Dazzled, Page 4

  Rhonda raised her eyebrows but I was grateful she didn’t mention my gut’s audible interruption.

  “Sooo,” she said, stringing out the tension. Maybe the woman was a sadist. Maybe she had handcuffs in her drawer – with a basement full of whips and stuff.

  Automatically my eyes sank to the floor. I wished she’d just let the axe fall.

  “Jo-Anne called…” Get on with it. “She was very impressed with you.”

  What? I looked up, thinking I’d misheard.

  “She wants you for the part, Miles, and Lilia is championing you, too. Apparently the chemistry was… how did Jo-Anne put it… sizzling.”

  I stared at her open-mouthed. Is this a joke?

  “There’s just one problem…”

  Oh, here it comes.

  “The studio heads still need some convincing. They want to make sure you can sell the look. You know, clean cut – angelic.”

  She rolled her eyes when she saw nothing but a blank expression on my face.

  “Jesus, Miles! You’re scruffy, your hair’s a mess, your eyebrows need plucking, your teeth are obviously British, you’re gonna have to start working out and damn it, stop chewing your nails!”

  What? Crap! Was I?

  “Sorry,” I mumbled. God, I sounded pathetic. I think she took pity on me because she stopped yelling.

  “So, the plan is to get you suited, booted and beautiful, okay? But they liked the fact you’re pale. After all, whoever heard of an angel with a tan?”

  Yeah, and whoever heard of an angel with plucked eyebrows?

  “I’ve booked you in at a beauty salon the agency uses. They’ll take care of you.”

  I didn’t like the expression on her face – it all sounded… painful.

  “The car will be here to pick you up in 10 minutes. After the salon, I’m sending you to Bradley, my personal shopper. He’ll dress you…”

  Rhonda fixed me with her gimlet eye.

  “This will all come out of your future salary, so you’d better nail this, baby.” She softened slightly. “Later, you’ll be meeting the studio heads, casually, of course, at an event dinner – the Metron Awards. I’ll be there.”

  Then she handed me a folder.

  “This,” she said, slapping the flat of her hand onto the desk between us, “this is a list of the studio heads. Study their faces – learn their names. There’ll be a test later.” She frowned at the folder, then at me. “Don’t fuck up.”

  And I was dismissed.

  This was so bizarre. I didn’t know what to make of it all. I guessed I should go with the flow… like I really had a choice… and Rhonda was bloody intimidating. Even more so than Melody, and she was a double-hard, take-no-prisoners bitch-on-wheels.

  The car – my car, turned out to be a flashy four-by-four… oh, sorry, SUV. The driver was a tall, thin black guy with hair graying at the temples. He was wearing a uniform. I mean seriously, jacket, peaked cap – the whole thing made me feel like an impostor. The driver gazed at me coolly when I automatically went to sit in the front passenger seat, and patiently held open one of the rear doors.

  “Perhaps you’d be more comfortable in the back, sir, where there’s more room.”

  Sir?!

  God, this was embarrassing.

  I slid into the back seat as he suggested – instructed – and stared out of the window. Nobody seemed to walk anywhere, and I realized that it was probably because there were hardly any pavements. I wasn’t used to being driven either. There wasn’t much point driving in London, in my opinion, what with the congestion charge, council permit parking fees, and the cost of petrol. I hadn’t even bothered to take my driving test – mostly because I couldn’t afford the lessons. At home I had an Oyster card for traveling on the Tube and buses or, if I wasn’t working, which was most of the time, I saved money by walking. You see a lot more of a city when you travel by foot, and I knew all the alleyways and shortcuts in London. Out here, I was lost. I had no sense of direction, no sense of how LA fit together as a city – it seemed all so strung out. A bit like the people.

  The buses even carried adverts for the latest must-have plastic surgery. What was this place?

  I was feeling tense again. I needed music but my iPod had died. Nervously, I glanced at the driver.

  “Er… would you mind putting the radio on, please?”

  “Yes, sir. What would you like to listen to? The news?”

  “No, not news. Music… are there any good jazz stations?”

  “You like jazz, sir?”

  I could guess what he was thinking: white boy likes jazz?

