City Chicks

Chapter 7

Seven

Episode 101

Straighten up and fly right.

The guinea pig for the first show was a commercial airline pilot name James. He was a tall, handsome man with a kind smile and bright white teeth. Trevor and Steven chose him for the pilot episode—not only because he was a pilot, very punny—because he wanted to propose to his girlfriend, a children’s librarian named Sonja. A good emotional hook for the first episode.

Steven, as director, had given me the shooting schedule along with a few notes and suggestions for James’s wardrobe. But the moment I saw James I knew the suggestions were wrong.

This man who spent his life in a boring uniform did not need a wardrobe of sleek black suits and dull oxford shirts. He needed clothes with color. With flair.

“Pour les Hommes,” I declared as I extended my hand.

Pour les Hommes was an avant garde label that put a wild twist on classic silhouettes. Button-down shirts in bold hibiscus florals and diagonal pinstripes. Casual pants in subtle plaids or covered in cargo pockets. Bright orange nylon quilted vests.

The kind of fashion statement only a guy like James could carry off. On anyone less grounded it would seem forced, but his classic good looks and ready smile could balance the outrageous clothes.

“Um,” James looked around confused before shaking my hand, “James. Pleasure to meet you.”

“I’m Bethany,” I explained. “We’re going to dress you in Pour les Hommes. Great clothes. You’re going to love them.”

He looked uncertain, but nodded and smiled. Kind of the way he might placate a crazy person. I shrugged and went to give Steven my suggestions.

An hour later, the filming crew was at Walk-In Closet along with Bryce, Chris, and Evan—Adam and Danial had stayed at James’s apartment after the introduction shot to prepare for the next segment. The gang made a big production of James trying on the pieces I had pulled while Bryce sexually harassed him in the dressing area.

Apparently it was Bryce’s trademark to manhandle other men.

Evan looked uncomfortable most of the time, only venturing into the shot when Steven barked an order. Every so often he would dart a glance toward the counter, where I was stationed to keep an eye on the filming.

I smiled as Chris gestured for James to turn so they could evaluate the brick red cargo pants and palm-frond-print short sleeve shirt he wore. Bryce lifted the shirt in the back—on the pretense of checking the fit of the pants—and squeezed the guys cheeks like he was trying for juice.

Chris laughed at Bryce’s antics, but admonished him to stay on task. His clear blue eyes sparkled, and it made me happy to see him having fun.

Randy had peeked out through the drape when we first arrived, eyed the film crew and the boisterous cast warily, and quickly decided that stacking boxes for Kit was safer than getting anywhere near the production.

Kit, returning to the counter after checking on Randy’s progress, watched the antics with amusement lifting at the corners of her mouth.

“They’re like kids in a candy shop,” she commented as she leaned one hip against the counter.

“I guess if we got to play dress up with such a hunky guy, we’d be a little giddy, too.”

My gaze drifted again to Chris, standing outside the dressing room. With those broad shoulders, muscled arms, and lean hips, he was a girl’s dress up dream. Or a guy’s.

I sighed, drawing Kit’s attention.

“Are you seeing anyone?” she asked, as if she’d read my thoughts.

“No, not since—” I looked sharply at Evan as he adjusted the alignment of the James’s belt at Steven’s request. “—not for a few months.”

Kit was silent for a long time, and I had a feeling she was working things out. I hadn’t known her long, but already I knew that something was brewing when she was quiet for more than a few seconds.

Before Kit could voice her thoughts, Cassie ordered the crew to pack up and everything turned to chaos. Cameramen started packing their equipment into aluminum cases. Other crew members rolled up extension cords, took down lights, and collected microphones. Steven announced the location of the next segment—a chi-chi Tribeca furniture store where they would shoot Evan’s main scene.

People started filing out the door, some headed for the show’s big black Suburban that the cast drove from location to location, others heading for the crew van that followed them everywhere.

Cassie handed me a list of all the pieces Bryce and Steven had selected—pieces I needed to bring to James’s apartment for the homecoming segment. All business when she was working, she was already hustling the cast outside before I even set the list on the counter.

