Chapter 37: Keeping Tabs (Patreon)

Chapter 37: Keeping Tabs

Production Office, Leavesden. April 2008.

Never did I believe that so far away from my schooling years that I’d be back in the principal’s office awaiting correction.

David Heyman’s warm woody office was replaced by the harsh fluorescent hell of academic authority. My stiff spine and knocking knees made the plush leather tougher than straight backed plastic. Considering that I was clad in my Hogwarts uniform, as well as Emma sat contritely beside me, only helped to convince me of my fantasy even further. 

Static on the CRT monitor fizzled out as David flicked through channels before returning the remote to rub his grizzled stubble.

 Weekend finally over, the hosts of BBC Breakfast woke on Monday morning with a good bit of moaning.

[“Did you see the footage of Bas Rhys with that fire extinguisher?” Older male host got started with the three-day-old news. “Quite the spectacle!”

Slightly younger female host diametrically opposed, “Yes, but you have to sympathize with Emma Watson and the other guests. It’s her birthday, and the paparazzi were clearly out of line. Bas might have overreacted, but it’s understandable given the circumstances.”

“Well, perhaps our young wizard’s handlers will do like the Dursleys and keep him under lock and key so that he doesn’t repeat his antics anytime soon.” Highly unlikely.]

Detentions? There’s not been a dearth of those that I’ve dealt with; even prior to my era as Bas. 

David clicked again, bringing up TMZ. Clearly he’d sprung for satellite television.

 [Paparazzi turned posers pretended they had any star power of their own as they discussed idle celebrity gossip. My own included.

“Man, these so-called stars don’t even realize how hard our job is. Does that kid know or care how much it’s gonna cost those poor souls to replace all that equipment?”

“Hey, they’re the big stars. You know they’ll never face repercussions. Way of the world. That’s why our job is so important, we knock them down a peg.]

Chastisement? I deserve medals and military titles for the length and breadth of cruel and unusual discipline. Call me corporal Bas Rhys because that’s the only punishment I’m used to. Sharp raps to the knuckles with fat metal rulers have had my measure. Stand out too much, and I’d been made to squat in corners as classes carried on behind me. Lady law hoisting the scales of justice has nothing on my struggling to heave buckets of water out in the hallway when tetchy teachers reaped their revenge on me. 

David was quick to flick away from that mockery of journalism to the Mock of the Week.

[An aging, portly, balding presenter introduced the next segment of his show to his panel of comedians to toss jokes at. “So, Bas Rhys decided to channel his inner firefighter at Emma Watson’s birthday party.” The audience laughed on cue.

Arguably, the last undamaged photograph of the night blew up on the screen, showing me doing my best Al Pacino impression. Half of the shot was covered in white, but what remained visible clearly showed shocked faces behind me and a giant grin on my own. 

“I mean, it’s not the usual spell we see from him, but hey, it got the job done!” John Oliver quipped about my last week tonight. Thought that show was still a few years away for him.

But David Mitchell jumped in to rant almost immediately. “Well, you’d know all about that, wouldn’t you, John? You look more like Harry Potter than Bas does. I mean honestly, just take a look at that photo. That’s meant to be our representative British school student? He should feature in the nightmares of the world’s female consciousness, not their sweetest dreams!”

“Can’t argue that in all fairness. I doubt the paparazzi are the only ones left drenched after this stunt.” Better me being objectified than my co-stars giving pervs their sick jollies, John.]

His back stayed turned, Emma continued to squirm, and my impatience burned. 

It seemed like this meeting, or rather, haranguing, had started well in the morning and was carrying on to the late late show with Craig Ferguson.

[Craig Ferguson was leaning back in his chair, a wry smile on his face, and his feet kicked up next to a cornucopic bowl of fruit. “Did you folks hear about this? Bas Rhys, yes, Harry Potter himself, has set London burning again during a night out to celebrate Emma Watson’s birthday by using a fire extinguisher on some particularly pesky paparazzi.

The audience laughed, and Craig continued, “And the best part? Those paparazzi are now foaming at the mouth... quite literally! Honestly, if he’d just yelled ‘Expelliarmus!’ before spraying them, he’d be a national hero. If I was the queen, and I’m not saying that I’m not at least in line for the throne, I’d have knighted him on the spot!” OBE? Oh, behave!]

Surreptitiously scorching over in my seat, I snagged a stack of post-its and a pen from David’s desk.

“Stop that!” British television personalities shooting the shit drowned out her whispered hiss.

But then, how else was I meant to communicate? Detention was in session, so my only recourse was to jot down a quick message, peel and crease the paper, “Pssst!” and pass it over.

She took the pen with her as well. 

Just in time for Heyman to power off the tele. “... Are you passing notes? How juvenile.”

