On a Date with Rosamund Pike

This is Pretty Much Fan Fiction

“Well, the crazy thing was she asked me.”

—“Okay, then, you have to go!”

—“Are you sure? It’s not…weird or anything for you?”

—“Honey, this is Rosamund Pike. This is Gone Girl. This is Jane Bennet. If it weren’t you, it’d be me and I wouldn’t even ask you – I’d just say I’m going.”

I stared, head tilted, at my girlfriend for a while. I gave her the Larry David “I Think You’re Lying” face. I even did the goofy little song that plays when he does it. She was telling the truth – I probably wouldn’t find out about it until she showed me the pictures. Not in a bad way, like she was trying to hide something, but if Rosamund Pike said “now” you’d go now.

—“Ugh, fine! But what do I wear?”

—“I’ll dress you. Now, where’s your shirt with those black polka dots?”

The restaurant Rosamund chose was around the corner from our apartment. It was an Italian restaurant. My girlfriend and I were a known entity there – they knew us as “la coppia che può mangiare.” So I knew the menu, exactly what to order. In fact, my girlfriend and I phoned in the antipasti, primi, and secondi in advance. Rosamund would get to choose the wine, the aperitivi, and the dolci. Otherwise, it was our responsibility to treat her.

As I strolled down the 5:00 p.m. block of one of June’s last temperate days, workers rushed from their offices, and bars began to flicker on the neon signs that beckoned the workers like a ritual. Among them, I swam upstream, away from bars, away from home to the strangest (and only second) first date I had ever been on.

A week ago, I posted a stand-up clip of my Rosamund Pike impression. Specifically, Rosamund Pike ordering Chinese food in Mandarin at a hole in the wall in Queens. It ended with me raspily, warmly, and abruptly going, “Oh, sorry!” If you could hear it, you would understand. It did not go viral, but I was impressed with myself and circulated it whenever and wherever I could. What did go viral was the AI face scan video of a white girl at a Chinese restaurant as Rosamund Pike ordering with my voice. That’s the video Rosamund saw, but, according to the due diligence of a true artist, she tracked the original, which was me, a small Filipino man, doing her voice on stage. And so, that’s when Rosamund Pike slid into my DMs.

= This is phenomenal! I’m impressed you get my voice so accurately.

– Hahaha thank you – even though there’s no way this is really happening.

– What do you mean?

– You must be her brand manager, right? Not really Rosamund.

– No! This is she.

– [PICTURE OF R.P. THUMBS UP]

– Oh my God, it is you…

– I told you! My children showed me the video, and I just had to reach out. You’re quite funny – I’ve looked at a lot of your other content.

– I appreciate that! Which ones did you like?

– Your Pacino is funny. And I’m very fond of your James Stewart. You have an eclectic repertoire for your age.

– Haha, I guess. Sometimes I think it’s easier to do old movie stars than new ones.

– I’m sure.

There was a long pause in our exchange – almost three hours.

– Hi, sorry! My agent called me. But, I’d like to continue our conversation…in person – I’m in New York. Where are you?

I replied immediately.

– NYC as well!

– Perfect! How about next week?

– Sounds great! Just let me know when and where!

– I will! It’s a date :) Can’t wait to hear your impression in the flesh ;)

The winky face really threw me off at the time. Wasn’t she a married woman? Or at least in a long-term partnership? At the very least, I knew she had children. I told my girlfriend about it and we deep-dove Wikipedia to find out the truth. Everything we assumed was correct – but, even then, there was no reason to assume there was anything uncouth about the invitation. Everyone – including myself and my partner – seemed to be living happy, fulfilled lives. It was just that Rosamund wanted to go on a date.

I arrived at the restaurant 15 minutes early. We set the hour for 5:30, but I wanted to prepare with the wait, kitchen, and house staff I knew to make sure everything was perfect. I had flowers to adorn the table, but also brought a bouquet for her to take home. But, when I arrived, my friend Carlo stopped me at the entrance.

—“Gianni, caro – there’s something I must tell you!”

—“What is it?”

—“She’s here! Rosamund Pike is here!”

—“What?! She’s 15 minutes early!”

