"Reservation for Reeves, please?"
Warm tones of burgundy, orange, and gold fill the room as servers in all black rush from table to table. Classical music sets the tone. Everywhere they look are couples: leaning in, lost in each other's gaze, clinking wine glasses.
"Right this way, sir."
The hostess leads them down a spiral staircase to the wine cellar, where their private table awaits. Candles already lit, the server is filling water glasses as they enter.
"Is this to your expectations, Mr. Reeves?" The ginger-haired hostess inquires.
"Yes, thank you."
He pulls Sandra's chair out and she graciously accepts.
"Did you set this up?" she asks, motioning about the private room.
"I thought it'd be easier to talk in here."
"Nice touch! You must be a hit with the ladies," she cracks, "when's the 'how-to' book coming out?"
He smirks disapprovingly.
She quiets, wondering if she overstepped, but just as quickly he softens his expression as though whatever thought had plagued him has now escaped.
Turning his attention to the wine menu, he reminds her, "You mentioned chardonnay?"
An hour later...
Their postures are softer, tummies full, and knives and forks crossed and placed on their dinner plates. Their server clears the dishes and returns, holding another bottle of chardonnay on his arm for their approval.
Keanu glances at Sandra with a questioning look.
She shakes her head yes.
He nods to the server to carry on.
Pop! Out comes the cork, which is presented to him for inspection. He points at Sandra.
"Yep. That's a cork, alright," she replies, giving two enthusiastic thumbs up.
Keanu roars, seeing that neither of them are really fans of pretentious routine. "Definitely a cork."
They bring their wine glasses together.
"May we never run out of corks in our wine," he offers.
"Or, more importantly, may we never run out of wine!" she grins.
As they sip, they toss the usual interview questions at each other, getting to know the backstories.
"Have any siblings?" he asks.
"Yes, a sister," is her reply. "Big fan of yours, by the way, she might have you sign her bra, so be ready," she winks. "You?"
A pause, and then, "Yes."
"....And??" she gestures with her hand, asking for more information.
"I have a sister, Kim. We're very close. There are others out there, but I don't know them as well." He proceeds to explain there have been a few father figures in their lives growing up, not offering too much detail on any of them.
"And Kim is your full sibling then? Does your dad still live in Toronto?"
"No."
"Do you get to see him often?"
"No."
Sensing he isn't interested in providing more detail, she offers up more of her own. "I grew up splitting time between Germany and the US, lots of travel back and forth."
Relieved to be onto someone else as a subject, he asks her question after question. His full attention is hers as he absorbs every detail.
She describes her parents' careers, her mom as an opera singer and her dad as a vocal coach. She tells him that she and her sister usually took on the roles of various gypsy children in the background, keeping busy during their performances, and this is how the acting bug first took hold for her. She explains what it was like moving back to the states more permanently in middle school, how hard it was to connect, feeling like she didn't fully belong in Germany or in the US.
"I didn't have many friends, no," she laughs. "But I spent some time really studying what was happening with these other kids and I realized the more I could make myself seem...like them...the easier it would be. And that," she pauses for effect, "is how I ended up as a cheerleader."
"You weren't!"
"I was," she insists. "My proudest moment." With this she cracks up.
His tone turns more somber. "It must've been challenging for you, moving around all of the time, not finding roots or strong connections, never knowing how long you'd be in one place." He leans toward her as he speaks, placing one hand on top of hers as though he wishes he could offer that thirteen year old girl comfort.
Pulling her hand out from under his, it's Sandra's turn to evade the deep thoughts. "Sounds like the Little Keester knows of which he speaks. Can I call you that, Little Keester?"
He stares at her.
"Keen? KiKi?"
No expression on his face.
"Is that a no, then? Or you want to get back to me? You know where to find me."
His eyes challenge her, "Sure thing, Sandy-bear. I'll let you know."
Arriving at a truce in the nickname wars, they leave their napkins on the table and head upstairs into the bar area for more conversation and some digestifs.
This area is darker with a widescreen TV above the bar. They head toward a fireplace in the corner, where they slink into two leather club chairs and order a couple ports. The bartender hands them their drinks while another patron changes the channel on the TV. Keanu raises his glass to Sandra's when a flash on the screen catches her eye.
She turns to see a gossip show based in London. The tanned, blonde hostess is sitting on a beach surrounded by three young, good-looking actors, discussing their current project:
Beautiful Blonde: (to actor named Bobby)*
And what do you think of the British girls?
Bobby:
Ummm
Aaron:
He's married, he can't answer that.
Nathan: (hands on Bobby's shoulder)
Don't worry, bro, we'll take them off your hands.
(Laughter)
Beautiful Blonde: (to Nathan)
What do you think of the English girls?
Nathan:
What do I think of the English women? Well, I fell in love with three, f-four, no three. They're wonderful. They have a love-hate thing with Americans. They love that we're all sort of, you know, wild and blow things up.
Aaron:
They also can't stand that we're wild.
Nathan: (laughing)
It's an interesting psychological thing.
Aaron:
And fun!
