by Hope Tarr
“Yeah, and what would that be?”
“Francesca.”
Greg snorted. “Because she only dates rock stars?”
“I didn’t do it for her benefit, but for yours. You needed a confidence boost, and once I saw how good you were on stage, I suspected any video footage might attract an online following. I didn’t foresee the overwhelming response.”
Turning away, Greg tossed the soiled towel in the sink—a perfect shot. Thinking of the day Francesca had found him playing basketball in the studio lot, he shook his head. “It doesn’t matter now. She’s not who I thought she was.”
“Greg, the way I see it, all your life you’ve wished for someone who would come along and love you, warts and all, someone to kiss your outer frog and release the princely guy trapped inside. For that to happen, for you to get your fairy tale, maybe you’d better be willing to dish out some of that unconditional love and acceptance yourself.”
“What the hell are you talking about—and why do you suddenly have a New York accent?”
“Don’t worry about it; just listen up. Francesca is a knockout, and I get how that can be uncomfortable for you at times, given your history with women. But beneath that perfect-ten exterior, she’s the real deal, and she loves you warts and all. She saw something in you and she used her time and talent to bring it out so the rest of us could see it, too. Maybe she started helping you for the wrong reasons, but she did help you and well…look at you now. You, my man, are certifiably h-o-t. And bonus: you two fell in love. Francesca made a mistake and she’s sorry. You’ll be making a bigger mistake if you let her go.”
“Look, Franc, I appreciate everything you’ve done for me these last two months, I do. Getting Francesca to that coffee bar so she could see me with Brittany and Kimberly was asking a lot of you, and yet you came through for me. You’ve been a good friend. But from here on, you need to back off.”
Franc stood staring at him for a long moment. “As you wish,” he finally said, reverting to his British accent. “Just…think it over.” He left the kitchen and retraced his path to the door.
Greg didn’t go after him. Instead he tossed the eggshells into the disposal and turned it on. Maybe Franc had a point. Did he expect Francesca to be perfect? Was he so afraid of getting hurt that he’d seized on Francesca’s bet, and what she might have done to win it, as an excuse to push her away? Was he, in his geeky way, as rigid a perfectionist as he’d accused her of being?
Then again, he guessed it didn’t really matter. After the final ensemble press conference tomorrow, the cast would disperse and go their separate ways. For the next eight weeks, Project Cinderella would be in the hands of the film editors. When they reconvened in mid-August for the live in-studio portion of the finale, the previous episodes of taped footage would have aired. In another few days, Francesca would fly back to New York and Greg to San Jose. He would go back to working crazy hours and then zoning out in his media room with its lava lamps and karaoke set, vintage pinball machines, and state-of-the-art tech toys. From here on, he wouldn’t have to worry about setting his alarm for the butt-crack of dawn in order to meet his “coach” for their workouts. He wouldn’t have to think about what he wore, not unless he wanted to. He could forget the fairy tale and go back to normal…
Only “normal” wasn’t something he was interested in anymore.
Chapter Twelve
AUGUST
Stepping inside the soundstage after so many weeks was a surreal and bittersweet experience for Francesca. As fortune would have it, one of the first cast members she met up with was Greg. Walking into wardrobe, they all but bumped into each other.
“Hullo,” she said, resisting the urge to throw herself at him like a ruddy lunatic. She may have lost—all right, jettisoned—her one chance at happily ever after, but she still had her pride, a few shreds at any rate.
Eight weeks had passed without so much as an e-mail, text message, or Facebook “like.” She’d called him once when she’d first gotten back to New York, apologizing yet again, but he’d never returned the call.
He slid a hand through his hair, which looked to be freshly cut but not too cut, crisply trimmed, and artfully tousled. “You look good, Francesca,” he said, his deep blue gaze going over her briefly. With eyes like that, framed by a fringe of thick black lashes, how could she have ever begun to think him ordinary?
“Thanks, so do you.”
More than good, he was a feast for hungry eyes, and the voracious female and occasional young male glances shooting their way showed she was far from the only one to think so. The Greg who stood before her was ripped, his stomach muscled and washboard-flat, his bulging biceps sculpted as if from marble.
