“Is he in there?” asked Jodie.
“Yeah, he is,” said Robert, “I looked in. He’s on his own. The theatre’s empty. He’s a few rows from the back, four seats in from the left side, where he always sits apparently.” He was not happy. Jodie was.
“When did the movie start? And, hello, by the way,” she said politely, turning back to Mr Malik, who was obviously the manager of the Odeon.
“About twenty minutes ago, Miss Foster,” he responded pleasantly. He was clearly excited too.
“Oooooh. Let’s do this,” she looked at Robert, next to her, then mimed running on the spot excitedly (a habit that had been annoying De Niro increasingly, during the junket). She was hampered on this occasion though, in the habitual expression of her youthful excitement, by her dressy, black heels, which he knew she had removed between takes when making her movie. Nonetheless, the girl did her best to execute (as she always did) and rapidly pumped her little arms up and down like some kind of agitated, child-like runner, smiling up at him as she did so.
“Sweeeeeeet.” said Jodie, clearly wishing for some kind of affirmation of her enchantment from De Niro.
“Isn’t it? Sweet?” he replied, drily.
Jodie frowned and stopped moving.
God, why is he hating this so much?
“It’s so very nice that you could give up time to come to my cinema, Miss Foster,” said Mr Malik, somewhat unctuously, interrupting the messaging going on between the two actors, which he was concerned might lead somewhere he did not want things to go. Then he turned and spoke to Robert “as well, of course, as the great Mr Robert De Niro.”
“Thank you. Again.” said Robert, managing to sound sincere.
This kind of fawning, which he got a fair bit of from people he considered himself no better than, made him uncomfortable. Jodie did not relish it either. But she appreciated it more easily and it didn’t make her uncomfortable.
She responded politely, but a little flatly now, “You’re welcome. I’m very excited and I speak for both of us, I’m sure,” she said, frowning. It was now clear Robert wasn’t into this at all, but he was charged with looking after Jodie.
He’s probably jealous, she thought. Never mind. I’m enjoying this.
“OK. This is gonna be great,” said Jodie, “This’ll make such a cute story.”
She did believe that. She was hardly standing in the foyer of the Richmond Odeon out in the suburbs to advance her career. She was doing that anyway with Robert in London, promoting Bugsy Malone again and Taxi Driver, the bigger film of course. And there were the Awards. This was a welcome break from all that. This would be funny, and very, very sweet for this little boy, who had fallen in love with her in Bugsy Malone.
It had done well in the UK and the Odeon had been re-running it for a spell. It was beyond the end of the planned re-run now, by almost a week. The little boy was now the only person who turned up. He had come almost every day of the rerun: about a month. It was only being shown by the cinema now because there was press interest in the sweet story about the lovelorn, devoted boy and the young, enormously popular star. Since the movie’s release, Jodie Foster had become huge in Great Britain. Taxi Driver had only added to that.
“Sometimes he waits till you get kissed by Scott, this guy was saying, then he just leaves. Goes home,” said Robert De Niro, laconically.
“That’s how you worked it out, right? That it was me, not Florrie?” she asked Mr Malik, apprehensively.
“Exactly, Miss Foster,” Mr Malik replied, enthusiastically.
“And you phoned the local paper? The …”
“Richmond and Twickenham Times,” said Mr Malik.
“But the nationals got wind of it. I wonder how…” he muttered. “Daily Mail’s here. The Sun wanna do it too,” said Robert, nodding towards the entrance doors. He did not like media attention much.
“I saw,” said Jodie, who had said hello to the photographers and journalists in the foyer on the way in.
“We’re just waiting for ITV. That’s the commercial network here,” Robert said
“Un hunh,” nodded the actress. “God this is so sweet. I love it. And he’s real good looking, right?”
“Very, very handsome, Miss Foster,” nodded the manager enthusiastically, but at each of them in turn. He was exaggerating a little, the boy’s handsomeness and Robert knew this. De Niro had seen him walk in. The manager was clearly not immune to the promotion of the cinema. Robert found this forgivable, but he was disconcerted by the boy’s nervy, shy demeanour. And his youth. He was even younger than Jodie. [And Jodie herself was excitable at times and could be rash, extremely difficult to contain. She had a way of getting around him, of getting her own way.]
“What’s he like?” asked Jodie. “You must have seen a lot of him.”
The manager continued, a little warily now, trying to avoid dragging the obviously negative qualities of the boy out into the open. But De Niro knew what he was doing and Mr Malik knew he knew.
“He is a very, very, very good looking boy, Miss Foster,” he said, but rather hollowly the actress thought. It was as if he had no other positive qualities. Jodie was disconcerted by this hollowness. Robert stared at the manager and frowned at the salesman-like exaggeration. Mr Malik persisted, despite the negativity “…and very polite.” He trailed off, looking at Robert’s face, “Dull. Awkward. Strange. Boring,” it seemed to say, firmly back at him.
“A little quiet…true,” Mr Malik continued tentatively, looking uncertainly at Robert, hoping for some kind of assent from the actor.
“Un hunh,?” said Robert.
The manager ground to a halt for a moment. Jodie waited for the clouds to part. Is something really wrong? she thought. But suddenly a look of triumphant delight lit up Mr Malik’s face. He had clearly found what was going to be the winning line of argument for both stars.
