We seemed to take a while to get back into our previous intensity. Henry was working on set a lot of the time and spare moments were used for prepping and learning lines. I tried to stay off the subject of his ex, thankfully the fans online seemed to want to forget about her too. Henry kept pressing the subject of going public though. One evening, we were sitting in the bath, an enormous, marble double ended one, which he'd filled with silky, hot, oil-scented water. Henry was sipping a glass of wine and laying back, soaking away the stresses of the day. I was massaging his feet, which he liked.
"What's gonna happen when I have to go back to America? You could come with me."
I paused the massage. "I can't just up and leave, you know that. I have my job, my flat. My whole life is in London." I'd been trying to avoid thinking about the situation. Everything which made me the person I was, was in London, except for Henry, whose life was mainly in LA.
"You were able to come to Rome for six weeks with no problems," he countered.
"I'm technically working," I reminded him, slithering my hand up his leg playfully. "I'm still getting paid. It's a hard job, but somebody has to do it." My hand reached it's destination and I gave him a gentle squeeze, which made him laugh.
"Naughty girl," he chided, "are you trying to distract me?"
"Is it working?" I asked coquettishly. He smiled.
"Yeah." He pulled me towards him, the oily water making me slippery enough to slide right up his taut, firm body until I was in the position he was clearly aiming for. As I sank down onto him, the conversation was forgotten.
The next day, an invitation arrived for the Baftas. Henry was asked to present an award, which was quite an honour. It would be a widely publicised affair, on live television, and attended by the top tier of British celebrities. It would be terrific for raising his profile, particularly with a UK based film in production. I checked his schedule, to discover that he'd still be in London that evening and was available. Henry seemed happy to do it, so I emailed his acceptance and sat in his trailer to organise a designer to dress him.
Half an hour later, Henry arrived for his lunch. As he tucked into his linguine, I outlined what he'd have to do for the Bafta ceremony. "Tom Ford put his hand up to dress you," I told him.
"Good. Are you gonna accompany me?"
I shook my head. "PR will probably want you to accompany a starlet." I was startled when he thumped his hand down on the table.
"No bloody way," he exclaimed, "this is the perfect opportunity to show the world that we're together. I said before, I'm not doing any more fake PR stuff. I'm taking you, so get onto Tom Ford and see if they'll dress you too."
"I'm not famous, they won't be interested," I said weakly. "Isn't it rather...public? You know, to have our first night out together?"
"Well then tip off the paps and I'll take you out tonight," he snapped. "Sarah, you have to stop letting fans, trolls etc dictate how we are as a couple. We have to do what's right for us, nobody else. I want you on my arm at the Baftas, done up to show what a beautiful lady you are. I can't think of anything worse than having some trampy starlet hanging off me, dressed like a slut to get attention." His eyes flashed his annoyance. Even angry, Henry was delicious.
I stayed silent. I could understand his reticence about the PR, especially after the last disaster, but I felt awkward about having to ask for a free dress. It was one thing doing it for clients, but asking for myself was totally another matter.
"What is it?" He asked. "I can tell something's bothering you."
"It's just.." I began. I stopped, unsure how to put my fears into words.
"It's just what?" Henry demanded, his voice softer, less angry, more concerned. He never stayed angry for long, especially in front of me.
"Asking for a free dress.....I'm not famous.....what if they say no?" I stuttered.
"Then I'll buy you one."
That was it, the subject was closed. I decided not to mention all the other issues racing around my head, namely that I'd be publicly ripped apart, my man-hands brought up again, and two days afterwards Henry would be disappearing from my life back to his home in LA.
"Don't get hung up about it," he interrupted my musings, "it's only a dress. We can look for one here if you like. There's some boutiques in the main boulevard area."
I debated telling him what I was really worried about, but dismissed the idea as he had to be back on set within ten minutes, which was just enough time to clean his teeth and change his shirt. I shoved my worries to the back of my mind as I checked him over and bagged up that morning's shirt for the laundry.
When he'd gone back on set, I emailed all the designers again to request that they dress me, informing them that I'd be Henry's date for the awards. I cringed slightly as I pressed 'send'. Ten minutes later, my heart sank as several emails came back declining. Only Tom Ford accepted, albeit offering to let me choose something from their ready-to-wear collection. It ran the risk of someone else wearing the same outfit, which would be a disaster. I decided to look in some of the Rome boutiques instead.
Henry was livid when I told him. "Email Tom Ford back, and tell him I'm declining his offer of a suit. If he won't accommodate you, then he's not getting his clothes on my back. I'm not filming tomorrow afternoon, we can go shopping then."
"Isn't that a bit childish? You said yourself that you love his suits." Personally I thought it was a wrong move, but Henry was adamant.
"I'll go to Mayfair Tailors. I'm damn sure Alessandro would jump at the opportunity. We met at a party last year, and he said he'd like to dress me. Can you dig out his number please?"
I did as he asked, and as predicted, the owner of Mayfair Tailors was delighted. Henry fixed an appointment, and I emailed over his measurements. The first problem was solved. An hour later, my second problem was sorted when Alessandro called back, to tell me that an up-and-coming couturier friend of his would be more than happy to loan me a dress for the evening, in return for a mention.
It left the problem of handling Tom Ford, who was understandably pretty cheesed off. I spoke to the head of PR, who informed me that it had been an underling who'd acted without authority, offering me their cheaper, less exclusive collection.
"Oh, that's such a shame," I said, "but I couldn't run the risk of two of us wearing the same dress, it's such a huge event. I'm sure you understand." I was being a little snarky, given that I had a plan B, but the excuses were hogwash, only given because they wanted to claim credit for Henry's tuxedo. I didn't warn to burn bridges, so I soothed the PR man, vowing to get in touch for the next large event.
With that issue solved, I kept busy the rest of the afternoon getting my hair done, and ensuring a photographer would be present that evening at Il Convivio di Troianai, where I'd booked a table for our first, very public date.
I'd taken some advice from Clive, as he was the expert, and he advised me to go public sooner rather than at the Baftas. "Get used to it on a small scale first. After the Baftas, the world and his dog'l have an opinion, so let the fans get in first with their views. Your skin'l be a bit thicker by then."
"Oh great, you think they're gonna be hateful don't you?"
"Sarah, you could be a Victoria Secret model, who'd won the Nobel peace prize, and they'd still claim that you weren't good enough for the object of their devotion. Get used to it, and whatever you do, don't take it to heart. This is terrific PR for Henry, so don't worry, we're all covering your back."
With my hair freshly done, a new outfit on, and a fake smile plastered on my face to cover up the hideous nerves churning my stomach, Henry and I sped over to the restaurant in a taxi. He, of course, looked his usual calm self, used to the vast amounts of attention he got whenever he stepped out of our hotel. He squeezed my hand. "You ok? You look tense."
"I'm scared," I admitted. "I'm not usually on this side of the gossip columns."
"It'll be fine," he reassured me, "it'll just be a flurry of opinions, then it'll all calm down."
If only I'd known what I was letting myself in for....