—“I know!”

—“Why?!”

—“Well, if you could believe it…she wanted to talk to me and the staff and make sure everything was perfect – for YOU!”

My heart fluttered: Rosamund Pike…preparing everything…for me?

—“I can’t believe it.”

—“Well, believe it, Gianni! She’s waiting for you at the table you asked for!”

—“The one I asked for? How’d she know about it?”

—“Because she picked it out herself!”

I believe in synchronicities. It’s partly why I fell in love with my girlfriend. She’s the only person I’ve ever met who shared my instincts. Beyond the overwrought blasé of finishing each other’s sentences, we could read thoughts, even predict movements. It was honestly creepy, as if we shared the same brain.

So, when Rosamund Pike picked out the dark rounded booth on the right wall, three spaces from the bathroom – and sat delicately in the pocket closest to the bathroom (where my girlfriend always sat) because from there one could lean in without being too suggestive – I was properly shocked and felt like I had entered a dream.

I walked over, light from the bright summer fading into lamplit romance, and stood just before the booth. She was looking away, at the rest of the restaurant, her hair curled in a bob, falling softly on her shoulders. What does blonde hair look like under warm tungsten bulbs? Gold flecks in a river? Trader Joe’s peanut butter cup wrappers under candlelight? The sun through the redwoods? The sun through the desert? The sun on the grass and fern by a creek bank? I don’t know, but it looked like poetry. She was an elegant lady.

—“Hi.” I croaked out. Dressed in a blue suit, to the neck with a dark, green tie, I felt like a little boy on his first day of school.

—“Oh my God, hi!” She slid down from her seat. She wore a dark, green jumper that matched my tie. Another synchronicity. Her jewelry shimmered as she seemingly floated from the elevated booth to the floor – gold hoops, gold bracelet dangling and jangling like Christmas ornaments. She had a ring on.

—“It’s so nice to meet you.” She gave a very warm hug, crouching over, as she was a whole half-foot taller than me.

—“It’s unbelievable. You’re unbelievable.” I said, looking at her, pulling away from the hug.

—“Oh, stop!” She smiled for a long time at me. Too long. I realized she was looking at something. My hands were freaking out. I freaked out. I looked back up at her.

—“Are those for me?” she asked.

She placed her hand on the bouquet, intentionally unintentionally touching mine, as she took away the flowers. She smelled them deeply.

—“These are fantastic. They’re my favorite, did you know?”

—“I didn’t.” I said.

—“Ah, well…then it was meant to be. I do believe in synchronicities.”

My head was about to fucking explode. Did this woman know what she was saying?

—“Well, then, enough preamble! Shall we eat?”

—“Absolutely.” I squeaked my ass down the leather booth couch. It was awkward, and I spent far too long tucking into my personal corner. My girlfriend and I made a game of this whenever we came here, seeing who could get off the most and loudest squeaks from the shiny cushions. Rosamund Pike did not do that but laughed every time I scooted my boot.

—“That’s hysterical! Do it again.”

By her command, I went back and forth over the squeakiest crease, her face scrunching in laughter as I did so. She had the type of laugh that makes you feel lost.

I settled maybe three inches off from where I usually sit, risking closeness to her. I thought she noticed, and she smiled and said:

—“Now, let me try.” She squeaked back. She squeaked forth. She squeaked even closer than I did and, per her height, she could easily lean across the gap between us. “Ah, perfect.”

Alice was waiting on us that night. She was a grad student at NYU and a good friend. No doubt she was going to be texting my girlfriend all night about the date.

—“Welcome to Maggiano’s – no affiliation. Now, I know you,” she said looking at me, “but have you ever dined with us before?”

—“No,” said Rosamund Pike. “Well, perhaps once at the other restaurant that shares your name.”

—“What?!” both me and Alice bit.

—“Of course, I love it! Whenever I’m in America, I drag my whole family there. I love the Rig D.”

I love you, I thought.

—“Haha, well!” Alice changed topic. “We’re a little different from them, but I’m sure we’ll provide the same comfortable experience for you two. Now, I know the gentleman had a set menu in mind, but was there anything you’d like to drink besides water? And still or sparkling while I’m asking?”

