Already a departure from the questions you usually hear. You wonder how long this guy has been in the journalism business.
“Oh, fine,” you respond, amused. If he only knew. “You?”
“Well, I’m meeting an international movie star for the first time on one of my first big interviews. So, to be honest, I’m nervous as hell”—his laugh is completely charming—“but enough about me.”
“Actually, it’s kind of nice to talk about something other than myself for a change. But I guess you’re here for the goods on me.”
He grins as he writes something in his notebook. How adorable is he? Dashing would be the perfect word. His white teeth flash as he smiles. He’d make a great James Bond, you can’t help but think.
“That I am.” He gazes at you for a long moment then taps his pencil twice on the table and clears his throat. “So, Anna. What attracted you to your upcoming role in Tropical Tango?”
After an hour of something more than the usual line of questioning, the interview begins to wind down. Usually at this point in an interview, you’re edgy and fidgety, anxious to be released. But, this time is different. You feel as if you could listen to that mellifluous accent and gaze into those cool, grey eyes all day. You lift your teacup and realize you’ve barely made a dent in your drink.
Colm leafs back through his pages of notes. “I think I’ve got some good stuff here. Plenty for the article.”
“Great,” you say, sipping your lukewarm tea.
Years of experience with the likes of Janine Perillo force you to add your usual interview wrap-up. “All I ask is that you keep it factual. Present me as I am. And”—you add with a smile—“if you want to say anything nice, that would be good too.”
Colm laughs appreciatively. “You must have had some pretty poor interview experiences to feel the need to say that.”
“Don’t get me started. I have some war stories,” you tell him, leaning in, “the worst of which involved your predecessor.”
“Oh.” He looks into your eyes and again holds your gaze for what feels like minutes. “I see.”
“But”—you decide to let him off the hook—“I’m sure you’re nothing like she was.”
“Nothing at all.” He smiles warmly. “Don’t fret about what I’ll be writing. It will be to your liking. I’m quite impressed, Miss Anna Chambliss.”
Is this guy for real? For a moment, you are speechless.
“Thanks,” you manage.
“Well,” you both say simultaneously, then laugh.
“It’s been lovely,” says Colm, again extending that roughly calloused hand.
“Yes. Thanks,” you say, taking his hand in yours. Is it your imagination or are those sparks you feel flying up your arm? You pull away a little too quickly.
Before he can see the blush rise to your cheeks, you’re out the door and back into the car, where your coachman, Bodhi, awaits.
“So, how did that go?” Bodhi asks casually, pulling out into the busy city street.
“Oh, fine.” You leave it at that and sink back into your seat, enjoying the warmth radiating from the dark leather and from the memory of the sparks you can still feel, left by Colm’s touch.
* * *
You’re still tingling as you walk the cold, linoleum-tiled hall toward the studio dressing room. Rounding the corner, you see Buffy approach, waiting to provide the requisite trowels of makeup necessary for a television appearance.
“You’re looking chipper,” says Buffy, gesturing with a makeup brush. “Dressing room’s right here.”
You enter a stark white room with lighted mirrors lining the bare walls. The smell is slightly antiseptic, not unlike a doctor’s office. You feel the beginnings of a knot in your stomach. These live TV appearances always have the same effect on you. You’ve learned not to eat before the shows—keeps the nausea at bay. You’ve tried a thousand times to talk yourself through the jitters, but at this point you’ve learned to live with them, and they’ve never lessened no matter how many live shows you do.
“So,” asks Buffy, “how was the WE thing?”
“You know,” you tell her, “it wasn’t so bad. For one thing, Janine is gone. Went to work at Expose.”
“Perfect,” nods Buffy, knowingly. “So who did the interview?”
“A new guy. Colm . . . something . . .”
“Oh my, Colm, huh? Sounds—”
“Scottish, I think? Or Irish? Very tall, dark, kind of a James Bond type, and he had the most amazing grey eyes.”
“Sexy accent?” asks Buffy, smiling as she sets her makeup bag on the counter and begins to unload its contents, clicking each bottle, tube, and brush methodically onto the counter.
