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SIMON COWELL: A letter to my selfish, arrogant, stubborn younger self
October 10, 2034
By SIMON COWELL
Dear Simon,
How are you? No, wait—don't tell me. I remember entirely too well how you're doing. It's 2010, and you're in a bit of a mess.
Oh, career-wise you've never been better. Your company is doing extremely well. The artists you've signed are selling millions of records. Last year, you were the highest-paid man on American television. You are in your final season of American Idol, and just last month you finalized a deal to launch a U.S. version of The X Factor in 2011, which will give you the creative control you've wanted for years.
You're in excellent health, and of course you look fantastic, if you don't mind my saying so. You've cut back on smoking, you eat well and work out regularly, and you take time to relax when you need a break.
You are also lucky to be surrounded by people who genuinely care about you. You have a great many wonderful, caring friends, and good relationships with your family, especially your mum, with whom you have always been close. You have godchildren you adore.
Everything is coming up roses for you, Simon, except for one small—very small—thing.
You are on the verge of losing one of the most important people in your life.
Yes, Simon, you—you who have never put much stock in romance, you who have always been in charge of your relationships, you who have always been the one to decide (sometimes, you will admit, mutually) when things were over—are perilously close to being dumped.
It is an odd position for you to be in. You have always played fast and loose, so to speak, with your love life, never committing too seriously to anyone. You felt safe that way. You understood well, even as a young man, how the world works. A lot has changed over the years, but some things have stayed the same. It does not pay to be gay, and you've gone to great lengths to keep that part of your life under wraps—including, at times, foregoing relationships altogether. You are the king of secretive one-night stands. You are afraid to let anyone get too close, afraid of what might happen if you let someone into your world.
Indeed, your present relationship, the one that is causing you such trouble, started in much the same way: as a fling. You didn't think much of him at first: strangely dressed, ridiculous highlighted hair, too loud and too energetic to be taken seriously. You were tempted to dismiss him outright. But over time, he began to grow on you. During that first year, shooting the pilot season of what would become the highest-rated show in U.S. television history, you got to know him—got to know the person underneath the fake tan and the frosted tips—and you found, to your surprise and chagrin, that you rather liked him. You found him intriguing, and you were impressed by his work ethic, his determination, and his persistence. And then, over the course of several years of friendship, you found yourself falling for him.
Needless to say, you did not expect this. At times you are perturbed by how deep he's got under your skin. Generally, though, you are happy. Your relationship is unconventional, but it works for you. And if you have to keep it secretive—watch what you do and say at all times, sneak around to see one another, jump through the occasional publicity hoop to protect yourselves—well, that's just a part of the business you're in.
You see, Simon, you are terrified of what might happen if this secret comes out. Despite the rhetoric, you know that the world does not smile on your kind. What's worse, you've spent so many years lying—about something deeply private, something that's your right to lie about, to be sure, but nonetheless lying—that those who would forgive your sexual trespasses might not be so willing to forgive the deception.
You know all too well what it's like to be rejected, to be laughed at, to fail. You had it all once before, and you lost everything. You were on top of the world and fell flat on your face. These days, you have even farther to fall. You don't know if you can survive that again. What's more, many people depend on you for their livelihoods. You have your employees to think of, not to mention your family. You can't imagine what might happen to them if the world found out about you.
So you play the game. Like everyone in your field, you have PR people, and they make sure that you're always photographed with attractive women on your arm, the consummate heterosexual bachelor in the prime of his life. It's never quite enough to quash the rumours, but as long as you're careful, that's all they will be: just rumours.
Until one time you're not careful enough. You get lazy, you get cocky, you let down your guard in the wrong company, and somebody sees something they shouldn't. Certainly not the first time it's happened, but this time the evidence—a short, shaky video, taken at a private party, of the pair of you being quite obviously together—is fairly damning.
After that, everything happens very quickly. Your people negotiate. Silence can be bought, for the right price. But now it's no longer enough for you to simply be seen dating a beautiful woman. This near-disaster calls for more drastic measures, and before you know what's happening, you're taking a tense middle-of-the-day call from your American lover, who wants to know when you suddenly got engaged to be married to someone else.
You take long strolls around your neighborhood, arm in arm with your fiancée, for the benefit of the gathered paparazzi. Your friends—the ones on your payroll, at least—tell the press how overjoyed and in love you are; the ones not on your payroll play along, bewildered, not sure how to react. The media eats it up, loving the story of the lifelong bachelor who has finally, after all these years, found true love and decided to settle down.
Meanwhile, your lover won't take your calls.
You've averted a public relations nightmare, only to find your private relations in shambles. You each appreciate the need for photo ops with women, but it seems a fake engagement is taking things a bit too far. Although he'd never admit it, you realize you've hurt him. What's more, your mutual friends think you're a heel. Even your own beloved mother disapproves of the way you've treated her "American son."
