by Hope Tarr
…
Zipping along Santa Monica Boulevard in her leased Ferrari, Francesca admitted that after months of fossilizing, it felt good to have a project, even if that project fell far short of art.
As detailed in the program dossier, Project Cinderella would be a hybrid of studio and location shoots. The fully constructed set would serve as the show’s base camp, with the final episode broadcast before a live studio audience. Each hourlong episode—forty-five minutes of actual footage plus commercials—would require a full week of filming. It would be a great deal of work for a great deal of money, funds that would hopefully help bring her and Sam closer.
Coming up on the signage for the studio, she cut a sharp right into the lot entrance. Slowing her speed, she drove up to the security booth, stopped, and rolled down her window.
“Hullo,” she said, craning her neck to meet the security guard’s gaze through the booth’s tinting. “I’m Francesca St. James here for Project Cinderella.”
He had her name on the list. A flash of her driver’s license secured her a day pass and the gate’s lifting. A slender blonde in a tank top and jeans waited on the opposite side of the island.
Crouching to the car window, the girl flashed a smile. “Hi, I’m Cindy. I’ve been assigned as your personal assistant while you’re here. Mr. Bernstein sent me to make sure everything goes smoothly for you today. We’re headed to Soundstage Eighteen. Mind if I get in?”
The VIP treatment indeed, Francesca mused. Moving the lot map off the seat to make room, she said, “Lovely to meet you, Cindy. Please, hop aboard.”
The blonde rounded the car and slipped into the front passenger’s seat. Closing the door, she said, “I heard you caught the red-eye out here, bummer. You look pretty rested, though.”
Continuing on, Francesca followed the signage to Stage Eighteen. “Thanks, I’m used to it,” she answered, unpleasantly reminded of her last West Coast trip, the foiled photo shoot with Gregory Knickerbocker.
The episode had cost her dearly. GQ had yet to ask her back, and once word had gotten out that she’d failed to get so much as a single shot, her freelance business had fallen off considerably. That the magazine hadn’t killed the article but had run it anyway—with his baby picture!—underscored the influence that status and money could command. Indeed, everything seemed to have sorted out swimmingly for the detestable Mr. Knickerbocker. His company, Cloud Flyer, had indeed gone public as planned. So far Francesca had stubbornly refused to open an account.
“How’s the hotel?”
“Lovely,” Francesca said sincerely.
So far it seemed Jerry meant to make good on his word to treat her like a goddess. He’d had her booked her into the Beverly Hilton. The posh penthouse suite featured a sumptuously canopied California king, ample living, dining, and work spaces, and a furnished balcony overlooking Santa Monica Boulevard. The black marble master bath was outfitted with a sunken Jacuzzi tub and separate European styled shower. Fortunately the iconic hotel was only a ten-minute drive to the studio. Arriving directly from the airport, she’d had just enough time to offload her luggage and take a quick shower before leaving for the studio.
Cindy bobbed a nod. “Glad to hear it. We have a packed day ahead starting with a tour of the set. Then there’s lunch with the contestants and the big press conference. Anyway, we’re here.”
Francesca drew up to the building. A big windowless box, it might have been an airport hangar except for its dome-shaped roof. At Cindy’s direction, she pulled into one of several reserved spaces.
“Before I forget, here’s your badge,” Cindy said, handing her the nametag on a chain.
“Thanks.” Putting it on, Francesca followed her inside.
Several steps across the Masonite-covered floor brought them into a beehive of busyness. Camera and lighting equipment hung from the trussed ceiling. Myriad people milled about, barking orders, delivering props, and running messages, all outfitted with earbuds and hands-free mics. Dodging a miscellany of dollies, cranes, and carts, sandbagged lighting rig lifts, and scaffold towers, she followed Cindy to the front. Curved pink-carpeted steps led up to an elevated stage. Swathed in shimmering pink silks and backlit by a neon 3-D Project Cinderella backdrop, it ran nearly the room’s width. Stopping at the foot of the stairs, Cindy gestured to a bank of identical high-backed chairs, their clear plastic frames molded to resemble glass slippers. “This is where you and the other fairy god-mentors will sit during the studio segments.”