Nathan: (winking at the blonde)
Definitely a lot of fun. Come out with us tonight and see!
There is a distinct change in Sandra's mannerisms. Her eyes narrow, her lips purse, and she goes completely silent, staring at the screen.
Keanu looks at the three actors, then back at her, trying to read her thoughts. He didn't have to try for long.
"Lots of fun. Well, that explains that," she mumbles.
"Do you know them?" he asks, trying to crack the code.
She picks up the port and downs the whole thing, goose bumps forming head to toe from the strong wine. "Yeah I know them. Lots of women know them." she says, with lips pressed tightly together.
She grabs her purse and stands, arrows shooting from her eyes, which have turned almost black. She faces him, "You ready? I'm tired."
He throws some cash on the table and stands to join her. Placing a hand on the middle of her back, he guides her to the door.
They make the trek back to the chalet in silence, her grip on his arm stronger than before. When the door opens, she thanks him and walks up the stairs, down the hall, closing her bedroom door behind her.
He stands in the foyer, watching her figure grow smaller, wondering what he'd just witnessed back in the pub.
~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*
It's about midnight. Keanu is in his room, feet crossed on top of a desk, with a copy of Hamlet open in his lap, when he hears light footsteps. He closes the book and sits upright, listening with intent.
He steps onto the balcony when he hears the crash of glass breaking and a high-toned whisper, "Shit!"
Looking over the railing, he sees Sandra holding a rag to her hand, shaking it up and down and cursing under her breath. On the counter is broken glass and spilled whiskey.
The glow from the fire guides him down the stairs, where he finds her sitting on the floor, still clutching the rag. He crouches down to her level and gently touches her shoulder.
"Can I see?"
"I'm fine. It's fine."
Drip. Drip. Drip.
Over her shoulder comes a slow trickle of whiskey falling onto the floor. Grabbing another towel, he pushes the pool of whiskey and broken glass back from the edge of the counter.
"Your hand," he demands, returning his attention to her.
She looks at him, red eyes rimmed with salty water. She doesn't appear to have been crying so much as she is beyond furious. Splatters of blood dot her white night shirt. She exhales sharply, but he can see her resolve loosen as he reaches out.
"Come here," his voice is gentle again.
She gives in, placing her small hand in his.
Lifting the cloth, he sees her blood spill out from her palm. He inhales sharply through his teeth and presses the rag back down.
They sit there like that for about ten minutes, her hand in his, the only sounds come from the fire, the whir of the ceiling fan, and the methodical ticking from the clock on the wall. After some time, he checks the wound again and sees the bleeding has stopped.
"It's not deep," he reassures her, as he stands in search of a bandaid. Returning with a first aid kit, he applies the dressing, then plants himself back on the floor next to her, leaning against the cupboard.
There they sat, staring straight ahead without a word, his bare foot touching her fuzzy slipper. Neither of them move as the clock continues to tick.
Finally he speaks. "My dad took off when I was three or four. I don't really know him well. He's gotten himself into...trouble."
Sandra's head snaps in his direction, surprised to hear him share.
He continues, "I lived in a few different places, too. Spent some time in London, New York City, most of my childhood years were in Toronto though. That's where my third step dad is from. He stuck around the longest. Nice guy."
He talked about his undiagnosed dyslexia, causing him to believe he wasn't "book smart". Then he talked about overcoming it and how big a role books and acting played in that. He spoke of his love of reading anything he could get his hands on, but particularly prose and classics. He talked about his injury that ended his young hockey career and how acting took its place. Then he talked about informing his mom he wanted to drop out of high school and move to Los Angeles to pursue his passions. He talked and he talked for about an hour, without pause, without a glance in her direction, until Sandra interrupted him:
"We've been together for a few years now," she laughs in a sad way. "We met on set of my first movie."
"From earlier?" he asks.
She shakes her head yes.
"Which one?" He already knows the answer. He knew by her reaction it was Nathan.
She laughs again, wiping her eyes and nose with the bloodied cloth. "He wants to move in. With me and my sister. 'Three's a crowd,' I keep telling him."
"Do you want him to move in?"
"I don't know. I don't think so. Then it just gets...messy."
More silence follows as they sit there, shoulder-to-shoulder. He glances at her light blue pajama pants, wondering if they are flannel like his.
"How's your hand?"
She looks down, surprised, as if she'd forgotten she cut it in the first place. Suddenly, she remembers the mess and jumps up.
Keanu stands with her and gently places one hand on her upper arm, turning her to face him. With his other hand, he lifts her chin up so her eyes meet his. "Hey. You're down a hand there, Sandy-bear. Let me get this. Go get some rest."
Gratitude pours out of her. How could one person be so kind to another he barely knows? She wants to throw her arms around him with a hug, but settles on a head shake in agreement. She walks toward the stairs. Pausing, she rests her uninjured hand on the bannister and turns back to see him finishing the clean-up.
"Keanu?"
"Hmm?"
"Thank you. I'm sorry I was such a...monster."
"You're not. And you're welcome."
* paraphrased/Inspired by actual interview