The Redhead Plays Her Hand (Redhead #3)(5)
Author: Alice Clayton

I’d managed to avoid getting my picture taken with him again, although we both knew it would happen sooner or later. But that was part of it, being the girlfriend of the new It Boy.

Girlfriend.

I was his girlfriend, and along with that came all kinds of stuff we were both barely equipped to handle. When we came back from our vacation in the Seychelles in January, I had to stay behind with the luggage when we landed at LAX. The paparazzi who camped at the airport just waiting for celebrities to come off an airplane tired and bedraggled and less than were there to trail Jack. Someone, always someone, had tipped them off that he would be arriving, and they swarmed as soon as he showed up. And they took tons of pictures. He later told me he could barely keep hold of his duffel bag, they were so close and so tight on him as he made his way to the car we’d arranged to pick us up. In the meantime, I was waiting by the baggage carousel, watching and waiting. And paying a porter to help me quietly schlep all our stuff into a taxi.

Since we’d been back we kept a pretty low profile. We didn’t run a ton of errands together, and if we did go out, we kept it off the beaten path and low-key. We lived together, we loved together, but we kept things as private as we could. Holly was still very much in favor of this tactic. Since Time, his female fan base had grown considerably, and there was an online presence that continued to grow.

This was a fan base still very much on the fence about whether they wanted their Jack Hamilton involved with anyone, much less a woman quite a bit older than he was. After the pictures of me taken at the premiere came out, and subsequently died down, his adoring fans had moved on from me. But I was about to embark on my own high-profile job. The TV series would bring those pictures, and more like them, back up and into the spotlight.

I kept this in mind as I opted to keep the convertible top up. I cinched the ball cap down tighter on my head and turned out onto the canyon to make my way to Holly’s office. With my eyes peeled, I looked for those seemingly random tan sedans. That’s where the flashbulbs tended to come from. It was amazing how quickly you could get used to looking behind you when you were moving forward.

three

Okay, so we have the first three scripts done, shooting schedule in place, read-through next week. What else do we need to talk about? You know us TV stars, we have places to go, people to see.” I winked, stretching from my chair in front of Holly’s desk. The two of us, along with Michael, had been hashing over details for the better part of an hour.

Michael had fought for and managed to retain creative control from the network. This was his show, his creation, and while being funded solely by the network, he was still steering the ship. He was working closely with the director, making sure that as his show twisted and turned naturally from stage production to the small screen it retained its initial soul. David Lancaster was a well-known and well-respected director, who had worked on some of the best and most commercially successful series in the last ten years. He was also known for being a bit hardheaded, tough, and unyielding. He’d already shared some specific notes with Michael, and they were in agreement about the overall tone and content of the show. While Michael had experience in writing and directing, he’d never done it at this level, and he was understandably a bit nervous.

“Almost done. Just a few more things to talk about, and then we can call it a day.” Holly shuffled some notes on her desk.

“Thank God. I’m starving,” I moaned, standing and grabbing at some candy she had stashed on a shelf underneath her award for Manager of the Year. Which she had awarded herself.

I sat back down, offering a handful of jelly beans to Holly, which she shook her head at. She and Michael exchanged a glance, and Michael nodded at her slightly. She took a deep breath and then sighed. Then she brightened into her All-Business Face. All of this happened in about 2.7 seconds, none of which was lost on me. I gulped. Holly turned to face me now, and I heard the voice I had heard often but rarely directed toward me.

“So we got some notes from the producers after they watched the pilot. All good things, but I do have some feedback for you that they were pretty specific on, before we start shooting,” she said—Holly Newman the agent now speaking, not Holly Dillweed, best friend and gal about town.

I swallowed my jelly beans. “Okay, what’s up?” I asked, wondering what was about to go down.

Michael fidgeted.

“So you know you’re fabulous; we all do. I think you’re amazing. I mean it, really,” she said, not totally meeting my eyes.

“Okay, you’re amazing too?” I volleyed back, looking at Michael, who had stopped fidgeting and was now not moving at all. He was frozen, in fact.

Holly smiled a bit, then continued. “This show has a very specific look, very stylized, very Hollywood. Everything about this show will be over the top. You know this.”

“I do know this. Jeez, spit it out, Holly.” I popped another handful of jelly beans into my mouth.

“We need you to drop about fifteen pounds, Grace.”

The jelly beans congealed in my throat and lodged there.

“Or I should spit it out,” I joked, swallowing hard.

“Here’s the thing. This is very common. Producers are looking at the overall package—everything, right? They have tons of notes, from what kind of car you should be driving to whether the hardwood floors in your on-set home should be lighter or darker. Perhaps your hair should be a little more red. And, well . . .”

“My ass should be a little smaller,” I completed for her, placing the jelly beans back on the shelf and straightening up, lengthening my frame and pulling in my tummy.

“No, we actually got great notes on your ass,” she replied, shuffling through papers on her desk. I looked in horror at Michael.

“I was kidding!” I laughed, forcing my hands to unclench from the fists that had formed.

“Grace, come on, you’re beautiful, I—” Michael started, and Holly interrupted him.

“Here it is. The exact note is: ‘We need her to have a little more cheekbone, a little more jawline,’” she read, looking over her glasses at me as she finished.

“A little more cheekbone,” I repeated, mentally tallying how many miles I was already running in a week and wondering how many more I could squeeze in.

“Grace, look. Do you know how many times I’ve had this conversation with someone I represent? I honestly can’t count at this point,” she began tiredly.

“This sucks,” I succinctly pointed out.