|
|
This is a work
of fiction, loosely based on the very real person, Russell Crowe. No
insult or invasion of his privacy is intended, but rather, it is a
This story is for readers over the age of 18 only, and contains explicit sexual situations and adult language. The writer is not responsible for any "discomfort" caused to the reader by this language and these situations. ©2001 by WILDBEARIES
|
||||
|
|
FUTURE PERFECT - Section 17
We were back in Los Angeles for the second time in a month. Botany Bay had Oscar nominations in a dozen categories, including Russell for Best Actor and Best Original Screenplay (a co-nomination with the man who had done the final shooting script), plus Colin, Diane, Stephen, Best Picture and several technical awards. We had embarked upon a dizzying round of promotional appearances, special screenings, press conferences, other awards shows, and the usual parties. We were entrenched in a big cottage at the Bel Air Hotel, along with Kate and her nanny (Jackie, who was now out of school and going to work for us for a year as a way to travel all over and see the world), Mick, Jake and a rotating group of friends who would pop in for a night or two, then take off again. It was like living in a combination family home, circus and traveling madhouse. Thank goodness for Kate, whose daily antics kept us grounded in reality. We had attended the SAG Awards and the DGA Awards - Russell won the SAG award, which thrilled him no end since it was a vote of his fellow actors, but not the DGA, which he had been nominated for in the past with mixed results. Stephen won the DGA for his direction of Botany Bay. We were so pleased for him, and gave a small party in his honor in the Bel Air Hotel ball room. By "small" I mean less than 100 guests. Thank God for the hotel's incredible staff who did most of the planning for us, and Russell's staff - his cavalry - who performed magic by pulling a lot of rabbits out of some really unlikely hats. "It's so nice to have staff," we would joke, collapsed after some gala or event or ceremony, too tired to move. "I wish I had staff," Mick complained, at which point Russell reminded him that he did, the whole rest of his staff. "Well, that's no fun, I want someone to do stuff just for me." "I'll do something for you," Russell offered, "I'll send you wherever you want to go for a month, all expenses paid, but you can't go until after all this awards shit is over with." "Two weeks is enough," Mick shot back, "and I want to go to Banff." "Banff?" we all asked, thinking that he would choose some sun drenched resort with a beach. "Because I liked it when we were there for 'Mystery, Alaska', and I want to go back and practice my skiing some more." Russell eyed him suspiciously, "What's her name, mate?" To my surprise, Mick blushed. Russell, with his uncanny ability to seemingly read minds, had hit upon the reason for Mick's sudden renewed interest in skiing. "Her name is Audrey, she's a flight attendant for Air Canada, and she's going to be Mrs. Mick if I have anything to say about it." "Just don't let her see you in ski pants, mate - that's not the most attractive bum I've ever seen." Russell got tossed in the hotel pool for that one. Thank goodness he was in jeans and tee shirt and not a fancy suit at the time. We were asked to be part of Barbara Walters' annual Oscar night interview special. Russell accepted after we talked about it. I said it would be a chance to let people see him with his family, since, of course, they had asked me to be in part of the interview with him, and I would make sure Kate was included briefly. "I think it will show you as a much more complex person than the Lothario a lot of the press had insisted he was over the years. "I'm not so sure I want her on television," Russell said. We argued about it on and off for a week before he finally agreed to let her at least be seen for a few minutes. "I don't see why my being a dad is that big of a deal, but if you feel it's okay, I'm willing to be flexible." I fell back on the couch in a mock faint, hand over my heart. "Good Lord, the man is going to be flexible!" Of course, this incited him to attack me with tickles, which always led to other kinds of attack, all of which were extremely pleasurable. Unfortunately, that was the night of the Golden Globes, so we didn't get to explore too many other avenues. Not right then, anyway. "I'm never gonna win this one, I don't know why I always go to the ceremony," Russell grumped in the SUV on the way to the auditorium. "Maybe because you like dressing up in your penguin suit and gettin' screamed at as you walk down the red carpet?" Mick suggested. "Just mind the driving," Russell told him. "I'm not driving," Mick said in a wounded tone. "No, but you're supposed to be riding shotgun," Jake put in. "Okay, next stop, red carpet, everybody paste on your big happy-to-be-here-by-God-isn't-life-grand grins now." We piled out, laughing, which was better than grumpy any day. Russell had hold of my hand so tightly it was almost painful, which, I guess, was because he didn't really want to be there. Or, it could have been because the first voice that really stood out above the usual squeals and calls from fans was the strident, unmistakable voice of the skinny blonde "fashion maven" Russell despised. We stopped while Russell greeted