The Wedding Flight

by Nancy Warren

  His mom nodded. “Did she seem interested?”

  “Yes, I think so. She left me her contact information.”

  “Well, if she models the dress for us and then puts her store credit towards buying it, we all win. You're right, this is great advertising for the store, and the dress is perfect for that girl. Maybe it’s better that she’s not a professional.”

  “Great.” Of course, his mother was the one with all the connections in the fashion world, and she still kept up with her former agents as well as young models who often came to her for advice. She knew all the best photographers, the best stylists and makeup artists. In fact, she still turned down modeling jobs.

  “Do you see this as online advertising or print?” Joe asked.

  “I think we should put it on the website, and do some targeted online advertising. Maybe hit a few local blogs.”

  Joe nodded. “Okay. Let’s do it.”

  He took the paper with Meg’s details and handed it to his mom. “Megan O'Reilly. She looks like a Meg O'Reilly, doesn't she? There's definitely Irish blood in that girl.”

  She tapped her fingers on the page. “I’ll get the photographer. What do you think about Saturday after we close? You should call her since she knows you.”

  She’d probably be out with her fiancé on a Saturday night, and Dylan had to keep reminding himself that she was an engaged woman. He tried to be cool about the thought of talking to her again. “I’ll call and ask.”

  Chapter 2

  When Meg arrived home that night, she heard her roommate June talking. Meg stood and cocked her head, listening. If June had one of her friends over, she'd have to make small talk before escaping to her room. But, no. Within a minute she knew that June was running lines. Her roommate could never decide whether she wanted to be an actress or a writer. Of course, lots of people did both, but she was all one or all the other and could flit from one dream to the other with startling rapidity and no notice to her poor roommate. Meg recognized the play. It was A Streetcar Named Desire.

  She walked into their living-room-slash-kitchen and found June wearing a slip and stomping up and down. “I’m Stanley Kowalski's wife,” she said as Megan walked in.

  “Stella!” Meg bellowed.

  She tossed the script to the counter. “Probably some blonde with Polish blood will get the part.”

  June was half Chinese and half American, and complained about how hard it was to get parts as she was neither one nor the other. She wore her black hair long and worked out a lot. She also ran a blog, Single Chick in LA, where she dished about her dating life and poked fun at the men of LA. Of course, in order to get fresh material, she did a lot of dating. Sometimes, she tried to get Meg to go out too, as a research assistant.

  June butted out her cigarette. Since she didn't smoke, Meg figured it was part of her getting into character.

  “Where’s the play?”

  “In an experimental theater. So maybe they’ll take a chance on a racially diverse Stella.”

  “What’s experimental about doing Tennessee Williams?”

  “It's a mash-up. Tennessee Williams and Shakespeare.”

  “Wow.”

  “Blanche and Ophelia, get it?”

  She nodded. “Battle of the waifs.” She put on the kettle to make tea. Her evening already felt heavy with manuscripts that she had to get through. In her agency, assistants got promoted to agents when they either landed a promising new client, or found a project that could be made into a movie. The big bosses were going to promote one of the assistants soon and Meg felt she was ready in every way, except that she hadn’t yet found a big client or an impressive project. With each manuscript she read, she began with the hope that this was the one.

  “When are you going to look at my novel?” June asked, seeing Meg’s heavy bag.

  This was not the first time they’d had this conversation. “Have you finished your novel?”

  “If I had a contract I would finish it.”

  “And, if you finished it, it would be much easier to sell. Nobody buys a first novel unless it's finished.”

  June tossed her hair. “All anyone has to do is read my blog and they can see what my novel will be like.”

  “Please. Finish the novel.”

  “You are so anal.” Then she said, “Hey, I have a surprise for you.”

  “You do?”

  “Yes.” She opened her laptop and motioned Meg over to the small couch. “I made this for you. Because, as a friend, I have to tell you, you need to get out more!”

  It was an online dating profile. “Tell me that is not live,” Meg cried in horror. “I've told you a million times I'm not interested in online dating.”

  “Come on. You've never even tried it. There's loads of great guys out there. You can't spend every night shut away in your room reading manuscripts that your boss doesn't want to represent.”

  “But that's the only way I'll get a promotion. I'll never get to be an agent until I convince the senior agents that I have an eye for talent.”

  “You’re making excuses. You’re young. You should get out and start dating.”

  She glanced at the site. “Cupid's Arrow? Seriously?”

  “It's the best one in LA.” She hit a couple of keys and a list of men’s mug shots showed up. “Look. This guy would be perfect for you.”

  She stared at the picture of a really geeky-looking guy with heavy glasses and possibly the worst haircut in the greater LA area. “He says his hobbies are World of Warcraft and snooker. What on earth makes you think we would have anything in common?”

  “Look at his job. He says he's in publishing and media. Like you are.”

  “That's what you put on your profile because you run your own blog. I am guessing that's what geek boy here does too.”

  “Look, if you're going to be picky you'll spend your whole life alone.”

