“I knew you’d come.” He leans forward to kiss me sweetly. We’re both aware of the crew laughing and smoking nearby.
“I could take Uber so we can drive home together.” And then, super casually, I add, “And stay over at your place after.” With our faces still so close together, I can’t help but sense him hesitate for a split second.
“Yeah, sure, babe. Sounds perfect.” He kisses me again on the lips and then makes a big production of stuffing our trash back in his to-go bag and checking his diver’s watch. Watching him practically lurch away from me, I bite my tongue to avoid saying something pathetic or needy.
We were together in high school. When he left for college, we took a break. But we easily fell into our old “together” routine when he came home, as if no time had passed. For almost five years now we’ve been exclusive. And just once, I’d love for him to pull some sexy man stuff. Instead I sometimes feel like we’re still in this teenage “going steady” phase. I’m not saying I want Fifty Shades of Grey or anything, but something that puts a spark in my belly would be nice.
Leaning back against a tree to watch for a second as Sean and the guys start gearing up to get back to work, it’s easy to notice how good he looks in those jeans. His short, spiky dark hair is thick enough that I can run my fingers through it. And he’s tall enough that even when I wore heels to my parents’ anniversary party, I still tucked under his chin perfectly when we danced. I love how he gets along so well with my family. My parents obviously trust him; they’ve made it clear that Sean is going to run the company with Mark when they finally decide to retire. My brothers don’t even give me a hard time about him. Sean and I fit together so well.
CHAPTER FIVE
Emma’s text has gotten my butt in gear. I’ve spent my entire Saturday morning being completely lazy. My parents buy oranges early at the farmers market on Saturdays, and my dad squeezes fresh OJ for everyone. When we were kids that job was a lot more labor-intensive. Now it’s just my parents and me in the house, so it’s a smaller production. It is a really nice way to start the day. I considered spending some time cleaning out my bedroom, but I gave up when it came time to actually put Hello Kitty in the attic, so now I’m looking online at how to design my website. I have a few photos J left in Dropbox to get it started. I ran off a couple of sample business cards on my dad’s laser printer. It took me several hours on Photoshop to decide exactly how I wanted them to look.
But now, I’m standing in the middle of reason 230 why I need to move out of my parents’ house. I need more space than this tiny teenage bedroom full of high school memorabilia for my makeup kit. There’s all this fancy special effects stuff I used in cosmetics school that I don’t need on a daily basis. But I have to have it on hand, in case that kind of job comes along.
I was ignoring the mess around me that would get me cast on Hoarders in a second, and decided to focus on emailing a Web designer whose ad I liked on Facebook when Emma’s text popped up on my phone. So now all my supplies are spread out all over the floor of my room, which has me freaking out trying to get ready. Luckily I’ve just done laundry. I may be freeloading off my parents, but my mom is not spending time separating my whites. It’s a minor technicality, but an important separation of church and state as my mother continues to try to baby me. I can’t even sit down right now because I have all my clean clothes in two big heaps on my queen-sized canopy bed, with original flower-patterned fabric hangings still intact.
Me: so excited for you to meet Emma tonight. She just texted me that she’s here. Are you still ready to come get me around 5:15? Told Em we’d be there at 6.
Sean: crap… I forgot about that.
Me: u flaking?
Sean: I just got invited to the Lakers tonight. I mean, I’m sure someone’ll want my tix—but wouldn’t you rather have a night with your gf anyway? She’s here all week right?
Me: yes. It’s fine—go to your game. Just, promise you’ll see her this week.
Sean: promise. Thx babe.
Sean would be a total basket case if I forced him to meet up with my friend instead of attending his beloved Lakers game. My dad is a die-hard Dodgers fan, and has taught me to love baseball and appreciate sports fanatics in general, so I get it.
I pull a purple ombré gypsy skirt and a plain white T-shirt out of my clean clothes pile. Throwing a couple of long necklaces on, I find my purple Havaianas (under the bed). Glancing at the Hello Kitty clock—that needs to go to the attic, too—I transfer my wallet and mini makeup bag to the matching hobo bag from the collection hanging on my bedpost and am ready to go.