“This might have been the only interview I’ve ever been on that I didn’t want to end. But he’s a reporter.” You shake your head to clear it. “What am I even thinking?”
“You know what they say about reporters,” jokes Buffy. “They give good press!”
You laugh at her bad pun. “I guess I could use someone in the media in my corner. He’s way above WE standards, though. He won’t be there long.” You sigh dramatically. “I’ll probably never see him again.”
“Oh well,” says Buffy. “There’s always Bodhi.”
“Yeah right,” you tell her. Seriously, is Buffy reading your mind? You do spend more time together than most sisters, but still... “Besides, I could never be with Bodhi. That monster iguana he calls a pet scares me to death. Did you know he lets the thing sleep in his bed?”
Buffy laughs as she tucks a paper bib into your collar and begins to sponge the suffocatingly thick foundation across the bridge of your nose. “You know what they say about a man with a five-foot iguana . . .”
“Stop!” You laugh. “You’re going to make me mess up my foundation.”
“Ha.”—Buffy laughs—“it would take an earthquake to make a dent in this.”
The tingling in your tummy becomes a flock of nervous butterflies as Buffy finishes the job.
A sudden, loud knock at the door startles you both. “Yes?” Buffy asks. She turns toward the door, all business, then falls totally silent.
Standing at the door is the star of the hottest medical drama on TV, Sirens, and Buffy’s one and only celebrity crush. Thank God he has his shirt on which, judging from the majority of his PR shots, is a rarity for this guy. Buffy might go into cardiac arrest.
“Just wanted to introduce myself. I’m—” His tanned body and white teeth seem to overwhelm the room as he takes a confident step forward.
Buffy staggers a nervous step backward in response. “I know—I mean, who doesn’t know who you are? Ha-ha.” Buffy laughs lamely, dropping her eyes to the floor and muttering something under her breath. She runs one hand through her copper curls, which spring obediently back into position.
“Well, hello.” His slight southern drawl is a bit disarming, and his attention is exclusively on you, his eyes locked on yours. “May I?”
“Of course,” you say coolly, extending your French-manicured hand. “I’m Anna. Nice to meet you.” You can’t help but think of how ridiculous you must look, with a paper collar sticking out of your top at odd angles and your unfinished makeup job. You’re momentarily glad for the coverage, though—at least it’s hiding some of the heat rising to your cheeks. No wonder Buffy finds this guy so attractive. He is one beautiful specimen of masculinity and certainly emanates an overpowering presence.
“I’m Jackson Michaels,” he says, taking your hand a little too firmly in his. “I’m on a TV show—you’ve probably never heard of it—Sirens?” His renegade smile belies the fact he obviously expects you to know exactly who he is.
“Oh, I’ve heard of it all right,” you tell him. “Buffy here is a huge fan.”
Buffy shoots you a murderous look of betrayal, her enormous blue eyes even wider than usual. Her cheeks turn a wholly unnatural shade of crimson. “Yes,” she finally manages, “I’ve been watching the show since it started. I think you�
�re great—I mean your character . . . I mean you . . . I mean I like the show a lot.”
She whirls around to the makeup box and makes a show of fumbling for a brush, her face redder than ever.
You look back at Jackson and notice the sandy hair cut into a slightly unkempt-looking, shaggy style, falling so carelessly over one prominent brow that you’re sure it’s set there with spray. His whisky-gold eyes are surrounded by the beginnings of laugh lines.
“Jackson,” you ask, “are you up first or second?”
“I’m your warm-up act,” he jokes. “Would you expect anything different?”
“Oh, come on. I’m sure the women in the audience won’t scream for me like they will for you,” you counter. “You certainly will warm them up, I’m sure.”
“Well,” Jackson says with a made-for-TV-drama smile, “I better get out there. See you in the green room?”
“Sure.” You nod as he walks to the door.
