Opportunity Knocks

by Alison Sweeney

  “How much time do we have?” I ask Cameron, even though his ear is pressed to his oversized gold iPhone 6. It didn’t take me more than one meeting with Hillary’s fabulously dressed assistant to learn that if I waited for him to be off the phone to ask him a question, I’d wait forever.

  “They want her for Access Hollywood in ten minutes,” he answers automatically. Before I can turn away, he adds, “Oh, Alex, wait.” Finally I have his attention. “I have some paperwork for you to sign.”

  I already signed my union papers and W-9 forms back at the show, so I’m not sure what’s left, but I follow Cameron to his Louis Vuitton backpack, slung casually from a nearby dining chair.

  “It’s Hillary’s standard NDA.” He hands me the one sheet and a pen. Knowing I’ve got to touch Hillary up before she gets called back on camera or there will be hell to pay, I scan quickly over the paper, with no idea what NDA even stands for.

  “Nondisclosure?” I read aloud.

  “Yeah, it’s standard with celebrities. I mean, you can’t expect her to just share her secrets with you with her fingers crossed that you don’t stab her in the back, right?” I can’t help but see his point. Somehow my eyes land on a dollar amount halfway down the page: $5,000,000.00. “Five million dollars? Jesus. I don’t have five thousand bucks, never mind five million.”

  “Well, then don’t sell her story to TMZ, right? Easy enough.” Cameron seems completely unfazed.

  “Did you sign one?” I ask, thinking that’ll be a good test.

  “Yeah, of course. Everyone has to if you want to work in this industry.” And he shoves the pen at me again, but his focus is clearly back on his call. Well, I guess that’s good enough for me. This is my career now and I’m not really much of a gossip anyway. I definitely don’t have Perez Hilton on speed dial or anything, so what am I worrying about? I hand Cameron the signed paper and he folds it into his backpack as if it’s yesterday’s newspaper. Obviously, these NDA things aren’t that big a deal.

  I walk over to Monica and Hillary, pulling out a clean makeup sponge and some under-eye concealer.

  CHAPTER TEN

  The rest of the afternoon is complete torture. I can hardly breathe moving from one tiny hotel room to the next. I try a few more times to avoid going into the rooms; staying out in the windowless hallways crowded with PR interns would be infinitely more tolerable than crouching next to the overturned bed, making space for all the lighting and camera equipment. Every producer clearly chose to shove the crew into one tiny corner to make it seem completely roomy on camera. It makes sense, but I do not have it in me to be logical right now.

  “Hillary, you look great; once you’re in there I can’t really touch you up anyway, so I’m just going to stay here and catch my breath, okay?” She already called me on my claustrophobia, so I see no harm in admitting to the weakness now.

  “No, Alex, it’s not okay.” She says it as if I’m a kid who’s asked her for a second dessert. “I hate how hot those rooms are too, but I can’t stop myself from sweating because you don’t like closed spaces. I need to know I can count on you, even if it’s not comfortable.”

  I want to tell her it’s more than discomfort. It’s a fucking phobia. Phobias by definition aren’t rational. But maybe she’s right—I’ve had more than one shrink tell me it’s all in my head. Maybe this is just what I need to overcome this stupid fear.

  “All right, of course. Sorry.” I smile to let her know it isn’t that important to me and we step inside the room. And into the suffocation chamber I return.

  I TRY EVERY technique I’d ever heard of and a few more I Googled on my phone to distract myself from the situation. Nothing works. By the time Hillary lets me off the hook at six p.m., I’m completely mentally and physically exhausted. Even the thought of getting in my car to drive back to my parents’ in the west Valley is more than I can handle.

  Without really weighing the consequences of mixing alcohol with my frayed nerves, I step up to the hotel lobby bar and ask for a glass of pinot noir from the kind-looking elderly bartender cleaning glasses in the corner. The huge glass windows looking out over the lawn and setting sun help me breathe easier as I sit with my makeup bag at my feet, my purse tucked on my lap, and allow the wine to take effect. A few steady gulps and I know everything is going to be okay. I’ll just have to learn to deal with stuff like this.

