by Laura Briggs
"Brock's taste in music? Pretty lame," said Clare. But a tiny smile appeared on her face again, one that wasn't mean-spirited, but friendly. "Even more so than my mom's."
"She's never explained what kind of music she likes," said Gwen. "I wish she'd tell me so I could pick a band that would actually please her."
"She doesn't really get music," Clare answered. "To her, it's just noise in the background of movies and television and stuff. She doesn't really notice the difference between songs or styles or anything. Not like she notices cosmetic stuff or clothes.”
Gwen noticed the title of the girl’s text book. Advanced Music Studies, Volume One. “I'm guessing you’re pretty knowledgeable about music,” she said. “Maybe you should be supervising these auditions instead of me. I’m just going off instinct, and so far, that’s not proving very helpful.”
Clare shrugged. A faint blush entered her cheeks, then disappeared. “It’s my favorite subject," she answered. "Mr. Lars—that’s our music teacher and choral director—thinks I have some potential. If I keep working at it. He asked me once if I wanted a solo in the choir concert, even. He's always trying to get me to join some of the school musicians who perform together and form music groups and stuff.”
“Which school?” Gwen asked.
“Brillstone High. It’s a private school. Mom wanted me to go there because they have a good business program.” Clare's tone suggested that she probably wasn't part of it, despite Erica's reason.
Gwen nodded. “I think my agency planned an event there once,” she said. A twenty year reunion, she recalled, one of the first big jobs she had taken on after opening Creative Coordination.
She was about to ask more—for instance, if Clare had accepted the solo, or if she planned on a career in music someday—when another voice interrupted. Erica was striding towards them with a displeased look on her face as she surveyed her daughter.
“What on earth are you wearing?" she asked, accusingly. "I told you we’re meeting Brock’s parents for dinner! Honestly, do I have to hire a fashion advisor for my own daughter? Look at you — that t-shirt has a hole in it! There's a Vera Wang in your closet, Clare. Honestly!”
"Mom..." mumbled Clare. "Brock doesn't care what I'm wearing. I wish you didn't, either."
Taking Clare's arm, Erica gave the wedding planner an exasperated look. “Why do teenagers have to be so trying?" she asked. "See what I’m up against?”
Gwen didn’t answer, wishing she could smooth things over for the teenager who looked thoroughly uncomfortable, as if she wanted to shrink away from her mother's perfectly-manicured grip. Clare was hardly a rebel, in her estimation. Surely Erica could see that gentle persuasion would work better than badgering the girl on matters of taste — or that compromise would be better than making Clare wear designer dresses and rouge when her heart wasn't in it.
But Erica was used to getting her way, Gwen imagined. Watching as mother and daughter walked to the lobby, a defeated slump in the teenager’s shoulders as Erica steered her towards the waiting car and driver.
*****
“And the bridesmaids dresses should be ready to pick up Thursday afternoon.”
Gwen took a breath after reciting this long list of ongoing assignments. She was sitting in Erica’s office, the bride typing on a laptop at the desk across from her. Conducting business transactions elsewhere, even as she conferred with Gwen about the wedding preparations.
“Sounds like everything’s right on schedule, then,” Erica chirped.
Everything for this wedding, yes. Gwen couldn’t help wishing this meeting would wrap up so she could make it to her appointment at the Pear Street Bakery. Their baker, though among the best in her budget range, was easily put off by what he deemed offensive behavior in customers. If she kept him waiting, he might not even look at the sketches she had made for her and Ryan’s wedding cakes, designs she had based on a pair of bride and groom’s cakes from a 1950’s magazine.
“Ms. Hilbourne?” Sandra knocked against the open doorway, saying, “Your agent called to reschedule your business lunch for tomorrow at one o’ clock. Oh, and the rest of those R.S.V.P.s arrived. The ones for that casting call you had the marketing department send out—male models between twenty-five and thirty for a possible commercial shoot? Auditions are this Wednesday.”
“Thank you, Sandra. Just enter them in the computer, please.”