  An image flashed across her mind of Dylan, the amazing guy she’d met in the vintage store. For a second she was tempted to tell June about him, and the weird breakdown that had led her to try on a wedding dress. But, knowing June, she’d use the experience in a blog post. So, instead she said, “I am starting to get out more. I joined a film club and a meet-up group for writers.”

  June made a rude noise. “Why would you go to a writers’ group when you don't write? You're looking for the next Divergent or Gone Girl, you're not fooling me.”

  Damn. June had seen right through her. “You write. You should join the writers’ group.”

  “I should.”

  Since June was passionately interested in both her careers, it was easy to get her sidetracked. “In fact, we should go together.”

  “Maybe.” Then she turned back to the screen. “Anyway, here's your profile.”

  Meg stared at a picture of herself on the screen. “Where did you get that picture?”

  “It's one I snapped when we were at the beach last weekend.”

  “You were taking a profile picture? You should have told me.”

  June shook her head. “Then you’d have gone all self-conscious and posey. I like this one. It's very natural and it shows you having fun. Which you never do.”

  “First, I do have fun, and second, I am not going on a dating site.”

  “I'm trying to help you.”

  “You're trying to get an extra correspondent for your blog. I am not going to date guys so you can make fun of them.”

  “That's harsh. I don't make fun of them.”

  She grabbed her own laptop, and pulled up June’s blog. Oh, this was too easy. “’How to tell if you're dating a douche.’ That is the title of your latest entry.”

  “Well, it’s a public service. A woman should be able to tell if a guy’s a douche before they get serious.”

  She continued, “’Douchebaggery clue number one. He asks you if you like reading, and when you say yes, he shoves his latest screenplay, unfinished novel, or avant-garde poem in your face.’”

  June at least had th
e grace to know when she’d been busted. She tried to keep her expression serious but the grin showed through. “Honestly, that actually happened to a friend of mine.”

  “That friend was me. This guy found out I was an agent's assistant. That's why he wanted to go out with me.”

  “Ouch. I forgot that was you.”

  “Really, I'm not doing this.”

  “Well, don't blame me when you're a lonely old spinster who's gone blind from reading too many unpublished manuscripts and whose only company is a mangy old cat.”

  “Warning taken.”

  Meg took her tea and her heavy bag containing a few printed-out manuscripts, her laptop, and her e-reader into her bedroom and shut the door. She spent a lot of time in here when she was home. It wasn't that she didn't like her roommate, because she did, but June always seemed to be trying to get her to do something. Either to go on a double date, to run lines, or to take her on as an agency client. It was easier sometimes to simply shut herself away. In her room, she could work uninterrupted.

  A lot of agency submissions came electronically these days, so, often, instead of curling up with a book, she found herself curling up with her reading device. She had three manuscripts she wanted to take a serious look at tonight. She opened the first. Within two pages she knew there wasn't much hope. The writer could not spell, had no idea about character development and was pretty much putting her own spin on The Hunger Games. She read fifty pages because that was her cutoff point. If she’d read that far, she could feel justified in turning something down.

  Of course, in her wildest dreams, she wouldn't even know what page she was on. She’d be so engrossed in the story she could not stop reading. But, the truth was, those reads were few and far between.

  She was on page forty-eight and really thinking that for once she might break a rule when June called from the other room: “Your phone is ringing!”

  She glanced up. She hadn't even noticed that she’d left her purse, containing her phone, in the kitchen.

  “Coming.”

  She got off the bed and padded to the main room. June was holding her phone. “It was Dylan. Who do you know named Dylan?”

  In the same moment she felt a giggly excitement that Dylan had already phoned her. And irritation that June was holding her phone. She said, “My phone was in my purse.”

  “I know. I heard it ringing so I took it out for you.”

  “Why?”

  “Because if it was your boss I would answer it.”

  She really needed to make sure and bring her personal items into the bedroom with her at all times. “No. You will not answer my phone if my boss calls. If he calls looking for me and you start pitching your unfinished book, all you'll do is piss him off and then he'll never look at your manuscript.”

  June shrugged. “I probably wouldn't have anyway. So? Who's Dylan?”

  “A writer we might sign,” she lied. “With a finished manuscript.”

  “Is he cute?”

  The vision of all that shaggy gorgeousness flashed before her. She kept her gaze on her phone. “He's okay.”

  “Damn. If you ever get a really hot one, call me.”

  June had changed into high-heeled black boots, which she wore with a short black dress. She’d put her hair up. “Date night?”

  “Yep. He's an actor, too. You never know.”

  “Plus, it’s all good material for your blog. Or your novel.”

  “I am looking for the real thing, you know. Deep down. But, until Mr. Right shows up, blogging about the crazy things that happen to me keeps me sane.”

  “I know. Have fun.”

  She waited until she heard the front door click, then ran to the window to make absolutely sure that June had not forgotten anything and wouldn’t be returning to the apartment. Then she picked up her phone. She listened to the message but all it said was, “Hi, Meg. This is Dylan from Joe's Past and Present. We were talking about you modeling for us. Can you give me a call back?”

