The Cinderella Makeover

by Hope Tarr

  “Fancy old films, do you?” Francesca asked. How had she missed knowing that about him? Caught up in coaching, she’d never bothered asking what his interests might be.

  He nodded. “I’ve always wanted to go to the Saturday-night movie screenings at Hollywood Forever Cemetery. They project the old films onto the mausoleum, and you picnic under the stars with all the film legends’ graves in the backdrop.”

  “That sounds…lovely,” she said, wistfully thinking of her thirties-era red shoes still sitting in their box.

  “Cool, let’s go!” Kimberly said, tugging on Greg’s arm.

  Greg shook his head. “The program kicks off in mid-May and filming for Project Cinderella will have wrapped. We’ll all have gone home, me back to San Jose, Brittany back to Columbus, and you, Franc and…Francesca back to New York.”

  Recalling her empty apartment, all she had waiting, Francesca felt her spirits further sinking.

  Greg stepped away, his gaze going to the iPad. “Anyway, we’ll let you get back to it. See you on set tomorrow. I’ll be the guy getting his ass kicked by this one.” He grinned over at Kimberly.

  “Oh, you know I just like messing with you, Grego. Besides, your ass is too cute to kick. Those apple cheeks were made for spanking.” She reached around and gave his buttock a slap. “I love this guy!” she exclaimed to the group at large.

  Fuming, Francesca watched them go off, Greg’s designer jeans, the very ones she’d picked out, riding low on his nicely narrow hips, his broadening shoulders held straight back, his stride sure. It occurred to her that perhaps he hadn’t needed so much of her help as she’d thought.

  Franc startled her by asking, “I wonder who’ll accompany him to Belize?”

  The thought of Greg haring off on a romantic holiday with either woman, with any woman, had Francesca feeling suddenly heartsick. Jerry’s words from their phone conversation when he’d pitched the project rushed back to her.

  With luck, we’ll get an on-air wedding, or at least a proposal, out of it…

  Caught up in her confused emotions, it took her a moment to fully register the remark.

  Her gaze flew to his. “You’re that certain he’ll win?”

  Franc’s inscrutable expression might have been stolen from the Sphinx. “Aren’t you?”

  …

  Greg waited until they’d safely cleared the corner. Stopping in front of a gelato shop, he divided his gaze between his two confederates. “You both were awesome.”

  “Thanks for the shopping spree,” Kimberly answered, her arm staying around his waist.

  Moving it aside, he turned to Brittany. “You were a natural, Brit.”

  “Thanks. I really had fun hanging out with you guys,” she said, her gaze fixed on his.

  Kimberly agreed. “Yeah, it was a blast. And I’m really glad you asked me to be part of your coalition, Grego. Anytime you need help staging another PR stunt to impress the coaches, you let me know.” Leaning closer, she dropped her voice and added, “And if you want to get together sometime, just the two of us, I’m next door in Bungalow B, so there’s no need to be a stranger.” Straightening, she shot him a wink and turned to go, hips swaying.

  “Yeah, well, thanks again,” he called after her, reasonably sure his right buttock bore a bruise despite the buffer of jeans.

  He turned back to Brittany, who was twisting a hank of blond hair around and around her finger. “I really did have fun, but I’m guessing that wasn’t the point, was it?”

  Having been played a time or two—or hundred—Greg recognized the signs of unrequited attraction. Rather than risk leading her on, he admitted, “No, it wasn’t.”

  Chewing the lip gloss from her lower lip, she said, “You must really like her, huh?”

  Fraternizing with his sexy fairy god-mentor was grounds for forfeiting his contestant spot and yet, meeting Brittany’s wistful gaze, he didn’t have the heart to lie to her. “Yeah, I really do.”

  Chapter Nine

  “Chop chop, people, we’ve couture to capture!”

  Leading her trio of contestants, including Greg, down palm-tree-lined Rodeo Drive, Francesca called out the scripted line, which didn’t make a great deal of sense beyond its alliterative appeal. Beginning at the opposite end of the three-block stretch of designer and haute couture boutiques and shops, Deidre led a similar foray.