—“We’ll do still. And, for wine, let’s do the Chianti Riserva 2019 – but when the main dishes come out. To start, I’d like a Sazerac.” Elegant but direct, she ordered everything I would’ve ordered. My awe persisted. As if coming to, she shook herself and looked at me. “I’m so sorry! I’ve just been thinking about it all day – I had to get it off my chest.”

—“No, no, that’s alright,” I told her. I looked into her eyes, “You read my mind.”

She blushed. I didn’t know Rosamund Pike could blush. She was too elegant. Neither did Alice who had a smile painted across her face which was both delighted and uncomfortable.

—“And you, sir?” Alice turned her attention to me. “Would you like something to drink to start?”

—“Like I said – the lady read my mind. I will also take a Sazerac.”

—“Excellent! I’ll be right back with those drinks and a bottle of still water.”

—“Thank you!” Rosamund Pike and I said at the same time.

A minute later, Alice was already back, two glasses on a tray, a bottle of water in her hand. She presented us with the drinks and poured us a round of water, promising to return shortly with the first array of antipasti.

—“So, you ordered ahead?” said Rosamund Pike, leaning across her drink.

—“I did,” I said, leaning back, right arm draped across the back of the couch. I sipped my Sazerac for effect.

—“I thought about it…but I decided it would be best for you to take the reins. I did ask you on the date, after all.”

—“Yeah, about that…” I was going to ask her why she could afford to go on a date, when my friend Miguel arrived with the first three dishes of six antipasti.

—“Hey, man.” He nodded at me. “Good evening…”

He trailed off, as mesmerized as the rest of the world. He pulled himself together.

—“Umm, yes. Uhhh. Here is the mozzarella fritti, the bruschetta con fegato dell’anatra, and the prosciutto di parma con qualche pezzi di parmigiano.”

—“Thanks, Miguel.”

—“Thank you, Miguel.”

—“Yeah, no problem…” He trailed off, staring and bumped into a table, knocking over a glass. Rosamund Pike laughed like the first snowfall, which did not help the situation.

—“Do you know everybody here?” she asked.

—“Almost. I used to work here.”

—“Really?!” Her eyes went wide in surprise.

—“Yep. Not in the way you think, though. I used to croon.”

—“No way!”

—“Me and my…well, me and my girlfriend would do duets. She plays piano – and a lot of other stuff, too – but she would play accompaniment while I’d sing all these old Nat King Cole and Sinatra standards.”

—“Wow, that’s amazing. I think I may have seen a video or two of the both of you doing that. During Christmastime…you were like Michael Buble…”

—“What a compliment!” I laughed. “Anyways, I’d like to say ‘tell me about yourself’ but I’ve read your Wikipedia article at least twice now.”

—“Hahahaha!” She snorted a little bit. “Well, let’s see what you wouldn’t find online…Ah! I’m set to do a play at the end of the year.”

—“On Broadway?”

—“No, in London. It’s a small, black box kind of affair.”

—“Oh, interesting. What’s the play about?”

—“It’s King Lear in 11th Century Constantinople, and myself and Rami Malek play Lear and the jester but everyone else is puppets.”

—“Oh…”

—“You should come see it,” she smiled warmly. “I’ll save you and your partner tickets at the window.”

—“Oh, yeah!” I had remembered that I meant to ask her about the date – why a mother of two in a relationship could go on one. “About that…”

Again, however, I was cut off by Miguel with three more plates of antipasti: le cozze nel vino bianco, il polpo nel burro, and i gamberi nel olio olivo e limone.

—“Enjoy,” he whispered, sheepishly.

—“Mmmmmm!” Rosamund said, unshelling one of the three giant prawns. She gulleted the massive meat, even delighted in my favorite part: the head.

—“Wow,” I said in love.

—“Sorry! I learned how to eat these while on location for one of my films. A tad unsightly but I always think it’s more disrespectful not to enjoy the food the way it was meant to be enjoyed.”

—“Which film?” I asked, also slurping down a prawn and dipping a little piece of bread.

—“Pride and Prejudice.”

