the entire mini-bar and decided to have a catnap while we waited in the lobby.
Normally, I would have snatched the opportunity for some alone time with Grant, but with his mega-chatty camera assist and his audio mixer attached to his hip, three was definitely not company.
The dress was hideous, but in an exotic sort of way, like a Madagascan Aye-aye or a platypus. The neck was a wreath of silver twigs with amethyst jewels speckling like tiny rosebuds. Sparkling branches sprawled across her chest like skinny, white-witch fingers. The actual dress, which had yet to connect to the branches, was made of hybrid silk that looked spun by the spider herself, with diamonds connecting the intricate spokes and an infinite number of orbs of stupefying detail. But crazier than that was Dagmar’s absolute lack of appreciation for the craftsmanship and infernal creativity that had gone into making something so exceptionally chic.
“The designer has decided to come back to meet you,” the preppy French girl explained with a thick accent. “Can I get you a drink while you wait?”
Dagmar slumped onto her britches. “No, I need to nap. Tell him to hurry.”
I gave Grant the “cut” sign and motioned for him to follow me into the common room. Dagmar needed some time alone.
Dominic was still hanging out with the glow-girls and tossing back glasses of 300 bucks a bottle Champagne, another production expense that, instead of being dumped down his throat like piss water, could have gone to improving our craft service snacks. The Lay’s potato chips and Heath bars, flown in bulk from the U.S. mainland, were not cutting it anymore.
Grant exited the room looking as if he was in agony and motioned for his assistant to grab the camera from him. He began kneading his shoulder with his opposite hand and cringed from the pain of carrying 35 pounds on his shoulder for the last five weeks. Before I could leap obediently from my stark white rubber space chair to help him, someone beat me to it.
“You in pain, man?” Dominic asked Grant, looking awfully snug in Grant’s personal space.
“Yeah, it’s my shoulder. I’ve been operating eight days straight now, so it’s getting kind of worked,” Grant said, sounding hunkier than ever, even as he whined.
Apparently, I wasn’t the only one who thought so.
“Really? Well, let me take a crack at it.” Dominic looked earnest.
And before Grant could get a word in, Dominic dug his thumbs into Grant’s shoulder blades for a little boy-on-boy massage.
“Dude, that’s okay.” Grant glanced at me uncomfortably, with one of those “help-me” looks. “It’s not that bad. I just need to—”
“No, seriously, I’m good at this. Relax. You American boys— you’re so uptight.” Dominic kept massaging, his accent coming on thick.
Dominic was no American boy. He was some rich Italian kid linked in some way to royalty. How exactly? No one really cared. All that mattered was that he was dating Dagmar, and that it could have been serious—marriage serious. That was it. This show wasn’t about history or depth or anything even remotely intelligent. It was, as Karl had put it, “a voyeuristic sideshow for the drooling masses.” And I was just doing my job.
Still on break, and after a few minutes of what actually looked to be semi-therapeutic, Grant relaxed. So did the rest of us. I was thinking I could use a massage, too. Where do I line up? Then, just as all of us were getting comfortable with the fact that Dominic was trying to help our dear, sweet, handsome hunk of a cameraman, Dominic whispered something into Grant’s ear. Slowly, and ever so carefully, his hand drifted down, down, down, and he goosed Grant. Gross!
“Fuck you, dude,” Grant said. Pushing Dominic into a rack of shoes, our camera man seemed poised for a knock-down drag-him-out session with Bi-Boy.
“Hey, man, it’s all good,” Dominic said, brushing it all off with a nervous giggle. “You American men are so square.”
He couldn’t decide whether to be his signature smug self, or frightened for what scraps would soon remain of his manhood. Grant tightened his fist and reached back, ready to deliver a grand sacking. I shut my eyes out of fear for Dominic, but secretly hoped Grant would pound the bejeweled crap out of him. Just then, Princess Dagmar came barreling out of the change room with the $90,000 dress around her ankles, luminous branches draped around her neck, and a flesh-colored panty in between. She took one look at the scene