Celebrity

by De Ross, Melinda

  The wonderful skylight that crowned the museum's rotunda was absolutely glorious. An attendant told us it had been restored in 2010, when the Age of Mammals exhibit was joined by a new fourteen-thousand-square-foot dinosaur hall. At least an hour passed before Danny managed to tear me away from the dinosaur fossils. I was transfixed, staring at skeleton after skeleton, bone after bone, imagining those creatures alive, sixty-million years ago.

  “I’ve always wondered why they disappeared,” I mused aloud, gazing at an enormous, almost complete T-Rex skeleton. I shivered. It was one thing to see virtual dinosaurs on a screen, and a totally different thing to see the tangible remains of those horrific animals.

  “Who knows? I, for one, am glad they did,” said Danny.

  It was fascinating to see the entire evolution of every life form, from insects to Homo Sapiens, in each stage. I wasn’t very interested in the collections of rocks—precious or otherwise, but the most spectacular thing of all was the outdoors. Both Danny and I were enchanted with The Nature Gardens—a three-and-a-half-acre urban wilderness sporting a pond, a dry creek bed, and breathtaking landscaping. It was impossible to see the entire place—inside and out—in one day, but we covered most of it. After several hours of wandering around, my neck was stiff from all the gazing upward, and my legs trembled with fatigue.

  “I’m exhausted! Take me out of here before I fall down,” I told Danny, clinging to his arm. “Aren’t you tired?”

  To my amazement—and envy—he shook his head.

  “Not really. Still want to go to the movies, or do you want me to drive you back to your car?”

  I thought about it for a bit, as we headed to the exit. A hotdog and a cold drink would restore me considerably, then a nap in a comfy cinema chair.

  “What movie? I don’t like The Terminator, just so we’re straight on that,” I said firmly.

  He laughed, placing a hand around my waist.

  “Lady’s choice.”

  After we ate two hotdogs each at a small fast food joint, we ended up watching ‘Switch’, a ‘90s comedy about a misogynist, charming guy who’s killed by three of his ex-girlfriends. God decides to give him a second chance and sends him back, reincarnated as a gorgeous woman. I’d seen the movie twice before and loved it.

  “Ellen Barkin plays an exceptional role,” I whispered to Danny in the dark. “Oh, this is my favorite scene of all.”

  On the screen, Margo—the arch-killer ex-girlfriend—wore a massive fur coat and was getting ready to climb into a limo, when a young blonde passing by stopped her.

  ‘Do you know how many poor animals they had to kill to make that coat?’ the blonde said reproachfully.

  ‘Do you know how many rich animals I had to fuck to get this coat?’ Margo retorted.

  The room roared with laughter, and so did we.

  “God, I love this movie!” I told Danny through giggles, holding my stomach. “They don’t make them like they used to.”

  ****

  It was past 11 when he drove me back to the Sunset Plaza parking lot, where I’d left my car before having lunch with Vicki. As I climbed out, I realized all my muscles were aching. It had been a long day, but I’d enjoyed it.

  “I had a great time,” I said, turning to Danny while we were walking to my car. “I’ve been lonely these past days.”

  My hair was fluttering in the night breeze. He reached out to tuck a rebel strand behind my ear. “Why didn’t you tell me? I would love to take you out more often.”

  “And browse the shops with me for hours looking for lingerie?”

  “My favorite thing of all times.”

  We both smiled, then I remembered something. “Hey, I forgot to show you this. I got a tattoo yesterday.”

  I turned my right leg to one side so he could see my ankle, where the butterfly hovered above the black strap of my sandal. He squinted down. Before I knew what he was doing, he lifted me effortlessly and sat me on the hood of my car. He reached down, cupping my calf in his warm palm, and lifted my leg to look closer at the butterfly.

  “Isn’t this pretty? It suits you.”

  His voice was suddenly low and husky, his fingers tracing softly the outline of the tattoo, triggering alarm bells in my mind.

  “That’s what the artist said too. Listen, I... have to go. It’s late.”

  I slipped my leg from his hands and tried to slide down to the ground, but he moved in closer, trapping my body between his and the hood of my car.