Chris waved as Cassie shoved him—the last dawdler—out the door. For several long seconds I stared after them, my thoughts lost on the show, on misplaced lust, and on Evan.

Kit broke the silence. “Chris tells me Evan used to be your interior decorator.” She paused. “Did he design the shop?”

There was something probing about her question.

“Yes,” I answered guardedly.

“And your apartment?”

I inched back instinctively.

“Some,” I hedged.

“The bedroom?”

It wasn’t so much what she said as how she said it that caught my attention—drawing out bedroom like it was a naughty word. There was a sparkle of mischief and knowledge in her clear blue eyes. She didn’t miss much.

“Yes,” I finally answered. “The bedroom.”

“I see.”

And I knew she did.

“It’s been my general experience that men,” she said, interrupting my rampant imagination, “are rodent droppings.”

Randy, carrying an open box from the storeroom, dropped the box on the counter with a thud. There was something playful in his unyielding stance. He didn’t say a word, but c****d his brows at Kit until she amended, “Blood relatives and present company excepted.” She turned back to me. “Mostly.”

Randy disappeared back into the storeroom.

“He’s a hard worker, you know.” She jerked her thumb toward the back room. “Too bad he’s got his brain wrapped around that Southern skank.”

“Don’t I know it.”

I got the feeling not much slipped past Kit Thompson. She’d only met Randy this morning, but already knew him better than he knew himself. He might not like it, but she was probably going to make him forget Laura Jane. For good.

“I followed one to college, you know” she said. “All the way from California.”

Startled by the change of subject, I stared at Kit.

“A man,” she explained.

Oh. “What happened?”

“Dumped me the first week of school.”

“Rodent droppings?”

“Definitely, but I graduated Summa c*m Laude. He transferred to a SUNY-Buffalo sophomore year.”

“Ouch,” I replied, shivering at even the thought of a Buffalo winter.

Kit smiled maniacally, “The fifty bucks I paid that Christopher Street gypsy to curse him really paid off.”

“Remind me never to get on your bad side.”

“Don’t worry,” she assured. “Bosses and my brother’s friends are definitely exempt from my Voodoo.”

“I’m much relieved. Now I just need to stay on Chris’s good side.”

“Not a problem.” She moved around the counter and started to empty the box Randy had deposited. “He likes you. And he’s hard to piss off.”

If I hadn’t seen the “Before” pictures of James’s Riverside Drive apartment, I might have thought Evan did a decent job on redecorating. But the transformation from dark, dingy, dumping ground to airy, modern home was nothing short of a design miracle.

Gone were the dusty Venetian blinds and threadbare rug. No more white paint—peeling in several places to reveal a history of color palettes. Even the brown and gold plaid couch was nowhere in sight.

The calming pearly white walls, breezy window panels, lush oriental rug, and clean-lined sectional had turned the dungeon into a resort.

When I walked in to drop off the clothes from the shop, I nearly dropped my jaw.

“This is—” I struggled for the right word, not even caring that no one in particular was listening. “—amazing.”

“Thank you.”

I turned at the soft sound of Evan’s voice. He was brushing some dust off his shirtsleeves—though it would take more scrubbing than brushing to get the splotches of paint off his cheeks and forearms—and greeted me with a broad smile.

Fighting the urge to scowl—because it’s an advantage if your enemy doesn’t realize he’s your enemy—I tightened my cheeks into a strained smile.

“You’re welcome,” I managed through clenched teeth. “This place looks phenomenal.”

“I’m glad you like it.” There was sincere appreciation in his voice.

For a moment I was reminded of what I had liked—liked, just liked, never loved, Lord, I wasn’t that foolish—about Evan. He was sweet and kind and humble about his brilliant talent. Where most men gloated about their abilities, he insisted there was nothing special about his designs. That he only rearranged what he saw, fixed things that didn’t look right, and added a little paint and polish.

But clearly Trevor and Steven saw in him what I had always seen: genius.