“He is blond, Miss Foster!” He paused to let the persuasive force of this sink in and looked happily at both of the actors. “Yes, indeed. He is a blond gentleman,” he said with emphasis. And then, horribly, he winked at Jodie. For a moment, De Niro had no idea what the manager was driving at. Then he realised.
“Thank you, we’re not racist,” he said laconically, in response. Jodie blushed. She was disconcerted by the unpleasantness. She decided to try to rescue the manager (as was her nature), to smooth over the ugly appeal to the two stars’ possible racism.
“It’s OK, girls can prefer blondes too,” she said intelligently to Robert and then smiled reassuringly, but weakly at Mr Malik.
“I never knew that. Do you…prefer…blond boys…?” enquired Robert, almost inaudibly. He was now fed up with the unfolding situation.
“OK,” mumbled Jodie, in response. Robert knew she was gay.
“The main thing, Miss Foster is that he is in love, and he is here in my cinema and so are you,” concluded Mr Malik. “And almost everyone is here now…from the press!” He gestured towards the doors. He had given it his best shot. He waited to see what would happen. It was in the hands of the two stars.
“Let the chemistry begin,” muttered De Niro, to Mr Malik’s apparent pleasure, who didn’t quite understand the rather coded sarcasm going on between the two friends.
“Shuddup,” muttered Jodie elbowing him, ostensibly good-humouredly. She did not find the joke helpful. There was a boy in there. And she was…Shit! I’m getting nervous! I’m lousy with boys, for reasons that shall remain unknown to the world for the rest of my career…(She smoothed her dress down)…
somehow.
Something in her chest moved and tightened it.
He won’t notice, she told herself, desperately trying to steady her nerves. He’s in Iove with me. Suddenly, the absurdity of her last thought arrested all her thought. After the ghastly hiatus, thought continued involuntarily, sardonically:
In love with you? YOU?! They are never interested in you!! They know. They sense it. Have you gone insane?
She felt suddenly as if she was about to appear on set but had done no preparation, didn’t know the lines. Instantly, an abyss of horror opened up beneath her: she would never know those lines, that script. Never. YOU are going to flirt, cutely, with a boy!!! A real one, who can say anything! Not a character. In front of members of the press!
The tangible, perfectly plausible risk of a catastrophe, today, now, materialised fully in all its ghastly, career-ending horror. Blind terror enfolded her heart and diminished her future life. She envisaged a rude, vile, uncouth British boy, who masturbated nightly, lustily and heterosexually about a fictional slut and who might turn ugly and dismantle her in front of the tabloids. That word she dreaded lit up her mind: dyke. No, the British don’t say that. Are you gay, or something, he might ask, if I get nervous or leak, in that way I do around boys? Around boys, in that context, I’m the worst actress in the world. No, what was the British one? That’s it: lezzer. Or maybe… poofter.
I’m an idiot, she thought helplessly. She was now on board something that was out of her control. She had no way of controlling its course or ensuring safe arrival.
You’re a fool Jodie Foster! You’re a fool!
This had started out as fun but she now realised, something could go horribly, publicly wrong. The British press were vicious. Everyone knew that. She had begun to sweat, she noticed, quite heavily.
The manager had walked off back to the refreshments counter.
De Niro muttered, to her – “You wanna bale?”
Jodie responded, still lost in panic, “It’ll look bad. It’s too late.”
“OK, I’m goin’ in with you. Just in case he’s weird or…”
“Or!” she said, agreeing in a tone of dread and also as if to thank him, sarcastically, for reminding her.
“You wanna go freshen up? Got any of that makeup? I’ll say your eyeliner smudged or somethin’.”
“That’s not a bad idea,” said Jodie. She was all over the place, she knew. The manager had noticed. Looking up, Jodie saw he looked concerned.
“Do I look that scared?” she asked Robert, quietly, putting her head down.
“No. You look terrified,” he muttered in reply.
“Are you feeling OK, Miss Foster?” Mr Malik said as he ran up to her.
“She’s been workin’ hard, that’s all,” said De Niro.
“I’m a little faint. Forgot to eat breakfast,” she said, mustering a pitiable smile for Mr Malik. First lie of the day, she thought. She hated lying. She felt the road to hell was paved with little lies. Now, today, she was on it.
But this whole thing’s a lie. Christ!
Robert took her arm and asked the manager where the ladies’ restroom was. Mr Malik pointed the way, looking alarmed. Robert thanked him and walked her through the set of swing doors, which marked the entrance to the corridor off which lay the main theatre. She was scarily close, she thought, to the auditorium where the heterosexual, unsympathetic boy was sitting, on his own, waiting to destroy her composure and her career in front of the un-gentlemen of the press.
“Thanks,” she said to De Niro at the toilet door. He was still holding her arm for support. She felt now this would be a certain disaster, if she could not regain her composure. If she looked uncomfortable in front of this boy…She had to get a grip.
“Take your time. You can be sick in there, if you want to, you know that? And that’s the end of it.”
But there will be other moments, she thought. This will crop up again.
“I’ll be OK,” and she pushed open the toilet door and walked inside.
Jodie Foster and the Super 8 