You see each other briefly at work, where you both go about your business and act as if nothing is wrong. On set and off, in the public eye you're buddies—the best of platonic pals. In private, you are barely speaking. He tells you that he needs time to think, that he doesn't know what to do with this situation, that he never thought things would get this serious. You understand how important space is, so you try to give him his, but it's difficult. You have precious little time together as it is, and he's shutting you out. All these years you've been taking him for granted, and now you're paying for it.
It seems the strange, annoying, surprising boy you let into your life nearly ten years ago has suddenly grown up—and he is tired of waiting for you to grow up, too.
"I'm not going to marry her," you assure him. "It's a business partnership. We'll break it off in a few months—I'll cheat with some model, she'll dump me, the press will get a few weeks of gossip out of it, we'll all move on with our lives and no harm done."
But he doesn't believe you.
"What if something else happens?" he asks. "Something worse than that video? What if Max tells you that you have to go through with a wedding to save your reputation? Are you really going to tell him no?"
You know that he's being irrational and jealous. He's afraid of losing you—and who wouldn't be?—but a part of you can understand his concern.
"I just don't know how much longer I can keep doing this," he says.
You've been doing "this" far longer than he has, so you call him lazy, he calls you a phony, you call him gutless, he calls you an asshole, and he storms out of your trailer and the two of you don't speak for a week.
But at the same time, this is your last year to work together. Your last year on the show and your surprise engagement are incontrovertibly entwined. With respect to the show, you try to have fun when you can. Everyone's gone mad; everything is falling apart. Nothing is as good as it used to be, but you're determined to enjoy your last hurrah. You all go out together after the shows the way you have for the last nine years. You spar with Kara and Ellen the way you used to do with Paula. It's bittersweet and boring at the same time. You know you're ready to leave the show.
But you're not ready to leave him.
It takes some time, but eventually you get through to him. He calms down about the engagement, and you make him understand that it doesn't affect what you have with him. He's still sad about your leaving the show, but he has known for years that this was coming, so he puts on a toothy smile and his radio voice and deals with it.
On the night of your last episode, you catch him crying, right on camera, smiling through the tears. That's when you decide you need to do something about this.
That night, you make some calls. Discussions are had, contracts are renegotiated, your "fiancée" leaves in a huff. She does not attend the afterparties and does not accompany you back to London the next day. Your engagement is not over—that would be too obvious—but it does have a time limit. You spend the night in your lover's bed, satisfied at how you've managed once again to have it all.
You return to London, sans fiancée, and within a week, the rumours and innuendo are flying once more. In fact, they're worse than ever. It's a slow news season, and the tabloids are eager for scandal, circling like sharks. Your publicist is deeply concerned. He flies your fiancée over and sets the two of you up for one photo op after another. Everywhere you go, she follows, clinging to your elbow, beautiful and fashionable. Gushing articles about your lovely bride-to-be and the impending nuptials appear in the gossip rags alongside tongue-in-cheek allusions to the absurdity of it all.
She moves into her own quarters in your London home, the better to be photographed by your side, especially late at night and at the wee hours of the morning. She's a nice girl, smart and ambitious—qualities you appreciate—but you don't love her, far from it, and the forced interaction is beginning to wear on you both. You become tired and irritable—more so than usual, at any rate.
Eventually she returns to Los Angeles. Your publicist makes excuses for her absence, waving away rumours that your engagement has come to an end while simultaneously seeking out backup plans. You can't simply retreat and hope that people will forget about your disastrous engagement. With your UK shows in full swing and the debut of American X Factor approaching, with many of the final details still hanging in the balance, it is critical that you not lose any ground with your public—or with your investors.
Your publicist is the best in the business. You've been with him for years and you trust him completely with this aspect of your career, but you still feel a bit horrified when he tells you that the situation is impossible. It's 2010: everybody has a camera, everybody has a Twitter account. Your publicist tells you that the time for play is over. You are about to launch the most ambitious venture of your entire life. It's time to put your money where your mouth is.
You try to explain this to your lover. He's in the industry, too. He's done many of the same things you yourself have done to protect your reputation. He should understand better than anyone.
He does not.
"We've always had girlfriends," you say.
"Marriage is different," he says.
"How is it different?" you ask.
You watch him shut down, his face betraying none of the anger and hurt you know he's feeling. You've seen this composed look on him before. He doesn't answer the question, but then he doesn't need to.
"You should be there," you tell him, half-jokingly. "You can be the best man."
"You can go fuck yourself," he tells you.