Erica wore a funny expression as she moved to close the door behind her assistant. Turning back to Gwendolen, she said, “That’s something I’ll need you to add to your schedule. Supervising those interviews for the male models. It’s Wednesday from eleven to two.”
“Me?” Gwen must have misheard. Surely this was something for one of Erica’s assistants to handle. Someone with actual knowledge of the fashion and advertising world, for instance. Confused, she began, “I don’t really have experience with —”
“But this is for the wedding,” Erica assured her. “I know how it must sound, but that stuff about a commercial shoot is just to satisfy public curiosity. I know I can trust you to be discreet about the real reason we’re holding these auditions.”
Gwen nodded, little pin pricks of apprehension forming as she wondered where this was leading. In the past, she had received some pretty outrageous demands from her clients, including the time she was asked to fire a best man when the bride’s family deemed him inappropriate. Sensing this request would be one of those moments, Gwen steeled herself for whatever was coming next.
“As you’ve probably noticed, my fiancé is very devoted to his work. It’s his passion.” Erica beamed momentarily, a dreamy look in her eye. “However, that doesn’t leave him much time for building social connections. And though Brock’s brother will serve as his best man, most of his other friends are much too busy with their own businesses to attend our wedding.”
She paused, letting that sink in. Then: “So you see, we need to find a few professionals to fill the roles of the groomsmen.”
Hire the groomsmen? Gwen pondered this idea in silence. She could only imagine the look on her face, adjusting her hand so it blocked whatever strange expression might be there.
“I know it’s a little unorthodox," Erica admitted. "But under the circumstances, I feel it’s the best option.”
She flipped open a folder, showing Gwen a list of names. “I’ve narrowed it down to a select pool—fifty in total. Staff from my PR department will help conduct the interviews, but I want you to be there and personally grill the top twenty or so. I’ve circled their names in red, so you can be sure to study their resumes before Wednesday.”
“I see.”
Gwen didn’t know what else to say. Inside, she was uncomfortable with the scenario, imaging herself in a roomful of men whose hair and makeup care far outweighed her own. But the part of her determined to stay professional didn’t let it show.
Relief in her voice, Erica said, “You don’t know how much better I’ll feel knowing you’re in charge of this whole process. I completely trust your ability to handle delicate situations like this.”
“Well, I…that’s very kind of you to say.” Gwen was blushing under this praise, guilty over her secret reluctance to actually complete the assignment. The client’s wishes come first, she reminded herself, watching as Erica buzz her secretary’s intercom to request the model resumes.
So much for that bakery appointment, Gwen thought, wryness overtaking her as she dropped an armload of folders on the desk in her temporary office. With a sigh, she sifted through model portfolios, wondering what exactly qualified anyone to be groomsmen. Good posture? Coordination when walking down the aisle? Their looks were the main emphasis in these portfolios, along with any connections they might already have in the world of fashion and fame.
Did Erica really believe that hired help could replace the presence of true friends at a special event like her wedding? Maybe that didn’t matter to her, as long as the press was fooled, and no one knew her fiancé lacked the time fo
r making his social life as successful as his business.
She wondered about this, glancing over headshots of models whose chiseled features were molded into pouting expressions. Men whose looks were just as perfect in person, when they showed up for their interviews Wednesday afternoon.
The theater where Gwen normally endured band auditions had been transformed for this occasion. Instead of sound equipment, tables and chairs lined its stage, from which Gwen and the members of Erica’s marketing staff conducted interviews with the candidates. All fifty of them had arrived bearing invitations from Hilbourne Headquarters, security guards stationed in the lobby to keep unwelcome visitors from snooping around.
Checking her watch, Gwen despaired at the time still remaining. Already, she had serious doubts about the candidates she’d interviewed: A hung-over party fiend, and a sullen youth whose every answer contained profanity. The one right after that had proved a little too interested in showing off his physique—at least, judging from the amount of shirtless torso on display beneath his open leather vest.
