Girl of My Dreams

by Morgan Mandel

  A montage of photos from her various movies flashed on the screen, with brief dialogues explaining each of them.

  The newsman continued, “Second in the minds of our viewers is the shocking allegation from one of the eliminated contestants from the popular game show, Girl of My Dreams, coincidentally directed by Barbara’s son, Blake Caldwell. For that, we’ll go live to an interview with Nadia Romanoff.”

  The camera panned to the pure and virginal-looking Nadia dressed in a cream-colored, high-necked, flowing dress. Could such a saintly person lie? From the looks of her, it seemed unlikely.

  “I can’t believe an employee of Mecca Studios would dare to enter a studio-run contest,” Nadia said.

  “Who are you speaking of?”

  “Jillian Baker, or as she now calls herself, Veronica Baker.”

  “In your own words, tell us what happened.”

  Jillian forced back a hysterical laugh. Who else’s words would Nadia use?

  She leaned closer to the television set to hear what the ex-contestant would say.

  “I had just come out of the bathroom stall at Mecca Studios...” Nadia blushed prettily for the cameras. Was it possible to train yourself to blush at will?

  “Go on.”

  “Anyway, I happened to notice Jillian Baker, or as she now calls herself, Veronica Baker, inside. Clear as day, her employee name tag hung around her neck, with her picture and identification right there. It read Jillian Baker, or I’m not Nadia Romanoff, and I ought to know my own name.

  “Anyway, she was twisting this jade ring on her finger, like she was nervous or something. Then she dialed from her cell phone. I caught her say the name, ‘Blake.’ After that I heard her say some of the contestants had come down with food poisoning. Then she counted the ones who were in the bathroom. That’s when I slipped out.”

  “Why is that?”

  “I wasn’t ill and my business was finished, if you know what I mean.”

  “I understand. Then what happened?”

  “Well, imagine my surprise when I stood in line at the beginning of the show and turned around to find none other than Jillian-Veronica standing behind me, all made up like a femme fatale.”

  “Are you sure it was her?”

  “I couldn’t believe it at first, but yes, it was. For one thing, she was wearing the identical ring. The filigree is very distinctive. If you’ve seen it once, you can’t miss it.”

  “Go on.”

  “I asked her if I knew her from somewhere. She denied it.”

  Jillian glanced sadly at the ring her father had saved up for so long to buy as a high school graduation present. He’d been so proud of his find, saying there couldn’t be another like it anywhere. She’d treasured it and worn it proudly as a reminder of him. Nadia’s mention of the ring almost tainted its sacred symbolism.

  The damning tape at the beach ran, with Jillian groping to hold onto her bikini top and Blake coming up behind her to tie it.

  “My, isn’t that steamy? It certainly does seem something’s going on between those two,” the announcer said, with a chuckle.

  Jillian swallowed hard. The man was right. How could anyone miss the longing on her face and the heat in Blake’s gaze? Who would believe nothing had happened?

  Helpless and fuming, Jillian stared at the screen. She couldn’t allow Nadia to turn her sacrifice into something dirty. There had to be a way to save face. Maybe airing a copy of her temp contract would help. Would the studio do that? Would it even matter? If people thought the contract had been drawn up and signed after the fact it would be hard to change their minds.

  This whole thing was ridiculous. The newsman had spent more time on the non-story about Jillian and Blake than the real news about Barbara Branton. A woman lay at death’s door. Pettiness didn’t matter.

  She hoped Blake hadn’t heard any of this. Right now he needed prayers for his mother, not accusations.

  The phone rang. Jillian rushed to pick it up.

  “Jillian, I just got off duty. How’s Blake’s mom?” Denise asked.

  “I don’t know. The way things stand, I may not hear anything. He’s not exactly confiding in me these days.”

  “I’d call him an ingrate, but I don’t believe in kicking a man when he’s down,” Denise said.

  “Well, he certainly won’t be grateful for my gesture when he hears the news clips from that crazed Nadia.”