I was…confused, but didn’t pry further.

—“Wait!” she interjected, now dipping her own piece of bread. “You were going to ask me something earlier.”

—“Yeah, that’s right!” I had almost forgotten. I was distracted by the shrimp. “I mean, I don’t want to make any accusations, but, well, you have a family, and, well, I have a partner, so I wasn’t really sure what, uhh, what, uh, the end goal here was. Like, is it even okay to see you like this? Are you not worried about the paparazzi?”

—“Hahahahaha! Sorry, sorry. When you’re famous you’ll understand. But, no, there’s no problem – with this or my home life. The way I see it, it’s just like…asking you to ‘hang out’ or ‘meet up’ seems so pseudo-professional. I, genuinely, want to get to know you – personally and as a fellow artist. What better way than a dinner date! It cuts through all the fat of introductory conversation.”

—“True, I guess…but what about the winky emoji you sent me?”

—“I thought that was just cheeky-funny.” She scooped a mussel into her mouth.

—“Okay…but you keep leaning in, too.”

—“To be honest, you’re a little soft spoken. It’s very charming, but they’ve been playing old Benny Goodman tracks if you haven’t noticed and it’s gotten a little loud.”

I listened in – a long version of Sing, Sing, Sing was definitely ratcheting through the restaurant. I hadn’t even noticed.

—“Huh. Well, then, if it’s okay with you, it’s okay with me, I guess.”

—“And what about you? How come you’re here – girlfriend and all?”

—“Well, you’re Rosamund Pike.”

—“Am I what – what do they call it? A hall pass?”

—“Ew, no. We don’t do that. She had the same view as you, though. A date is just a date. And why not since you are who you are.”

—“See! It’s completely normal!”

We clinked to that – a romantic, platonic date. One hundred percent intimacy without any intimacy. It was a strange concept, paradoxical in my mind, but what other way, realistically, was there to express to someone you wanted to know them deeply, especially when they only had a few days in the same city as you? It was kind of like Roman Holiday.

—“I love that film,” she said in response to my thought. I gave her an eerie look.

—“I didn’t say anything?”

—“Oh, really? I thought I heard something, though. Or, maybe saw. I just had the image of Gregory Peck riding around on that scooter with Audrey Hepburn. You were thinking of Roman Holiday, right?”

—“I was…”

—“So strange. Oh, well – but here’s our primi!”

Primi are typically pasta dishes, and so I ordered my favorite: spaghetti al nero di seppia. Again, this came with mussels and some smaller shrimp. The sauce was garlicky with some heat, bearing the blackness of the squid ink the spaghetti was cooked in. I’ve had this dish three times in my life – the second was the best, in a little restaurant in Baltimore. I said as much to Rosamund.

—“You know, I’ve never tried it. My partner loves it, though. May I?”

—“Of course,” I obliged, lending her the first bite, which she twirled on her fork.

—“Mmm! I’d ask to switch, but I would never give this up.”

In front of her was a decently sized plate of lobster ravioli. As courtesy, she did lend me the first bite – un mezzo di un raviolo – and it was delicious. And what else is there to say? The food was getting so good, I was running out of words.

—“Why did you do Wrath of the Titans?” I asked out of nowhere, black spaghetto squirming into my mouth.

—“Work is work…but wouldn’t you? Play pretend in a fantasy world?”

—“Hmm. Good point.” I paused to consider another question. “You were underrated in Johnny English.”

—“Thank you.” Another raviolo eliminated.

—“It’s equal to, if not surpassing, your performance in Die Another Day.”

—“Now that’s an opinion! As far as spy films go, I did prefer Johnny English. Rowan was a pleasure to work with.”

—“They just need to make a French one now. Like Jacques Tati but a spy. Marion Cotillard can be the love interest.”

—“Haha! That’s right!”

We polished off the primi in silence. I delighted in her respect for the food. Drinks are for conversation – so is coffee – appetizers, perhaps. But main courses deserve the utmost, immovable attention. And so, the silence continued as Miguel brought out the final pre-ordered dishes of the night: a roasted rabbit, for me, and osso buco, for her.