  Should she call right away? Or should she act cool and wait for tomorrow. Then she shook her head at her own foolishness. What was she doing? This wasn't a date. This wasn’t a guy she was interested in—well, yes she was, but he didn’t know that.

  Anyway, she'd never been able to figure out the ins and outs of when you were supposed to call, so she returned the call right away.

  He picked up with flattering speed: “Hi.” She liked his voice. It was deep and a little bit rough.

  Her lips curved. “Hi,” she said.

  “So, I talked to Joe and she checked out your photos. She agrees that you would be a great model for the dress. Are you still interested?”

  In truth, she was more excited about seeing Dylan again, but the thought of sliding into that magical dress did appeal. She said, “Yes. I am.”

  “Fantastic. I forgot to ask you when you're available?”

  “I work regular hours. Monday to Friday nine to five.” In truth, it was a lot closer to eight to six.

  “Great. Would you be available this Saturday? We close at five on Saturdays so if you came at six, that would give us time to set up.”

  Wow, they moved fast in the vintage store business. “I’ll check my calendar.”

  She looked at her calendar and it was as blank on Saturday night as she had remembered that it would be. She said, “Yes. That looks fine.”

  “Fantastic. Why don't we say six at the store and if I need to change the time I'll let you know.”

  “Fine.” He knew she had never modeled before but she felt she should ask, “Do I need to do anything or bring anything?”

  “No. Just come as you are. We’ll bring in a hairstylist and makeup artist.”

  “Wow. This is the big time.”

  “Not really. We’ll put the photos on our website and do some advertising online. Nothing too fancy.”

  She was relieved to hear it. Low key meant there was less to be nervous about. “That sounds fine.”

  “I'll see you on Saturday.”

  She felt as excited as though the hottest guy in the world had singled her out and asked her for a date. Even though, of course, that wasn't true. For all she knew, Dylan was married with six kids. No. He couldn't be. She had certainly taken note that he wore no wedding ring. And, something about him screamed single. She wanted to think it was the way his fingers had brushed her skin and the way her body had responded.

  Chapter 3

  Saturday morning, Meg took herself to a yoga class, hoping it would calm the butterflies—make that elephants—in her stomach. She didn't know whether she was more nervous about modeling and having her photograph taken or the thought of seeing Dylan again. Instead of feeling meditative and at one with her body, she spent most of the yoga class hoping she wouldn’t screw up her modeling assignment.

  After class, she was walking home and passed a nail salon. On impulse she went in and had her nails done. When she got home, she had a couple of manuscripts to go through and then she began getting ready for Joe’s.

  June came flying in just as she was getting ready to leave. She wore her best jeans and a shirt in her favorite blue. She had washed her hair but left it hanging loose since a stylist was coming. Even though Dylan had told her a makeup artist had also been hired, she put a little light makeup on anyway because she didn't want Dylan to see her at her plainest. June said, “Hey, you look nice. Where you going?”

  Damn. She had hoped she and June would miss each other today. She always tried not to lie, so she said, “Oh, just a work thing.”

  She could justify that this was a work thing since she was going to do a task for which she would be paid. Sort of.

  June looked at her sharply. “Is this like a cocktail party with agents and people who might like to buy my book?”

  “No. It's not. And where is this book you want people to buy?”

  “I'm working on it. I'm an artist. You can't rush these things.”

  “Well, when your muse spends long enough in your pres
ence that you can actually write this book, then you will give it to me, and I will go through it. We are not sending it to my boss or anyone else until it's ready to go.”

  June fiddled with her earring. “I think I have writer’s block.”

  She really had no time for this, but June was a good friend in her own way. “And what are the symptoms of this writer’s block?”

  “I keep getting stuck.”

  Even though she wasn’t the most experienced literary agent, she knew all about writers and their insecurities. She said, “Here’s what I think. If you sit and start writing, you’ll get unstuck. Try interviewing one of your characters or do a writing exercise in one of those how-to books on your shelf.”

  June was always so confident, but suddenly she looked uncertain. “What if it’s no good? I’ve been talking about writing for so long, it’s my dream. Well, one of my dreams. What if I can’t do it?”

  “That’s good old fear of failure. Not writer’s block. You have to write the book that’s in you. And then you edit it to make it better. Being a novelist isn’t all cocktail parties and book launches, you know. It’s hard work.”

  “I guess.”

  “So, where are you off to?”

  June forgot her artistic torment and perked up. “I have the hottest date tonight. His pictures look so drool-worthy that he’s bound to be a serial killer.” She got to her bedroom and turned, “Or married.”

  “So long as he's not both.”

  “Have fun tonight.”

  “You too.”

  She arrived at Joe's a couple of minutes early. Since she didn't want to appear too eager, she applied fresh lip-gloss and ran a brush through her hair one more time. Then, she took a deep breath, and pushed through the doors. The bell jingled, and she headed deeper inside. She was impressed at what they had done in an hour. The bridal wear had been cleared from the back alcove and in the space, an antique red velvet settee with gold-scrolled arms and back was settled in front of a huge white screen. Big lighting umbrellas and large and very professional-looking cameras were already set up.