He wore one of his Old Spice T-shirts, the red one today, but the track pants and bowling shoes seemed to have gone the way of his former fondness for her. In their place were Diesel Color Exposure jeans and suede boat shoes.
“How’s your summer going?” he asked, as though they were casual acquaintances and not friends and lovers in the recent past.
“Good, really good,” she answered quickly. Her tongue felt thick in her mouth, her knees about to buckle. She had the equivalent of stage fright—and humming “God Save the Queen” wasn’t going to help. “Samantha…my daughter has been staying with me. She decided to spend the summer together after all.”
“That’s great, I’m really happy for you both,” he said, his voice holding the old sincerity.
“Thanks, I’m happy for us, too,” Francesca admitted.
In the midst of coping with her hurting heart, she’d finally managed to bridge the breach with Sam. Greg had been right. It wasn’t spending time with her to which Sam objected, but to all their traveling. It was being dragged through airports that she wasn’t keen on.
Rather than sweeping them off on a splashy holiday as she’d thought to do, Francesca had arranged a low-key staycation instead. Taking the train out to the beach at Coney Island; wandering through the natural history museum, the Morgan Library and Museum, and MoMA; and hauling picnics and blankets to Central and Bryant Parks for the free movie nights had been great fun, of course, but the outings had served as so very much more. They’d given her the chance to get to know Sam again, not as the thumb-sucking toddler of her sentimental mother’s memory or the recent rebellious teenager, but as the amazing young woman she’d become. And there was another person she’d taken the long overdue opportunity to become reacquainted with: herself.
For one thing, she’d found she didn’t actually despise old films. She quite liked them. There’d been one starring Maddie Mulligan she’d especially fancied, a romantic drama set during the Second World War to do with a love triangle among the actress, a Royal Air Force pilot, and an American G.I. Both men were madly in love with her, of course, but only one could survive to embark upon happily ever after. Sitting on the blanket-covered ground munching on popcorn and spreading pâté on crackers whilst staring raptly at the jumbo cinema screen, Francesca had puzzled over what her problem had been. Perhaps her dislike hadn’t to do with the films themselves but with her inability to press pause on her frenetic pace long enough to settle down to watch. Instead, she’d spent the past decade racing from film shoot to shoot and relationship to relationship—and now it was time to stop. She’d blown her chance with Greg but, in doing so, she’d learned a valuable lesson.
Until she learned to be happy by herself, she’d never be happy with anyone else.
Amber walked up to them. Sparing Francesca a nod, she turned to Greg. “They need you in wardrobe and makeup ASAP.”
He nodded. “Cool, give me a sec and I’ll be right over.”
She hesitated. “Okay, but we’re really running behind and—”
“Got it, thanks.” The pushy production assistant backed off like a cat spritzed with water.
He was the clear star and Francesca scarcely more than a prop. At this point, she’d find herself fortunate to have her parking sticker validated, not th
at she cared about any of that. She cared about Greg. This was episode eight, almost certainly his big night, and he deserved to enjoy every glory moment of it. She was only regretful that she’d lost the right to share in his happiness.
Softly Francesca said, “I don’t want to keep you.”
“You’re not keeping me.” He had his gaze locked on hers—and held her heart in his hands. “And for the record, I remembered your daughter’s name. I remember everything.” The burning look he sent her confirmed he remembered all the same things she did—2:00 a.m. tickling matches and long sexy showers and eating strawberries and cream in bed as well as off her body.
She swallowed hard. “As do I.”
Watching him walk away, even knowing it was only to wardrobe and makeup, took every whit of her willpower.
Dressed, styled, and ready to go on, Francesca stood backstage and did her level best to keep clear of the mayhem. It was a lot like the final few minutes before a major fashion show. Energy was frenetically high, nerves were frayed, and the occasional temper flared. You couldn’t always prejudge who the diva would be. Sometimes the seemingly most professional, seasoned model came unglued by an accidental pinprick or an assistant delivering still water rather than sparkling.