After Vest Guy came a model who spent his entire interview texting. He never once glanced up as Gwen spoke, actually daring to answer a phone call partway through their interview. If he behaved this way at an audition, how would he be at the actual job? She could easily guess, discreetly crossing his name from the list, as she told him, “We’ll let you know by next week.”
Candidate number five had his good points, she had to admit. His portfolio showed a series of guest appearances on a popular soap opera, along with a commercial shoot, and a brief appearance in a major music video. He sported messy, spiked hair and a causal smile that resembled the one from his headshot.
“You have quite a résumé here,” she told him. “Very impressive.” Thinking his acting skills could come in handy, given the nature of the assignment. Would he still be interested if he found out it wasn’t a commercial shoot, but more like a celebrity rental that he auditioned for? After all, he couldn't mention the event in his resume, once he signed the confidentiality agreement.
“This says you went to Harvard,” she added, glancing at the portfolio again.
“My talent’s pretty diverse,” he answered. Without much modesty, she noted, though some might argue he didn’t need it. Gwen wasn’t so easily swayed, a tiny frown creasing her brow.
“So Erica Hilbourne,” he said, straightening the lapels on his jacket. “I’m a big fan. She is one gorgeous lady.” He cleared his throat. “Will she, uh, be around? You know, for the commercial shoot and stuff?” He was already preening a little, as if anticipating the fashionista would emerge from behind the scenes any moment now to greet him.
Gwen stared. Was he really planning to hit on someone who was engaged? The bride’s upcoming nuptials were all over social media; he couldn’t have missed it, especially if he was really a ‘fan’ of Erica’s work. She kept a smile pasted on as she answered, “No details are available for the shoot yet, I’m afraid. Now, if you’ll be good enough to answer a few of these questions…”
And so it went. Models and actors; a few society elites, destined to inherit a family fortune, while looking for ways to supplement their allowance in between. Gwen was ready to sneak out the back door by the time her lunch break arrived— but instead, settled for a salad and yogurt from the catered lunch Erica provided backstage.
Her cell rang, a quick glance showing it was Ryan’s number on the screen. “Hey, sweetheart,” came the familiar greeting when she flipped it open. “Have a few minutes to talk? Or am I interrupting important wedding business?”
“Just the usual,” Gwen replied, hoping to avoid any more details. Somehow, she couldn’t see herself describing this process to Ryan without it sounding completely ridiculous. Or making him a little jealous, she thought, with a glimpse of the handsome crowd still assembled in the theater’s auditorium.
“What are you doing Saturday?” Ryan asked. “Because I’m kind of hoping for a day out with the girl of my dreams. If she’s not too busy making someone else’s happy-ever-after possible, that is.”
He was teasing, but it struck a guilty chord for Gwen, who immediately said, “I’d love to. Where are we going?”
“Let me surprise you,” came his reply. “Just make sure you dress warm. And in layers.”
She grinned, plucking a cherry tomato from her salad. “Does this surprise happen to involve a cold, slippery surface? Some special footware, too?”
“Maybe,” he said. “Or maybe I’m just saying that to throw you off the scent.”
“Un-huh.” She rolled her eyes. “Just admit it, Ryan Miller. You’re taking me ice skating.”
He laughed. “Brilliant, Sherlock. At least you can’t guess which venue. Indoor, outdoor, the one at the park. That’s one detail you can’t spoil, unless you’ve added mind reading to your list of other talents.”
“You’ve got me there,” she admitted. Growing serious, she added, “I can’t wait to see you. But are you sure we can play hooky for the weekend? After all, we haven’t rescheduled the chapel tour yet, and I missed the bakery appointment on Monday—”
“Give yourself a break,” Ryan urged. “Better yet, let me do it. That day out comes with a dinner too.”
She couldn’t resist that warm tone, conceding, “All right, then. We’ll talk about it later.”
There was still time for this, she told herself. To pull off the job of a lifetime and make her trip down the aisle just as unforgettable. Somehow, she would make room for them both, despite the deadline looming ever closer on her calendar.