Why point the finger at myself when I had a perfectly good scapegoat next to me? “It wasn’t me, David. She was the one trying to incite insubordination.” All the evidence I needed to implicate Emma was in her sweaty, red hands. 

“You, bitch! Don’t believe him, this is all his doing.” 

“Obviously.” Damn it! This is what I get for trying to convert the teacher’s pet. “Let’s see what this note says, shall we? Do u lyk me? Circle yes or no… Bas…”

“No!” Clearly, booze had made a liar of Emma.

But David wasn’t quite so decisive. “It depends.” 

“On what?”

“On how willing you are to solidify your earned producer credit. “

I see what this is. “A shakedown is it? Well Heyman, I think you’ll find that I fold easier than that piece of paper you’ve confiscated. Tell me what secrets you want to know. I’ve got eyes and ears everywhere. As long as I get home free.”

“You snitch!” Heyman taking the pen away from her was a stroke of luck, because had Emma still had it on her grip, I’d likely get stitches.

It was upside down, so I hadn’t noticed it until David flipped over the latest edition of The SUN magazine with that same picture of my plastered front and center, and absolutely unmistakable despite the tornado of text trying its level best to block the scene. “They’re calling it the Birthday Bash Gash Clash.” 

Emma immediately clamped her thighs shut. “Pigs.”

“Should’ve known the bar goes that low.” 

“If it’s any consolation, Emma, your particular bit of news will blow over the next time a stiff breeze lifts some other celebrity’s skirts. Funnily enough, Bas shielded you in more than one way this time. The dilemma we are facing with him is that, as roundabout as it may seem, he attacked the news outlets themselves by hosing down the paparazzi.”

“Well, they deserved it!” And suddenly the student had become the teacher. Not me, though. David raised his hands in supplication to calm Emma.

 “No disputing that. But you must understand that these vultures operate like a mafia. Attack one of them and they’ll all come after you.” 

“Only difference being that the mafia aren’t nearly as powerful, wealthy, or dangerous as the news.”

“Precisely, yes. I’m heartened to see you remembering those lessons.” Damn well better. I had every intention of exploiting that angle for my benefit as much as possible. “They’ll be running Bas’ name in the dirt, and digging up as much as they can find going forward.” And, evidently, so was David. “Which presents us with a unique opportunity.”

“Let me guess, rather than interfering with studio pressure, we let them run with it to drum up attention for the film?” The other shoe was about to drop, and I was only relieved that it wasn’t a sandal aimed at my backside. 

“I’ve already had a chat with WB leadership about this and they’re confident leaving the decision in your hands, Bas. This goes one of two ways: either we reach out through our connections and put a stop to more stories-”

“Or we leverage these starving scavengers. Let them burn through their ink and vitriol while we sit in the back collecting residuals from boosted DVD sales.”

“Certainly helps. Our press run for Half-Blood won’t begin in earnest until we’re all back on set early next year. And I won’t lie to you, Bas, there’s not a bone in my body that bears guilt about your oncoming promotional tour for Tropic Thunder, also serving as a storm for the Potter franchise. This is by far our most expensive movie till date, and we’re worried that the profit margins might be slimmer than we prefer.”

“You say that as if Hollywood accounting hasn’t labeled HP as the biggest loss leader in cinema history.”

“Er… let’s leave entertainment embezzling out of this.” My behavioural reports were almost always lackluster, but my report cards - especially maths - were usually pristine. “So, what do you say? And this involves you too, Emma. Though in a far reduced severity, your name and image may also circulate quite liberally.

“This is all just so… unfair! But, I guess it’s better knowing than not. God, it all just feels like a wrec- Ow!”

Yanking her hair to get her attention. “Better a controlled descent than a fiery crash. I say we do it.”

“... Fine.”

“I’ll tell WB HQ the good news.” Don’t be punny, Heyman. “Now, back to actual work, you two. It’s the last week of shooting. Let’s land this plane before we’re all wheels up on the tarmac. Oh, that reminds me, Ms Specter also needs to be briefed.”

Just when I thought I’d gotten off scot free, the principal pulls a fast one and gets my guardian on the phone. Fantastic.

–

LAX Airport, California. May 2008.

Cadbury and I, in my preferred disguise of hat, shades, and mask, cleared baggage claim with a lighter load than usual, since she was planning on traveling a lighter on this last leg of our journey together. No sign with my name on it, no friendly driver to trolley me to his taxi. My arrival was met instead by Anita waving another rag in my face. “Extinguo Patronum? They need better writers.”

Anita rolled up the tabloid and performed the task that a slipper was traditionally hired for, swatting my ass. “And you need a damn publicist!”

Just one more thing to add to the long list I was preparing for this year. Either the next few months were gonna be a breath of fresh air or a case or irritable bowel syndrome.