  “Look on the bright side. Even bad news is good when it comes to publicity. You can bet everyone will tune in for the next segment. There will be one, won’t there?”

  “Yes, I’ll make sure of that. With or without Blake I’m forging ahead…that is, unless Nadia gets a court order or does some other crazy thing.”

  “Don’t underestimate the studio’s attorneys. They’re wise to her kind of tricks. I’m sure they’ll be on it. The show will go on. You’ll see.”

  “I hope so, Denise. It’s bad enough Blake might lose his mother. It would be terrible if he lost everything else as well.”

  “Jillian, one thing he should be grateful for is you. I wish he’d wake up and see that fact. The man has to be blind.”

  “You’re a good friend, Denise. You have a way of making me feel better.”

  “I’m just prodding you along in the right direction. One of these days you’ll realize your own worth and do something about it. You’ve made definite improvements in that direction and you’re almost there. I predict it won’t be long before you completely shed your shell. Well, I must be going. I’ve got a double shift tomorrow and need my beauty sleep. Let me know what happens, okay?”

  “You’ll be the first. Take care of yourself, my friend. You work too hard.”

  “I’m afraid we suffer from the same affliction. There’s no cure for it.”

  “You’re a nut. Goodnight, Denise.”

  A warm feeling welled inside Jillian as she hung up. It was good to know someone cared about her. Since her parents’ deaths, there weren’t many people left in that category.

  This was not the time to get maudlin. Blake may not realize it, but he needed her. She’d not let him down.

  First, she’d make a list of what needed to be done. At the top were the airline tickets. Where were they? Then, she must find the itinerary. A copy should still be in Blake’s or what used to be her computer at the studio. Unfortunately, since she was no longer an employee at Mecca, she was not allowed to go back in. Clarisse, the legal department secretary, had always seemed nice. Hopefully, she’d be kind enough to extricate the necessary documents and messenger them over.

  Jillian bit her lip. Her plan had to work. The studio had to see it her way. The powers-that-be wouldn’t abandon her and file a lawsuit, would they? Instead of modeling designer clothes down a Paris runway and spending time in a fancy hotel room, would she be staring through the iron bars of a tawdry jail cell?

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  THE NEXT MORNING, Jillian took a deep breath before dialing the studio’s number.

  “I need an emergency audience with the board members,” she said.

  “And who are you?” the receptionist wanted to know.

  “Jillian Baker, also known as Veronica Baker.”

  “Oh, that one. One moment, please.”

  Apparently, her reputation preceded her. Was that good or bad? What would happen if the board members refused her request? They just couldn’t. They had to give her a chance. Too much was at stake.

  Jillian drummed her fingers on the side of the phone and shifted her feet during the interminable wait for the receptionist to get back to her.

  “Ms. Baker, they’ll see you tomorrow afternoon at three o’clock.”

  Jillian breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank you so much.”

  As she hung up, her mind raced ahead. She didn’t have much time for a clothes hunt, so her efforts must be swift and productive. If only Denise weren’t working.

  She’d have to do it herself. Think, what should she wear? It made sense to dress f
or her audience. What did she remember about the board members?

  She seemed to recall that Mr. Tweedsberry, the elderly gentleman, was conservative, somewhat fair-minded, but also inclined to be stubborn. O’Connor was rash and outspoken. D’Angelo was practical and had an eye for the ladies. That meant she must appear capable, yet feminine, a daunting task.

  It took a good three hours at the mall for Jillian to find an appropriate outfit.

  On Wednesday morning, she scooped her hair to each side of her face with tortoise shell combs. The curls fell gracefully to her shoulders.

  She applied her makeup with care and made sure to highlight her eyes. After that, she slipped into the charcoal-gray suit she’d bought for the occasion. It skimmed her figure, flowing smoothly, caressing her breasts and hips. The moss-colored blouse peeked out at her neck to emphasize her green irises. The understated right side slit of the skirt flashed an occasional hint of thigh.