It’s been so long since I’ve seen Emma in person. I’m both nervous and excited driving the 405 toward Santa Monica, and I almost miss the interchange to the 10.
Emma is standing near the restaurant valet. Even from a distance I can see her, standing out like the New Yorker she is among the tourists and beachgoers hanging around. I wave frantically to get her attention.
“Emma!” She spots me right away and strides over to the car, sliding in smoothly.
“It’s so good to see you!” Emma doesn’t slow down her momentum. She makes getting into the car and leaning over to hug me all one movement. I squeeze her back.
“I missed you, too.”
WE’VE BEEN HOLED up at this cool gastropub sharing sliders and truffle fries for hours. We text every day, but it’s different, better, sharing the stories in person. My stomach hurts from laughing so hard.
“Well, I made up business cards online; they look pretty good too, I think.” I pull one out of my wallet to show to her. I zoomed in on a close-up of a woman’s eyes done with super-dramatic makeup.
“You did this? It’s spectacular.” I love how she’s really checking out the details.
“She’s one of the models from that, uh… you know, the calendar shoot I did?” Emma snorts a bit at the reminder. “Seriously, it was really cool she let me do this during her break, and I took a couple of pictures on my iPhone. You think it’s good enough to use as the main image?”
“Oh, yeah, Alex. This is rad,” Emma gushes.
“She had the coolest-shaped eyes.”
“I bet she hears that all the time,” Emma replies, sending us both into another fit of giggles.
It takes us a couple of minutes longer than it should to recover. The waiter comes over to check on us. “So, what are you gonna do with the cards?” Emma asks once he leaves. She’s still slightly out of breath.
“I guess hand them out to photographers and publicists, people like that. J, that photographer I’ve done a few more shoots with? I told you about her, right? Supercool, kinda butch chick who is totally obsessed with clowns and circus stuff?”
“Does she do any normal work? That’s what you need for your book, right?”
“Yeah, she did this Hollister campaign; there was already a lead makeup artist on the job, but I got to help her and she seemed really impressed. She’s the one who recommended I make cards.” I pull out my phone to show her some photos from the beach shoot.
“Why didn’t you post these? They are amazing.”
“This type of job is all top secret. You sign a waiver saying you won’t Instagram or post any pictures from the shoot. I wasn’t really supposed to take them, but I don’t have a lot of pictures of my natural beauty makeup, so I at least want to have it on my phone.”
“Well, you do love to defy authority, but you’re so talented, no one will care. It’s all going to come together. I can tell.” She raises her refreshed wineglass to toast with my designated-driver-approved Coke Zero.
“I can’t wait to see you work tomorrow, Em. I DVR the show just to see all the gorgeous food you make.”
“I can’t really take credit. I just follow the recipes.”
“Are they really all her recipes?” I whisper.
“You know I can’t talk about that stuff. Confidentiality,” she scolds me.
“You’re still such a rule follower. Ugh, how are we even fri
ends?” I tease. Emma just laughs good-naturedly. “Are you nervous about cooking in a new space Monday? Do you know the setup?”
“Nah, I’ve gone over it all with Chef. He says it’ll be set up similar to our kitchens at home, and I’m making the starter dish, so I don’t have to worry about timing during the show. That’s the hardest part.”
CHAPTER SIX
Finding the set wasn’t nearly as complicated as I thought it was going to be. Just as Emma’s call sheet said, the beach parking lot next to the Santa Monica Pier was clearly marked. With the crew trucks and star trailers all lined up, it stands out like a sore thumb. One whole corner is completely taken over with a huge stage and a carpeted audience area, and tons of equipment trucks are parked in what must be the “backstage.” Off to one side sits one of those gorgeous state-of-the-art mobile homes, which must serve as Hillary P.’s private dressing room.
