“You’re funny,” scowled Gaynor, not amused. “I don’t care how the date goes; I care how beautiful you look in the tabloids next week. So, we go get a little waxing, we get some hair and makeup and nails, and we swing by a showroom to dress you sexy but not too sexy. Then we have a little meeting with your loco homo and you and I get in the limo and pick up Paul. Don’t worry.” She paused. “I won’t make you stay through the whole movie. We can sneak out.”
“Oh, okay,” smiled Nicola, relieved that Gaynor’s we seemed to indicate that she’d be chaperoning them all night. Paul Stroud had been her absolute obsession when she was eighteen, when he starred on that CW show about time-traveling superheroes. She hadn’t seen too many of his action movies, but hell, she was going to be his red carpet date. She wanted to tell her mother. “This should be fun. When are we leaving?”
“Right now, mi amor. Please, don’t get your keys, I will drive. Also, I’m going to ask them to move your parking space; it doesn’t look good to have that thing you drive, that burro wagon, next to my AMG.”
Nicola rolled her eyes and followed Gaynor toward the door.
“Gaynor, who reps Seamus O’Riordan?”
Gaynor visibly huffed as she turned.
“Now what?”
“Nothing. I was just wondering who his publicist was.”
“Well, it’s Crystal; what the fuck does she want now?”
Of fucking course it is, thought Nicola.
“Oh, no reason, I just met him at Amber’s party last night, and he kind of hit on me.”
“Finally, a superstar tries to fuck you!” Gaynor crowed, pointing to the office door, expecting Nicola to lock it behind them. “Welcome to LA, big deal. Now let’s go get your culo into shape.”
CHAPTER 7
THE GIRL IN HER BEDROOM mirror did not look like Nicola. That girl was wearing a full-length Gianni Versace couture sheath in deep purple silk, with a strap of emerald across the chest. Her arms were bare, but her neckline sat modestly just below her collarbones. That girl’s chestnut hair was upswept, with just one tangle of curls falling beside her right eye. That girl, Nicola had to admit, was beautiful. It just wasn’t her.
She had hoped for something a tiny bit sexier, a bit more cleavage, but Gaynor had been firm about it.
“It’s your first time out, we can’t risk a nipple, and also, Paul has a good imagination; let him use it,” she had admonished several hours earlier, as they pawed through the racks of potential dresses with one of her army of stylists.
She turned and made sure that the unforgivingly tight dress did not show any evidence of her thong. She slipped into another pair of loaned Louboutins—silver slingbacks that she had triple taped the soles of—and took a deep breath.
“Better luck this time…,” she told herself in the mirror. She took a full-length selfie in the mirror and sent it in a group chat to Billy and Kara.
Her phone dinged. It was Gaynor. She was waiting out front. Grabbing an impossibly tiny purse that the stylist assured her retailed for over six thousand dollars, Nicola put her driver’s license, some folded twenties, and her apartment key inside, filling it to capacity. She pulled the door closed behind her and headed right along the walkway out to the street. An old Russian man on a balcony just up from hers whistled.
An SUV like an armored tank, with midnight-blackened windows, sat at the curb, blocking half the street. A window buzzed down and Gaynor’s head appeared. She lowered her oversize sunglasses and gave Nicola’s apartment building a slow up-and-down gaze.
“So, this is where you … live?” she asked, barely able to hide her disgust.
“Is it the address I gave you?” Nicola retorted.
“Mija, I don’t remember, and don’t make me bother the poor driver right now; he’s busy protecting this car from thieves. Please get in.”
Nicola walked around the car and got in, sliding onto the seat and trying to smooth her dress out beneath her.
“Why did you make me get satin?” she asked as she buckled her seat belt. She looked at Gaynor, clad in her usual publicist’s armor of black pants and jacket with a red shirt. She had a coke spoon on a chain around her neck, and a solid gold band held her hair back.
“Psh,” sniffed Gaynor. “It photographs perfectly and nobody’s going to be looking at your ass. Drive, Darell,” she commanded. “Next stop, Paul’s house, the Mulholland address. Gracias!”
The hulking SUV headed up into the Hollywood Hills, the switches and curves of Laurel Canyon making Nicola vaguely carsick. She stopped checking her e-mail and put her phone into her purse, only to find that it now wouldn’t close.