Page 95 of When You Were Mine

“No wonder you wouldn’t change anything.”

“Hey, now. I said I wouldn’t change anything because of Cole. Not because I can afford to charter a jet.”

“What about getting a reservation in a fancy restaurant that’s booked a year in advance?”

He hunched a shoulder. “Eh. I don’t call that one in very often.”

“But you probably get the presidential suite in every hotel you book?”

“Now, that’s a nice perk. Yes, I’m beginning to see your point.”

She laughed. “And you probably get backstage passes to all your favorite bands. And they’d probably open Disneyland just for you and your granddaughters.”

“Probably. But I haven’t pulled shit like that.”

“Oh, come on. Not once have the words, ‘Do you know who I am?’ come out of your mouth?”

He gave her a chiding look. “Not one time.”

“Well, that’s because you don’t need to. You have this magical energy field around you. When you walk by, doors open and flowers bloom. Little fairies follow you, sprinkling their pixie dust all over the land.”

“Yeah.” He laughed. “That glitter gets fucking everywhere.”

“You have to admit you lead a charmed life. While the rest of us have bad hair days and clogged toilets, you’re untouched by it all.”

“Is that right? You think there’s a plumber living in a wing of my mansion? An entire staff of handymen playing cards and smoking cigars waiting around until I need them to fix the broken garbage disposal?” His good mood was flagging.

“Don’t you?”

“You know how I grew up. I can change a flat, fix a plow, birth a calf, and duct tape a pair of Converse All-Stars.”

“Ooh, I love a handy man.”

“Handy or handsy?” he asked.

“Now that depends on whose hands.”

“Fair point.”

“Did you do your own stunts?” she asked.

“Absolutely. That was the fun part.”

“So, you’re telling me, you actually landed in a pile of manure?”

He grinned. “Exactly how many times did you watch each of my films? Did you take notes?”

“Well, let’s be honest. Some moments were more memorable than others.”

“Like me landing in a heap of pig shit?” he asked.

“That was particularly satisfying. So was the time that woman slapped you. You cheating son of a bitch.”

“That shit stung.” He touched a hand to his cheek. “But—and I hate to break it to you—Titanicwas filmed in a pool. And nothing on the table in banquet scenes is actual food. It’s created by an artist. Sex is simulated and supervised by an intimacy coordinator. Oh, and whiskey is actually iced tea.”

“Wait just a minute. In a pool? So, it wasn’t actually freezing, and Kate and Leonardo weren’t in the middle of the ocean? My God. How else can you shatter my illusions and take all the fun away from movies?”

“The food in the great hall of my films was cast in resin. And for close-ups, they invent weird concoctions to make it look real. Like an ice cream sundae might be mashed potatoes covered in motor oil.”

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