  For the next several hours, camera crews would shadow the two teams as they went from shop to shop. Inside each preselected store, stationary crews awaited their arrival. Once there, the contestants would attack the racked clothing in a choreographed fashion feeding frenzy, although in reality Francesca had preselected three outfits for each—casual, business casual, and formal. While she’d striven to give each of her Cinderella men the benefit of her fashion expertise, she’d chosen for Greg with particular care, pulling items from Tom Ford, Giorgio Armani, and Ralph Lauren.

  Reaching the entrance to Ralph Lauren, she made a show of greeting the sales associate, although they’d already met at the walkthrough that morning, before turning back to her posse of protégés.

  “Long before Shakespeare had his character Polonius proclaim, ‘The apparel oft proclaims the man,’ the ancient Greeks wrote, ‘The garment makes the man.’ I’ve always preferred the proverb ‘The tailor makes the man’—or the woman, as the case may be. More often than not, how we present ourselves on the outside announces how we feel about ourselves on the inside, too.”

  Out of the blue, Greg spoke up, “What about the admonishment against judging a book by its cover?” Mild though his manner was, there was a bite to his tone—and a challenge in his gaze meeting hers.

  Modulating her voice, she answered, “People are not books, and whether we are right or wrong to do so, we all prejudge based on appearances—even you.”

  That shut him up—for now. He’d as good as admitted to figuring her for a bitch before they’d even met—based solely on her publicity picture.

  Addressing the group, she gestured to the racks. “Let’s have some fun, shall we?”

  As rehearsed, the contestants rushed forward, the cameras following. Controlled mayhem ensued, each contestant eventually “finding” the pre-chosen clothing, the hangers marked by contestant ID, and making his way toward the dressing rooms.

  Once they emerged, Francesca’s work would begin in earnest. In the style of What Not to Wear, she would join each contestant at the bank of full-length mirrors and narrate the merits of his current ensemble.

  The contestants filed out from the changing area, Jonas and Hadley walking side by side, Greg coming out last. Francesca caught her breath. She’d known the royal-blue cashmere crewneck and pleated gabardine pants would look wonderful on him but…wow. The sweater’s color, in combination with his deep blue eyes and dark hair, was even more flattering than she’d anticipated.

  By lottery, he ended up going first. Stepping up onto the carpeted pedestal, he turned back to her, waiting. Belatedly Francesca realized she’d stayed put, mutely staring. She followed him over on jellied legs.

  Taping. Reality television, Project Cinderella. Paycheck, a huge one, provided you don’t muck it all up.

  She needed to say something, preferably something smart-sounding or even funny, only she couldn’t seem to locate her bloody tongue. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught Sean mouthing a curse. Bollocks! She had stage fright—or something like it, something worse. A nervous breakdown came to mind.

  Greg stepped in, his ad-libbed lines covering an otherwise embarrassing silence. “As you can see from what I’m wearing, Francesca’s fashion sense is pretty impeccable. Just over a month ago, I was a card-carrying member of the brown shoes with black socks club. Now look at me, at us all,” he generously added, opening his arms to indicate the other contestants standing off to the side. Eyes meeting hers in the mirror, he prompted, “Francesca, walk me through again why this look works—and it is working, right, because you know me, I can’t tell. Hey, if it were left up to me, I’d p
robably just go naked.”

  Imagine them in their birthday suits, she’d told him on the day at the press confidence. Was he pitching her antidote back to her now? She ground in a groan. Mentally peeling off Greg’s clothing presented no problem at all. As amazing as he looked in the outfit she’d selected, all she could think of was how very much more amazing he would look out of it.

  The trick still worked, not brilliantly but sufficiently for her to click back into gear. “Yes, well, this look exemplifies the Ralph Lauren brand. The cabling on the jumper—sorry, sweater—is classically chic and at the same time fashion-forward.” She still felt like a zombie, but at least her mind and mouth had resumed rudimentary working. “Beneath Greg has on the classic-fit mesh polo. This sport shirt has been a wardrobe staple for male casual wear since it debuted in 1972.” She dropped her gaze. “As you see, the pleated pant front flatters a more slender waistline and accentuates the very nicely shaped…posterior.” She hesitated and then knelt at his feet, both A and B camera operators following her to the floor. “For the trousers, I elected to go sans cuffs to further elongate the line of Greg’s…legs. The shoes I see now aren’t quite right. I think a loafer would serve better, perhaps one with an interesting texture, faux alligator or perhaps snakeskin…”

  She fumbled through the rest, not daring to try rising lest she fall on her face. Sean’s call of “Cut!” was akin to someone tossing her a lifeline. “Everybody, take ten,” he ordered, scraping a hand through his hair.