In the past, though, she hadn’t been a bystander. She’d been working, circulating with her camera, snapping still shots of the prep as well as the occasional video footage. Instead she stood by with empty hands while camera people circulated, snapping B-roll footage that would be used in postproduction as promo to give viewers behind-the-scene glimpses of the cast—including her. She spotted a few press passes as well, reporters eager to interview the cast one-on-one before the show wrapped.
She glanced over to the stylist station where Greg sat being fussed and fawned over, touched up and re-powdered. His back was to her, but she could see his handsome reflection in the backlit mirror. Hanging about were Brittany and Kimberly; the latter still wore hot rollers in her hair. Brittany touched Greg’s shoulder, for the fourth time in as many minutes, at least by Francesca’s count. Even though she hadn’t any rights over him, the frequent fondling had her seeing red.
A presence at her back had her turning about.
Clad for evening in a cleavage-baring dress, the blonde held out her hand. “Miss St. James, I’m Liz Matthews from TMZ. May I have a few moments?”
“Certainly,” Francesca answered, forcing a smile, the boom pole hovering overhead.
“This must be a really exciting night for you, for all the coaches and contestants involved in the show,” Liz began. “Can you tell us how you’re feeling right now? I mean this is the last episode. Do you have mixed emotions about the show ending, any things you’d go back and do differently?”
Francesca’s gaze wandered back to Greg, still surrounded by his entourage.
“I’m sure I can safely speak for the other coaches in saying that we’re enormously proud of each and every one of our six Cinderella contestants. It’s been a challenging eight weeks for everyone, but they’ve all worked enormously hard.”
“So everyone’s a winner?” The reporter rolled her heavily made-up eyes.
“Why yes, Liz, clichéd as that may sound, I believe that’s true. Every one of our contestants has transformed him- or herself in the course of the show, and I’m not only speaking of the physical. Of course only one man and one woman will receive the cash prize and the vacation, but it’s my belief that all will go back to their lives stronger, more hopeful, and better positioned to create happily ever after, whatever that may mean for them.”
The reporter dropped her smugness. “That’s really inspiring, thanks so much.” She ran her gaze up and down Francesca. “I see you’ve opted for Hollywood-inspired old-fashioned glamour to celebrate the show’s finale. Can you tell us a bit about what you’re wearing?” Her gaze skimmed Francesca’s floor-sweeping backless black chiffon gown studded with gold brilliants.
“The gown is Elie Saab.” She lightly touched her throat. “I love the high bejeweled collar—it functions as a built-in accessory.” To carry off the retro look, she’d had her hair styled into deep finger waves. Liquid black eyeliner and matte red lipstick were her makeup mainstays.
Gaze dropping, Liz said, “And what can you tell me about the shoes—gorgeous, by the way. Are they vintage?”
She wore her Cinderella slippers, or so she’d come to think of them. The vintage Saks scarlet slippers with their canary-colored rhinestones were the perfect accompaniment to her gown, but that was only a small part of why she’d brought them back from New York to wear. If there truly was fairy dust or true-love–making mojo resident in their vintage velvet, rhinestones, and leather, she would need every iota of it tonight. Cinderella had been given until the stroke of midnight, but Francesca only had another few hours to make her happily ever after come true.
Throat tightening, Francesca nodded. “They are, from the thirties.” She held up the dress high enough to show them off to the camera. “They were first worn by the film star Maddie Mulligan.” Dropping the dress, she glanced over at Greg yet again. He was just getting up and being hurried into wardrobe. “It looks as if contestant XY6 has just finished with makeup. I’m sure he’ll have lots of smart bits to add. You might want to catch him before he heads into wardrobe.”
The reporter’s eyes brightened. “That’s Gregory Knickerbocker, isn’t it? The top ten tech CEO?”
Heart in her throat, Francesca confirmed that it was he.
