hallway, encircled by Teddy, Teddy’s four assistants, and five stylists.
I straightened my back (I’m five eight, so taller than Bibi by five inches) and exhaled.
“Ahem. Miss Vasquez?” I attempted.
“Miss Vasquez is busy,” said Teddy, appearing center frame. “Very busy.”
This was quite obviously untrue. Bibi wasn’t busy at all. The people around her were busy. One stylist was using a miniature spray bottle to apply toning liquid to her calves, giving them a warm, buttery texture. Another was using some kind of air gun to apply perfect distress to individual strands of hair. Meanwhile, an assistant held out an iPad upon which Bibi’s horoscope from a supermarket tabloid was displayed on the maximum zoom setting. Bibi was reading it with great interest. She’d clearly noted my arrival, yet nevertheless had enough plausible deniability to ignore me without risking any awkwardness.
“Look, Teddy,” I began, emotionally. “I just need you to know… we all love Bibi.”
“Everyone loves Bibi,” snipped Teddy, now distracted by an e-mail on his phone. As with Bibi, an assistant was holding it out for him. Couldn’t these people do anything for themselves?
“Of course!” I fawned. “But we think she’s, y’know, really, really amazing. And, er, I just want to, er—”
“Hasn’t Len fucked you enough for one day, Bill?” Teddy interrupted, without looking up (the e-mail he was reading had come from Bibi, I could see, with Karl Hurt copied). “You really wanna get fucked again? Why not let the grown-ups handle this.”
Grown-ups? Oh, that was rich.
“I mean, Len sent you over here, right?” Teddy continued, now offering me a full twenty-five percent of his attention. “And he thought you could talk to my client?” He laughed. “Len thought YOU could talk to one of the most famous, successful women alive today? You? With your… boyfriend jeans and hiking shoes? Oh, hilarious.”
That was it: screw these assholes. I was all set to give up and walk away when suddenly, the stylists around Bibi parted, giving me a direct view of the star herself.
Eye contact.
Holy crap: Bibi Vasquez was looking at me.
“Honey,” she said, in a tone that suggested an attempt at warmth. “What is it you wanna talk to me about?”
Silence.
A crippling panic. Then irritation. What is wrong with wearing hiking shoes when you spend sixteen hours a day running around a set under hot studio lighting, especially if you have an abnormal big toe, like I do? Then I made a decision. If Len could bullshit Joey, then I could bullshit Bibi. When in hell, do as the devil does, as they say. Okay, so no one actually says that. But you know what I mean.
“Look, Bibi,” I began. “I just want to say, as both a producer and a fan”—yes, I was going all the way on this—“you’re the biggest thing that has ever happened to this show. Everyone at Icon feels that way, Bibi. And I know for a fact that Joey does, too. But he also feels… well, threatened. You’ve got to remember, he’s an alpha male, Bibi. A rock star. And that makes him want to compete with everyone—even when he’s not even in the same game. He just doesn’t know how to respond to your level of fame and success, Bibi. Or the fact that you’re a woman, a mother… an icon. That’s why we sometimes have to talk him down from the ledge. I mean, you saw what happened today, right? But he’s okay now. He’s ready to go. And all I want to say is—if you’re ready, so are we. We’re ready to go out there and own prime time, Bibi. This is so… amazingly… awesome.”
My bullshit generator had reached maximum capacity. If I didn’t stop talking immediately, it was gonna blow. So I wrapped up my speech with a fake little shudder of excitement, then looked over at Teddy, hoping for some support.
His lower jaw hung open.
“Okay, honey,” said Bibi, as a stylist dabbed at her face with a microscopic lip gloss wand. “You didn’t have to say all that, but you’re sweet. I’m glad Joey is feeling better. He shouldn’t feel threatened. But I understand. Let’s get this over with.”
Back to my hangover:
My head felt like a busy market square after a car-bomb attack. Broken glass everywhere. A high-pitched ringing noise. Smoke damage. At least my phone had stopped playing that Blade Morgan riff. Instead it told me with two dying shudders that a voicemail had been left. Brock, probably. I really needed to be better about returning his calls.