  Francesca started up on wobbly legs. A hand, Greg’s, shot out toward her. She hesitated, then took it, her cold fingers wrapping about his palm.

  He helped her up, holding on to her as she navigated the step down. “Are you sure you’re okay?” The look on his face seemed to say he’d willingly be there for her always, anchoring her whenever she floundered, if only she’d let him.

  Face warm, she nodded, letting go. “Yes, quite.”

  “I’ll change, then,” he said, turning toward the dressing room area.

  Coming up to Francesca, Sean hissed. “I don’t know what’s going on with you, but whatever it is, pull it together!”

  Beyond embarrassed, she nodded. “Right, I will, sorry.”

  He stalked away, and Cindy materialized at her side with a bottle of water, a spare director’s chair, and a sympathetic smile. “Don’t let Sean get to you. Jerry’s been pushing for cost cuts on the postproduction side, and he’s under a lot of pressure to shoot the last tapings as clean as possible, all the story producers are. But that’s not your problem. Once the film editors get through with the footage, you’re going to come across like the total pro you are.” She unfolded the chair and set it down.

  Francesca subsided into the cloth seat. “Thanks, Cindy, but professional is the very last thing I’m feeling at the moment.”

  “Can I get you anything? A Motrin, maybe? Red Bull?”

  Francesca shook her head. “I’m fine. I just need a minute to…regroup.”

  “Good news, you’ve got ten of them,” Cindy said with a wink. “Holler if you change your mind about needing something.”

  “Thanks.”

  Cast and crew milling about her, Francesca acknowledged that her moments-ago meltdown was a wake-up call in every way. All these weeks, she’d worked so terribly hard at persuading herself that Greg was nothing more than a means to evening the score with Deidre, and perhaps with Freddie, too. But there was nothing mercenary about her feelings for him, not anymore. Watching him parade about Westwood the other day with Brittany and Kimberly had shown that the emotions he raised in her were decidedly romantic.

  The only question remaining was what to bloody well do about them.

  Sitting on set with Franc in their slipper-shaped chairs waiting for the contestant talent competition to begin, Francesca resisted the urge to nibble her nails. Even though the segment was being taped, not aired live, film editing could do but so much to camouflage poor performance. There was a great deal at stake. Based on the poll of studio-hired beta testers, viewers were strongly expected to dig Greg as the underdog. According to the focus group feedback, he had That Thing—an individuality, a genuineness that made it easy for strangers to connect with him. In the unreal world of reality TV, he had all the makings of a genuine star.

  They were closing in on their mutual goal—and he had worked so bloody hard! She couldn’t bear the thought of anything spoiling his chances.

  Each contestant would have eight minutes to sing, dance, recite, or juggle his or her way into viewers’ hearts. As determined by a random number generator, Greg would go on last. First up was Hadley, who showcased his talent for competitive eating by ingesting an enormous number of hot dogs, sliding one after another down his long, skinny throat, seemingly without chewing. Watching him clear platter upon platter proved on par with rubbernecking past a motoring accident—as much as Francesca might wish to look away, she couldn’t. Jonas’s fishing demonstration, which included an inflatable kid’s pool and a Styrofoam drink cooler as props, threatened to put them all to sleep.

  Among the women, Kimberly’s rendition of Gwen Stefani’s “The Sweet Escape” was the standout. Patti’s tap dancing routine revealed an out-of-character enthusiasm but still fell far short of fabulous. Last on, Brittany had displayed a truly impressive gift for glass orchestra, playing a Bach fugue using only water-filled wineglasses as instrumentation.

  Finally Greg’s turn came around. Watching him emerge from behind the pink stage curtain, Francesca held her breath.

  Franc nudged her. “Relax, he’s going to be splendid.”

  “I hope so.”

