You graciously signed autographs for fans in the audience during the commercial break and left to a roar of applause. Not bad for a day’s work. And the best part was you didn’t run into Jackson on your way out. That silly smirk would have driven you right over the edge.
Bodhi is waiting at the rear entrance with the driver’s side window rolled down and reggae music blaring. His shaggy head bops to the beat, the sun reflecting off of his mirrored sunglasses. He jumps as you knock on his door and he immediately lowers the radio’s volume and leaps out to open your door with a chivalrous flair. “Your chariot, my lady,” he says with a goofy grin, as you fall into the backseat.
“What’s the story?” asks Bodhi as he rolls up his window. “I thought you’d be relieved to have that behind you. You look even more stressed than when I dropped you off.”
“You don’t even want to know,” you say.
“Spill it,” instructs Bodhi.
So you do.
You finish your story. Bodhi is silent, which is highly unusual for him, then finally asks, “Are you sure you want to be this upset about it? Kinda sounds like this guy has the hots for you.”
“That or he’s a total jerk,” you retort.
“No, seriously. It’s the kid on the playground syndrome. He shows you he likes you by socking you in the gut? Same thing.”
“Extremely mature,” you respond wryly.
“He’s a guy,” says Bodhi. “What can I tell you?”
You can’t help but think what a great perspective Bodhi has. He’s never defensive at all, even of his own gender. He’s just such a breath of fresh air, especially amidst the materialism of Hollywood.
“So, any more thoughts on tonight?”
Bodhi’s question catches you by surprise. For a moment, you’re not sure what he’s talking about. You’re silent for a minute too long.
“Tell me you forgot,” he says. “You know—meditation, moonlight, waves crashing on the sand . . .”
“Oh, yeah,” you say. “No, I didn’t forget. I was just waiting to see what the rest of the day brings.”
“The toughest part of the day is over, right?” says Bodhi. “And I think a solid peace session could do you some good.”
“Actually, the toughest part of the day will probably be the chicken tonight,” you joke, remembering the VIPP dinner and the standard menu for the typical charity event.
“So, who’s the lucky guy?” Bodhi asks.
This, too, catches you off-guard. Lucky guy? What is he talking about?
“Let me rephrase,” Bodhi offers, sensing your confusion. “Who’s your date for the event?”
“Oh,” you tell him, “nobody. This isn’t one of those. Just come as you are.”
“You sure?” Bodhi asks, pulling the invitation card from the passenger-side visor, “I’m pretty sure you paid for two seats.”
“Let me see that,” you tell him, grabbing the invitation. “Oh my God,” you breathe. Your eyes open wide as you take in the line below the loopy script announcing the Victims of Improper Plastic Surgery Procedures Fundraising Gala. “You and a guest are cordially invited . . .” it reads.
“That’ll look great. I can see the tabloids now: ANNA CHAMBLISS HEARTBROKEN AND ALONE, DATELESS ANNA’S NIGHT ON THE TOWN, WHERE IS ANNA’S MAN? This is a nightmare. I’m toast!”
“It won’t be as bad as all that.” Bodhi offers, “Even if it goes viral nobody’s going to expect you to bring a plus-one this soon after.”
“Yeah, right,” you respond. “I’m going to be the object of public sympathy. Just great. Could this day get any worse?”
Your mind filters quickly through the men you might be able to invite. At such short notice, the pickings are slim, maybe nonexistent. You don’t even have family on this coast. But just having someone, anyone, by your side will help you look more in control of the situation.
You pick up your cell phone to call Buffy for an idea, when Bodhi interrupts. “I could always be your escort,” he offers, then laughs. “I mean, if you really can’t find anyone else.”
Your immediate reaction is to laugh along with him as you envision Bodhi on your arm, his khaki shorts and flowered shirt next to your formal gown. Then you realize your mistake as Bodhi’s face falls in disappointment. You let the fantasy play out in your mind—actually, he might be quite breathtaking in a tux . . .
At that moment, you remember the card in your purse, handed to you by Colm. You picture those tabloid photos—not too shabby. And listening to that musical Scottish lilt all night would be lovely . . . then again, you really could take Bodhi—what would it hurt? You think for a moment, then say, “Why not?”
