Chapter 19: Hard Pressed

Leicester Square, London, UK. November 2005

Fame held a hell of a lot of advantages. The money in relation to the effort - at least when you get as lucky as I did, or are the product of nepotism - is fairly unbeatable. As I grow older, I personally was thankful for the women, too. But I’m vehemently not a fan of fame, for fame’s sake.

The Kardashian model of clout, as a poignant example, didn’t suit me. And neither does the pointless exercise that is the red carpet premiere.

The world around me seemed determined to induce some form of epilepsy in me through the combination of flashing lights, shuttering cameras, and the irritatingly vapid nattering of nasally gossip mongers with mics.

“Your smile is falling.” Came the loin-stirringly delicious voice of my date tonight, Gemma Arterton.

The sting of Keiko’s return to Japan was lessened by my reunion with Gemma. You’ve no doubt heard of attention deficit hyperactive disorder, more colloquially referred to as ADHD. Well, it seemed I’d developed or contracted a more specific strain of the syndrome - attention deficit fuckboy disorder.

“I can’t help it. My cheeks hurt.” I fixed my smile to be a bit brighter, intoning my complaint through my clenched teeth.

Gemma shifted her position slightly, the arm not currently locked with my own, raised up and rested itself lightly on my lapel. She raised her knee, parting the slit in her silky black dress, to reveal her gorgeously toned leg.

Poor manners on her part, showing off my dinner like that.

She, herself, wasn’t interested in smiling. Her face vacillated between different levels of sexy pouting as she shifted her gaze from one flashing camera to the next. Clearly, someone knew their favourite angle, and wanted each publication to receive it.

Just like the rest of the cast I was inevitably going to run into, tonight was the first time I was seeing her in months. Zoom doesn’t exist yet, and Skype is far worse than you remember. I wanted to take her to the New York premiere in a few days too, but she was in the midst of filming her very first major role with the BBC (alongside Maggie Smith, funnily enough), and so didn’t have the luxury of jet-setting around the globe with me.

Either way, I’d make the most of our brief time together.

“You should’ve smoldered like I suggested. It takes far fewer muscles on your face.”

Out of respect for general decorum, I’d held myself back quite a bit. Her dress was very backless, and tantalizingly risqué. I figured a little payback for her cheek was in order. I untangled my arm from hers and tucked it behind her upper back. She side-eyed me questioningly. I just continued to smile and wave.

Luckily for my hormone induced shenanigans, there was very little space between our backs and the giant movie poster with my face plastered on it, so no cameras would pick up my teasing.

I began at her shoulder blades. My fingers licked their way down her spine, a river of gooseflesh following in their wake, until I reached the hemline of her dress just over the cleft of her buttocks. She had two cute little dimples there that I proceeded to tickle.

A low growl rumbled in the back of her throat. She shifted in what seemed like discomfort, but I knew far more intimately to be her telltale signs of arousal. Looks like someone had a slight exhibitionist streak in them.

The hand resting on my chest tightened, and she pressed her nails into my skin as a warning.

Better than doing what I really wanted to and slide my finger down the crack of that ass - it took every ounce of restraint in me to not do precisely that.

“Let’s let someone else get a turn for photos, shall we?” I put some pressure on where my hand was resting, and guided her down the red carpet.

She leaned into me, turned her mouth up towards my ear and whispered, “You’ll very much be paying for that tonight.” Her voice was warm and breathy.

“Promise?” I wanted to make it hot and sweaty.

I scanned around the area to see who else had arrived. Felton had just pulled up with a couple of the other guys, like Radcliffe and Alfie Enoch (the actor for Dean Thomas) and were being actively manhandled by fans.

I saw Pattinson posing for pictures in an eye-wateringly garish red velvet jacket. I don’t know if he’d woken up from a nap, or just got done fucking, but that guy’s hair was a mess.

It was both a blow and reprieve for my ego that I wasn’t the only young man on the cast actively generating interest of the carnal variety. All those push-ups before the shirtless scene in the prefect’s bath, and the towel scene with Konishiki, and I could have just as easily gotten the same frothing response from my raving fans with a pair of glasses instead.

“Searching for someone in particular?” Gemma asked.

“My two little minions.” I’d missed them more than I’d realized and the incredibly infrequent phone conversations of five-minute catch-ups weren’t satisfactory in filling that hole.

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I’m not sure how my poor delicate heart could take the separation at the end of the series. What I knew was that if they didn’t weep for me, I’d be more heartbroken than anything.

“Why? Worried they might get swallowed up by the crowd?” She teased.

“No, the rabid fans are manageable. I’m more concerned they’ll get trapped by the sleazebags who run this operation.”

“LA isn’t good for you, Bas. It’s corrupting your way of thinking. We’re in the heart of London, and the British, for all our faults, are far more concerned with keeping up appearances than Americans are. Never know when royalty might pop in, so we keep to our best behaviour.” She jokingly admonished, but there was definitely a sense of ‘stay close,’ in her undertone.

“As long as they don’t send over Prince Andrew.” I finally spotted Emma and Rupert. “Found them.”

“And not a moment too soon.” She pointed out their awkward body language; Emma was self consciously rubbing her arm, while even the ever jovial Rupert was frowning. “What in the world is that reporter asking them?”

