Rendezvous

by Zondervan

  I pull my map out of my bag, getting my bearings and checking street signs, to discover I’ve wandered a fair distance from the hotel. I figure out what looks like the quickest route back and begin to walk. I’m only halfway there when it’s nearly three. I call Fran to give her a head’s up.

  “I’m sorry,” I breathlessly tell her. “I should be there in about five more minutes if I run.”

  “And Paige is with you?”

  “Uh…no. She’s not back yet either?”

  Fran says something in French—it sounds almost like swearing. “You lost Paige?”

  “We went our separate ways.” I’m jogging now.

  “But we have a show to do.”

  “I know.” I turn a corner and narrowly miss running into an old woman with a bag of groceries. “Just call Paige, figure out where she is, and you and I will swing by and get her in the town car, okay?”

  Another French expletive.

  “I’m only a few blocks away,” I huff. “In a couple of minutes, I’ll be there. I’ll jump in the car and we’ll be on our way.”

  Unfortunately, it takes more than a couple of minutes. Fran does not look pleased. “This is how you want to look for the show?” she asks as I hop into the town car.

  “Hey, I’m just the camera girl,” I remind her.

  “It’ll take an extra ten minutes to get Paige,” she says with irritation. “And that’s if there’s no traffic.”

  “I’m sorry,” I tell her. “Paige was desperate to shop. And I wanted to visit a church.”

  Fran softens a bit. “I know you girls aren’t interested in the same things, Erin. I chose Saint-Germaine more for you than for Paige. I hope you appreciate it.”

  “I do,” I assure her. “But in a way it makes it harder because there’s so much I want to see around here. Yet I know I need to help keep Paige on track.”

  “Poor Jiminy Cricket.”

  I just sigh and lean back, attempting to relax. I think if I closed my eyes, I might actually go to sleep. Fran is rambling on, saying how the crew is already at the salon, set up and waiting for us, and how even Luis and Shauna are there (our hairstylist and makeup artist) so that they can learn some new tricks of the trade. “Do you have any idea how much all this will cost—or what a waste it will be if we don’t get a show out of it?” she demands. “What if Dominique loses his patience and decides not to go along with the show after all this trouble? Sometimes the French are like that. Impatient with Americans, refusing to put up with our bad manners. What then?”

  “I guess we’ll just come up with another show,” I quietly suggest. “Or a different salon. Anyway, it doesn’t really help to freak over it.”

  She lets out a long deep breath. “Yes, you’re probably right.”

  Fortunately, the traffic isn’t too bad and after ten minutes, we pick up Paige and I wonder how she possibly managed to collect so many shopping bags in only an hour’s worth of time.

  “Hey, what’s in the bags?” Fran asks hopefully. “Anything we can force Erin to wear while we’re recording the show at the salon?”

  Paige looks at me and frowns. “Good grief, is that what you’re wearing for the show?”

  “I didn’t have time to change,” I admit. Paige still looks perfect in her powder pink linen dress topped with a dove gray jacket. Even her shoes (kind of a Pepto-Bismol pink) match her Kelly bag. Obviously the girl is dressed to impress. So what else is new?

  Now Paige is digging through her bags, finally extracting a black denim jacket and a little white linen shirt, both of which are actually pretty cool. “Here, try these. They’re probably more your style than mine anyway.”

  “Do I change right here in the car?” I ask, looking over my shoulder as if I expect some paparazzi to zip up and snap a photo of me.

  “No one’s looking,” Paige assures me as she removes a tag.

  So right there in the backseat, somewhere in Paris, I’m suddenly topless. Well, I have on my bra. Paige helps me into the clothes and does some repair work to my face and hair, and about two minutes before we arrive at Salon Dominique, I’m fairly well put together.

  Fran smiles at Paige. “You know if the TV show or even acting doesn’t work out for you, you could always get work behind the scenes—wardrobe, makeup, hair…”

  Paige frowns. “Are you suggesting that my job’s on the line?”

  Fran laughs. “No, no, not at all.”