  “Yeah, I do.”

  “Hmm…”

  I watched him punch buttons on the car stereo.

  “Do you like jazz?”

  His eyes met mine in the rear view mirror.

  “Brought up with it. Ma daddy played with Chet Baker and Stan Getz.”

  No bleedin’ way! “You’re kidding!”

  “No, sir. ‘It could happen to you’.”

  “Wow!” This place was amazing! “Do you play?”

  “Naw. Talent skipped a generation. You?”

  “Alto sax. But I’m no Everette Harp.”

  He smiled at me and shook his head. “Bit on the pale side for that, son.”

  Then he pushed another button and the surround sound speakers bathed me in music. I recognized the tune: Brubeck’s ‘Take Five’. And I started to relax, my fingers drumming to the music. I opened my eyes and saw the driver watching me. His eyes crinkled slightly and I thought he was smiling. I smiled back and he turned up the volume.

  “Name’s Earl,” he said.

  “I’m Miles. Good to meet you, Earl.”

  “Miles, huh? That’s a fine name, boy.”

  “Thanks. Named after Miles Davis.”

  “You don’t say!” he laughed.

  Cocooned in the music, I leaned back. Maybe today wouldn’t be so bad.

  Or maybe it would be exactly as bad as I was expecting. The car pulled up in front of a swanky beauty salon. I stared at it in horror. Through the lightly tinted window I could see a row of helmet-haired women getting their claws filed. Surely this couldn’t be the place?!

  I realized Earl was watching me, his expression sympathetic.

  “Here?” I managed to croak.

  He nodded.

  “Oh, shit!”

  That made him smile broadly. “I’ll pick you up in two hours, sir.”

  Two hours?! What the fuck were they going to do to me for two whole hours?

  Earl started to get out of the car and I realized he was about to open the door for me. Hurriedly, I flung the door open and almost fell onto the street. I saw him cough and I knew he was trying not to laugh. I’d be laughing if I were him; but I was me, and my mouth was dry with terror.

  Earl watched as I walked slowly toward the salon’s entrance. Was this how prisoners felt, walking to their execution?

  A scarily blonde woman of about fifty was sitting at the reception desk, dressed in a navy blue uniform. If she hadn’t been so full of Botox, her eyebrows would have gone through the roof as she glanced up and saw me. She gathered her wits more quickly than I did.

  “How may I help you this morning, sir?”

  “Er… Rhonda… er Miss Weitz… er… she booked me…I’m…”

  “Mr. Stephens?”

  I nodded, suddenly mute.

  “Ms Weitz’s assistant called ahead. My name is Casey. If you’ll follow me, Mr. Stephens, our Executive Colorist, Sonia, will be with you shortly.”

  Color? Oh yeah. They didn’t like the auburn. Neither did I, much, but I had just planned on letting it grow out or shaving it off.

  She directed me to a plush, leather bench seat.

  Another woman in the same navy uniform approached me. She was thin, with bony shoulders, skinny tits, and shiny dark brown hair.

  “Hi there, I’m Sonia. How are you today, Mr. Stephens?”

  Before I could reply she was running her f
ingers through my hair with a critical eye. She shook her head. People seemed to do that a lot around me.

  “Well, I’m going to have to strip out this color first, Mr. Stephens, before I can put the blond in.”

  “Blond?”

  “Yes. That’s the instruction Ms Weitz has given. Between light blond and gold blond.” She hesitated for the first time. “I understand it’s for a film role?”

  “Er, yes, I guess. Okay, then.”

  She smiled. “Right! I’ll go mix the colors. Can we offer you a beverage? We have a range of herbal teas…”

  I noticed she dropped the ‘h’ on herbal. It sounded foreign, very sexy.

  “…or skinny latte, decaffeinated Americano, mineral water – still and sparkling, freshly squeezed pomegranate juice…”

  Bloody hell. It was all so healthy. It made me want to ask for a double cheeseburger, fries and enough caffeine to stun a bull elephant. I settled for water.

  I was so pathetic.

