by Libby Street
Todd chuckles loudly but uncomfortably, obviously waiting for me to join in the laughter and confirm that I’m joking. There’s nothing I can do but stare, and hope that he doesn’t explode—or take flight like the characters in Mary Poppins.
After several awkward moments of feigned giddiness, Todd stops cold and grunts, “You’re kidding.”
“No,” I reply in a gentle yet unmistakably firm tone.
“Oh, shit,” he says, stunned.
“Sorry,” I whimper.
“Why?”
“Things are just moving too fast. You know?”
“This is because of the toothbrush, isn’t it?”
“Well…” Um, yeah.
He stares at me a moment, then looks away—out to the gorgeous and irrepressibly luminous New York City skyline. He heaves a frustrated “Huh” and looks down at his cutlery. “I thought girls loved this shit.”
“Todd, come on. Have I ever been that kind of girl?”
He rolls his eyes, but I can tell this is something that never occurred to him.
I try to think of something—anything—to soften the blow. “It’s a great toothbrush, though, thank you. Oral B! Nine out of ten dentists—”
Todd lets out a noise, half grunt, half laugh, that shuts me up. He shakes his head. “You are something else, Sadie Price.”
Given the hint of a smile twitching at the corners of his mouth, I’m almost convinced that was a compliment. Given the context, however, I’m not so sure.
“Todd—”
“No, Sadie”—he waves his hands at me—“I think it would be best if we just let this go….”
“Okay—”
“And never speak of it again.”
“Right,” I reply nervously.
“Ever.”
I nod and make the international symbol for zipped lips.
An actual smile creeps across Todd’s face. He begins, “The good news is”—he looks at his watch—“you’ve dumped me in just enough time to get to the airport.”
“You’re going to the airport?” I ask, surprised.
“No, you are, Killer. Donny Osmond is coming into Newark at midnight. If you get in the car now, you’ll get there just in the nick of time.”
“You’re serious?” I ask, dumbstruck. Donny Osmond?
He looks at me, his dark brown eyes two little lumps of Christmas coal, and gibes, “Oh, yeah.”
Ah, so this is why they tell you not to get involved with your boss.
Chapter 4
Donny Osmond?
Todd is only making me do this because I broke up with him. This is punishment. I mean, no offense to Donny (I loved his work in Mulan), but he’s so far down the priority list he has to look up to see that kid who played Urkel. I could be eating steak right now, or better yet—having a rare evening where the only thing scheduled is a bubble bath. Instead, I’m standing in the lobby of a major international airport dressed like Barbie, waiting to get photographs that won’t make enough to pay for my parking. God, I hate being a pawn in someone else’s game. One of the reasons I love this job is that, with or without Todd, I can do whatever I want—when I want. I caved under the weight of toothbrush guilt. I should have told Todd and his caterpillars to shove Donny Osmond to where the sun don’t shine.
And another thing, do you know how difficult it is to feel professional when wearing a dress that’s slightly too small and intended to be worn by a person four inches shorter than you? If it weren’t for the rather impressive-looking camera in my hands, I’m sure I’d have already been ejected from the airport on the grounds that I look like a hooker.
Whatever. No matter what I look like, I’m here to do a job. I will prove to Todd how indifferent I am to the “punishment” by getting pictures of Donny Osmond without a single complaint. I will get great pictures of Donny Osmond. Shockingly beautiful pictures of Donny Osmond. Okay, that may be stretching it. What I’ll do is photograph Donny Osmond walking to the baggage claim, walking to a car, getting into a car, and driving away. This so an editor can have the five shots of Donny Osmond walking that she desperately needs for a groundbreaking exposé of former child stars who handle their own luggage. I probably should have thought through the whole Todd breakup thing before actually going through with it.
Come to think of it, I could have spent a little more time thinking before I got involved with him at all. It was just one of those things. He was there, I was there. I was single, he was single. And I thought he was the kind of person who, like me, doesn’t like to take things to the next level. You can’t blame me for thinking that, either. Todd normally dates women who make a large percentage of their income in one-dollar bills, which they have to retrieve from their own underpants. These women are typically named after colors or seasons—including, but not limited to, Amber, Spring, and Winter. (Please, we all know that Winter is the easiest season to get into bed.) But you want to know the clincher? He owns a “crystal silver metallic” Porsche Cayenne.