  When we go inside Salon Dominique they are ready for us. And, thankfully, no one even mentions that we’re a little bit late. With cameras rolling, the owner, Dominique, greets Paige as if she’s a long-lost love. And she dishes it right back to him. She gushes over his salon and his reputation and basically just schmoozes with everyone in what sounds like fairly fluent French, although I can tell by their expressions that some of them are struggling with some of her words or maybe it’s her tenses or pronunciation. But no one is rude.

  “Now, Dominique,” she says sweetly in English. “Because this is an American show, we need to use as much English as possible. Do you speak English?”

  “But of course,” he assures her in a thick accent. “Many of my clients only speak English.”

  “Very good.” She nods.

  And then he gives us a more complete tour of his salon, which is actually rather expansive and offers everything and anything a person could want. With separate areas for hairdressers, cosmetologists, masseurs, makeup artists, manicurists, and even spa facilities, I think it would take a couple of days to utilize all their services.

  Finally we’re back in the hair area and Paige is showing Dominique some photos she downloaded onto her phone from the Internet.

  “Ah-hah,” he says with raised brows. “You want to look like Grace Kelly.” He looks at her and nods with approval. “Yes, I can envision that with your beautiful face.” He touches her long hair. “You are willing to sacrifice, no?”

  Paige nods uneasily. “Yes…I wish there was enough to donate to Locks of Love.”

  “Locks of Love?” He is confused, but then says something in French to a woman who’s been helping with interpretations when we get bogged down. Using her hands she explains and he seems to get it.

  “Ah, yes,” he tells Paige. “Well, maybe there is enough hair to help someone. We will see.”

  Paige points to me. “And we want Erin’s hair to look something like this.” She holds out her cell phone again.

  He chuckles and rubs his chin. “Ah, yes…Audrey Hepburn in the film Sabrina. Très chic.” He smiles at me. “Ramone will make you most beautiful, mon cheri.”

  I thank him in French and the next thing I know I’m wearing a black haircutting cape and a short wiry man is running his fingers through my hair and nodding eagerly as he darts about his styling station. He rattles on in very fast French, which I cannot, of course, make heads or tails of. But his enthusiasm is contagious and so I just nod. Really, what choice do I have? Paige already told me that I can trust her.

  Luis (our regular hairdresser) watches with a hard-to-read expression, and the cameras continue to roll as Paige and I get shampooed and before long, scissors begin to snip-snip. Fortunately, the cameras are much more interested in Paige than me and she keeps the cheerful bilingual banter going. So, pretending that none of this is really happening, I simply close my eyes and, entrusting my fate into the hands of a man who appears to speak only a few words of English, I nearly fall asleep.

  “Voila!” Ramone proclaims loudly—probably to wake me—and I open my eyes to see a stranger in the mirror. My hand flies up to touch my short-short hair and I am speechless.

  “You no like?” Ramone’s happy smile fades.

  “No, no…uh…je l’aime,” I assure him in slow, laborious French. “It’s just, uh…c’est different.” One year of French is really not much good, but all the same, I’ll try. I recall how many French and English words are nearly the same except for pronunciation. So I’ll imitate my sister and simply try to put on a good French a
ccent.

  “Ah…” He nods then, and, seeming to understand my language barrier, speaks very slowly. “Mais il est un bon différent.” He’s saying it’s a good difference. In other words, an improvement.

  “Yes…très bon.” I know he did a good job, but I’m just not sure how I feel about it. I stare at my image in the mirror, trying to absorb this strange new look. For one thing my hair looks a lot darker. The bangs are very short, and he’s used some kind of product to bring out my natural wave. Also, it’s very short in back and I think he actually shaved my neck, which feels very weird.

  I try to remember the correct words in French then quietly ask Ramone, “Je ressemble un garcon?” Meaning: Do I look like a boy?

  He throws back his head and laughs loudly. “Non, non! Vous êtes très de femme. Et très beau.”

  I’m not totally sure, but I think he just said I look very feminine and pretty. What’s not to like about a compliment like that?

  “Oh, Erin!” Paige has turned around to stare at me. “You look fabuleux!”

  “Really? You like it?”

  “I love it. You are totally Audrey.” She frowns. “In fact, I think I’m jealous.”