The minute he exits the room, Buffy lets out a huge breath. “Oh my God!” She drops her curly head in her hands. “Could I have sounded like any more of an idiot? No wonder he didn’t even give me the time of day. Of course, who would, in your presence?”
“Come on, Buff,” you tell her, placing a hand on her arm. Buffy has become your closest companion over the past two and half years of your dizzying climb to success. She’s your confidante, and in many ways your best friend. With equal parts laughter and tears, you and Buffy have cemented a relationship that you know will last a lifetime.
You gather Buffy into a careful hug to avoid smudging her clothes with your makeup. “He seems like a self-absorbed narcissist anyway. Don’t you think so?”
“Hey!” jokes Buffy, giving you a light punch in the shoulder. “That’s my boyfriend you’re talking about.” You both laugh as Buffy brushes the last layer of powder over your face to set your foundation in place. Her eyes are still slightly wounded, but at least there’s a hint of a smile on her pretty face.
A skinny, androgynous intern wearing a plaid shirt and jeans and grasping a scribbled-on clipboard pokes her head in the door. “We’re getting ready to start, Ms. Chambliss. Anytime you want to go to the green room would be great.” She exits quickly and speeds down the hall.
Buffy pulls the paper from your collar, crumples it into a ball, and makes a basket in the corner trashcan.
“Score!” you exclaim as you head for the door.
Your heels click along the tiled floor as you follow the signs to the green room. You take a breath, toss your hair behind your shoulders, and open the door.
The green room is furnished in a typically bland style—and none of it green. Couches that are less comfortable than they look, and are most likely cast-offs from some defunct television production, sit against the two side walls. A TV monitor is mounted on the far wall and an assortment of snacks, sodas, and bottled water covers the surface of a long, folding table.
Jackson sits on the end of one sofa, his right leg casually crossed over his left. He shakes a handful of M&Ms in one half-closed palm, stopping to pour a few into his mouth. His other arm is draped along the back of the couch, his sleeve rolled up slightly to reveal an evenly tanned and muscular forearm. His posture is both inviting and oddly off-putting.
He gives you a one-sided smile as you enter the room. “Hello again,” he says, patting the seat beside him. It takes you only a moment to decide to sit on the couch perpendicular to his, but you choose the end closest to him, just to be polite.
“I don’t bite.” He smiles again then pours a few more M&Ms into his mouth.
“Ha.” You laugh uneasily. “It’s not you. These shows always wreak havoc on my nerves.”
“You’re nervous about doing a talk show?” Jackson asks incredulously. “I would have thought that this all seems pretty mundane to you by now.”
You give him points for using “mundane.” Maybe he’s more intelligent than he appears to be.
“After all, you’ve pretty much exposed all of who you are to the general public. What’ve you really got left?”
“Excuse me?” you ask with disbelief. Cleary he’s a complete jerk as well as an egotist. And clearly he has no idea what he’s talking about. You’ve always been careful never to accept a script with nude scenes, never even to allow the use of body-doubles. You’ve done just fine being extremely selective, and you’ve kept plenty to yourself.
He laughs casually. “I just mean, you don’t get to keep many secrets in your position. Fame does have that unpleasant side effect.”
“Actually”—you find yourself suddenly defensive—“there’s quite a lot about me the general public does not know.”
“Oh, now you’ve got my curiosity piqued.” He leans forward and smiles. “Do tell.”
“Believe me,” you say, “if there are secrets I’ve kept from the public, I’m certainly not about to spill them to you.”
Jackson lets out a hearty laugh. “Oh, is that right?”
You can feel your face getting hot under your makeup.
“Whoa, take it easy, Anna,” he says. “If looks could kill! I’m just playing with you is all.” His slow smile spreads to the corners of his eyes. “Besides, I love nothing better than a challenge.”
“Well,” you tell him, “you can bet that’s about all you’ll be getting from me.”
You’ve decided to dismiss him entirely and focus on the chatty repartee of the talk show hosts you’re about to meet when the flannel-wearing custodian of the sacred clipboard breezes into the room.
“Mr. Michaels? We’re ready for you.”