Francesca answered with a smile. It was all rather kitschy, but then perhaps pink shimmer and slipper-shaped seats were what the public fancied?
She counted six chairs in all, and yet there were only five coaches including her. Was the sixth chair meant for the program emcee, perhaps? She turned to ask Cindy, but the assistant was already haring ahead toward a side stage door. Rather than risk being caught up in the milling masses, Francesca set aside her curiosity and followed.
Cutting quickly through a hallway, they entered a break room. Catering staff scurried about, setting out trays of hot and cold foods, filling ice bins, and distributing plates, cutlery, and serving tongs among the various serving stations.
Jerry hurried forward to greet her, entourage in tow. “Fran, sweetheart, so glad it all worked out. Good flight?” he asked, hugging her heartily.
Enfolded in hairy arms, Francesca could do little more than nod.
Releasing her, he gestured to the team who’d followed him over. “This is our fashion fairy godmother, Francesca St. James,” he said, his gaze making the rounds. “Fran, these crazy creative kids are our story producers: Stan, Levi, Doug, Janice, Tracey, and Sean.”
“I hadn’t thought there’d be so many of you,” Francesca said, shaking each hand in turn.
Jerry nodded. “Each contestant has a dedicated story producer and production team to track his or her experience throughout the show.”
Sean spoke up, “In the case of Contestant XY6, that’s me. Then there’s my associate producer, two to three camera operators, a couple of sound people, production assistants, the lighting crew, and of course the grips—someone’s got to move all the crap from point A to point B.”
“That’s a lot to coordinate,” Francesca remarked. Even on larger fashion shoots, she rarely worked with a crew of more than a few people. And thanks to a certain Media-Shy Mogul, her time, as well as that of two others, had been frittered away.
A tall blond-haired man walked up to join them. “Hullo.” Impeccably styled and wearing all black, he didn’t seem to be from LA.
Jerry nodded to the newcomer. “Folks, meet our celebrity stylist, Franc Whiting.” Glancing back to Francesca, he added, “So far you two are the first of our coaches to arrive.”
As soon as the name was out, Francesca knew why she’d felt such an immediate affinity. Mr. Whiting was both a fellow British expat and a New Yorker. Smiling, she offered him her hand. “Francesca St. James.”
The owner of Frankly Franc, a trendsetting TriBeCa salon known for its A-list celebrity clientele, Franc Whiting was Manhattan’s latest stylist guru. Reportedly Gwyneth Paltrow, Jennifer Aniston, and Eva Longoria all entrusted their locks to his shears.
“Please, call me Franc.” Flashing a flawless smile, he took her hand in a fleeting but firm shake.
“We have two Brits on the show!” Jerry interjected as though it was breaking news. Pushing his way in the middle, he laid a hand on both their backs. “That’ll class things up for sure.”
“Quite,” Francesca said, as she and Franc exchanging amused glances.
“Fashion and styling go together like peas and carrots,” Jerry carried on. “Since you two will be working the closest of all the coaches, I’ll leave you two kids alone to break bread and get better acquainted. See you at the press conference.” He turned and headed over to the buffet line already forming. Like well-trained pets, the producers followed.
They waited until Jerry and the others were out of earshot, and then bu
rst out laughing.
“Are you the peas or the carrots, do you think?” Francesca quipped.
“I rather see myself as the carrots,” he replied, “and not only because of the obvious phallic imagery.”
Sides splitting, it struck her. “You’re Macie’s stylist chum, aren’t you? It must have been you who managed her makeover to Martha Jane.” That Macie was not “Martha Jane Gray,” the presumably traditional young woman her conservative ex had hired as his live-in housekeeper to look after Sam, but was instead a reporter for On Top on an undercover muckraking mission, had been a head-spinning discovery
He acquiesced with a nod. “Guilty as charged. I trust you’re not too terribly put off. It was all in the service of helping a friend.”
It would be a waste of time to debate the morality of the farce he’d helped carry off, especially as it had ended so very well for Ross, whom she considered as one of her closest friends. She shrugged. “All’s well that ends well, I suppose. Certainly it was a brilliant transformation. I can’t wait to see what you have in store for our Cinderella contestants.”