  Ninety minutes later, I’d been dyed, manicured, shaved and had my eyebrows threaded and waxed. God knows how women put up with having their legs waxed. It was uncomfortable, painful even. My eyelids were pink and I looked kind of startled. I had an American girlfriend once who’d had a Brazilian: it was… interesting. My mind drifted, wondering why women would want to have their pubes ripped out using hot wax… even though the result was… an experience. Sensual, but a bit weird; I mean, she was a grown woman, after all. But this was America and things were very different… as I was learning.

  The manicure was okay and my nails were clean, even, and very shiny. And I’d definitely have that wet shave again – the hot towels felt amazing.

  I was hustled to the sink for the hair dye – or was it bleach – to be washed out by Paulo. Yet another navy-uniformed staff member. Paulo was short, über-trendy and ultra gay. From my peripheral vision I could see him running his eyes over my scruffy clothes. For once, I felt irritated rather than intimidated. I didn’t say anything – the guy was only doing his job. Sort of. Instead my irritation was aimed at Rhonda. I knew I wasn’t being fair. But I was royally pissed off.

  Paulo yakked away but I didn’t have to do much more than mumble ‘yes’ or ‘no’ at intervals.

  Then I was wheeled over to Raquel, the stylist. I looked in the mirror and blinked, shocked.

  Jesus! My hair hadn’t been that fair since I was about five years old. It looked… odd.

  “Oh! That is such a fun color on you!” said Raquel, beaming.

  I grunted. I couldn’t see what was fun about it – I looked gayer than Paulo.

  I closed my eyes and let her get on with it. I had no idea what she was going to do and I was past caring. I thought I was having an out-of-body experience and I still felt jet-lagged.

  Thirty minutes later I was done. At last. I didn’t recognize myself in the mirror. I’d got used to the auburn. My hair was short at the back and sides and spiky on top. She’d used a ton of hair gel.

  I wanted to slink out the door but to my utter horror, all the staff gathered around and applauded.

  “Oh, he looks so cute!” gushed Paulo, and kissed me on both cheeks. Sonia looked like she was about to cry. Happy tears, I hoped.

  Was I supposed to make a speech?

  “Thanks,” I muttered.

  “Have fun tonight!” said Raquel.

  “Come back and see us soon,” called Paulo.

  I bolted for the door. Earl was waiting. His expression was carefully blank but I could tell he was amused. I climbed into the car wearily. I could see he was studying me in the mirror.

  “How you doin’, son?”

  “Wishing I’d stuck to playing sax, Earl.”

  He nodded solemnly. “Ain’t it the case.”

  Next stop was a large department store. I was directed up to the personal shopping reception to ‘await Bradley’s assistance’.

  I was expecting another version of Paulo, but Bradley was a guy in his late fifties. Definitely gay but with a quiet, professional air.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Stephens. How are you today?”

  That was one of the strange things I’d noticed about Americans: in one way they were much more relaxed about stuff than we were, but in another, so much more formal.

  “Yeah, good, I think. Thanks.”

  It was a lie. I felt like shit, despite the primping and preening at the salon.

  Bradley raised an eyebrow, but didn’t comment.

  “So, I understand from Ms Weitz that you’ll be requiring a suit and accouterments for an event dinner tonight?”

  Accouterments? What the fuck were they?

  “Yeah, that’s what she told me, too.”

  I tried to keep the censure out of my voice; after all, everything Rhonda was doing was for my benefit. I was just feeling a bit like a puppet – someone pulled a string and I danced to their tune. It was uncomfortable.

  “If I may take your measurements, I’ll bring some suits and shirts for you to try.”

  Bradley did his thing with the tape measure and left me brooding over a glass of sparkling water and orange juice. I could have had champagne, but my head was already fuzzy enough. I still hadn’t eaten anything – I was seriously starving.

  He arrived back with half a dozen suits in a variety of colors including – bloody hell – burgundy. He had to be kidding!

  “Any preference as to color, Mr. Stephens?”

  “My name’s Miles.”

  He hesitated then smiled more naturally. “Miles.”

  “Well, er… black… or gray…”

  “Classic colors.”

  “I guess.”

  He handed me the first choice: a suit in charcoal gray, a simple white shirt and pewter tie. It seemed fine to me but Bradley insisted I try everything he’d brought over.