Granted, a lot of paparazzi buy expensive cars so that they don’t stick out when driving around the high-class neighborhoods preferred by celebrities, and yes, the Porsche SUV is good cover when parking near hip restaurants and nightclubs; but Todd only bought the thing because he thinks it’s a chick magnet. And I’m sure it is. Women who enjoy being called “chicks” are probably drawn to it by some primal urge; it’s a big humming vortex of superficiality.
Don’t get me wrong, Todd’s a nice guy. He’s smart, wickedly funny, and doesn’t skimp on the compliments, but I’m honestly floored by the toothbrush thing. How could I have misread him so completely after knowing him for five years?
Ugh. Well, that settles it; I am officially no good at relationships. Actually no, I have no idea if I’m good at relationships. I don’t have relationships. I have situations.
I once dated this guy named Greg. He was a Ph.D. student who told me I “built up walls.” So would any woman in her right mind when faced with a man who learned how to play tonsil hockey by watching the NHL. Every time he hugged me I felt like I was being checked. Our entire time together felt like training camp.
Then there was the “Lars Situation.” Lars barely spoke English—which, by the way, is not as great as you would think. He pestered me about “my feed-lings.” (It took me three weeks to figure out he meant feelings.) I had to resort to sign language to break up with him. It was a horrible scene. The only thing missing was a chorus of twelve-year-olds behind me doing choreographed hand motions and singing “This Land Is Your Land.”
Despite the fact that I can watch cheesy romantic movies and secretly long for the kind of powerful, irrefutable, true love they all advertise, I can never seem to get things right in real life. I enjoy the companionship, and the dinners, and the kissing and all that, but I just don’t get the other stuff. I don’t understand the need to answer to someone else, or be all soft and helpless with them. For me, relationships are like foreign countries—fascinating and fun for the most part, but I never enter one without a clear escape route.
As I stride through Terminal A, I notice that the “Delayed” message next to Donny’s flight number has switched over to a blinking “Arrived.”
I sprint to the nearest escalator and descend to the under-belly of the airport.
The claustrophobically low ceilings and glaring fluorescence of the baggage claim area instantly perform their intended function, making me want to do what I came there to do and then leave as soon as humanly possible. The brilliant thing is, the industrial airport lighting, in its glorious shades of bright and brighter, blur the lines of race and color by turning absolutely everyone and everything the chalky gray of a day-old cocktail olive. I have a feeling I don’t look half as slutty or ridiculous in olive drab as I do in salad.
Travelers who’ve lost their luggage, and people waiting to greet their loved ones, meander here and there amid the skycaps and security personnel. Nearby, a cluster of limo drivers waits patiently for fares, their white cards
and signs declaring who they’ll be driving. I spot a brawny bear of a man, his black jacket straining to stay buttoned, whose white card reads “Mr. D. Osmond.” Bingo.
I move around the crowd of drivers, find a spot with a clear line of sight to the escalator, and back myself against the nearest baggage carousel. If the crowd gets too thick, I can stand up on it and get a better angle. As a bonus, I might just make some tips from the group of pimply teenage boys nearby. If I stand on this thing, they’ll get a very nice view of my panties.
I prep my camera and keep my eye on Donny’s driver. That is, until I spot something interesting just off to the driver’s left—a petite woman in a neatly pressed green uniform. A button on the woman’s lapel declares her affiliation with a car rental company. Interesting…VIP Concierge Service—very VIP. Despite the fact that nearly 99 percent of said VIPs are able-bodied adults, the rental company will help them bypass the lines, pull the car directly to the arrivals area, and hand over the keys without question. They’ll even carry the bags. I don’t know about you, but the last time I rented a car I got a lecture about not smoking and signed a fifty-page contract that I believe entitles them to my firstborn child.