“Only one way to find out. He better hope his insurance covers the damage I’m about to do.” I strode over urgently and inserted myself into the conversation. “Why the long faces guys? Getting detention?”

Have you ever met a relative or close friend after a really long time? It never mattered how bloodshot your eyes were, or how unbrushed your teeth would be after spending hours traveling. The moment you met them again, both would be shining brighter than the fluorescent lights at the airport arrival hall.

Though, of course, some cologne drenched douchebag gormlessly gawking with a camera always had to get in the way.

“We’re getting lucky tonight!” The middle-aged, and clearly American, reporter hollered out flamboyantly. He rudely turned his back to us and addressed the camera instead. “All three stars of the Harry Potter movies are here to answer our burning questions!”

While he was blabbering away at the camera, I turned to my two co-stars and raised my eyebrows in inquiry.

Emma had saddled up right next to me and reached for my free arm while Rupert sandwiched her from the other side. Emma pursed her lips and shook her head, refusing to answer, so I looked to Rupert, who mouthed the word ‘perv’.

I squeezed out from both girl’s grip, handed Emma off to Gemma, who graciously tucked her into her shoulder. “Are you actually going to bother asking us a question?”

The reporter immediately turned around and thrust the mic in my face. The E! Channel - should’ve known. “This is Jerry Penacoli with E! How’s Harry Potter feeling tonight?”

“You could call me by my real name. Do you know it?” My face and tone were as innocent as I could be bothered to affect; my intent, however, was clearly hostile.

“How couldn’t we? Bas Rhys himself!” I’d have been less irritated by the response had he not pronounced it ‘Bass Rice’, as if I was an item on a nearby restaurant’s menu. I’d done a few interviews over the years, and by this point, was a household name. The correct ‘Baz Reese’ pronunciation of my name was well known.

“Not quite right, I’m afraid. But ‘e’ for effort.”

“Don’t you mean ‘a’ for effort?”

“No.” I heard the three snickering behind me.

A lack of shame and general disregard for personal space proved to be a potent cocktail. His mic practically shoved itself down my throat. “Word on the street is that Harry Potter’s been racing cars around Japan. What’s more exciting, that or brooms?”

I’d better dig through Cadbury’s bag for the small bottle of hand sanitizer. The slime on this guy’s fingers threatened to stain my hand as I pushed the mic away from my face. “Before we get to my question, I think I interrupted your interview with my two co-stars. Why don’t you repeat that particular set of questions for me?”

“Oh, well, Emma and I were just having a little girl talk! She’s really started filling out her dresses so the boys must be absolutely throwing themselves at her.” …did this fifty-year-old man really just ask that of a fifteen-year-old girl?

“Are you, as an adult in an extremely public setting, asking a teen girl if she’s sexually active?” I knew I was exaggerating a bit; but honestly, the question wasn’t that far off and there’s little point providing pervs with mercy.

“No! Nothing that invasive!” He floundered for a moment. “It’s just that she’s a budding young woman, and many of her fans are curious about how she might be dealing with the attention.” He tried to explain.

“... budding?” I made to corner the old lech, “as in breasts budding?” I felt Emma’s leg impact my calf. It was a good thing the camera would only show us from the waist up. “Did you bother asking Rupert the same thing?”

“About breasts!?” The reporter was clearly getting flustered and blurted out. “Wai-!” he tried, realizing what he just implied.

“No, about his armpit hair. What do you think?” I butted in again.

“He didn’t!” Rupert chimed in. Someone else was finally getting in on the joke with me. “I bought hair gel and everything. He didn’t even care!” My man.

I looked back. Both the kids had swapped out their aggrieved expressions for a more amused mien.

The reporter, on the other hand, was suddenly very wooden. “H-how about we ignore that question then and I ask something more agreeable?”

I studied him for a moment. Do I do the polite thing and relax? Nah. “On your website, you people have a countdown, don’t you?” They weren’t the only ones, but I decided to make an example. “Of when we each become legal.” I clarified.

He shut up for the first time. He knew they did and couldn’t contradict.

“I’m not inclined to give an interview to someone so eager to molest my teenage friends.” I turned away without another word while fixing my cuffs… I’d probably also have to check the back of my trousers later for footprints, too.

I extended my arm out and Emma latched on and entwined her fingers in mine. I looked to Gemma, and gestured towards Rupert, getting the clue she sauntered over to him and locked arms. She whispered something to him while fixing his dinner jacket. Given that he rubbed the back of his head and blushed as red as his hair, he was clearly pleased.

“Thanks.” Emma said, finding her lost voice. “I was struggling to answer his questions while still remaining cordial.”

“Why were you wasting your energy on a wanker like that?”

“That’s what my publicist tells me to do. She says it’s good for my image.” She sighed out.

“We need to find you a new one, then.” Bottom-feeders don’t enjoy swimming with sharks. Anita wasn’t liable to give Emma such shit advice.

“Don’t pretend you know what you’re doing.” She bantered back. “For the foreseeable future, I’m going to have to look out for articles mentioning me and armpit hair in the same sentence!” She almost yelled in scandal. I laughed. Their voices felt like home.