"Highly suspicious if you weren't there," you say. Glaring, you think, albeit not so much for you as for him. Everyone knows you two are close friends; if he's not at your wedding, people will talk—and not about you. He's never been as good as you are at hiding in plain sight, and you've never let him forget it.
And he cares—no matter how righteously indignant he is now, he cares about his cover. He may not like it, but he'll be there.
Time passes. Your publicist does some of his best work, stoking interest in your impending nuptials—and your impending American X Factor debut—to a fever pitch. You are only nominally involved in planning the festivities. What flowers, what music—it doesn't matter to you. It's a publicity stunt.
You remind your lover of this fact again and again, but his answer never changes. He will not participate. He will not watch you marry a woman you barely know. He won't attend even to protect his own identity, no matter how many times you or your publicist explain to him how it will look if he skips the wedding of the dear friend he's been rumoured to be in love with for almost a decade.
He tells you that if you go through with this, he won't be there. He tells you that if you go through with this, it's over between you.
You call his bluff. Your relationship has always been about this, about challenges and threats and one-upmanship, and frankly, you think he's full of crap. You fully expect him to show up on the day of the wedding, pressed and perfect in a tuxedo, standing with your brothers and your mum, rolling his eyes and smirking when only you can see him, sharing in the private joke.
You are stunned when the day comes and he doesn't show.
The ceremony is private and brief. You put on a smile for the photos, which will of course be published in all the major papers. Your bride looks beautiful. Your mother cries.
Then it's over, and you're off on your honeymoon. Your publicist has already billed it to the press as the most luxurious and romantic holiday any couple has ever taken. In truth, apart from the necessary photo ops, you and your wife barely see each other and barely speak. You're both happier that way.
You think about calling your lover every single day, but your pride gets in the way. You're angry with him, angry with yourself, and not ready yet to apologise.
In the end, three months pass before you speak to him again. It happens when you’re in L.A., working on details for the U.S. X Factor. You decide to drop by and see him while you're in town. You are ready to accept responsibility for this marriage nonsense and to apologise to him, even though you stand by your belief that it was the right and necessary thing to do. Still, you recognise that his feelings were hurt, and you plan to woo him back accordingly. (You also hope to get laid for the first time in ages.)
Needless to say, things do not go according to your plan. First, he declines to meet with you. Then he starts screening your phone calls. You do not understand the word "no," so you meet with him instead—by letting yourself into his house with your key and waiting impatiently for him to arrive. To your surprise, he is not happy to come home and find you pouring yourself a drink in his kitchen. He does not care to acknowledge that you were right and he was wrong, and he rejects your apology, generous and gallant as it is, outright. He does not want to go to bed with you, either. Shocked, you tell him he's being juvenile. He tells you to get out of his house.
You do.
It is two years before you see him again.
You speak, of course—before The X Factor debuts in the U.S., you appear on his radio show to promote it, and if there's any tension between you, you're sure it can't be heard over the airwaves.
And you watch him on television. American Idol is still going strong, despite your best efforts to usurp it. You would never admit it, of course, but you watch his every appearance.
Through the grapevine, you hear that he's dating again—some producer or other. You throw yourself into work, as always. You make more money. Somehow, it still doesn't make you happier.
After eighteen months, he goes on Oprah Winfrey's show and tells the world that he is gay. You're not sure what prompted it, and you have no right to ask. The public backlash is swift and furious but over quickly, and as far as you can tell, he suffers no long-term damage for it. In the aftermath, you send a note of congratulation. He doesn't reply.
When you do see him next, in person and not on television, it's at an Emmys afterparty. You have to make an appearance at the awards that year, as The X Factor is nominated—against American Idol; as always, you both lose to The Amazing Race—but you aren't happy about it. You're not sure how to feel about seeing him at the party. You don’t know what to call the feeling that comes over you when you spy him across the room, looking fit and lovely and, when he spots you, very nervous.
The champagne flows freely at these events. Later, he will blame it for the fact that the two of you end up in a room alone, furtively, furiously, clumsily making up for two years apart. His mouth pink with kissing and his face pink with embarrassment, he lets you have it for every stupid, thoughtless thing you've done in the in the ten years and more that you've known each other. Then he tells you not to call him and leaves the party, looking more broken than you've ever seen him.
The next day, you tell your wife you want a divorce. She nearly collapses with relief.
You leave a message for him on his voicemail, telling him what you've done. You acknowledge that he told you not to call and apologise for—once again—ignoring him. You promise—to him and to yourself—that it will be the last time you ignore him. He doesn't call back. But then, you don't expect him to.
Your wife is more than happy to end the charade (for an ample payout, of course) and be rid of you. The whole process takes only a few weeks. Your publicist's press releases are short and devoid of detail.
When the papers are all signed and filed away, you fly back to California and park in his driveway, refusing to move until he agrees to let you in.