I train my eyes on the concierge as she moves her sign to between her knees and opens a compact to fix her makeup. She applies a fresh coat of lipstick and swipes on a layer of blush. The blush, I might add, is that most coveted of colors—NARS Orgasm. Though you won’t find Orgasm in a box of Crayolas, the name is a perfect description for the shade. It is afterglow in powder form, with just the faintest hint of shimmer. This attention to detail strikes me as just slightly out of the ordinary. She’s at work. How often is shimmery blush required at the office?
The rumble of people struggling with their bags on the escalator shakes the assembled masses to attention. The petite concierge claps her compact shut and shoves it into her pocket. She pulls her sign up and stands at the ready. I cautiously move forward and lean over to get a better view of her sign.
It reads Vlad von Trapp. Classic.
Very VIP indeed.
Suddenly, the crowd around the escalator begins to grow. Scores of weary travelers rub their bloodshot eyes, yawn, and stagger around the pack of limo drivers and off to their assigned baggage conveyers. Squeals of happy reunions and tear-choked greetings pepper the air.
The eyes of Donny’s brawny driver light up. He makes a gesture of hello to someone coming down.
Okay, I have two options here. I could follow Donny Osmond and get the shots Todd wants me to get, thus appeasing his bruised ego. Or, I could forget about Donny and stick with the petite concierge whose von Trapp could be a much bigger fish. If my instincts are correct, Vlad von Trapp is not the distant Hungarian relative of an Austrian family choral group that the sign would suggest. Of course, if I’m wrong, I’ve got nothing—no shots and a wasted evening dressed like one of Charo’s backup singers.
Donny Osmond steps off an escalator looking as bright-eyed and freshly scrubbed as if he’d just walked out of a spa instead of a 747. He signs a quick autograph before being ushered to the baggage carousel by his driver.
Okay, come on, Vlad. Where are you?
As the escalators continue to dump travelers into the baggage claim area, I turn my attention back to the concierge. She’s gone all flush and is swaying ever so slightly from side to side.
This has got to be it.
I ready the camera and move in.
The concierge pushes her shoulders back, causing her jacket to part slightly and reveal a low-cut pink blouse. Her face lights up and a sexy grin spreads from cheek to cheek. A few seconds pass before I see the cause of her preening and primping, not to mention the joyous flush that is spreading rapidly across her face:
Ethan Wyatt.
Unsurprisingly, the level of chatter in the room rises from a low murmur to an excited buzz.
There is a star among us.
I put the camera to my eye and aim it at Ethan Wyatt.
Oh, my God. He’s beautiful. No, it’s beyond that; something about him is making my hands go all sweaty and my heart beat a little faster. Standing on the escalator, with a strangely subdued and dignified look about him, he looks like some sort of ancient god descending from the heavens.
Ethan Wyatt is tall, well over six feet. He has that not-too-lean, not-too-bulky thing happening—rock solid but in a lithe way, like an Olympic swimmer who does thousands of sit-ups everyday. His hair is dark and thick, cut short, modern and carefree. His eyes are a deep, almost cobalt, blue. They’re so ridiculously blue that they give the slight impression of incandescence. He’s so…pretty. There’s really no better word for it. He’s pretty, yet still undeniably masculine. I guess that’s what gives his face its timeless quality. On first glance he seems boyish and innocent, but his eyes have this special something, a sort of world-weary brooding that hints at some deep vulnerability or profound personal pain lurking just below the surface. It’s the sort of quality that makes women instinctively want to comfort and protect him. I imagine this is why he keeps getting cast as the lonely reluctant hero in World War II and Vietnam dramas. No need to bother about plot, setup, and characterization—when he gets blown to bits, women will weep.
I lay my finger gently on the shutter button, my brain sends the little message telling my finger to push it. But…I can’t get a shot off—I can’t make my finger hit the damn button.
I flip the camera around and hit the button again. A bright burst of light stings my eyes.
Ouch.
I point the camera back at Ethan Wyatt, frame his scruffy black hair and gleaming blue eyes in my viewfinder.