  “It’s not that late.”

  He brushed one thumb across my lower lip, his fingers stroking the side of my neck. God, he was sexy... But I had to remind myself he was the forbidden fruit. One taste and I’d be lost, used, and then tossed aside. My ego didn’t need this right now.

  “Good night, Danny,” I said, giving him a slight push as my feet touched the pavement. “Thank you for a wonderful evening.”

  I took the keys from my bag and unlocked my car with trembling fingers. After I climbed inside I felt marginally safer, until Danny held the door so I couldn’t close it.

  “I’ll wear you down one of these days, Kendra,” he said confidently in the same teasing whisper.

  I stared up at him. The cockiness in his dark eyes strengthened my own determination.

  “Don’t count on it. We are agent and client, that’s all. And friends. That’s all we’ll ever be.”

  I slammed my door shut, symbolically, then drove away into the darkness.

  I hardly slept that night, or the nights that followed. I spent my days trying to distract myself with walks, all the while I was mentally biting my nails, waiting for a sign from Vicki. It came much earlier than I expected. Three days after our lunch together, she called to tell me the seller had accepted my offer. The house of my dreams was mine!

  Chapter Nine

  Several days after we’d closed the sale, I still couldn’t believe it. It was surreal. The magic started to fade a bit when I had to make frantic searches for contractors, a roofing company, landscapers, carpenters, electricians, plumbers, and all the people whose help I needed to restore the place, not to mention all the paperwork I had to get sorted.

  As I stared at the row of trucks full of gear parked in front of the house on Monday morning, I thought it might have been simpler to build a house from scratch. Still, I couldn’t deny the excitement that pumped through my veins along with the panic. I could do this. I had to do this. It was my home, and I’d be damned if I was going to chicken out now.

  “So,” I said to the dozen men or more scattered around me, looking skeptical and muttering among themselves. “Let me show you around, and then we’ll make a plan of action, shall we?”

  They’d obviously taken me for a crazy female who had no idea what she was doing, but as we walked around and into the house, and I began laying down my plans for restoration, the men appeared to look at me with new respect. I was dressed in jeans and a black shirt, with my hair tucked under a blue baseball cap. I wanted to be sure they understood I meant business, and that I was going to work with them side by side.

  After the initial tour, we all gathered in front of the house again to put together a strategy.

  “We’ll have to start with the roof,” said Jim, the guy from the roofing company.

  At the same time, Tom, the chief landscaper told his trio of men, “We have some serious hacking to do, boys.”

  “About that,” I intervened. “I want to keep the wild look of the land and yard, but I also want it to look more... well-tended. And I want to keep the wisteria vine. We’ll just trim it around the windows and balconies, but afterward the openings will be enlarged. Oh, and I want to pave the lane between the gate and the house with stone, and border it with rows of ... something. Cherry trees maybe.” I sighed and turned to Tom. “Does this make sense?”

  He scratched his dark beard. “Vaguely. I’m gonna do some sketches for you, but we have to take care of those right away,” he said, pointing to a couple of trees that almost covered
the house’s facade. “It’s impossible to work on the roof, and as you can see, some of the branches broke the windows and grew into the house. Damned if I’ve ever seen such neglect!”

  “I know. It’s a real shame, but we’re going to make this place a work of art. Let’s get started, shall we?” I said cheerfully, rolling up my sleeves. “I’ll start by ripping up that horrible linoleum. It offends my eye.”

  ****

  I worked mindlessly for hours, while the entire house groaned and creaked around me in chaos. The rhythmic hammering coming from the roof, the sounds of the chainsaw outside, the constant coming and going, and the loud chatter of the workers quickly became familiar. I had forgotten to bring some work gloves, so my hands were scraped and dirty, my knuckles raw. I didn’t dare scratch the insistent itch on my cheek because of the filth, but when my phone rang I had to answer. I really needed to change Danny’s tune.

  I dragged it with two fingers from my back pocket.

  “Hello.”

  “Hey, pretty girl,” Danny said, sounding extremely cheerful. “I got big news for you.”