—“Ahh. Polenta.” Beneath the shanks of veal was a creamy mash of corn. The sauce off the meat dripped into every open rivulet, combining to an unbelievable flavor blend. On my end, the gamey little fella was tender with garlic and lemony zest. Roast potatoes paired with the meat formerly known as Peter. At some point, the wine had arrived, and we were already halfway through the bottle.

The meat mains disappeared. I don’t remember eating them – just the experience. All there was was bones – calf and rabbit, obliterated – and the toothpicks stuck out, jutting off the scum from nothing less than the most delectable feast.

—“Whew,” huffed Rosamund Pike. “Are you really sure we can do dessert?”

—“We have to. Though, it is your choice – that was the only other thing I didn’t order in advance.”

—“Hmmm. Alright, then. We’ll just get whatever’s lightest.”

—“Fine by me.”

When food and wine collide at this level, there’s no telling where the comatose sensation is coming from. I was surely dazed, as was Rosamund. We were batting eyes at each other, and we were sure the customers that began to file in assumed they were witnessing a new Hollywood affair, but it was only the struggle to stay awake under tight belts and full stomachs. It was the owner who made the final stop for our dessert order.

—“Ah, my dear boy! And, Miss Pike – an honor and pleasure to receive you both.”

—“Pleasure is OURS, Mr. Maggiano.”

—“Agreed,” said Rosamund Pike.

—“Ah, you flatter me! Now, how would you like to end the evening? Qualche dolce? Un’amaretto? Un po’ di caffè?”

—“Ahem,” I hiked up my belt, cleared my throat as I straightened up. “Sfogliatella. One. And espresso. Two.”

—“Perfetto.”

—“I thought I was supposed to order?” Rosamund reminded me.

—“Oh…” I shrugged. “Eh. What would you get?”

—“The very same.”

—“Tutto perfetto! Brava, Signora Pike. Excellent choices!”

And with that, Mr. Maggiano dashed away, just as Rosamund Pike and I fell into each other. Again, under candlelight, everything appeared romantic. Heads rested on each other, we seemed full of intimacy, my arm wrapped around her back, our eyes closed and mouths smiling softly. Images of love penetrate the world as stills, only existing in instances, impossible to recreate for more than a singular moment.

And, of course, in reality, I was using my arm as leverage to keep her upright before she slumped, face first, onto the floor beneath the table.

—“I’m going to pass the fuck out.”

—“Shh, shh, shh, stop. We have one more course, hyUGHp.” In my hiccup was the scent of Toscana, raw earth cooked in the heat of many hills. In my inhale to follow was the coast, rocky cliffs and rocky beaches upon which fishermen for centuries have cast nets to catch salinated beasts. And on my lips, dried from booze, that I licked, was uva, olio, uva, sale, pepe, limone, basilico – the essences of a well-rounded, complete Italian culinary adventure. Semplici da solo, ma, insieme, possibilità senza fine.

—“Eccoli!” Mr. Maggiano delivered the teeny tiny coffee cups and a small white plate with, arguably, the finest Italian pastry. Crinkled, crunchy folds, felled upon a thick, sweet cream. Done poorly, you can tell. Done perfectly, you can as well. Per la sfogliatella, non c'è un “middle ground.” “Buon appetito, cari amici.”

Mr. Maggiano left. I shifted to pick up my coffee, but Rosamund was indelicately zonked on my right arm. It’d be a lie to say she looked perfect in her tender sleep, her hair mussed into a torrent, and I definitely felt drool pooling onto my jacket sleeve.

—“Rosamund. Rosamund!” I blew into her ear. “Wake up – last course.”

—“MmmmmRmmmmRmrr.”

—“C’mon, kid – wake up.”

—“Mmmmmmmmmmm.”

—“R-r-osamund. You have to get up, dahhrling. It’s time for dessert, dear. H-h-ere. S-s-mell some of this cahwffee.” Her eyes peeled open.

—“Jimmy…Stewart…?”

—“Yehss, it’s me, dear. Rosie, Rosie! I’m right here – just smell this cahwffee!” I held the tiny cup beneath her nose. The dark roast wafted up and to her brain. She perked awake, and her mouth split into a smile.