  I really study her haircut and I’m not sure that it looks better than her long hair. Not that I’m going there now. It’s not like she can glue it back on, although I suppose she could get extensions. “You look très chic!” I tell her. And, of course, that’s not untrue. She always looks very chic.

  “Turn back around,” Dominique commands. “Our work here is not finished.”

  Ramone then removes my haircutting cape. “Maintenant il est fait. Fini.”

  The camera crew is focusing in on me now and Paige, with her back to me, tells me to talk about my new do.

  “It’s very short,” I tell the camera as I touch the back of my bare neck, “and it might take some getting used to. But I think I like it.”

  “Now you can run along and get started on your facial,” Paige tells me. “I’ll catch up with you in makeup.”

  A middle-aged woman named Adrienne escorts me to another area and soon my face is covered in some green slime that smells like mint and rosemary. It looks scary, but it actually feels pretty good. I make a face for JJ, the cameraman who followed me in here. I encourage him to go back and check on Paige. “She’s the star, you know.”

  He winks at me but continues shooting for a couple of minutes before he eventually moves on. I lean back in the comfortable chair and, closing my eyes, I actually do doze off. I wake to Adrienne gently removing the green slime from my face. “Voila,” she proclaims. “Beautiful skin, Erin. Take care of eet and eet will take care of you.”

  Finally I am in makeup, the last stop in this beauty relay. A pretty young woman named Odette works on me. She doesn’t seem to speak much, if any, English. I’m hard pressed to make her understand that I prefer a light touch with makeup.

  “J’aime naturel,” I try. I like it natural.

  “Oui, oui.” She nods and smiles as she layers on the eyeliner. “Vous regarderez comme Sabrina.”

  I suddenly realize her goal is to make me look as much like Audrey Hepburn as possible. And I’m pretty sure Odette is going for the after version, not the before. Because I remember how the film begins with Audrey/Sabrina as a young fresh-faced girl, who then goes off to Paris, only to return home as a beautiful woman.

  I’m not sure about this dramatic eyeliner and blue eye shadow. And I can tell that Shauna (our regular makeup artist) is highly amused, since she knows how I prefer a light touch. Well, at least makeup washes off. Maybe tomorrow I can look like the before Sabrina version again…well, except for the hair. I’m pretty much stuck with that for awhile.

  I lift my arm to check my watch as Odette does something to my eyebrows. It’s a little past five now. That would be around eight in LA. Probably still a bit early to call and check on Blake. Instead, I close my eyes and silently pray for him again. Please, God, let Blake be okay. Take good care of him. Make him completely well. But even as I mentally say amen I feel a tight, worried knot in the pit of my stomach. What if he’s not okay?

  Chapter 7

  While Paige and I were being pampered and prettified, Fran made a quick dash back to the hotel to pick up some outfits for us. And just as Paige is almost finished in makeup, Fran returns. She gives some quick instructions to our crew and suddenly they are gone.

  “We’re going to do a photo shoot of you girls.” She hands me a garment bag. “Using the Eiffel Tower and Arc de Triomphe as background. The light should be pretty good for the next hour or so. You go ahead and get changed into this and I’ll see if we can hurry your sister along.”

  “Do I get to take photos too?” I ask.

  “Not this time, Erin. This is just two pretty girls in Paris. JJ will get still shots while Alistair and Gordon film the entire thing for the show. Similar to the photo shoot scenes from Funny Face.”

  “Interesting.”

  “It was Paige’s idea, and I think it’s a good one.” She gives me a nudge. “Hurry so we catch the good light—or else we’ll have to do the whole thing tomorrow.”

  Paige and I quickly change and are heading out the door when I notice a couple of familiar faces coming toward us.

  “Eliza and Taylor!” Paige exclaims.

  We barely exchange a greeting with our model friends from New York, and are reminded that they’re here for a fashion show, before Fran herds us toward the waiting car. She shoves her business card toward Taylor. “Give us a call and we’ll catch up with you girls later.” She waves and hops in.

  “I forgot that they were going to be in Paris,” I admit. “What were the odds of running into them like that?”