Thank goodness, you think, breathing an enormous sigh of relief.
Jackson rises with the same casual grace that seems to be his nature and heads to the door, a slight bow-legged swagger drawing your eyes to his rounded rear. As he crosses the doorway, he turns back for a moment to catch your eye.
“Your loss,” he drawls. You quickly raise your gaze to eye level. “I guess you’re not going to get to hear any of my secrets either.”
“I am eternally regretful,” you reply, with a dramatic roll of your eyes.
He straightens to his full height, gives a snorting laugh, and closes the door behind him.
Now that you’re up next, your heart starts to beat triple time. You tap your foot nervously and try not to pick at your manicure. You practice deep breathing and focus on the television monitor. Although you can’t really concentrate on the first part of Jackson’s interview, you register the typical questions. And you can’t help but notice that the actor’s southern drawl has disappeared. You laugh to yourself and pay closer attention.
The perky female cohost glances at the index card in her hand and fires the next question, “So, I understand you’re all set to make your big-screen debut?”
“Looks that way,” answers Jackson. “I’m pretty excited.”
“It sounds like a great opportunity,” the cohost continues. “Beautiful location, fun movie, and a wonderful cast.”
“Yes,” says Jackson with a smile. “It should be a great experience.”
“What are you most excited about?” asks the host.
“Well,” he begins, with a shine in his eyes, “I guess that would have to be my costar.”
“Aaaah . . . right,” says the host, nodding knowingly. “A very glamorous and successful actress. And someone we happen to have here with us today.”
Huh, you think to yourself, wondering who else is slated to appear, and what studio is willing to try out the rookie actor.
“Yes,” agrees Jackson. “We’ve had the pleasure of meeting just before my appearance.”
Surprise registers on the craggy face of the cohost’s older, male counterpart. “Oh, you mean to tell me you’d never even met before today?”
Jackson shakes his head with a smile.
“Wow,” says the host, “and right here on our show. So, how did it go? Do you think you’ll get along okay?”
“Well,” says Jackson, with just
a touch of the southern drawl, “as I just finished telling her, I do love a challenge.”
As the interview ends, the audience dissolves into applause and laughter. “Right after this, we’ll meet Jackson’s costar in the upcoming film, Tropical Tango, the beautiful and talented Anna Chambliss.”
Your hammering heart skips a beat. Your costar? Your upcoming film? Tropical Tango? You shake your head to clear it. What happened to Grant Shipley, the forty-something heartthrob you’d been told was to be your character’s love interest? You signed onto the project knowing Grant was already attached. Grant’s an even bigger name than you and a guaranteed box-office draw for the female twenty-to-sixty market. Your head is spinning with questions and confusion, but you’ll have to deal with all that later. The door opens and there stands Jackson, looking like the cat that ate the canary.
“Did you watch?” he asks, smiling innocently. “How did I do?”
You close your gaping mouth and manage a question. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
He leans against the doorframe and crosses his arms before answering. “Didn’t seem like much of a fair trade. Maybe if you’d told me one of your secrets, I would have told you one of mine.”
You certainly have a thing or two to tell him now, not to mention some choice words for the producers of Tropical Tango. Before you can speak, in comes the stagehand again with your cue.
“Come with me please, Ms. Chambliss?”
“Gladly,” you smile coolly and slide past Jackson, without a glance in his direction.
* * *
Your nerves begin to cool as you walk back to the car after the interview. The little swag bag the producers handed you as you exited the studio holds a silver picture frame, a box of chocolate-dipped strawberries, and tiny bottle of champagne you wish you could uncork immediately.
You have to give yourself credit, you actually handled the questions quite well, never letting on that your costar’s identity was a surprise and changing the subject whenever you could. When the cohost asked whether you were looking forward to working with Jackson, you replied, “I’m always eager to work with young actors, especially those that are new to the world of cinema. I’m happy to share what I’ve learned with my costar.” You then managed a laugh that the audience mimicked, and secretly hoped Jackson was watching and squirming in his seat.
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