Her stomach’s rumbling reminded her that she’d only picked at her airline breakfast. She glanced over at the buffet tables. “I’m famished,” she admitted, eyeing the sushi bar. “Shall we?”
“Best not to face the media feeding frenzy on an empty stomach,” he agreed, offering her a mock bow and his arm. “Fairy god-mentoring promises to be thirsty work as well. Do you suppose there’s a bar?”
Chapter Three
Standing before a glass-covered case of studio Oscar statuettes, Greg hadn’t felt this bedazzled since his sixth-grade field trip to the Tech Museum in downtown San Jose. Powering through the interactive exhibits, he’d felt as though a new world were opening up for him—and he’d been right.
The two-hour tour having ended, next up was lunch. Following the group inside a side room marked as HOLDING, he saw several white-clothed buffet tables set with serving platters and dishes. Greg’s stomach growled. His fast-track metabolism required frequent feedings, and the health-conscious breakfast of fruit, granola, and yogurt they’d been served had worn off a while ago. He walked over to the nearest food station, a pasta bar, and got in line, piling his paper plate with servings from each hot and cold dish.
Brittany joined him at the end, her plate covered with salad drowning in ranch dressing and liberally dusted with bacon bits and croutons.
“Is that all you’re having?” he asked, swallowing a mouthful of lasagna.
“I’m a closet eater,” she confessed, slipping her fork into the slush.
Contestant XY4, Hadley Jones, ambled up to them. A sleeveless wifebeater sweatshirt and baggy low-rise jeans showed off his rangy build as well as the better part of his boxers. “Nice spread,” he said, dunking a wedge of bread in marinara sauce. “But I was really hoping we’d get to try some California Dungeness crab, see how it stacks up against good ole Maryland blue.”
“Steamed crab is more of a dietary staple of San Francisco,” Greg interjected. “Excuse me, I’m going to grab a soda,” he added, eager to put some distance between himself and the group.
Ordinarily he took his meals at his computer while he coded, too caught up to care what he ate—or how lonely he was. A little loneliness, or at least alone time, would be really welcome about now. Beyond that, he wanted to make sure he met as many coaches and production people as possible before the press conference.
Brittany followed him with a frazzled look. “You won’t be late, will you, Greg? Amber told us to meet ten minutes before so she can line us up in the correct order.”
So not soul mate material! “Thanks for the reminder, Brittany, but I’ll be back in plenty of time,” he assured her, backing out of range.
Beverage service was set up on the far side of the room. He made his way toward it, forking his food as he canvassed the room for the coaches. Having viewed their online publicity photos, he should be able to easily pick them out. He took another step…and smashed into something—someone—soft and silken.
The brunette leapt back but not in time. His paper plate upturned, plastering to her front.
“Mind where you’re walking!”
Greg ground to a halt. Holy fucking cow. That British accent…those livid green eyes…those luscious red-painted lips pulled into a frown! Standing before him dripping with his lunch was Francesca St. James, the ballsy bossy-pants photographer he’d butted heads with a little more than a year ago, the one whom he thought of as Medusa based on the freezing stare she’d sent him when he’d thrown her out. What the hell was she doing here?
He scraped a hand through his hair. “Jesus, are you stalking me or what?”
“Stalking you!” Her slanted cat’s eyes looked as though they could freeze water and cut glass. “You’re the very last person I’d ever want to lay eyes on again.” She peeled the plate from her chest—her very nicely shaped chest, or so Greg suddenly noticed.
A strand of fettuccine held fast to her left breast. Pinned just above it was a name badge, the black lettering visible despite the splatter. “Francesca St. James, Project Cinderella. Coach.”
Coach?
Her gaze slid over him as well. Snagging on his badge, her green eyes popped. “You’re a…contestant!”
She wasn’t faking it. She really hadn’t known he would be there. “Contestant XY6,” he confirmed, thinking it promised to be a long eight weeks.
Her lip curled. “What became of your legendary camera-shyness?”
She was as frustrating as he remembered, he thought, folding his arms. “I decided to cure myself by coming on the show, sort of like going parachuting to get over being afraid of heights.”