Michael Douglas and his wife, but I saw him covertly eyeing the blonde, who was ensconced midway up the red carpet. We would have to pass her no matter what, but there probably were ways to do it without having to make a scene, because I knew that Russell would not, under any circumstances, want to be captured by her clawlike hands for an on-the-spot gushing interview that would later turn into one of her patented attacks on not only his tuxedo and grooming, but his height, weight, scent and probably which side of his trousers he dressed on. I noticed that most of the major stars went past her without stopping. They were able to do this because they were surrounded by their security people, publicists, assistants and so on. Mick and Jake were with us by then, as was Russell's publicist, Robin, and a rep from United Talent whose name I hadn't heard over the din. Mick saw me counting up bodies and grinned, knowing exactly what I was planning. "There are two more of us," he mouthed to me, indicating two men I hadn't realized were with us. That gave us a sizeable group - more than enough to power our way past her. I dug an elbow into Russell's side, "I think Mick has a plan." "For what?" he asked, still eyeing the blonde in between exchanging jokes with Michael and with Joaquin, who had just trotted up with his latest girlfriend in tow. "Oh," he said, realizing what I meant, "okay, that oughta work. Come on, troops, let's do a flanking maneuver and get around this obstacle to a pleasant evening." I held onto his tuxedo-clad elbow with one hand, gathered a bit of my silk chiffon skirt in the other, and prepared to run. Only, we didn't run. Russell, elegant in a charcoal gray Armani tux (his usual duster style coat with braided trim), myself, in a black chiffon and taffeta Vera Wang gown, Mick and Jake in their own elegant tuxedos, Robin in a blue vintage St. Laurent gown, as well as the two guys I didn't know, sashayed our way up the red carpet, moving as a unit, Russell and I in the center and the rest acting as a buffer, going right by Ms. Skinny Vitriol without so much as a stumble. I heard her screeching at her assistants as we left her in our wake. I really felt sorry for them - they should work for a more considerate person, like my husband. We did stop for brief chats with reporters from CNN, E! and the Australian version of E!, then we were inside and seated. "I'm never going to win one of these," Russell grumbled again. I shushed him and whispered, "You never know, and at least you look really cool." He laughed and I heard him repeat what I'd said to Colin Firth, who was seated on his other side. "Cool isn't to be sneezed at, Russ," Colin answered. "Some of us never achieve anything beyond 'cleans up well', much less 'cool', y'know." "Well, some of you Brits are just born cool," Russell shot back, "whereas us Aussies have to clean the goanas out of our good shoes before we go anywhere halfway nice." "If you two are through playing one-upsmanship, I think they're about to begin the ceremony," I announced in a firm tone of whisper. "I wasn't playing one-upsmanship, were you?" Russell remarked. Colin agreed that he wasn't either, just as his wife gave him a dig in the ribs with her elegant elbow. He shut up, grinning. Russell leaned close and spoke directly into my ear, "I will never win this." "Shut up, you'll jinx it." The comic on stage was midway through his monologue, and we were able to speak privately because of the laughter around us - nobody was listening to us. To his open-mouthed shock, when they announced Best Actor in a Drama, it was his name they called. Furthermore, he also won for writing the screenplay. Pictures of Russell kissing me before he literally galloped onto the dais to accept each award were on the front page of every newspaper the next day, and on all the tabloid TV shows for several days afterward. Two trophies, and both on the same night. So much for Mr. I'll Never Win One Of These. "Damn, that was almost worth gettin' ten thousand more pictures taken," he admitted later when we were back in our cottage, collapsed on the sofa. "So what's tomorrow?" I asked, having acquired amnesia about our schedule in the excitement of the evening. He thought for a minute, then groaned. "The Walters thing, but nothing for two days after that." "Let's run away," I suggested - more than half serious. "We will, after we make nice with Miss Barbara. I'm thinkin' a quick getaway to the wine country, a couple of nights in one of those great bed and breakfast mansion places, me and you, fucking our brains out in a canopy bed - sound nice?" "Leaving Kate with Jackie?" "Well, it would be easier to do that fucking our brains out stuff without Kitty in the same room - you'd probably wake her up yelling my name or something." I snorted, "More like you would, urging yourself on." "I do not," he said in an aggrieved tone of voice, "urge myself on. I merely comment upon my prowess, hoping you'll echo the sentiments." "Go Russ Go is a comment?" Not that he'd ever really shouted that, it was one of those apocryphal stories about him that had acquired a life of its own over the years. I think the most coherent thing he ever shouted during orgasm was my name or something a bit more earthy. "Maybe it's a kind of mantra," I suggested. I was unbuttoning his fancy evening shirt by then, taking