  “What news?” I asked absently, scraping away at a piece of half-rotten carpet that stubbornly clung to the wooden floor.

  “Mark Santini, the director, called me. They finished the casting.”

  I stopped abruptly. Out of balance, I fell right on my ass. “What? Oh, my God! Who... Who did they pick?” I asked breathlessly, my throat tight with anticipation.

  “Well, Sandra Hilton will play Serena. I don’t know if you’ve heard of her, but she’s nicknamed ‘The new Katherine Heigl’.”

  “No, I don’t think I’ve heard of her,” I said, a bit disappointed. “Is she related to the Hilton zillionairesses?”

  “I don’t know. But guess who’s going to be your hero, Hunter Cole?” He paused for effect, then announced, “Blake Tyler.”

  “Oh, my God,” I said again, spacing the words in reverent wonder. “Are you serious? He’s like... my idol from all contemporary actors! I’ve seen all of his movies!”

  “You’ll do better than that,” Danny informed me smugly. “You’ll meet him personally. Santini wants to meet you, so tonight we’re having dinner with him, Sandra and Blake.”

  I couldn’t utter a word for what seemed like an eternity. This was unbelievable! Amazing! I raised my trembling hand to my lips, and the bubble of euphoria burst as I started to sneeze, assaulted by the stench of dust and mold.

  “Tonight? Danny, I can’t tonight!” I shrieked. “I started working on the house. I’m covered in dirt, mouse piss and God knows what else, and my hands are a mess!”

  “So patch yourself up and get moving,” he said impatiently. “This isn’t something we can decline, Kendra. It’s barely 2 o’clock. You have plenty of time to clean yourself up. I’ll pick you up at 6:30.”

  “No, it’s okay,” I said quickly. “I’ll drive myself there. Where are we meeting them?”

  He named a restaurant in Beverly Hills, one that Vicki had told me was a snooty place where celebrities hung out.

  “I’ll be there at 7.”

  As I shoved my phone back in my pocket, I felt my head spinning with nervous anticipation. I stood up with a grunt, dusted myself off as best I could, and went out in search of Harvey, the chief contractor. I found him in the back of the house, swinging a large hammer at the sagging wooden banister that needed to be replaced. He was around forty, with froggy eyes and a wine lover’s complexion. When I’d first spoken to him he gave me the impression he was very competent and a hard worker. Judging by the agility with which he handled tools, I knew my first assessment was right.

  “Harvey, I need to go,” I said, pushing escaped strands of hair back under my cap. “I have an urgent meeting, so I’m gonna leave you in charge here.”

  “Don’t worry, Miss Kendra.” He put the hammer down to squint at me, wiping his shiny forehead with a thick, hairy forearm. “I have everything under control.”

  “Okay. You have my phone number, call if you need anything or if you have any questions.

  I sped back to L.A, frantically going through my wardrobe in my mind, and wondering what to wear. One could never go wrong with the classic little black dress, but I wanted to make more of a statement. God, my stomach knotted with nerves at the thought of meeting those people. Especially Blake Tyler. If anyone had told me a few months ago I’d be having dinner with famous actors, I would have laughed in their face.

  When I arrived at the motel, I quickly turned the water on to fill the tub, ditched all of my clothes into a pile in a corner, and started rummaging madly through the closet. I was still debating when the tub was full, so I left all the clothes strewn everywhere and climbed into the tub. My aching muscles seemed to melt from the heavenly heat of the water, but the scrapes on my hands began to sting like hell.

  “Shit! What the fuck am I going to do about this?”

  My knuckles were red and raw, my nails short, un-manicured and full of dirt. I scrubbed myself all over until I was squeaky clean, then shampooed twice. After I hastily blow-dried my hair, I simply crashed on the bed, among all the scattered clothes, feeling completely exhausted. I let myself relax, taking ample breaths to tame my anxiety and let my body recharge.

  Ten minutes later I was a new person. I sat up, surveying the mess that surrounded me.

  “Okay, think,” I said to the empty room, beginning to gather up dresses, blouses, skirts, jeans, one sock... Never mind that. “Dinner with celebrities. No, dinner with the people I’m going to work with. Not exactly casual, but not overly-elegant. Something that makes a statement,” I decided.