My heart softened a tiny bit and I said, “You know I always loved your work.”

“Bethany—” He hurried forward and took my free hand in both of his. “—thank you for being so understanding about—”

“It’s nothing,” I cut him off, not wanting to hear any simpering gratitudes for my magnanimous behavior. A moment of softness did not a forgiveness make. “I need to put these somewhere.”

Holding the clothes out in front of me—a kind of shield protecting me from his fawning—I ventured deeper into the apartment and found a crew member to take the load, then turned to leave.

“Bethany,” Cassie cried as she burst through the front door with the energy of a Tesla coil, running smack into me, “you’re not leaving before the Homecoming.”

The way Cassie phrased it, it was not a question.

“Of course not,” I replied, leaning in to whisper, “Just keep Evan away from me unless your makeup artist wants to cover up a black eye.”

She smiled, “That bad, huh?”

“You have no idea.”

“Fine,” she declared with the authoritative tone that had earned her a position of power. “Evan, I need you to make sure the bedroom is ready for the fashion show. And clean that paint off your face. Crew, set up for the homecoming shot. The rest of the cast is waiting in the hall, and I don’t know how long my threats will keep Bryce under control if I’m not there to follow through.”

Everyone jumped at her orders. Evan scurried—yes, actually scurried—down the hall to the bedroom. The camera crew took their posts by the door. Cassie poked her head into the hall to yell at Bryce, “Stop groping the straight guy!”

I stayed safely out of the way. From the kitchen, I could see the front door, but I was out of the path of the stampede.

Then Cassie turned on the crew, ordered the nearest person to slate the scene, and started the cameras rolling. Steven—positioned by the monitor in the half bath—called “Action” over the headset. At his command, Cassie rapped sharply on the front door and seconds later, the cast was leading James in with a silk sash tied over his eyes.

“Ooh,” Bryce cooed, “are you ready to see your brand new apartment?”

James grinned like the cat who caught the mouse, “Heck, yeah.”

“This is cable,” Danial assured him, “you can say hell.”

Everyone laughed.

Chris, standing behind James, untied the blindfold.

“Holy smokes.”

Bryce placed his arm sympathetically on James’s shoulder. “My words exactly.”

Everyone laughed again.

Cassie tapped me on the shoulder, nodding in the gawking straight guy’s direction. “Kinda makes all the hassle worthwhile, no?”

James, wide-eyed and clearly in awe of Evan’s artistic talent, struggled to take in all the sweeping changes. The paint, the rug, the windows, and the sectional. Re-polished hardwood flooring. Modern chrome-legged tables and tempered glass surfaces. It was a bachelor-hoping-to-be-a-groom’s dream.

“Hey, Cass,” I offered back. “Thanks for getting me on board with this mess.”

“Anytime.” She smiled as she took a moment to enjoy the fruits of her labor before clicking back to work. “Everyone to the bedroom for the fashion show.”

The camera crew dutifully moved their set up and the cast followed after. I maneuvered around the remaining crew and headed for the door.

“Oh!” I exclaimed as I crashed into a curly-haired redhead in the hall. “Excuse me.”

“No, no,” she hurried to assure me, “it was all my fault.”

“I guess neither of us were looking where we were going.”

She smiled nervously, clearly still shaken up over our collision. A plastic grocery bag lay at her feet and I bent to pick it up. At my movement she dropped to her knees and snatched the bag up before I could grab it.

“Delivery,” she explained. “For this apartment.”

Discreet blue lettering indicated the delivery was from a gourmet grocery in the Village. “That must be for Chris,” I reasoned. “He’s inside.”

“Chris,” she agreed. “Yes.”

“The kitchen’s just inside on the left.” I moved to the side and politely held the door for her.

Head down, she muttered a polite thank you and ducked through the door.

Relieved to be heading back to the shop to help Kit close up, I was stuck in gridlock at Columbus Circle before I remembered Chris telling me he had shopped at the West End Market for the show. What had the delivery girl been bringing?