the pearl studs out and letting them drop with a tiny clink into an empty ashtray. When I had the shirt open and was tickling his stomach, he sat up and shrugged out of it, wadding it up on the coffee table. "Poor shirt." "It's dirty anyway. Now, where were you?" He put my hand back on his stomach, only decidedly lower, then, for good measure, he shoved it lower still. "There, undo that." "I don't want to yet," I lied, undoing it anyway. "Oh, my - whatever could this be?" I stroked him, eliciting a kind of half-strangled whimper. "A swelling," he answered, and undid the row of tiny buttons down the back of my dress. "Gads, no underwear! If I'd known that, I would have done this sooner." "I do too have on underwear," I retorted, and stood up to take off the dress and show him that I was wearing a garterbelt and lace-topped stockings. "See?" He stared at my breasts, practically salivating, then down where my panties should have been if I'd been wearing any, which I wasn't because I'd taken them off in the rest room of the auditorium before we came back to the hotel, then he nodded, got to his feet, picked me up, and carried me - giggling and kicking - into the bedroom. He shut the door behind us and placed me on the bed, then took off his trousers and underwear, all the time giving me lascivious looks. Naked at last, he jumped on the bed and proceeded to have his way with me. Several times. He never once yelled "Go Russ Go!" but I think I did hear him comment on how I was going to wear him out if I didn't let him get some sleep. "Weakling," I teased, "Can't do it 6 times in one night anymore, I think I'm going to demand a refund." "Just give me a minute," he panted, "I'm sure I can think of something." He did.
I hate being interviewed. I guess it's because it always reminds me of sitting in the headmaster's office at whatever school I had the misfortune to be attending at any given time, waiting to be chewed out about something or other I'd done. It's not a pleasant memory, and most of the interviews I've done haven't been particularly pleasant, either, unless the person doing the questioning has actually done some homework and asks something besides the usual "what do you eat for breakfast and do you sleep naked" crap. I should have pre-printed answers on little cards for those questions - just hand 'em out. You've probably seen tape of some of the times I've sat with this bored look on my face - man, you just can't imagine what it's like to sit through that kind of shit. Luckily, being one of the two people on Barbara Walters' Oscar night special was a whole different ballgame. The lady is very gracious, for one thing, and for another, she does her homework and she doesn't ask the same old boring stuff. I'd watched some tape of previous years' shows to see how she worked, and I have to say I was impressed. Of course, I had no intention of letting her blindside me like she has some others by asking the unexpected question that would bring out emotions I'd rather not have trotted out for everyone to examine. Lynn just smiled her pussycat smile when I said that - women, they always think they know you better than you know yourself. So, anyway, where was I? Oh, right - Lynn and I get all gussied up for this interview, and she has Kitty dressed in these miniature jeans overalls and a little bitty plaid shirt, big bow in her hair - this baby is beautiful. I can't stop wanting to kiss her little fat cheeks. Okay, okay - excuse my goin' on, but I love this little girl. Barbara Walters and her crew show up early in the morning and get everything set up to tape the interview. The first part, she and I just walked around on the grounds of the hotel, out by the swan pool and in the gardens - it's really beautiful there. We had a sunny day, not too windy, and security kept anybody from wandering into the shots while we were taping. That went okay - she asked me about Australia and about the farm - nice questions, like what kind of cows I have and so forth. Then we go inside and sit on the sofa in the sitting room, Lynn and Kitty and me. It's real cozy - the picture of the doting parents and the precocious child who looks like a Kewpie Doll in overalls. Only - Kitty is fascinated by the camera and the lights, and she keeps bouncing all over the place, squealing and waving her arms - generally upstaging her mum and her old man. I'm sure it's gonna come across real cute in the final editing, but it was kind of a trial gettin' through that part and not just falling down in helpless giggles. Especially when Kitty socked me in the eye when I grabbed her just before she crawled off the coffee table tryin' to get to Barbara and the bloke behind her with the camera. I swung her up to tuck her against me and wham! One little fist right in the eye. We had to stop taping, get ice to put on my eye, bundle Kitty off with Jackie to get her calmed down, try to stop laughing, and then begin where we left off, only minus the Miniature Human Dynamo known as Miss Kitty Crowe. I can hardly wait until that baby is walking - no - running around at top speed. She's not afraid of anything, interested in everything, and real stubborn about it. I wonder who she takes after? I'm sure I wouldn't know. Oh, yeah - and I'm going to the Oscars with my left eye bruised purple and green. Should look nice with the tux.