To call the number on the business card and ask Colm to escort you, turn to page 63.
To ask Bodhi to escort you to the VIPP dinner, keep reading.
“What?” asks Bodhi. “Come again?”
“I said, ‘why not?’” you reply.
“You mean you’d actually take me?”
“Is that so hard to believe?” Bodhi really can be adorable sometimes.
“Well, I better get going. What time is the dinner again? What am I supposed to wear? And I have to shower and shave!”
“Okay, Bodhi, calm down a second. You sure you want to come?” You have to laugh. This is the first time you’ve ever witnessed Bodhi anxious about anything.
“Oh yeah,” he says, blowing out a huge breath. “I’m there. Sorry, guess I need to chill a little.”
“We’ve got plenty of time.” You laugh. “Believe me, if I have time to get ready, you have time to get ready.” Your evening routine begins to run through your mind: lay out your gown, remove your layers of television makeup, shower . . . then the arduous reapplication of evening makeup and hair. Thank goodness for Buffy, you think for the tenth time today.
“What are you wearing?” asks Bodhi.
“A recycled Versace,” you reply.
“Recycled? I had no idea the fashion world was environmentally aware.”
“Not recycled like that.” You giggle. “I mean a dress I’ve worn before—to the Chi Awards.”
“Oh, that dress?” says Bodhi. “Very sexy.”
“You actually remember it?” you ask him. You probably saw each other for a total of fifteen minutes that night. You can’t believe Bodhi could possibly remember the black strapless dress.
“How could I forget it?” He looks back at you and says with utmost surfer sincerity, “You looked amazing that night, Anna.”
“Wow yourself, Bodhi,” you tell him. “That might be the biggest compliment you’ve ever given me.”
“Aw, come on now.” He smiles, “I know I kid you a lot, but you know how I really feel.”
Do I? you wonder, as Bodhi pulls up to your hotel.
Buffy greets you in the marble foyer of your suite. You feel yourself begin to relax.
“I ran a bath for you,” says Buffy. “I figured you’d need it.”
You throw your arms around her and squeeze her tightly. “You are the best!” you exclaim. “I’ll try not to take too long,” you promise, heading for your room.
“Take your time,” says Buffy. “I’ll heat up the rollers.”
You enter the bedroom and begin to undress, imagining the warmth of the water soothing your tired body. You perch on the little quilted bench and gratefully unstrap your intensely uncomfortable shoes. Rising, you toss your sweater onto the bed and reach behind you to unzip your dress.
You walk to the bathroom and gingerly climb the Italian-tiled step to the round sunken tub and lower yourself into the warm water. At the last minute, you grab the magazine sitting on the tile tub edge. It’s a copy of Celebrity, a popular glossy, and just the sort of mindless diversion you need. You always find it entertaining to read up on the exploits, some completely fabricated and some the awful truth, of your costars. You also like to check in on the sometimes flattering but more often cringe-worthy items about yourself. You’re even more pleased to find that this “Spe
cial Double Issue” is the annual “Men of Our Dreams” installment. And gracing the cover is none other than Grant Shipley, your AWOL former costar.
You flip through the pages and skim through blurbs about the usual suspects, actors and high-profile businessmen, sports stars, and the occasional real-life mortal thrown in for good measure. A familiar photo catches your eye and you pry open the pages, stuck together by the water from your fingers.
As you peel the pages apart, you’re greeted by the cheesy and now all too familiar smirk of none other than Jackson Michaels. His PR guy must really be working overtime. Does this guy have to be everywhere? You catch a few phrases like, “The up-and-coming Hollywood heavy-hitter,” and “The guy every girl wants to date, and every man wants to be,” and suddenly remember you haven’t told Buffy the good news.
“Hey, Buff!” you shout over the roar of the Jacuzzi tub jets. “Can you come here a second?”
You look down to be sure bubbles are sufficiently covering your assets as Buffy pops into the room.
“What’s up?” she asks.
“I almost forgot to tell you. Guess what bombshell got dropped into my lap today?”
