But Enough About Me by Jancee Dunn Read Free Book Online Page A

for a veg burrito, a guy in a pink shirt appeared and began snapping photos from a van in the parking lot. Frequently, Affleck said, the parking valet tips off photographers for a couple of bucks. We sat down in the taco joint’s outdoor space with our trays. “Hide the tape recorder,” he said quietly. I shoved it behind his supersized soda. I always try to hide the tape recorder, anyway, in the vain hope that the celebrity is lulled into thinking it’s a regular conversation. We proceeded with the interview as the guy snapped away. Because we were laughing a lot, Pink Shirt thought it was flirtatious banter and venturedcloser and closer.
    After we finished our meal, Affleck glanced at him and said, “Uh-oh. He’s losing interest. We need to look like we’re hiding something.” This was becoming sort of fun. As I took my tray to the trash can, I pretended to do a double take and then squished myself unobtrusively into a corner, as I had seen celebrities do. I crossed my arms and kept my eyes down. He went bonkers. Snap snap snap snap snap. “Let’s hold hands,” Ben whispered.
    â€œToo obvious,” I said back.
    â€œWell, then, I’ll give you a quick hug,” he said under his breath. He put his arm around me. I tried in vain to relax and assume a loving expression. “You’re waaaay too stiff,” he whispered in my ear, which made me laugh. We walked to the car as another photographer pulled up in an SUV and Pink Shirt, three feet away, snapping continuously as he shuffled backward. This is why there are so many shots in the tabloids of famous people looking irritated. Invariably a caption will run that says that the celebrity is frowning because they’re heartbroken or fat or rehab-bound or out of work, but ten to one they were just exasperated because they literally couldn’t walk forward. If you stop and pose, sometimes they will drift away. Sometimes they yell things. (“Big fan! Big fan! Over here! Can you look in the camera?”) In the case of Pink Shirt, he was eerily silent, even when Affleck asked him questions.
    The next day, when I returned to New York, there was a bidding war in the tabloids for the photos of Ben Affleck and his new paramour. One of them paid eleven thousand dollars for the shots. The photo that ran shows Affleck, his arm tightly around me, making me laugh so hard that I’m showing some unfortunate Seabiscuit-style choppers. We looked for all the world like carefree lovers, which neatly underscored Affleck’s assertion that despite many shots of himself and Lopez making out in color-coordinated outfits, he wasn’t always stoking the media frenzy. After all, he was just getting a taco, minding his own business, right? He proved his point, the photographer got paid, and I got to be Mystery Galpal for the day. Everybody won.
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    A similar fiasco occurred during an encounter in London with Mel Gibson.
    We were having lunch at the Ivy, a restaurant that was the ultimate in trendiness at the time of our chat. Earlier in the day, I had joined him at a sound studio, where he was recording dialogue for Braveheart, the story of William Wallace, the Scottish rebel who liberated his country from English rule in the thirteenth century. In those pre –Passion of the Christ days, Mel still had the ability to quicken the female pulse, and on that particular morning, he was dubbing dialogue from a love scene. The sound room’s inhabitants were two schlumpy sound guys, Mel, and me, so as he said the same line over and over to his onscreen ladylove, he directed it at me, just to be goofy.
    â€œAh love yeh,” he said in a Scottish burr, staring at me intently. “Alwehs hahv.” He wasn’t satisfied with the delivery—it was a pivotal moment in the film—so he did the line probably ten or twelve times, while I, God help me, fell deeply in love. I like to think that my presence enhanced his