Everyday Life with Hillary has been on TV for years. I can remember the girls in my college dorm obsessing over all the recipes and tips. I get it; she seems to really have it all. She’s funny and charming with her celebrity guests, and when you watch her manage that clever arts and crafts stuff, you can tell she really knows what she’s doing. I like to think I know a little about what goes on behind the scenes since Emma got the job as kitchen sous chef. She does all the grunt work of actually making the incredible food you see magically appear from the on-set oven.
The backstage seems completely chaotic as Emma and I approach the set of Hillary P.’s weeklong LA visit. Admittedly I don’t have a lot of firsthand experience, but the few movie sets I’ve been on during beauty school weren’t nearly as crazed. Everyone with a headset is running, all in different directions. I glance over at Emma, but she seems just as surprised as I am.
“I wonder what’s going on…” The concern in her voice tells me it’s not usually like this.
“The paramedics have already left.” We both turn when we hear someone behind us shout into his walkie-talkie as he jets toward the fancy mobile home stationed near the set.
Emma grabs the harried-looking guy in the hockey jersey before he gets past us.
“Is it Hillary? Andy, what’s happened?” Emma has to start speed walking to keep up with his pace to hear the answer.
“No, it’s Bridget. Her appendix burst as she was setting up the trailer this morning.” But that’s all I hear before he’s disappeared inside the trailer. Emma looks at me for a second before chasing after him. When she gets to the door, she glances back at me, standing still.
“Come on!” She waves me over.
“What are you doing, Emma? I shouldn’t be going into Hillary P.’s private trailer!”
“She’s not here yet, there’s still time.” She practically shoves me up the stairs and inside.
I look around the luxurious space, amazed at how roomy it feels. To the left is a makeup station complete with Hollywood lights glowing around the mirror. Several outfits are hung from a wardrobe rack set up neatly in the back.
“Did you call the guild?” The stressed-out guy, clearly the first AD, judging by the three walkie-talkies and multiple headsets clipped to his nylon vest, is being quizzed by a short woman with spiky, unrealistically white-blond hair. When she puts down the hair dryer cord she’s untangling from several curling irons and faces us, I see she has about an inch of very dark, almost black roots. She must be Hillary P.’s hairdresser.
“Of course we called the makeup union, Monica. They can’t magically snap their fingers and make a makeup artist appear here.” Is it me, or do assistant directors always seem to be at the very end of their rope?
Monica slams a bag of eye shadows down on the counter next to the neat line of brushes. Obviously, the makeup artist had only started laying out her stuff before she got sick. There are a number of supplies set out in an organized row and then a whole bunch of things piling up in the center. Monica isn’t even looking at the mess she’s making, her eyes wide in terror at Andy.
“You know she’s going to lose her mind when she gets here, right? When she finds out Bridget is not here, there is going to be hell to pay. And I’m not going to be the one to tell her. That’s for damn sure.”
I look over at Emma, who’s listening raptly to the back-and-forth. I lean against her with my arm to get her to look at me. When she does, I mouth Let’s get out of here as clearly as I can. This looks like a train wreck about to happen, and I for one don’t want to be here to see it. Emma just shakes her head at me before concentrating on what the AD is saying.
“Monica, I know that Hillary doesn’t like change. Of any kind. That’s why I think you should do her makeup.”
“Thank you for again proving that you don’t know shit about what we do here, Andy. That is by far the dumbest idea I’ve ever heard.” With nothing left to pull out of Bridget’s kit, Monica finally starts trying to make sense of the makeup in a huge clump in the center of the makeup station.
“Um, Andy… I have an idea,” Emma says into the fray.
“Not now, Emma. Can’t you see this is serious?” When he turns back to the crazed hairdresser, I grab Emma’s shirt.
“No!” I whisper in her face. “Whatever you’re thinking, just… don’t.”
“Why not? You’ll be great. Trust me!”
She shakes me off as Andy has abandoned all logic and is now pleading with Monica, “You’ve seen her get her makeup done a million times; can’t you do it for just one day?”
“Number One has arrived. Three away from the trailer.” The semi-encoded message alerts all of us to Hillary P.’s impending arrival. I have no business being in her private dressing room area, and based on the way everyone seems to be in terror of Hillary’s reaction, common sense tells me that a stranger in her personal space will only make things worse. I feel bad for Monica; it’s clear that no one wants to admit failure to Hillary P.
