Hollywood Ever After (Red Carpet 1)

By seven-forty-six, I sat, exhausted, in a limo in LA, going to a red carpet premiere. I was beginning to wonder if this was a hallucination or one hell of a super-realistic dream. Shannon seemed oblivious to my dazed state, which was probably for the best. This was a pretty big deal for her, so my supportive smile was pasted in place as Shannon explained what tonight’s fanfare was about.

Shannon’s studio was promoting its new movie, her first real assistant director job. She had to help with PR. Not on the same level as the stars or the director, but she was expected to be there. She was pretty excited and very nervous. Somehow she thought I’d help her deal with that, which was why I’d reconciled myself to enduring the evening. My intent had been to blend into the background—a plan Shannon seemed determined to foil.

“God, you look so amazing!” she said.

I shook my head.

She held her phone up and aimed, clicking a picture. “I’m going to send a picture of you to Natalie.”

“I guess you can, since you got her the phone.” I shot her a look. Shannon had tried to get my daughter a phone when she turned nine, which had

been ridiculous. Now, four years later, I thought the phone was a pretty good idea.

“She’s thirteen, Claire. Thirteen-year-olds have cell phones. I know where you live. Even kids there have cell phones.” She took another picture with a muttered “Smile” before she answered an incoming call.

I sat, trying to calm my nerves as we drove to the cinema. Shannon’s afternoon of beautification had been glorious, no way to deny it. I’d been exfoliated and moisturized, massaged and plucked. I had no idea my hair could be so straight. I ran a hand over the soft tresses, distracted by their uncharacteristic smoothness. There was something unexpectedly seductive about the feel of my hair against my almost bare back—silk against skin.

Shopping had been another matter. Shannon had accompanied me into the dressing room and the horror began.

“Claire. You cannot be serious.” She’d stared at my white cotton utilitarian bra and underwear. “Those are so sad! We’re getting you some lingerie that fits.”

“I don’t wear lingerie, Shannon. I wear underwear.” And yes, they were pathetic.

“With this bod? You’ve got to try new things. Live a little. Try some ridiculously indecent and sexy stuff. Just to see.”

And I’d tried on lingerie, evening attire, pajamas, shoes, pretty much anything Shannon could find that was in my size.

Now here I was, wearing a lacy red thong and no bra under my teeny tiny dress, wobbling on ridiculously high strappy stilettos. You’re not going with the flow. Where was my gratitude? It had been a totally new—and not unpleasant—experience. I smoothed my skirt over my thighs again.

“Stop fidgeting,” she said. “You look fantastic!”

“Shannon, I’ve never worn anything remotely like this. Ever. I’m not sure I’m comfortable going out with so little on.” I held my arms out to encompass my complete transformation.

“Well, happy birthday!” She smiled. “Thirty-five looks good on you, girl.”

Shannon and the stylist, Francesca, had been delighted by the results. My hair had been colored, straightened, primped, and arrayed to look windblown. My eyes and lips were very dark and brooding, while my skin looked creamy and soft. I’d stared at my reflection in the salon mirror, slightly awed. I didn’t look like me, really, but I looked great. I stayed overwhelmed and stunned for the entire process. Normally I took thirty minutes to get ready, tops.

I wasn’t sure which I should worry about more: falling on these heels or having a wardrobe malfunction with my dress. The dress was backless, falling into a low cowl at the very base of my spine. I felt like a sudden cool wind could expose my butt—Shannon had assured me it was there, covered, and looked terrific—to the world, while the front of the dress plunged down low enough to provide a tempting peek at my breasts. All in all, Shannon and the saleslady had “oohed” and “aahed” so much, and I’d been so done with shopping, that I’d let them pick. Now I seriously regretted that decision.

When the limo stopped, the door opened and Shannon emerged to a throng of screams.

I took a deep breath and clung to the driver’s hand as he helped me out of the car. My ankles teetered a bit on my new spiky heels. Shannon had a cruel sense of humor about appropriate footwear. I wobbled a bit before I took a cautious step toward Shannon, my steps measured and small.

I was amazed. As much of a cinematic junkie as I was—and I definitely was—the lights, the screams, the people were more than I could have imagined. The flashes were momentarily blinding and the noise was completely deafening, a loud roar of unending squeals. I made my way slowly behind Shannon. I was introduced to Shannon’s assistant, Amy Mayes. Amy smiled and motioned me to her side, so that Shannon could do all the talking.

I let my eyes wander as Shannon answered several questions effortlessly.

“So excited. Just thrilled,” she was saying. “I’m just so happy to have been a part of this project. This film was such fun! We know it’s going to do well.” Amy barely tapped Shannon’s elbow—I assumed that was the signal to move on. Shannon thanked the reporter and moved a few feet down the carpet, smiling as the camera flashes continued.

I blinked in an attempt to adjust to the rapid bursts of white light.

I stumbled on a cord and tipped back, mortified. To fall, on the red carpet? I’d be forever humiliated.

Two large hands caught me from behind.

“Thank you.” I blushed as I looked back at my rescuer.

“All right?” my savior asked with a clearly enunciated British accent.