—“Hello, Jimmy.”

—“I-i-f I’m Jimmy Stewart – you’re Jane Bennet.” I pulled her into my arms. “Rosie – oh, Rosie – y-y-you’ve bewitched me, body and soul!”

Her cheek rested in my palm. My other, I cast gently across her face, now holding her all in my hands. Outside of my head, I thought: what the fuck is going on right now? But this ancient scene, from a Golden Era only fools attempt to resurrect, was reflected throughout the dining room. To the other diners, they indeed saw James Stewart and Jane Bennet in a classic film that never existed. And, unlike before, we, too, felt disappeared into the romance: I felt tall and lanky, ungainly, yet suave – extremely vulnerable and scared. And Jane’s eyes were decisive – a polar opposite. It was her sister, Lizzie, who called her “shy and modest” but all it was was overthinking. Decisions long made but duty-bound to remain in silence. There is a New York Times Bestseller yet to be written from Jane’s point of view. Modesty & Mum? Something stupid like that.

—“Are you guys gonna kiss or WHAT?!” a fat old bastard yelled that across the room. Immediately, the other diners booed. I heard another guy chirp, “You ruined it!” and then a tomato splat the first guy in the face.

—“Alright, alright – I’m sorry!”

Rosamund Pike and I blushed. The spell was unfortunately broken. There would be no kiss for the onlookers that night. Instead, we swapped bites from the sfogliatella, finished our coffees, and prepared to leave in peace.

—“Oh shit, let me get the bill,” I remembered after putting on my jacket.

—“Already taken care of,” said Rosamund Pike. She picked up her clutch and draped over her shoulders a light jacket for a summer night.

—“Seriously?”

—“I’m a rich actor.”

—“I love you, Rosamund Pike.”

She allowed her hand to slip into mine as she stepped off from the booth platform. The diners applauded. It was weird. As if a diplomatic delegation, we made rounds throughout the restaurant, thanking, personally, each server, waiter, and cook who held the establishment up upon their shoulders. Exiting Maggiano’s were lines of paparazzi – though, not a single flash. Apparently, there really was an Old Hollywood glow about us, one that demanded respect. In another world, we would have jumped into a limo – but instead, we simply strolled back to my place.

It was only 9 p.m., but we were finished. Not even a buzz anymore. My girlfriend was plopped on our couch watching TV in her pajamas.

—“Did you guys have fun?”

—“Woof! What a meal!”

—“Indeed!” said Rosamund Pike. “And, sorry, I should introduce myself. I’m Rosamund.”

—“Nice to meet you. He’s my boyfriend, I’m his girlfriend.”

—“So I’ve heard! And you used to do duets?”

—“Used to for money, but, otherwise, it’s our favorite Friday night activity.”

—“Shame – it’s only Thursday.”

—“We can make an exception for you, Rosamund Pike.”

And so we sang to Rosamund Pike, lulled her as she lay on the couch. By 10 p.m., she was completely out. We tucked her in and folded her up in quilt and blankets, placing her soft head on our favorite couch pillow.

—“Honey, Rosamund Pike is sleeping on our couch,” my girlfriend said.

—“I know. It’s so sweet.”

We took our leave quickly and alighted to our own bed. I left the bathroom door open while I showered so we could review the night.

—“So tell me, really – did you have fun?”

—“Yeah! Man, she can eat!”

—“Did she enjoy our menu?”

—“Yup – and crazy thing is: she was planning to order everything we did.”

—“Whoa – synchronicities.”

—“Seriously – I think in another life we were soulmates.”

—“Why not this life?”

—“Well, I’m not with her now.”

—“Ahh, good answer.” She piped again from across the room. “So, you think we’re soulmates?”

—“More than that – we’re two halves of the same mind.”

—“Whoa, fancy! I like that – or, you’re the right leg and I’m the left.”

—“That’s good, too.”

Until we went to bed, we traded analogies, passing them back and forth like a joint. At our high – “You’re the right nut, I’m the left” – we turned off the lights and closed our eyes, falling asleep as one – Rosamund Pike snoring in the other room.