  Unlike Franc, she knew in advance what Greg’s performance would be—a medley of ABBA songs. She’d tried talking him out of it, but he’d been adamant, so much so that she’d begun to wonder whether his adoration of the pop band went deeper than a preference for sappy lyrics and catchy beats.

  Smirking, Deidre pushed past to take her place at the far end of the row. “This should be interesting,” she added, slipping into her seat.

  “Look what the catwalk dragged in,” Franc quipped in a carrying voice, earning Francesca’s grateful smile. Although she could handle herself, it was nice to have a friend minding her back.

  Deidre’s smile flattened. “Your roots are showing, Rusty.”

  Frowning, Franc reached up to touch his hair, in perfect place as always. “I might say the same of yours, but it’s too white to tell.”

  Determined not to let Dee get under her skin, Francesca directed her attention back to the stage. Greg walked out to the center. The fruits of their Rodeo Drive shopping expedition were in full bloom on his buff body. He’d chosen the custom-fitted, long-sleeved, navy sueded broadcloth shirt and the slim-fitting jeans from the other day. Giorgio Armani ankle boots in beautifully crafted rich chocolate-colored leather rescued the jeans from boredom. He certainly looked good. Now he only needed to sound good as well.

  He reached for the mic, taking it from the stand. “Before I begin, I want to dedicate this set to Mary Catherine Knickerbocker—that’s my mom.” Casting his gaze upward, he said, “Mom, I’m no Benny Andersson or Björn Ulvaeus, but I know you’re up there listening and that you’re proud of me anyway. Love you!”

  Oh, Greg! Moved, Francesca reached up and wiped the tear from her eye. Silent, Franc passed her a pack of tissues.

  “Thanks,” she whispered, her eyes fixed onstage where the recorded music began.

  Greg started off with the slow, soulful “I Have a Dream,” and suddenly Francesca realized he wasn’t lip-synching at all. He was singing—and rather well. From there, he segued to the faster-paced, more upbeat “Mamma Mia,” his deliberately comical dance routine taking him across the stage and back again. It wasn’t precisely professionally choreographed—but it was bloody good.

  Suddenly the comedy switched off—and the sexy turned on. Watching him swivel his hips Elvis-style, imagining those hips rocking against hers, Francesca felt herself flushing�
�not only her face but her entire body felt warm and prickly and…alive.

  Gregory Knickerbocker could move!

  Beside her, Franc shifted forward in his seat. “Well done, Greg!” he said beneath his breath.

  The music switched out again, this time to “Take a Chance on Me.”

  “Honey I’m still free, take a chance on me.” Perhaps it was only her imagination, but Greg’s gaze seemed riveted on her throughout the song.

  “Hmm, hmm, hmm,” Deidre said, making a show of smacking her lips. “Nerd Boy has some moves on him. Now, if only he can cook…”

  Refusing to respond to the taunt, Francesca stiffened. “Hush!”

  She’d wanted Greg to win, but until now she hadn’t given much thought to what his success might mean. Once the show aired, he’d likely have to beat women off. She didn’t see Deidre as his type, but then she hadn’t thought of her as Freddie’s, either.

  The medley ended. Perspiration streaking the sides of his beaming face, Greg stepped back from the microphone and took a bow.

  Never more proud, Francesca rose. Franc followed her to his feet as did the other coaches. “Bravo. Bravo!” She clapped on, palms stinging.

  Her frog was a frog no more, but a Cinderella Man well on his way to winning his crown. Considering all the successes he’d already racked up in his real life, he’d wear it with grace. Misty-eyed, she couldn’t help feeling proud of the small part she was playing in coaching him behind the scenes. She’d helped unveil a prince. Only seeing him on stage, she was no longer certain that his “fairy god-mentor” was all she wanted to be.

  Before leaving for the day, Francesca sought out Greg to congratulate him. She found him in craft services enjoying a well-deserved snack.

  “You were wonderful,” she said, walking up. “I couldn’t leave without telling you that.”

  “Thanks,” he said, knocking back a swallow of Gatorade. “I guess all those years of messing around with my karaoke machine paid off.”

  “It would seem so. You gave a perfectly polished performance, not a trace of stage fright from what I could see. Did you imagine everyone naked?” What had begun as advice was now their private joke.