“Hmmm . . . let me think . . . they’ve cut that nude love scene with Grant Shipley you’ve been looking forward to from the Tropical Tango script. I bet you’re crushed.”
“Hilarious,” you reply. “Actually, you’re not going to believe this. They’ve cut Grant Shipley altogether. And guess who my new costar is.”
“Who?” asks Buffy, hopeful anxiety evident in her big, bright eyes.
“Your boyfriend,” you tell her.
“Huh?” she’s clearly not getting it.
“You know, the Magical Mr. Michaels? One of this year’s Men of Our Dreams?” You flip the magazine around to show her the photo.
“You’re kidding me,” says Buffy in disbelief. “Are you kidding me? ’Cause if you’re kidding me, this is not at all funny.”
“I’m totally serious,” you assure her. “You’ll get to see him every day for the next three months in sunny St. Thomas. Are you excited?” You decide to keep your own impression of him and the details of your not-so-pleasant green room conversation to yourself to give Buffy time to enjoy the news.
“Am I excited?! Okay, breathe!” she tells herself. “This is like my dream come true. I’ll get to gaze adoringly at him in person for the next three months! Of course, I’ll be gazing adoringly at him gazing adoringly at you, but whatever. I’ll take what I can get.”
You smile at your friend. “You never know, maybe sparks will fly on the backlot.”
“Yeah right. After I made a total idiot of myself today he’ll never even look in my direction except to laugh. But still, I’ll enjoy the view.”
Buffy is long on generosity of spirit and general joie de vivre, but she’s extremely short on self-esteem. You know enough about her life before you came into it to realize that she comes by her self-doubt honestly. Her history sounds more like a soap opera than real life. Before she met you, she’d had a string of bad relationships, the last of which was with a handsome fiancé (you’ve seen the photos) who’d ended up cheating on her with a bridesmaid-to-be two weeks before the wedding.
She’d tried her hand at acting and had been sorely disappointed by her lack of success. To hear her tell it, Hollywood casting directors were nothing but perverse, mean-spirited, grumpy old men and women. She’d been given enough critique of her personal appearance from her too-curly hair to her too-short stature to her too-cute face to make her seriously consider going under the knife. After one particularly bad audition where the casting director told her wryly, “We’re sorry. The role of Shirley Temple has been filled,” Buffy decided to call it quits.
“Oh, Buff,” you tell her with a smile, “you know I think you’re great. I wish you’d think so too.”
Buffy gives a weak smile, “Well, thanks. Now, you’d better get out of there before you get all pruney. We have work to do.” She walks out of the room to prepare your ensemble.
You towel off and take a minute to examine yourself in the full-length mirror on the back of the bathroom door. Your long hair is still wet from the bath, the color a deep and elegant gold. Your neck is slender and long, your body smooth and sleek, tapering to a small waist and a perfectly taut tummy. Your hips gently curve toward your long, slim thighs and toned calves. You turn slightly and look over your shoulder. Your rounded rear is firm and high, not a trace of cellulite or a stretch mark on the flawless landscape of your limbs. You thank goodness in silence for the luck of the genetic draw and all it has brought you so far. Especially since it wasn’t always this way.
Your mind flashes back to the days of your youth spent at St. Cecelia’s, the all-girls Catholic academy you attended in elementary school back east. With nothing but girls around and the same uniform day in and day out, you never paid much attention to clothes or makeup, but you were constantly self-conscious about your gangly limbs and knobby knees. Up and out the door in fifteen minutes or less on weekday mornings, your face freshly scrubbed and your strawberry-blond hair pulled back into a ponytail and tied with a silk ribbon, you hurried to escape the insults of your two younger brothers, ruthless in the way only siblings can be, who took every opportunity to call you “beanpole” and “carrot stick.” Then, in fifth grade, your curves began to show.
