Sugar Blossom?” It was Danny. “I have great news. Karl wants you to produce the wedding! I’ll be supervising to make sure everything’s perfect! I’m so excited.”
Supervising?
“What wedding? How did. . .? Are you. . .?”
Danny, please tell me you’re not suddenly my boss!
I cleared my throat in an attempt to understand. “So, wait. . .” I was about to launch into the whole supervising thing. Then it dawned on me.
“Dagmar and Dominic are still Quitsville, right?”
“Honey,” he said condescendingly, “Sally and Matt. The assistants. One of the surveillance guys, in an act of brilliance, recorded them the entire month in France. We’ve got reams of footage of the little lovebirds together. So Karl persuaded Matt to propose to Sally, and now the network wants to pay for their wedding. It’s a great twist for our show. We have our happy ending. It’s the big payoff.”
“What?”
“Yeah, the network saw our killer surveillance footage and dished out a million dollars for the wedding. For. . . the. . . rights! It’s going to be a two-hour special that airs after our last episode.”
“A million dollars?” I said, still stumbling over my words. I was completely floored. “Two-hour special?”
First of all, it was my “act of brilliance” that had recorded the two little lovebirds. Second, who gets a million dollars and two hours of primetime to tie the knot just for showing up? I wanted to say all this, but nothing came out.
“Yes, my little French Fry. Those two assistants are now millionaires, and soon to be famous millionaires at that. CRP-TV believes that, once the Dagmar show is a hit, people will be fawning all over their two assistants. They’re going to steal the show! Karl says the various networks will come to blows over the chance to air their wedding. Now, no one can touch it. It’s all ours. Anyhoo, babe, are you in?”
“Uh, well, I just, I’m not. . .” I couldn’t. Only in Hollywood could these things happen: a glitzy over-the-top wedding for two former assistants, and Danny, suddenly, my SUPERVISING PRODUCER!
“Sweet Cheeks, whaddya say?” Danny whined. “I need an answer today!”
The idea of Danny as my boss made rubbing balsa wood up and down my naked chest sound pleasant. But somehow, I said yes. My student loan wasn’t about to pay itself off.
“Peachy. Can’t wait!”
Click.
Sun guns and flash bulbs blasted the side of my face. Row upon row of cameramen and reporters pressed tightly against the long velvet rope, thousands of lenses pointed in my direction. It was my first time on one of Hollywood’s illustrious red carpets. My knees buckled. It was the Grammys.
Is this what fame feels like? I thought, smiling large for the band of paparazzi and tossing my hair so curls framed my face. I probably should have been ducking somewhere near the limos, or chauffeuring one, but I couldn’t help but revel in this small taste of fame.
“Someone get that blonde out of the shot?” a producer barked.
“Moi?” I said sheepishly, glancing side-to-side to help grumpy-producer-man find his real target.
Justin Timberlake stopped to talk to E! while I hovered over his shoulder in awe, catching my reflection in the frame of someone’s wide-angle lens.
“Jane, this is crazy! They think we’re celebrities,” Toni beamed, probably believing it.
Usher brushed my shoulder in a full-court strut down the red-rug runway. I sidled up to him. With all the pappa-nazis yelling at him, he hardly noticed the extra body moving in stride with his. I was just about to snap his photo when his publicist bulldozed me.
“Ouch!” I bellowed into my kneecaps, picking my purse up off the ground. “You could say sor—”
“Let’s go, babe.” Naomi popped out of nowhere, linking one of her elbows in mine and the other in Toni’s, racing us away from Usher’s entourage through a sea of celebrities. “Okay, girly-girls, keep abusing your tickets and I’ll put you in the nose-bleeds.”
“But Naomi, I just heard Ryan Seacrest ask who we were!”
“And I’m Jenny from the block,” Naomi teased as she straightened her black blazer to fit her cleavage and flipped her chocolate brown hair off to the side of her curvy body. “Fifth row. Got it? I’ll catch up with you after the show.” She lightly shoved us into the Staples Center and toward the attendants. “Please help them to their seats. I don’t want them getting lost, again!” Naomi winked and quickly disappeared down the long corridor, en route to her boyfriend backstage, bigwig YBC exec Hank Griffin, who was