I had a comrade in fashion. Good on him, I was glad to see him try to get his face out there more - Half-Blood afforded him the greatest run time since our Chris Columbus days on the first two films.

The adult actors were far less indulgent. They’d been at this long enough for the novelty to have worn off. To them, this was just a contractual chore that was just as much of a performance as their roles.

The Robbie Coltrane, for example, was choo-choo-ing along at a clipped pace. Sign, smile, step. Sign, smile, step. Rinse and repeat ‘til he chugged all the way into the theatre. 

Rupert and Emma were on business, greeting fans with practised ease. We’d all learnt over time what the perfect distance to stand was, close enough that the fans could spot the remnants of lunch in our plastic smiles, but remaining out of reach of overeager swiping hands. You never really know where people’s hands have been, and when they get a hold of you, you can almost see the germs spreading into your pores. But sometimes you had to grin and bear it. 

That was sort of the established rule for successful fame. You had to be more open and vulnerable than you were, perhaps, naturally inclined.

Like peeing in a urinal, you had to unzip a little to get the job done. Fortunately for my fans, and inversely unfortunate for my personal team, I happened to be the type of weirdo who pulled both trousers and pants all the way down to my ankles just for a wee. 

I knew my admirers - more than they’d ever know me (and less than they’d prefer to).

My rabid following didn’t want nebulous well wishes scribbled on paper that read like false advertisements on grimy bathroom walls that said ‘for a good time, call X0X0X69’. 

Autographs requests were already becoming scarcer than tissues at the hand towel dispenser. The few who still asked for them were too old or too young to know better, while the rest were probably scalping them for pocket change on eBay. 

More cameras were on me than ever, but I was slowly going to have to get used to seeing the back of heads rather than faces. It was my duty to give them a good background for their selfies. 

Heavy strands of rain doused hair curtained over my eyebrows. In a motion that I’d practised more times than I cared to admit, I dragged my nails softly across my forehead, tangled my stray bangs between my fingers, and clawed it all into place. My hair was wet and slicked back as sexily as I could manage - any day now, shampoo companies would inundate me with endorsement deals. 

I didn’t need to look into a mirror to see the effect my little pose had on the crowd. Their flushed faces clearly reflected the devastation my looks caused. What can I say? I am a beautiful, beautiful man. 

That’s it, snap more photos, scream my name. Drink me in. 

Too bad the moment you get comfortable, some desperate sod has to lose a fight with his bowels. 

Cue a patron of the farts recklessly and violently spewing (verbal) diarrhoea next to me. “Bas, how about a quick interview? What do you think about the recent classification of the H1N1 swine flu as an official pandemic by the WHO? Also, have you been to any other events recently? Any after parties tonight?” Honestly, what the fuck? Do I look like Ja Rule to this entertainment reporter?

Might as well answer with the same level of stupidity. “Well, I received Stephen Hawking’s invitation to his time traveller’s ball, but I didn’t have enough space in my schedule. And as far as respiratory pandemics go, I don’t know, I’ll worry about it in ten years. Practice hygiene, people.” Speaking of, time to wash my hands of this inanity. 

Moving almost on instinct, my mischief immediately guided me to my target.

With his salt and pepper hair and cheesy smile, Alan Rickman was looking distinctly un-Snape-ish. So as the saint of adding fuel to fanfiction fire, I gave the fans what they so longingly craved. 

Standing in front of the marquee with his umbrella overhead to shield him, my dear old mentor was looking far too happy and dry for his own good. Such a shame - see, this is what happens when I’m not around enough. Spoils them. Better fix it. 

I swooped in under his parasol, threw one soggy arm around his neck, “Scuzi,” while the other borrowed his brightly coloured stole so I could dab away some of my moisture. “Cheers!”

“In…” credible? Inspirational? Indefatigable? In- ”solent!” His drawl and stare tended to be whip cracks on their own. Thwack! Didn’t mean he’d hesitate to physically reprimand me with a nice meaty smack on the back of my head. 

“I take it you missed me, then?” Our love was rampant and undeniable.

“Not in the slightest.” Though he winged me, he still kept me under it when he draped his own arm around me. Noticeably brushing off a few stray droplets off my collar.