"Make up," Jake suggested, trying not to make fun of Russell for getting his eye blacked by a baby girl. "One of those pirate eye patches," Mick came up with. This, after he lifted Kate's arm in the air and announced her as the new world champion featherweight toddler boxing champion. "I'll just tell everyone my daughter abuses me," Russell said, "let 'em figure it out." "You can just leave your shades on," I told him, though I knew he wouldn't once we got inside the auditorium. So, Oscar night came. We were dressed to the teeth. I was in a gown made for me by the designer who made my wedding dress, and this gown was a lot like that dress - a kind of Medieval fantasy in ivory beaded silk chiffon over a silk taffeta dress in soft mauve. The beading was mauve and copper and pearl, and the whole thing was just gorgeous - I couldn't have asked for a more beautiful dress. It was heavy because of the beads, but not too bad and I knew once we got inside and seated, I'd be too excited to notice anyway. Russell was in dramatic black with white - a new tuxedo done for him by Signore Armani - and he wore a rose in the same color as my gown tucked in his breast pocket. He had his Ray-Bans on going in, so nobody noticed the shiner until he took them off to speak to various interviewers. He had a lot of fun explaining that his daughter had blacked his eye. We were almost in the door of the Shrine Auditorium, Mick, Jake, Robin and several other members of his cavalry surrounding us as Russell waved to fans who were yelling to him from the bleachers, and I spotted Bony Joanie. Well, I heard her first - that voice would shatter glass. I nudged Russell, who was just finishing up being nice to someone from British TV, and he said under his breath, "I see her." "Do we circle the wagons, or run for it?" Mick wanted to know. I glanced up, and saw that the woman was advancing on us like McArthur taking a beach head in the Pacific. "Uh-oh," Mick added, seeing that it was about to be too late for either option. "Neither," Russell said, and turned to face the woman who had once claimed he was short, fat, nasty and smelled bad. He pasted on his most beautiful smile. "Hello, Joan," he said in a warm voice. He left his sunglasses on. She arrived, followed by her assistants, camera operator and lord knows who else, and launched into a gushing, obsequious few minutes of praising him to the skies about Botany Bay, about his clothing - doing a short aside to me asking "who are you wearing, dear?" I wanted to say "it's not a who, it's a dress," but I decided to be nice and just mentioned the designer's name and tried to look serenely indifferent when I really wanted to kick her in her sharp little shins. The whole time, she had hold of Russell's left arm with her claw-like hand, at least six gaudy rings glittering in the late afternoon sunlight. She went on and on, finally realizing she had about pushed it as far as even she could go. She wished Russell good luck, but he stopped her from leaving by saying, "Wait a moment, I have something for you." I gaped at him, wondering what the heck was going on, and finally realizing he'd planned to be caught by her. Jake handed Russell the small canvas bag he'd been carrying - I had wondered what was in it - and Russell reached inside, saying, "This is for you - to wipe your hands off after this interview." And he handed her a roll of toilet paper. Everyone within ten feet froze, wondering what the hell was going on - I think only Mick, Russell, Jake and I got it right off, but when she gaped at him and said, "What's this for?" Russell gave her his most sincere, innocent smile and answered as we walked off, "Why, Joanie - remember when you called me a turd on British television? I thought you'd want something appropriate to wipe your hands on after touching me." The whole interview, including the toilet paper and her indignant screech when she finally realized what had happened, went out live to millions of viewers. I could not stop giggling for the longest time after we got inside. "She'll never speak to you again," I told my husband, who was grinning from ear to ear. "Like I bloody care," he said flatly. As revenges go, I think that one should get some kind of prize for both the number of years it took to finalize and the ingenuity of his action. In fact, one of the first questions he was asked after the ceremonies that night was what kind of toilet paper he'd given her. "Generic," he answered, "I didn't think the occasion called for anything special."
