“We both suck so hard at makeup. She’d save us from our messy bun catastrophes.”
Truer words have never been spoken. Both Samantha and I are completely inept at doing our own hair and makeup, and having a goddess like Maureen around to make sure we looked pretty would be a dream come true.
“Amen, sister. A-freaking-men.”
Obviously, that’s a little over the top for my standards, and I shall resort to my old ways of watching YouTube makeup tutorials—and failing miserably in my attempts at the illustrious smoky eye—in my free time.
“All right, next order of business is to get you some food,” she says, diving straight into assistant mode. “Then, you should have about an hour to wind down before you have to be on set again at two.”
“No radio interviews?” I ask, and she flashes a grin in my direction.
“Not a single one.”
A huge sigh of relief escapes my lungs. “Oh, thank everything.”
Sam just giggles, and I follow her lead into the big white tent set up outside one of the studio sets.
“Why don’t you sit down right here, and I’ll grab you something.” She leads me toward an empty table in the center of the room, and I plop my ass down without complaint. “What sounds good, Bird?”
A yawn escapes my lips, and I giggle. “Coffee.”
She smirks. “And what else?”
I yawn again. “Two coffees.”
“Food, Birdie,” she remarks and rolls her eyes. “What do you want to eat? A bagel? A sandwich? Some pasta? They have pretty much everything you can think of.”
Considering it’s almost noon, I’ve been up since four this morning, and I’ve yet to eat anything of substance since the day started, I should be hungry. But should is the operative word. Ever since last night, when I realized my afternoon shoot would involve the dreaded Scene 33, my stomach has been a mess.
The freaking sex scene between Arizona and Cal.
“Honestly, Sam, I’m not that hungry.”
She narrows her eyes at me. “You have to eat something.”
“I’m eating right now,” I retort and hold up the bag of trail mix toward her. “See?” I pop two more M&M’s into my mouth and grin.
“That doesn’t count.” She rolls her eyes. “I’m talking about actual food, Birdie.”
“Fine.” I groan. “Just get me something light, then.”
“How about a bagel with some fruit?”
I want to say hell no, but in the name of keeping the peace, I mutter, “Sure. Sounds peachy.”
My assistant turns on her heel and heads out on her food search, and I take the time to pull my phone out of her purse that’s sitting on the table and scroll through my notifications.
Billie: OB-GYN says my vagina is looking stellar. Holding down the baby fortress as it should and everything. A model seven-month pregnant woman, I am.
I’m so glad the appointment went well, but the reminder that I still have to wait to find out if I’m having a niece or nephew until the baby is born is beyond dissatisfying. Ugh. Just tell me if it’s a boy or girl already!
I keep scrolling to a text from Rocky with a link to a comical story about my costar Tawny Rose. Apparently, the diva showed her whole ass on social media the other day—bitching about how difficult it is for a woman like her in show business, and lots and lots of people had things to say about it.
After snorting a couple times at the writer’s metaphorical use of the words “full moon,” I move out of my message folder and into my email.
The two top spots in my inbox are filled by my manager Neil with endorsement proposals from a makeup company and a famous fashion designer wanting me to be the face of their fall line.
And an email from my publicist Candy, asking me if I would like her to put out a statement regarding Tawny Rose’s social media meltdown, sits just below that. Apparently, quite a few magazines and media sources have reached out for my comments. Not happening. The evil part of me would kind of love to let the world know just how difficult that woman makes things for everyone else, but the rational side of me knows, in this case, it’s best to keep my opinions to myself. Those stories aren’t mine to tell.
“Well, hello,” a too-familiar voice says near my ear, and I lift my eyes from the screen of my phone to find Andrew standing beside my chair, grinning down at me. “How are you doing on this fine day, sweetheart?”