admit it, slipping on my sunglasses as if that might hide the fact that I’d clearly just fallen off the turnip truck.
Small-town do-it-yourselfer who eats like a lumberjack wasn’t exactly the trend du jour in Hollywood. A trust fund and a Pygmy Chihuahua in my purse would have made a far better impression.
I didn’t bother to ask for the extra side of mayonnaise I’d ordered to dip my French fries into, certain Corinne would have tossed her undressed salad or, at the very least, mocked the idea of mixing mayo and ketchup to fatten up an already mega-greasy deep-fried potato.
After lunch, Lucy returned with hair blown out and make-up redone, looking nearly perfect. She snatched one of my left-over French fries.
“You must be the last female producer in Los Angeles who actually eats this crap,” she said, stuffing it in her mouth. “Christ, that’s foul.” She practically licked her fingers. “But strangely irresistible.” She winked and smiled.
I couldn’t help but be intensely curious about her. Never before had I met someone so casual about her body and so difficult about everything else, and utterly gorgeous, of course. She was how I imagined the ever iconic Madonna to be: powerful, flawless, sharp, magnetic, sarcastic, and rude. And the only woman I knew who could comfortably drop trow in front of a crew of ten.
“Must be nice to look like that, eh?” whispered Toni, as if reading my thoughts.
“No kidding,” I replied. “But is it all, like, her bod? Her boobs—are they. . .?”
Though she was for real—there was no airbrush or “Navajo rug” filter between my eyes and Lucy’s person—she did appear a little molded: breasts so precisely shaped (cantaloupe firm and round), and nipples pointing to the sky, like a dolphin begging for a sardine.
“They’re real,” Lucy said, squeezing her tit and staring at me.
Everybody laughed. My face turned six shades of red. It took me a moment to realize she was joking.
“Okay, back to one, everybody,” Corinne said, trying to herd in the crew. “Just a few more lines and we can wrap for the day!”
By five o’clock, we had shot six tapes with nine wardrobe changes. Lucy cracked a bottle of Argyle sparkler to celebrate our little achievement and Corinne’s big promotion.
“This calls for a real party,” Lucy said, reaching for her phone. “I’m making us a reservation at Rebecca’s!”
“That’s my girl.” Corinne high-fived Lucy and Rose. “Only the number one chill spot in Santa Monica. Looks like those boobs are good for more than just a photo shoot.”
Everyone giggled.
“We’re in!” Lucy said, slamming down the phone and clapping her hands enthusiastically. “Corinne, you can get ready here. Wear something of mine.”
Like yippy schoolgirls, Lucy and Corinne ran to the bedroom to try on clothes. Rose trailed behind obediently. The rest of the crew quickly chugged down their wine and blazed home to change in preparation for the big night. Which left Toni and I alone on the couch sipping fizzy Chardonnay.
“I’ve got some gloss and eye-liner in my purse,” Toni said.
“I could use a touch-up.” I followed Toni into the powder room.
Truth be told, I could have used more than a touch-up. I was tired. And the first thing sacrificed in favor of early morning zzz’s had been my usual primping ritual. So my hair was pulled into a nape-of-the-neck ponytail that looked like a little yellow buffer brush, and yesterday’s make-up featured an early morning coat of mascara and bronzer that had long since flaked away. Thankfully, youth was still on my side.
“How ‘bout these dark circles?” I said, studying my reflection in the mirror. “Nerves, I guess. Just hoping I’ll do a good job.”
“You look great.” Toni smiled through her pout as she piled on the lip gloss. “And you’re doing a fine job.”
Toni was too good to be a PA, TV’s entry-level grunt job. She was a “take no-crap” type with a confidence that belied her years. I instantly liked her. On Wednesday, she’d driven us on a location scout. In rush-hour traffic, halfway down Wilshire Boulevard, she did a U-ball near the 405 underpass, across four lanes of traffic, in a maneuver that would have awed Danica Patrick. The fact she did it with me in the car made it even ballsier.
“Now these are real,” she said indifferently, pulling her breasts up from her bra, only not for cleavage, but for comfort.
“I know,” I giggled, fluffing my bangs, a hint of pride that this one hadn’t gotten past me. “I can tell.”