I suppose that was mean, givin' ol' Joan the dunny paper, but mate, she had been on my nerves for years, and I felt it was time I got at least some of my own back. I don't suppose she'll like me any more, but jeeze, I don't think she could like me any less either. So that's that. I was nervous as a cat. I hadn't thought I would be, given that I'd been through so many awards shows of all kinds by then, but this picture was much more my baby than the others, and I so much wanted everyone to get the recognition they deserved. I had to present an award early in the broadcast - Best Supporting Actress - and it went to Corrine Alberts for our film - I was just so tickled, I think I kissed her three times while I was handing her the gold statue. I settled down a bit after that, and went back to sit beside Lynn. As they progressed through the awards - Colin also won for supporting actor - and we got costuming and sound, plus cinematography and musical score (yes!) - I got more and more nervous. Lynn grabbed my hand after a bit to stop me digging my nails into the arm of the seat. "Calm down," she whispered. "Can't," I said truthfully, "it means too fuckin' much." When they finally got to where the previous year's winner of Best Actor was presenting the little bits from each Best Actor nominee, I was ready to just roll up in a ball under my seat and not come out till it was over. "Inhale, exhale," Lynn encouraged me. I had to snicker - I had been holding my breath. No wonder I felt light headed. I tried to concentrate on what the bloke - Gary Sinise - was saying. Then he fumbled with the envelope, and he said the name, and I just sat there. I thought he called out Gerard Depardieu for his film about Gaugin, then everybody was pounding me on the back, and Lynnie was crying, and Mick finally yelled, "For crissake, Crowe, get off yer bloomin' ass and go get yer statue!" "Me?" I asked, feeling stupid. Lynn nodded - hell, everybody was yellin' and clappin' - so I figured it must be so. I stood up. My knees - as they had that first time - turned to water and I thought for a minute I was gonna fall flat on my ass right there, but I managed to lope up the steps without doing a header, and took that wonderful, gorgeous golden statue from Gary - I think I remembered to say "thank you" to him, but I'm not sure. And there I was again, in front of that sea of faces, with all that racket, and that heavy, slippery statue in my hands, and that was Best Actor win number three for me. I cleared my throat, hunting in my pockets again for my notes before I realized they were outside in the damned car. "As usual," I told everybody, "my bleedin' notes are not in my pocket, so bear with me." I think I thanked everyone from God to the craft services people - especially Lynn, and I pointed to my black eye and told them my baby daughter beat me up, which got a big laugh - and then everything was a blur of lights and noise and movement, and I was backstage in the room where you get pounced on by the press. Only, I didn't wanna get pounced on right then, I wanted to see what other wins we'd get, so I handed my Oscar to Mick, who had come backstage to mother hen me, and went back to my seat, leaving the press busy with everyone else they held captive. It was worth the trip - Stephen got Best Director, and Botany Bay was Best Picture, and I had a co-win with Dennis O'Dell for our original screenplay - yup, that's right - I got TWO Oscars that night. An embarrassment of riches, which is what I said when I thanked everyone. By the time the whole shebang was over, I was ready to fold, but we had the press interviews to do, which thankfully were relatively swift, then the Governors' Ball, which you have to attend, but the food was excellent, and then we had our choice of where else to go. "Elton John's party?" I asked Lynn, "Dreamworks?" She just looked at me, I could tell she was tired, but she'd never complain, she's just the best. "Okay, I said, how about this - we go back to the hotel, have the antipodeans in for a bit, then go to bed." "And then?" she asked, tucking her hand into the crook of my elbow. "And then, tomorrow, we pack all this shit up and go home, whaddaya think?" "You have the best ideas," Lynn said, which was her way of agreeing with me. We got back to our bungalow about midnight and there was a note on the door from Jackie saying that my attorney from England had called - after a lot of delays, recesses, mental examinations and folderol, Ira Trenary had been found guilty of the kidnapping and gotten twenty years in prison. Talk about a rewarding evening! The celebration - relatively quiet for me compared to past years - went on for an hour or so, then everyone melted away and that left just Lynnie and I sitting on the sofa with our shoes off, feet on the coffee table, contemplatin' life and things in general. "I think I'm going to get pregnant," she announced out of the clear blue. "Did you have a father in mind for this child?" I teased her. "Yeah, this shortish, surly bloke from Nana Glen - I like his style." She took off her jewelry and turned so I could unfasten the little buttons at the back of her dress. I kissed my way down as I opened each button, so that by the time she was in her stockings and underwear, we were both ready to go get started on the next addition to the family. She undressed me on the way into the bedroom. We left a trail of clothes all the way across the living room, and by the time we shut the door, we were both in our birthday suits, both grinning like fools and both hot to trot. It was an interesting night. We didn't sleep much, but it was worth it. Besides, we slept on the plane on the way home two days later. When we got back to Australia, we set to work in earnest making a baby, and I set to work on another screen play which I would direct this time, but we took a year off first - God knows we needed the rest and the time away from the circus. When Lynnie told me she was pregnant, we had a big celebration. Oh, and his name is Alex - Alexander Terrence Crowe - and he likes to ride in front of me when we take the horses out and gallop around our farm. He likes to sing - I think he's going to take after the old man. But Kitty - she's her own person, just like her beautiful mother. When I look at Lynn, I just get swept away all over again.
ON TO LIONHEART
|
||||
|
|||||
|
|
 |
 |
|
 |
 |
|
Buttons, bars, logos © 2001 by WildBearies Photographs of Russell Crowe courtesy of various fan sites. |
|||||