  Cloisonné earrings, her ever-present jade ring, sheer taupe hose, one-inch black heels, and matching purse completed the ensemble.

  Since she hadn’t received much money yet from the series, the costume had set her back in the financial department. On the practical side, it could come in handy for job hunting.

  AS JILLIAN ENTERED the walnut paneled room reminiscent of a judge’s chamber, she felt as if she were on trial. The three board members she needed to impress sat on a dais behind a long wooden table.

  “Young lady, you’ve caused quite a stir. What do you have to say for yourself?” Tweedsberry, the thin, gray-haired, gray-suited one said.

  He and the other two board members peered suspiciously down at her.

  Jillian swallowed hard. How could she convince them she was trustworthy? She had to say the right thing. She couldn’t let Blake down.

  “First of all, I appreciate the wonderful opportunity you gave me to work as a temp at the studio. The experience was invaluable and I learned quite a bit about the television industry.”

  “If you loved your job so much, you shouldn’t have gone on the show. Someone else could have filled in. Then we wouldn’t be in this mess,” O’Connor, the red-haired, large-boned man at the end said.

  “I was the logical choice. There was too much riding on the outcome. No one stepping in at the last minute could possibly have known what to do.”

  D’Angelo, the younger one with the dark, slick-backed hair, gave Jillian a lingering once-over. “And the popular choice, judging from the fan mail pouring in. I’ve watched the series and must say, you look even better in person than on television,”

  She’d hoped for such a response, but it still grated on her. She hated being treated as an object and not a person. Forcing herself to smile warmly, she stifled an internal grimace. She’d dressed for the part and her planning had paid off. That’s what counted. Now if only she could follow through with the correct choice of words.

  “In everything I’ve done, I’ve always had the studio’s best interests at heart.”

  “Oh, come on. Don’t act so innocent. From what I’ve heard, before you appeared on the show, you were saddled with debt. How can you stand there and pretend you weren’t thinking of catching a fine, handsome billionaire?” O’Connor said, almost sneering.

  How did he know her finances? What else did he know? He must have some awfully good fact-finders working for him to get such information so fast. Or had it been fast? Did they make it a point to check even their temps before signing them up? She was getting paranoid. She must focus on the main issue, which was putting on the Paris show.

  “Troy Langley and his money mean nothing to me. If it were possible, I’d fix the show and make sure Ms. 44D, I mean, Maxine, won. I only want the segment to air. That’s all I ask.”

  “And what if you do win, little lady? Then what? Won’t that little malcontent, Nadia what’s-her-name, cry foul?” Tweedsberry asked.

  What if she did win? No, she couldn’t. All signs pointed to Maxine’s winning the grand prize. Jillian better not win. She only wanted to be there for window dressing so the public would believe there was competition.

  “According to the rules, the contest was open to anyone not employed by the studio. I worked here, but the agency was my employer. Let Nadia and any other spoilsport say what they will. I’ve done nothing illegal or unethical.”

  “She’s right. We could fight that little busybody in court and win hands down,” D’Angelo said, eyes glittering.

  “The budget’s over, our staff’s thin and Caldwell’s tied up with a family crisis. If he’s not back in time, can you and the other stars pull off the Paris segment?” Tweedsberry asked.

  She wasn’t a star, but she wouldn’t take time to argue the point. She sensed the board was weakening. With the right persuasion, she could convince these men to give the show a chance. She’d passed the hurdle from personality to practicality. If she were ever so careful of her wording, victory may not be far off.

  “I, more than anyone else, know the script and know what Blake wants. We went over it more times than I can count. As long as the light and sound crews are competent, how difficult can it be for me and Maxine to change clothes and walk down a runway a few times? That’s about what it amounts to.”

  “True, anyone could do that,” O’Connor conceded.

  “The studio’s ready to fold. What choice do we have? The pretty lady’s right. Let the show go on. What do we have to loose?” D’Angelo said.