The rest, as they say, is history.
Today, Simon, you turn 75. Never in your wildest dreams—or nightmares—did you imagine being this age. It's an age your father never saw. But now that you've reached it, you realise it's not all that bad. For one, you're still quite healthy. You look at least ten years younger, fit and distinguished. If anything, you've got better with age—in more ways than one.
You have learned a lot over the last twenty-five years. In particular, you have learned to balance being a successful public figure with being a successful human being—with a happy, well-balanced personal life. You still work—you probably will continue to work forever—but now you have things you value more than work. You have people who mean more to you than investors and business partners. You make time for them, and time to appreciate the good things in life. You don't compromise yourself or the people you love for your business needs. When you look at your life today, you are deeply satisfied.
Of course, you still indulge in a bit of introspection, especially on significant birthdays like today's. That is a habit you have not grown out of. After all, you wouldn't be you without a bit of self-congratulatory navel-gazing, would you? And we simply couldn't have that. Happy birthday!
LOVE, SIMON
"There is no way in hell you're having them print this," Ryan says, sitting in front of the computer and staring wide-eyed at the screen.
"Why not?"
"Why not? Okay, first of all, that bit about me crying after Gil's Emmy party is complete crap. I had something in my eye. Secondly—" Ryan gesticulates wildly. "Have you lost your mind?"
"There may be some edits."
"This is unbelievable. This is—" Ryan turns around in his chair to look at Simon, leaning against a wall with his arms crossed. "Simon, this is insanely personal. And it makes both of us look terrible."
"I think it makes me look humble."
"You are so full of shit."
Simon puts on his best impression of a humble face and doesn't bother to reply.
"It's just so—personal," Ryan says again, turning back to the screen. "And—Jesus, this dialogue."
"Screw you," Simon says, mildly embarrassed. He'd thought his dialogue was moving. He'd been very invested in the writing of it.
"Mezhgan would have you killed."
"She could afford to," Simon says grimly.
"This kind of defeats the purpose of fifteen years of spin, doesn't it? Late-onset bisexuality, 'never realized I had feelings for him,' et cetera, et cetera …"
"Yes, it would do that."
"'Would'?" Ryan turns away from the screen again, arm on the back of the computer chair. Eyes locked on Simon's, he finally relaxes, the tension and anxiety draining from his body. His mouth turns up into a half smile. "You didn't write this for the Daily Mail, did you?"
"Not this particular draft of it, no."
Ryan looks at him, steadily, for a long time. He clears his throat and glances back at the screen, re-reading. "You ignore me all the time, actually."
Simon looks away for a moment and then says, "I'm sorry, did you say something?"
Ryan smirks and goes back to reading. "'You know that he's being irrational and jealous.' Really?"
"Well, you were."
"Do you ever want to get laid again?"
Simon smiles benignly and says nothing. He comes closer and stands behind Ryan, leaning over Ryan's shoulder, looking at his handiwork on the screen. He's learned over the years when to cede ground and shut up.
Ryan's face is lit up by the glow. "'Strange, annoying, surprising'?"
He doesn't seem to be going anywhere with this interrogation, so Simon just kisses his temple and lets him keep reading.
"'Boy'?" Ryan says skeptically.
"You were terribly young in those days."
"And you were scarily old. What on earth was I doing with you?"
"Learning from a master."
Ryan snorts a laugh and leans back, head resting against Simon's stomach.
"DAD! Dad!"
It's Simon who turns and answers. "Upstairs!"
They both listen to the steady thumping of feet making their way up the stairs, and then Olivia sticks her head through the open door. "What's up," she says—a hello, not a question.
"Did you have a good time?" Ryan asks, still leaning back against Simon.
"Pretty good. Gretchen says hi."
"How was the movie?" Simon asks.
"Meh," she says. "Give it a pass. I'm going to bed, I'm dead tired."
"Okay. Goodnight," Ryan says.
"Goodnight, peanut," Simon says.
"You guys have got to stop calling me that," Olivia says. "I'm sixteen. It's embarrassing."
"Okay, peanut," Ryan and Simon say in unison.
"Whatever you say," Ryan adds.
"Ugh," Olivia says, and stomps down the hall to her own room.
"Well, thank god we worked out this relationship," Ryan says. "Otherwise, who would be around to embarrass our teenage daughter?"
"We do it for the children," Simon agrees.
"You do it because I'm the only person who will put up with you," Ryan says. "Can I read the real letter, the one you're actually giving to the Daily Mail?"
"It's the next file. Though I should warn you that it's much less interesting than the one you just finished."
"I'll bet," Ryan says. "This one's pretty juicy."
"What can I say," Simon says with a shrug. "I've had a pretty good run."