By two o’clock, the auditions were over. Out of twenty interviews, Gwen found only two she would consider recommending. One, a former photographer turned model; the other, a handsome immigrant, whose poor English might actually prove convenient for this particular scenario.
Heading for the lobby, she paused at the sight of security escorting a tall, blonde woman from the premises. The woman adjusted a floppy dress hat, insisting, “I heard the dance talent tryouts were being held here—it was in the newspaper, I’m sure of it!”
Did she know that voice from somewhere? Gwen moved towards them, pausing at the sight of Erica’s personal assistant coming through the doors. She looked frazzled, and a little bit angry, as she hurried up to Gwen in the middle of the lobby.
Without so much as a greeting, Sandra informed her, “There’s been a change to this week’s schedule. Two, actually, so find your planner. Oh, and turn your cell back on, because if I hadn’t been in the neighborhood, I couldn’t have reached you—”
She broke off, momentarily distracted by the sight of Vest Guy’s torso moving towards them. Gwen hid a smile, digging for her planner as she wondered what exactly these changes entailed. Maybe cancellations, she thought, hopefully, as the assistant regained her train of thought.
“Band auditions have been moved to this Friday at four o’clock. And Saturday, you’re to meet Ms. Hilbourne and her daughter at Fontaine’s Fashions on Biltmore Avenue. Plan to take the whole day, if necessary.”
Saturday? The entire day?
Gwen’s face fell with this announcement, her plans with Ryan crumbling before her eyes. The assistant gave her a sympathetic smile, saying, “I know it’s last minute, but Ms. Hilbourne needs advice choosing a dress for Clare. And she specifically requested you be the one to give it—so consider yourself flattered.”
Her heart sank even further in response to Sandra's words. Of course. Ms. Hilbourne wasn't ready to give up on the scheme of forcing her daughter into the wedding. And she, Gwen, had been tasked with the unpleasant scenario of persuading Clare to be part of a bridal party where she would stick out awkwardly as the last-minute addition.
Sandra turned and strode back towards the exit, leaving Gwen to make a series of new entries in her planner. She ignored the tall blond being evicted by security, still voicing protest over her treatment.
Friday: Band auditions at four.
Saturday: Meet Erica and Clare for dr
ess shopping at Fontaine’s Fashions.
Sunday: Find some way to make this up to Ryan, even if it kills you!
*****
London Time was the most acclaimed band on Friday’s audition roster. Gwen knew this, even before she had checked over the rest of the musician’s credentials. Their love ballad, ‘All’s Fair’, was indie recorded and released, with lots of digital sales in recent months. At least two of Gwen’s other clients had requested their song for the play lists at their anniversary and engagement parties.
Gwen watched the band tune their instruments from her seat five rows away in the mostly vacant auditorium. In a row further back, on the opposite side of the aisle, was her client’s teenage daughter.
Clare sat with a backpack beside her, a notebook propped open on her knee. Gwen was pretty sure the girl hadn’t done much studying, though, her eyes fastened on the stage anytime music was being performed. Gwen had glanced her way during the previous bands’ auditions, seeing her lean forward, her gaze eager and alight with an expression Gwen hadn't before seen on her client's daughter's face.
It was the look of a fan, Gwen decided. Definitely. Clare was loving what she was hearing from this group, whether it was the first time or one of many times she'd heard the indie band's songs.
Gwen remembered the soft strains of Clare singing to herself when she thought no one was around to hear it. No wonder her teacher was pressuring her to be a bigger part of her school's music program. If only her shyness would mellow with time, she could share her talent with a bigger audience.
If it was shyness that was holding her back, that is. Because Gwen hadn't forgotten the disappointment in Erica's voice every time she spoke of her daughter's disinterest in the fashion world.
The band's song reached its chorus, drawing Gwen's attention back to the stage. Hopefully, this option for Erica's wedding would be as promising as it sounded — it was already the clear contender compared to the singer-songwriter who had relied a little too much on recitation, and the rock band whose grizzled style gave new meaning to the phrase, ‘aging rockers’. Their guttural tones had been like something caught in a garbage disposal, Gwen recalled, flinching.