“Emma may as well do her makeup. You ever ice a cake, Emma? According to Andy here, it’s the same damn thing.” And then she’s out of bravado. “I can’t do her makeup. I’ll try and I’ll fail and then I will tell Hillary it was your idea and we’ll both get fired. How about that?”
Andy glares at Monica, Monica glares back. And into the silent tension Emma pipes up, “My friend here is a makeup artist. She could totally do it.” It’s a full second before they both turn to look at Emma and then at me. If it weren’t so serious, it would be comical how both of their faces change simultaneously from looking like they want to kill us for interrupting to looking at me like I just fell straight from heaven.
“Will you do it?”
“Is she any good?” Now Monica has time to be picky?
“She’s good,” I hear Emma say. I am utterly mute. She doesn’t even glance at me as she whips my card out of her purse. “She’ll do it.”
“We’ve got maybe a minute before Hillary walks in here,” Andy says, dead-eyeing me. “I’d like to be able to give her a definitive answer. Are you in?”
I nod my head slowly, not sure this isn’t some crazy dream. Maybe I shouldn’t have eaten dessert so late last night. I jerk when Emma elbows me hard in the ribs. “Oof. Yes. Yes, I’ll do it.” I look to my friend, who is now grinning hugely.
“Thank you so much, um… Alex?” Andy is reading off my card as he steps up and shakes my hand.
“Yes, hi. I’m Alex Cleary,” I say, thinking he seems like a rational guy. I’ll just explain to him my inexperience and let him decide. But before I can say anything else, the door opens again and in comes Hillary P. I’ve only ever seen her on TV, and she’s much more petite in person than I’d imagined. For a second she seems exactly like the endearing talk show host and cooking guru she comes across as on TV.
But the instant she speaks she breaks the spell.
“Where the fuck is Bridget?” She tosses her huge Louis Vuitton shoulder bag on the leather sofa and sizes me up before dismissing me and turning to eye Emma. “Andy, why are they in my goddamn trailer?” I can’t really ge
t a read on her, though it’s weird to have her talk about us as if we can’t speak for ourselves. Obviously she’s got a sailor’s mouth, as my mom would say, but there isn’t a lot of heat behind her words.
“Sorry about this, Hillary. But Bridget had to go to the hospital.” Andy goes for a matter-of-fact tone. Before I can consider too much why he feels the need to apologize to Hillary about Bridget’s illness, he goes on. “But we found the perfect solution. Alex just wrapped up the movie she was on. She was doing Jessica Biel’s makeup.” He looks at me to back him up, but with a split second to decide, I just can’t do it. Hillary doesn’t notice because she’s busy settling herself in Monica’s hair chair.
“No, um—” I start to explain. Emma and Monica both jump in.
“Don’t be modest, Alex,” Emma says confidently.
“It’s Jessica Alba, Andy, not Biel. Idiot man.” Monica backs up his story with a laugh. I turn to Emma, and she shares a grimace with me, but gives me a thumbs-up.
“I’m really sorry for being in your private space, Hillary. I just wanted to introduce you to Alex.” Emma steps next to me. “She’s been my best friend since high school. She does beautiful makeup.”
“I’ll know who to blame if she doesn’t, right?” Hillary says it with a laugh, but I can see Emma trying to swallow past the lump in her throat.
“Well, you have such great skin, I would have to work pretty hard to eff you up, Hillary.” When in Rome, right? It’s a risk, since all I know about Hillary is the very little Emma’s let slip. It seems that Hillary is the type who’ll eat you alive if she smells any hint of weakness. I’m only brave enough to hold her stare because it’s just for today. I keep chanting that to myself. After a couple of seconds when everyone, including me, is holding their breath, Hillary lets us all off the hook.
“What’s your name again?”
Monica gets to work wetting down Hillary’s fabulously highlighted blond hair with water and begins massaging an elaborate concoction of products into her roots.
Opportunity Knocks Page 3