Holding the plate away, she said, “Now that you’ve bloody ruined my outfit, might you at least help me, fetch some club soda or…something?”
Gaze skimming the splattered silk, he wasn’t sure where it was okay to touch.
“Okay, chill out, I’m on it.” He felt in his pocket for the paper napkins he’d stashed there earlier and pulled out the crumpled but clean wad.
A slender man with spiked blond hair and a black silk shirt tucked into his skinny jeans hurried up to them. “Bollocks!” he said, sparing Greg a brief glance before focusing on Medusa.
Greg recognized him from his publicity photo on the show’s website. The British-born Manhattan stylist, Franc Whiting. So much for first impressions…
Whiting looked between them, shaking his head. “I don’t think this is what the producers meant by mingling.”
Francesca stabbed a manicured fingernail in the vicinity of Greg’s chest. “I was on my way to the sushi station when he barreled into me.”
Of course she would pin the blame on him. Pissed off, Greg answered, “Actually, you bumped into me, but I’m willing to split the difference and say we walked into each other.”
“Then why am I the one of us wearing a pasta bar?” she shot back.
Greg didn’t have a reply for that, not one that wasn’t at least R-rated. The fact was, she looked totally hot wearing his lunch. She probably looked great in pretty much anything she put on. A bedsheet came to mind. So did shower gel.
“Children, please,” Franc intervened, a smile pulling at his mouth. He reached out and gingerly withdrew the sagging paper plate from Medusa’s white-knuckled clutch. “Hold steady, and I’ll see about getting some club soda and more napkins—lots.”
“Brilliant, thanks,” she answered, sending her fellow coach a relieved look.
“Yeah, thanks,” Greg echoed. Watching Franc walk away to find a trash can, he turned back to Francesca. “We can start with these.” He held out the balled-up napkins.
She stepped to the side as though he were offering her a snake. “I’ll go find the loo or…something.”
He turned with her, his body mirroring hers, and a really weird rush ran through him. Though they’d met before, back then he’d been too focused on fending off the camera she’d tried shoving i
n his face to give her much notice. Now that she had his full attention, he saw that her skin was satiny, her cheekbones high, her face an almost perfect oval. Her wavy dark brown hair was pinned up in what he was pretty sure was called a chignon, not in the messy ponytail he remembered. Wearing heels, she was almost as tall as him, and the facing stance brought them eye to eye. Hers, upswept at the corners, weren’t just any random green, they were emerald, the same as the stone in the engagement ring he’d inherited from his mother. Greg drew in a deep breath, feeling as though he was being sucked into a sinkhole of brilliant, bottomless green.
“Either step aside or help me, but do something beyond gawking like some sort of demented gargoyle!”
The admonishment worked like a slap, bringing Greg back to the reality of what she was—a ball-busting bitch. “Fine, but first we need to wipe off your shoes so you don’t trail vodka sauce everywhere.”
“We?”
“Okay, me.” Talk about a princess complex. He wouldn’t be surprised if she didn’t expect him to lick them, too.
Not giving her a second chance to refuse, he dropped down on one knee, careful to avoid the spots of spillage.
“Not kneeling!” She darted her gaze about the room. Following her, Greg saw they’d definitely attracted attention. Turning back to him, she dropped her voice. “Get up this minute before you make a spectacle of us both.”
“I’d say it’s too late to worry about that.” Maybe it was the mojo of her British accent getting inside his head or the fact that his face was a hairbreadth from the space between her thighs, but whatever the reason, hot thoughts rushed him. “Sorry about the spectacle, but unless marinara is the new black, wiping you down definitely needs to happen.”
The look she gave him was Gorgon-worthy. “If you’re thinking of performing a comedic sketch for the talent portion of this program, I offer you this advice—don’t.”
Greg hadn’t felt this jazzed since they’d butted heads a year ago in his office. “Cheer up. If it doesn’t clean off, I’ll buy you a new pair. We passed a Kmart on the drive over,” he added, knowing that every stitch covering her must be couture. Tomato sauce probably never made it on her menu, only now she was wearing it—and vodka and Bolognese sauces too.