  I chose a pair of white, skin-tight pants and a white sleeveless shirt that gloved my torso nicely. With my new white panties and wonder bra from Victoria’s Secret, I could easily pass for a model, especially when I stepped into white, high-heeled shoes. Their tips were nicely sprinkled with rhinestones, and I even had a matching white, sparkly evening bag, which I’d bought from a shop on Rodeo Drive.

  I did my makeup carefully, outlining my eyes discretely with gray, and my lips and cheekbones with soft shades of pink. As for my hair, I debated for a while what to do with it, then decided to simply let it flow down my back and shoulders. It was actually beautiful, newly-washed and shiny, falling sexily around my face.

  The only problem left were my hands. I thought about rubbing face foundation or color corrector cream on them, but realized my mistake just in time. If I did that, I would ruin my white outfit with stains if I touched myself anywhere, which of course I was bound to do. The hell with it! I was a working woman and they’d have to put up with my working hands. If they didn’t like it, screw them!

  I was sure they were a pack of snobs and I was ready to dislike them right off—until I realized that made me a snob too, not to mention a bundle of prejudices. As for Blake Tyler, I expected him to be a great-looking hunk of nothing, a Hollywood narcissistic womanizer with no substance.

  I thought about him as I drove to Beverly Hills, trying to remember what I knew about him, in order to be able to make conversation. I recalled reading recently in a magazine that he was thirty-six and had never been married. People speculated he might even be gay, since he was never seen with any of the Hollywood starlets, or other female arm-pieces in public. I suspected this was just tabloid crap though. Most likely he was the kind of man who valued his privacy and didn’t want to make his personal life a matter of public record.

  He was a big guy, over six foot tall, with an athletic body—which seemed to be a must-have for all notable stars—and a somewhat rugged appearance that nearly screamed ‘100% real man’. He wore his light-brown hair cut short, and the slight lines around his spectacular blue eyes gave him even more sex-appeal. As a matter of fact, he resembled his namesake quite a lot—one of my favorite country singers called Blake Shelton. He even had the charming dimples and dark-blond fashionable stubble on his face. He looked like a real man alright, a mouthwatering one.

  I’d see
n three of his movies, and I had to admit he’d given stellar performances. One was a modern version of The Great Gatsby, which I think had brought him an Oscar nomination. The other was a more cliché-ish story of a guy whose wife is gang-raped and killed by a trio of crooks, all of which he hunts down and kills in the most painful ways possible. The third one was also a masterpiece, where he played the role of a paid assassin, who falls in love with the woman he was paid to kill. I didn’t know what kind of man he was in real life, but he was a very talented actor, lucky enough to have been cast in good movies.

  I reached Beverly Hills around 6:30, then turned the GPS on to find the restaurant. I arrived sooner than I thought, and immediately felt under dressed when I saw the fancy building and the obscenely expensive cars parked on the one way street. I saw a valet in front, but for some reason I decided not to hand him my Rover to park. Instead, I drove a few buildings away and found a parking opening in a row of cars by the sidewalk. I grabbed my bag, adjusted my boobs and, after a reassuring glance in the mirror, climbed out of the car.

  My heart was racing as I walked toward the sumptuous entry of the restaurant. I clutched my small evening bag with damp palms. A man in formal attire was just opening the door for me, when I heard someone calling my name. It was Danny, dressed in a killer grey suit, white shirt and pink tie.

  His teeth flashed as he approached, letting out a low whistle. “Wow! I’m honored to be escorting the most beautiful woman in town tonight. Hi there, lady in white.”

  He kissed my cheek, then took my arm and ushered me into the restaurant. If it wasn’t for the elegant maître d’ who led us to our table, I would have gotten lost in the enormous space, bathed in soft light, jazz music and the exquisite aroma of expensive food. As we approached the corner table flanked by potted jungle plants, I swallowed the knot of nervousness in my throat. Instinctively, I squeezed Danny’s hand tighter, and he gave me a discreet pat of reassurance.