Even as his love tap knocked my hair out of style, I wasn’t worried about my vision being obscured at all. Not even the thunderstruck squall of flashing lights could impair my sight.

Despite the darker tone of the movies, the colour grading meant I could be half blind and still see what was happening on screen.

–

Forty Thousand Feet High, The Atlantic Ocean. July 2009.

My sweet agony continued in my first-class cabin suite.

The studio was footing the bill for this, so my conveyance allowance could only go so far.

London was merely the first stop in my global torture tour. LA was next. At least I’d get a couple days of layover before being shipped off over the Pacific. 

“Oh, dear! My apologies, Mr Rhys. We keep bumping into each other; these dimmed lights make it so difficult to navigate sometimes, don’t they? One can hardly see anything.” The air hostess in attendance for our cabin flew into me on my approach to Fedex’s seat. She was keeping her voice down, mindful not to disturb the handful of other passengers fast asleep in their pods. So, naturally, she pressed herself up against me, and used whispering as an excuse to practically French kiss my ear with her breathy voice.

The aisle was narrow, but not that narrow. Her bouquet lingered even after she’d copped a handful and squeezed past.

“Bold, a little nutty. Great legs.”

As I watched her saunter away, I couldn’t help but admire her tight hair bun and (somehow) tighter skirt. “I’ll say.”

“I was talking about the wine.” True enough, I caught Fedex expertly swirling a glass of red in her seat. She took a sip. “Mm…. Almost as palatable as your performance on the red carpet today. Good job. Get some rest though, please. You’ll need to repeat it.” 

“I know. I will. Just antsy is all. Having a hard time falling asleep, so I thought that maybe discussing the details of our talk show prep again might soothe me.” I’d not just been counting sheep; it had gotten to where I’d caught, shorn, and turned them into lambskin coats. 

“Sure, if it will help you relax. The team has postponed your plan to film with Conan. Universal is not anywhere near done with construction, so we will go with plan B - and film the remote once you are back on set. As for your, Ms Watson’s, and Mr Grint’s upcoming joint interview with Ellen, I’ve secured a more accurate version of the segments and questions she has for you three than the one her team sent us.” 

“The wonders of disgruntled staff, I take it?” Who would have thought that a chat show host had an even chattier back stage crew? No, sarcasm wasn’t the lowest form of comedy, but the next event on my promotional itinerary certainly was.

“Perceptive as ever, Mr Rhys. But you need not fret, everything is well in hand. Like this Barolo, you need time to breathe, too. So, return to your seat and grab a glass.”

“Good to know. Not really in the mood right now.” Hearing what I wanted to, I began making my way back.

“Well, if you have an appetite for something else, you may… indulge. Our hostess will no doubt bring you anything you desire, if only you ask. You may rest assured that no one here will discover you taking a snack.”

Oh? What was she-? Ooooh! “I, uh…. might take you up on that.” A wingman on a plane - there was a joke in there somewhere.

“Buon compleanno.” Fedex tipped her glass at me, and I nearly tripped on the return to my chair. 

Barely a moment after I’d pressed the call sign, the hostess arrived. “Can I get you anything, Mr Rhys? Warm nuts? How about something else from the pantry if you’re peckish?”

She knelt beside me, more inside my pod than in the corridor. The low angle meant I got a bird’s-eye-view of her cleavage. Helped along by the fact that she started fanning her conspicuously unbuttoned top half. No way her uniform was up to code right now. “My mouths actually quite dry, at the moment.”

“Ah, thirsty, are we?” she invited herself fully inside my compartment. Her hand slithered up the inside of my thigh while her regulation heels simultaneously toed the sliding door shut. “I have just the remedy. How does a nice warm cup of milk sound?”

Her seduction had rendered me monosyllabic. “Moo.” Was all I could get out. Someone get this dairy cow a bucket because I needed to cross it off the fucking list.

She giggled. “Very well, then. Fasten you seatbelts.” 

“Are we expecting turbulence?” Please, please, please say yes.

“Like you wouldn’t believe.”

Becoming a card-carrying member of the mile high club was a hell of a way to celebrate my birthday. And because of the time-zone shift, I got to cut my cake twice. 

Ironically, I was flying Virgin.