  “Everyone in favor, say aye,” Tweedsberry said.

  The three ayes, though they were in deep, masculine tones, were like angels’ music to Jillian’s ears.

  Jillian stuck her chin out. “I won’t let you down.”

  Her pronouncement was met by raised eyebrows and frowns. The board was skeptical, yet desperate. Nothing must go wrong. The series finale must be a success.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  JILLIAN ARRIVED IN Paris on Friday afternoon. The show was scheduled to run the following evening, which meant no time for sightseeing.

  She, Maxine and Troy were whisked to the François Hotel, and given their rooms.

  That evening, in the dressing room, Jillian carefully slipped into the emerald-colored, floor length gown provided by Mecca’s Wardrobe Department.

  As she entered the main salon beside the bubbling pink champagne fountain, she recognized many notables of the fashion world. She’d seen their faces in fashion magazines and their names on the labels of clothes she’d admired, but couldn’t afford.

  She clamped her mouth shut to keep from gaping as she noticed Christov Klem speaking to Tim Hillgrove. Other faces also seemed familiar from their various fashion and cosmetics ads.

  Calm down. They were just as human as the next person. To prove it, one of them licked his chops as he stared at the bountiful blessings of Ms. 44D, who stood across from him. “If I’d only known of your great magnitude, I would have offered to measure you myself,” the designer said to Maxine.

  “Naughty man,” she said, wagging her finger back and forth, as she batted her false eyelashes.

  Unaccustomed to being upstaged, Troy Langley, standing beside her, scowled, with eyebrows furrowed.

  Deep down, did he care for Maxine? Whatever the case, it was fun seeing the rich guy squirm. Jillian smiled.

  “Would you care to share?” Jillian heard a voice ask.

  She turned to find Damien Moulant observing her.

  Her face grew hot. Her thoughts were not for public consumption, unless she wished to start a dog or cat fight, which she didn’t.

  “Mr. Moulant, I do enjoy your style,” she said, skirting his question.

  “A diplomat, I see,” he said, eyes twinkling. Turning to the assistant who stood at attention beside him, he said something in a low tone, which the man jotted down.

  Carlo Toronado approached, took one look at Jillian and said, “Those eyes are to die for. You are temptress, virgin, jungle cat, gypsy, the clay for my mold.”

  How could she answer tha
t? She settled for smiling inanely and thanking him as she pretended to sip her drink. A hangover would definitely not be de rigueur tomorrow.

  Stella Sodasku eyed Troy. “I see a ruffled silk shirt, troubadour pants.”

  The billionaire shifted his feet at being the object of scrutiny.

  The assessments by the designers and the note-taking by their assistants lasted close to an hour. By then, Jillian was happy to retreat to her hotel room.

  Stretching her legs out on the gold velvet settee, she felt decadent. All she needed was a box of bonbons to complete the picture. And it wouldn’t hurt if a certain man were laying on the same couch, gazing at her in helpless fascination.

  Jillian sighed. It was a shame she couldn’t take proper advantage of her surroundings.

  She really ought to go over the details of the next evening’s show, but she was far too comfortable to move at all.

  The next thing she knew, sunlight was streaming through the casement windows. She’d spent the entire night on the settee and hadn’t had the opportunity to slip between the ivory satin sheets of the priceless antique bed in the other room.

  She better get going. Costume fittings awaited her.

  ALL APPEARED READY. If only Blake could be here to witness his grand plan coming to fruition.

  Jillian took a moment to breathe in the rich air, redolent of exotic perfumes. Some of them had to cost more than a year of her prior salary. Beyond the runway sat the celebrities, corporate owners, designers, buyers—people who were accustomed to and demanded the best.

  Had she forgotten anything? Jillian peeked from behind the curtains. Red, blue and yellow spotlights danced, affording glimpses of the billionaire resplendent in a cream, v-necked satin shirt, black troubadour pants, with the requisite matching cummerbund, as he sat on his velvet throne at the end of the runway, awaiting his servants.