  “Slim,” Fran tells me. “Maybe we can schedule a little get-together with them before we all meet up again at Dylan Marceau’s show on Friday.”

  “How about four girls on the town?” Paige suggests. “We could do some serious shopping—maybe even include it in one of the episodes.”

  “Or if we got lucky, we might get enough material for a whole episode,” Fran says as she speaks into the audio memo program on her iPhone. “A title for an extra episode: Four Girls on the Town. We do some power shopping at the best boutiques, maybe some friendly fashion competition followed by a lunch. Shoot lots of film.” She puts her phone away and turns back to us. “Now, I want you two to pretend you’re print models for this. Hopefully this will be dual purpose. We’ll have a fun segment in the First Day in Paris episode and we’ll also collect some publicity photos.” She points her finger at me. “And, yes, I know you’re not that comfortable with being center stage, but it’s time to get over it, Erin. You need to cooperate so we can get this. Okay?”

  Now I’m feeling even more nervous and pressured and I’m wondering how the tables got turned so quickly. “But I thought I was supposed to be Camera Girl,” I protest. “That’s what I signed on for.”

  Paige’s brow creases. “You know, she’s got a point, Fran. Why not let Erin have her camera with her and go ahead and take still shots?”

  “But I wanted—”

  “And the crew can get shots of her while she’s taking shots of me,” Paige persists.

  Fran frowns. “But she looks so great. I wanted to get footage and stills of both you girls.”

  “Look,” I say quickly, because I see the camera crew’s van up ahead and I think we’re almost there. “How about if we do both? For starters, I’ll be camera girl and maybe that’ll help me to relax a little. I’ll watch what Paige is doing and suddenly I’ll set my camera down and join her—like, hey, she doesn’t get to have all the fun. How’s that?”

  Fran reaches up to give me a high five. “It sounds perfect. And you don’t even need to really shoot, you can just pretend.” She opens the door. “Okay, now let’s do this, girls.”

  We’re barely out of the car when Alistair is yelling at us to hurry over where they’ve set up on the lawn by the Eiffel Tower. “We need to move fast,”
he tells us. “We only have an hour or so of good photography light left. If we don’t get this today, we’ll have to start over tomorrow.”

  So Paige goes into action, strutting and posing and acting like she’s the hottest thing in town. I’ve got my camera, but I’m shooting real shots. This is the Eiffel Tower, after all; it’s not like I’m going to let this opportunity pass me by. But I also keep my word and after about half an hour of shooting, I hand my camera over to Fran and march over to where Paige is posing.

  “Hey, you look just like Grace Kelly!” I strike what I hope is a stunned pose with one hand on my cheek, like, “Oh my!”

  “Hey, you look just like Audrey Hepburn,” she tosses back at me, striking the same pose.

  Then we really ham it up for the cameras. We speak in French and act totally sophisticated, striking over-the-top poses, which probably look pretty silly. We pull out sunglasses and act like tourists and make nutty comments about the Eiffel Tower and how many pop cans it would take to build another one.

  “I heard there were people who thought this tower was ugly when it first went up,” Paige tells me. “Some wanted it torn down.”

  “Really?” I look up at the structure and shake my head. “I really like it. Maybe architecture is like fashion—one person’s chic is another person’s shabby.” We strike some more poses and I realize this is actually kind of fun. It’s like the cameras aren’t even there. We act like we’re competing for camera time—taking turns striking poses for Alistair, trying to see who’s better, although it’s fairly obvious that Paige is in charge.

  I can tell we’re both pretty tired and probably in need of some serious sleep, and we start getting goofy. We sing the only French song we can think of—Alouette—and then we begin to do a jig to it. Finally we link arms and skip around on the grass like children.

  “Okay,” Fran calls out. “Cut—cut. That’s a wrap.”

  I check my watch to see that it’s past seven—and that means it’s around ten o’clock LA time. I head straight for my phone and while the crew is packing it up and Fran is going over tomorrow’s plan with Alistair and Paige, I call Blake’s number and hope his mom is still fielding his calls. To my surprise, Blake answers in a drowsy-sounding voice.