  An hour later I emerged, suited and booted. Bradley beamed at me.

  “Your driver is outside with Ms Weitz, sir – Miles. Have a good evening.”

  Showtime.

  Rhonda’s eyes narrowed as she ran her razor gaze up and down me. I’d seen the same expression on one of the raptors in Jurassic Park. But she nodded. I’d passed the test.

  “You clean up good, Miles,” she said, somewhat grudgingly. “Now, try to keep your feet out of your mouth this evening. In fact, try not to talk at all.”

  “I’m not that bad, Rhonda!” I bleated.

  “Miles, just don’t fuck up.”

  Her voice was more than a warning – she was friggin’ scary.

  The car stopped at an expensive-looking hotel, complete with palm trees and liveried doorman.

  “This is where we pick up Lilia and then you both change to the limo,” said Rhonda, daring me to argue. “We want the studio bosses to see how good you kids look together.”

  It was the first time anyone had mentioned that Lilia was going to be there. Or that there was going to be a limo. I should have been excited but I reminded myself it was just another part of the audition – not a date.

  Rhonda escorted me into the hotel, greeting the doorman by name.

  “Wait,” she barked at me, pointing at a low chair next to a potted plant.

  Yeah, I can sit up and beg, too! Christ!

  She was gone for what seemed an interminable length of time. I caught myself chewing on a nail out of boredom. So much for the manicure.

  “Hi there!”

  I looked up, and a beautiful woman with short, sleek red hair was smiling down at me.

  “Great to see you again!”

  I gaped at her. “Er…”

  “Didn’t we meet at CJ’s party? He throws the best parties!”

  I stood up awkwardly. “Er, sorry, no. I don’t think so.”

  “Oh, you’re British! I just love British accents! They’re so sexy! I’m Sabena, by the way.”

  She held out a hand with long, square nails that look like they could hook out an eyeball from ten yards.

  “Miles. Er, pleased to meet you.”


  “Well, Miles, my date hasn’t shown so it looks like I’ve been stood up. Do you want to buy me a drink?”

  God, she was gorgeous!

  “I’d love to, but…”

  “Great! I’ll have a Cosmopolitan.”

  “Miles! What the fuck are you doing?”

  Rhonda was bearing down on me – it wasn’t a pretty sight. Automatically, I took a step back.

  “Oh, sorry, I didn’t realize you were with your grandmother!” said Sabena, rather waspishly. “You really should have said you were working – time is money, you know.”

  I watched, bemused, as she strolled away, flashing an almost indecent amount of thigh. My dick woke up.

  Down boy.

  Rhonda stared at me, her arms folded. “Would you like to explain what’s going on, Miles?”

  Suddenly, I didn’t have a problem with a trouser tent.

  Reluctantly, I turned my gaze from Sabena’s mesmerizing legs and blinked guiltily. “Search me, Rhonda. I have no fucking clue what’s going on.”

  I ran my hands through my hair in exasperation and was relieved to see her smile.

  “Well, Miles, she was a hooker.”

  Uh oh. Hadn’t expected that.

  “But… but she was beautiful!”

  Rhonda sighed. “They wouldn’t let her into a classy joint like this looking like a streetwalker, now would they? And by the way, when I arrived, she thought you were my rent boy.”

  What the fuck?!

  She smirked at me. Bitch.

  I was distracted as a soft crescendo of voices rippled across the lobby: Lilia had made her entrance. She glided across the floor, stunning in a floor length, emerald green gown, and as she passed whispers followed her like a breeze through a reed bed.

  “Hello again,” she said, softly.

  “Er, hi.”

  Rhonda trod on my foot hard. I took that to mean that she wanted me to say something else. I just didn’t know what. Or, maybe…?

  “You look nice,” I stuttered, trying to smile at Lilia.

  I heard Rhonda’s groan beside me.

  “You look stunning, Lilia, as always.” Rhonda filled in the gaps of my dismal Hollywood etiquette.

  “Why, thank you, Rhonda. Always lovely to see you.”

  They air-kissed while I tugged at my collar.

  “Yeah, you look great, Lilia. Very… green.”