“Are you going to the final product shoot?” Kit asked.

We were cleaning up the last remnants of the whirlwind—also known as the OSG cast—that had swept through the shop, leaving piles overturned and hangers askew in its wake.

“I hadn’t really thought about it,” I said as I straightened a pile of cashmere v-necks. “Probably.”

The final product shoot, according to Cassie, was where the cast got to watch James get ready for his big date. To see how much of their teaching he’d learned and could incorporate into his life. To see whether the makeover had succeeded.

Plus, they got to watch him propose.

“Gotta see the poor guy all gussied up and gushing his heart out on national TV?” Randy teased as he collapsed the half dozen empty boxes—the remnants of restocking.

“He’s going to propose tonight,” Kit returned. “I think it’s sweet that he wants to makeover his life for her.”

Randy stomped down his last box. “More like he wants to impress her. To minimize the chance of rejection.”

“When did you become such a cynic?” I asked.

If anything, Randy was the romantic of the family. Daddy was dictatorial. Mom was emotional. I was practical. Randy gave Valentines to every girl in his third grade class, had four girlfriends at the same time in seventh grade, and vowed to marry his high school sweetheart. Would have, too, if she hadn’t been a two-timing cow.

He was the last person I’d ever expected to hear mocking a man’s attempt to romance and woo the woman he loved.

Maybe Laura Jane had done more than just break his heart.

Maybe she’d hardened it, too.

“That’s not cynicism, Bets. It’s realism.”

With jerky movements, he stooped to grab the stack of boxes and stomped out the back. As I watched him disappear behind the drape, I wondered—with no little anger directed at the heartless witch who had dulled his shine—what had happened to my little brother.

“He—” I began, but shook my head in disbelief when I couldn’t continue.

“Healing takes time,” Kit sympathized. “His heart will mend.”

“I hope you’re right.”

“If I’m not—” She nudged the hangers into an even spread before turning to face me. “—I’ll tear the b***h’s heart out myself.”

She’d said it with a grin, but I had a feeling Kit Thompson was a woman who took care of her own. Violently, if necessary.

Thank the Lord she was on my side.

“So, you’re going tonight,” she said, returning to her original topic. “Chris wrangled me an invite. We can make a night of it—dinner and drinks after?”

“Sounds like a plan.”

Despite Randy’s cynicism, James’s proposal went off without a hitch. His girlfriend, adorably nerdy with a frizzy hair and black-framed glasses, cried a waterfall and sobbed an overwhelmed, “Yes.”

The cast, crew, and invited guests watched the night unfold from the show’s “loft.” It was actually a warmly decorated set with no ceiling and at least a dozen cameras.

The OSG gang watched on a big flat panel TV from the comfortable couches on the set. Everyone else watched on an off-set monitor. We all cheered as the happy couple embraced and James told his librarian how much he loved her.

As the picture on the flat panel TV faded to the show’s logo, Trevor and Steven emerged from behind the set carrying bottles of champagne.

The catering staff, fast on their heels, hurried to pop the corks, fill the glasses, and pass them around.

Once we all had champagne Trevor called for our attention.

“You are all part of a show that will change television forever. To ending stereotypes and entertainment exile.” Trevor raised his glass in toast. “To the cast and crew. To a long, long run. And to a show well shot.”

Almost everyone lifted their glasses and shouted in agreement.

Bryce scowled, adding, “Except for the crisis.”

“What crisis?” Trevor asked, sounding concerned.

Cassie stepped in to explain. “Bryce lost his planner.”

“I didn’t lose it, someone stole it. And it isn’t just an planner, it’s my life.”

“Why would anyone want to steal your life? The only people at the site were cast and crew—we already know your life in agonizing intimate detail.” Cassie rolled her eyes. “I guarantee no one wants to know more. If you have secrets, keep ‘em.”

“I don’t care what you think, someone stole my planner from James’s apartment.”

Cassie shrugged at Bryce’s determination.

“Good job, everyone,” she congratulated. “Now, let’s get this mess cleaned up so we can party.”