Your mother, an aspiring model who scored exactly one magazine cover during her very brief career before meeting your father and beginning the second phase of her life as a socialite, encouraged you to follow in her footsteps. She yanked you out of St. Cecelia’s and began to homeschool you, hiring tutor after tutor to work with you on the parts of the curriculum for which she didn’t have the time or patience. She enrolled you in ballet class to help your “deportment” and a finishing class to work on your posture, manners, and vocabulary. She was never late with a correction of slumped shoulders or a poorly worded phrase. Her personal favorite was always, “If you don’t have something nice to say, don’t say anything at all.” And so as you grew older, you became deeply aware of the impression you made on those around you. Crossing your legs at the ankles and using the correct fork for the salad became second nature to you.
With your mom’s encouragement and connections, your first ballet performance led to a modeling job, a small shoot for a local children’s store catalog. Your first modeling job led to an agent, which led to a succession of agents who sent you on audition after audition until you began to land larger and larger roles.
Your father, a senior partner at a major law firm, was always too busy with work and too preoccupied with other women to notice or to object to your gradual rise to fame. And when he finally did notice, it was a done deal. Your mother, who always aspired to more than a mediocre modeling stint and role as dutiful wife/charity event chair/entertainer of your father’s law partners, basked in the warm glow of your success and gladly moved to Los Angeles with you when you were seventeen. She was your chief supporter and your inspiration, and you tried to let her enjoy through you what she never could have on her own.
Your first major success in the film Seven Days in the Desert and, later, your fortunate pairing with Hampton Rhodes brought scripts to your door for review, and you’ve had plenty to choose from since. You remember your first magazine feature headline: OVERNIGHT SUCCESS! Little did they know you’d been hard at work for years.
Buffy’s cry of, “Rollers are ready!” gets you moving again. Wrapped in a lush terry robe, you saunter out of the marble bathroom to sit on the silk-covered bench of your dressing table and face the mirror once again.
“How do you want your hair?” asks Buffy over the hum of the blow-dryer, brushing with large, long strokes.
You smile a little at your reflection in the mirror. “Remember how I wore it for the Chi awards? Hair and makeup—exactly like that.”
“You got it,” says Buffy, and gets to work.
When Buffy’s work is complete, you stand to admire the fi
nished product. Your hair is up in a gentle twist with golden curled tendrils falling perfectly to frame your face and highlight your eyes and cheekbones. Your makeup is soft but dramatic enough for evening, your eyelashes long and black. The beautifully structured bodice of your dress creates a sumptuous décolletage below your collarbone, while the skirt falls to the floor in a silken black sheath. You step into your heels, just hidden by the length of the gown. You shine like a light in the dim room, and smile at your reflection. “Thanks, Buffy.” You give her a warm hug. “It’s great.”
“Have fun,” Buffy tells you, beginning the work of putting away her makeup and hair supplies. “By the way, who’s your escort?”
You laugh as you remember. “Well, it’s kind of a long story. I was blissfully unaware I was supposed to be accompanied at all. So I asked Bodhi.”
“And he said yes?” asks Buffy as she loads the last of the rollers into her silver mesh bag.
“Yes, he said yes,” you smirk.
“It’s just I didn’t think this was exactly his thing,” she tells you as she steps into her leather clogs.
“He actually seemed pretty excited.”
“Hmmmm,” is all Buffy offers.
“Hmmmm what?” you ask her.
“Nothing. Nothing at all. Have fun.” With that, Buffy slides out the door.
You wonder what that was all about, but not for long. The hotel phone on the bedside table rings loudly. You pick up the handset and hear the voice of the concierge tell you your car is waiting.
Heads turn as you cross the marble foyer, but you move quickly enough that no one has time to approach for an autograph. Through the double glass doors you see the long black car waiting. An incredulous grin spreads across your face as Bodhi emerges from the driver’s side. He looks almost shockingly different in a black Armani tux with an enormous bouquet of red roses in his hand. His usually unruly hair is slicked back from his face and shines almost white in the moonlight, a striking contrast to the darkness of the suit. His brown eyes glow, his face is scrubbed and shaven, and his perfect, surfer-white teeth blaze in a dazzling smile. He looks suddenly much bigger, much taller. His tie and cummerbund are classic Bodhi, though, red silk decorated with palm fronds and birds of paradise. You feel an unexpected heat rise to your face and small tightening in your lower belly. Suddenly the night ahead seems much more bearable.
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