Liz scurried over to Greg, her sound and camera guys in tow. Looking on as, all smiles, they caught up with Greg, Francesca willed back tears. Though she’d given her impromptu interview as quotable sound bytes, she’d more than meant every word. Project Cinderella had indeed worked its magic. The show had brought about a happily ever after for everyone involved—everyone but her.
Taking her seat in the slipper chair along with her fellow fairy god-mentors, Francesca caught Dee’s eye and returned the smug look with a dagger glare.
Running late, Franc slipped into his seat beside her, his Nehru-style tuxedo immaculately pressed and his wing tips polished to a high sheen. “Long time, no see,” he quipped, air-kissing her cheek.
Francesca managed a laugh. “Quite.” They’d flown in on the same carrier, a red-eye flight out of JFK. He glanced down at her feet and then back up at her. “Those look familiar.”
Francesca was all but certain she’d never worn the vintage shoes with Franc. “They were a gift, a loan actually, from Macie’s former boss at the magazine.”
“Were they?”
Wondering at his interest, she added, “According to Starr, they’re supposed to bring luck in love. Rubbish, I know.”
He shot her a wink. “So says the woman in the glass-slipper chair.”
His comment made her laugh. “You have a point, although I won’t be for much longer; none of us will.” The latter remark had her eyes filling. As long as Project Cinderella was in production, she’d felt as though she might still have a chance with Greg.
Behind them, every tiered audience seat was taken, the warm-up comedian just wrapping up his routine. The cue to quiet came. Blinking back tears, she stared at the video monitor where the countdown to “Lights, camera, action” would commence in seconds. “Ten, nine, eight…”
For Francesca, most of the live performance passed in a blur. The pretaped footage, a montage of “best and worst of” moments from the preceding seven episodes, formed the program’s mainstay. Seeing Greg’s ABBA routine again had tears threatening. An earlier clip of him splashing in the swimming pool with the others had her improbably laughing. Even skinny and wearing the silly T-shirt and baggy swim trunks, he’d had a glow.
They broke twice for commercials and then finally they were down to their final ten minutes. The tuxedo-clad host called out, “The votes are in, folks. Our winners are…
“Gregory Knickerbocker! Greg, c’mon out.”
Greg’s theme song, “Mamma Mia,” blared as he bur
st out onto the stage, tearing through his life-size paper “before” photo. Cued to clap, the audience did that and more, rising to their feet and pouring out applause laced with the occasional wolf whistle.
Dressed in the Ralph Lauren peaked-lapel flat-front tuxedo she’d picked out, he could compete with any model or celebrity heartthrob for looks, style, and camera presence. Though she’d chosen the ensemble, she couldn’t quite wrap her brain about how brilliant he looked in it. She thought back to their earlier meeting when he’d made a point of telling her he remembered Sam’s name, and tears pushed at the backs of her eyes. Her frog wasn’t a frog at all, but a handsome, kindhearted prince whom she’d let slip away.
Not only her prince but her soul mate.
“And among the women, ladies, you did a phenomenal job and you all look great, but of course there can only be one Cinderella, and she is…Brittany Meyers!”
From the far side of the stage, Brittany made a similarly splashy entrance. Winnowed to a svelte 140 pounds, her excavated curves poured into a Givenchy plunging-neck, beaded little black dress, there was no doubt she’d made a remarkable transformation. She walked up to the microphone stand. “Oh, Greg, I’m so happy…for us both!” Not giving him an opportunity to answer, she grabbed his face between her hands and kissed him soundly on the mouth.
As though struck by a swinging sandbag, Greg staggered back, anchoring his arms around Brittany’s waist to keep them both from falling. Hands balled into fists at her sides, Francesca could do no more than stare. The kiss wasn’t scripted but real, which made watching it all the more wounding. Those lips and the man attached to them belonged to her—or so they would have if she hadn’t tossed away their happily ever after for the sake of pride and a witch’s wager.
Laughing, the emcee stepped between them, prying Brittany’s hands from Greg’s lapels. “Whoa, Brittany, take it easy there. You and Greg have plenty of time for that because we’re sending you on…a two-week, all-expense-paid luxury vacation to Belize!”