Oh, my.
In person, most celebrities look like watered-down versions of themselves. I mean, even in person it’s clear that they’ve won the genetic lottery, but they still seem ordinary somehow. More than anything, the casual encounter with a celebrity gives you a new appreciation for the talent of the professional hair and makeup artists who sculpt and paint them into something extra ordinary. This is, in general. Ethan Wyatt’s offscreen appearance transcends anything that can be captured on film. It’s really quite…alarming.
Okay, Ethan Wyatt is alarming. Big deal.
“Oooh” accidentally escapes my lips as he passes.
Shit. What is wrong with me? I could have had a perfect close-up.
Wyatt looks good on the big screen, appears charming and handsome on Oprah, and I recall a Vanity Fair spread last year that was particularly mouthwatering. At the time, I thought its effect on me had more to do with Annie Leibovitz than him. I was wrong. So, so wrong.
Across the room, Ethan Wyatt thoughtlessly rubs at his dark and already artfully disheveled hair while talking to the concierge. She’s gone all doe-eyed and moony—very unprofessional. Speaking of which, maybe I should stop staring at his butt as he sprints out of the airport and, instead, get up off this stupid baggage thingy and shoot some pictures!
Ethan darts outside and out of view.
Damn.
I lift my jaw off the floor and quickly sidestep through the flock of bored and bleary-eyed travelers waiting for their Samsonite—that is, the ones who didn’t catch a glimpse of Ethan as he sped past them.
Racing through the glass doors, I scan across the street, then left and right down the sidewalks. He’s gone. Did he get into a car or something? Maybe he spotted me and ran back into the building through another door? Man, he’s fast. Better get back in there and track the concierge. She’s waiting for his luggage, he has to meet up with her eventually—
I hear myself bellow, “Oh, good God!” as I stagger back from shock.
Holy shit! Not ten feet away, just outside the doorway, Ethan Wyatt is lighting a cigarette. He catches my exclamation and smiles innocently at me as if to say, “Yeah, it’s me.”
I impulsively return his warm, easy smile.
As his eyes flicker up to meet mine, I suddenly want to know more about him and have him smile at me all the time. I wish I were wea
ring blush with just the faintest hint of shimmer. I desperately wish I wasn’t dressed in fruit. And is that…the Musak version of “My Heart Will Go On” being piped throughout the terminal?
Suddenly, Wyatt’s frame goes rigid, almost defiant. His gorgeous, dreamy smile fades and is replaced by a bitter, hateful scowl.
Oh, he’s noticed the camera. Hi…Sadie Price. People hate me.
He takes a long, slow drag of his cigarette while glaring at me—warning me not to shoot. It’s incredible. Even with a really angry sort of frown, his eyes almost sparkle with tenderness.
The stiff collar of his motorcycle jacket perfectly frames his face; it’s a sooty black, the color of his hair, and casually cool enough to be worthy of Steve McQueen. I wonder…was it plucked from the racks of an out-of-the-way vintage shop by some enterprising stylist, or are each of those scratches and worn spots a memory? What would that sooty black hair look like tangled up with mine on a rumpled white pillowcase?
I lift the camera to my eye and, through the viewfinder, see him sullenly shake his head and turn away from my lens.
“Do you have to do that?” he asks me with an air of defeat rather than anger.
“Sorry, it’s my job,” I reply matter-of-factly, unable to marshall any weapons from my arsenal of defensive quips and phrases. Okay, back to basics. “Give me the shot, and I’ll get out of here,” I try.
I wish he would just turn his head a little so I could get the shot. This one-on-one with him bothers me for some reason. There are no fans or bystanders. No witnesses, no chatter to validate my flash bursting on, over and over again. This happens often enough, but for some reason there’s no surge of adrenaline to take the edge off the weird, irritating—yet somehow pleasant—fluttering that is gripping my entire body.
Wyatt doesn’t turn around, but rather makes an incredulous huff and says, “Doesn’t it bother you that your job is to invade people’s personal space? To suck the enjoyment out of every little, simple moment of their lives?”