  “Whoa… slow down there, tiger.” I recognize his voice immediately. And my body temperature skyrockets as Billy Fox eases between bar stools to stand right next to me.

  “Believe me. After the day I’ve had, I need it.”

  He signals the bartender over and orders a Bass Pale Ale on tap and a second glass of wine for me, which is when I realize mine is empty. Then he gently herds me off my stool to an empty rounded booth next to the gorgeous bay windows. Admittedly, I don’t put up much resistance. “Okay, what’d Hillary do now?” he asks when we’re alone.

  Immediately I think about the confidentiality agreement I signed today. Even though he’s definitely more famous and successful than Hillary P., this is probably exactly why she has people sign them. And anyway, my phobia isn’t her fault.

  “I just have trouble in enclosed spaces,” I admit, trying to simplify my ordeal. “Today… all those hot, airless hotel rooms kinda got to me.”

  Billy’s delicious smile immediately turns to concern. “Is this booth too tight? Do you want to go outside?” He looks around as if to arrange just that.

  “No, I’m fine, really. The windows help. I can totally breathe down here. I don’t know why today triggered it.” Not true, of course; I know exactly what—or rather who—triggered it. “I haven’t had an attack in a long time.”

  “Are you sure you’re okay?” he asks again. His hand squeezes mine on the table.

  “Yeah. Thanks. I really am much better now.” I want to look into his eyes, but I learned at lunch that I turn into a dummy doing that. I’m better off swirling my wine.

  “I’m glad,” he says. “What made you claustrophobic? Was there an incident?” he asks after a few minutes of silence.

  “Yeah. It’s kind of an embarrassing story, though.” I don’t know why I would even consider telling him this story.

  “Those are the best kind.” He leans back in the booth, enjoying his beer, enjoying teasing me. “Come on, you can’t just leave me hanging…”

  “I got stuck when I was a kid. There was a bunch of publicity and stuff. Firemen had to get me out. I don’t really remember all of it, but apparently it was pretty traumatizing.” It’s getting easier to talk to him, and while I’d like to blame the wine, it’s Billy. His easygoing manner has captivated me and put me completely at ease at the same time.

  “Sounds like it.” He gestures the bartender over, and they chat like old buddies. It’s impossible not to be charmed by how respectful Billy is to the server. Before I know it, I’ve committed to a couple of tapas from the bar menu and another round of drinks. I remind myself that with my new job, I can afford to Uber home if I want to. Once we’re alone again, he pins me with his bright blue gaze. “I think there’s more to that story, Alex.” His knowing grin and the way he says my name with that Texas lilt is more of a turn-on than I could’ve imagined.

  “Isn’t that enough? I mean… I was on the local news and everything. A little claustrophobia is nothing, really.” I nod my thanks to the bartender as he sets out silverware and a plate of tuna tartare.

  Billy uses the placement of food as an excuse to slide closer to me in the curved booth, and now I can feel his warm thigh against mine as he prepares a cracker with tuna and avocado relish and puts it on my plate. “Tell me,” he says, leaning in. His proximity would make any heterosexual female crazy. It’s the only explanation for why I confess a story to Billy Fox I haven’t told anyone about since sixth grade.

  “I got trapped,” I begin. Another big swallow of pinot and the rest just babbles out. “In a claw machine.” I see that he doesn’t understand. “You know, th
ose toy machines at the arcade? You put money in and try to get the claw to grab you a toy? Yeah. Apparently my parents weren’t really paying attention at Chuck E. Cheese’s and I climbed into one.” I keep talking over his stifled laughter. “It happens more often than you’d think. Back then it did anyway. They’ve probably figured out a way to stop it from happening now.” He’s now hiding his smile behind his beer mug. As if I don’t know. As if it doesn’t make him even cuter. “It’s not funny, the firemen had to break the whole thing to get me out.”

  “I’m sorry, you’re right. It’s not funny,” he says sincerely. And then he ruins it by adding, “I bet you have a thing for firemen now, too.” I do, but really, what woman doesn’t? I mean, I don’t really think my childhood fiasco has anything to do with liking a guy in uniform.

  “I don’t chase firemen, if that’s what you’re asking,” I say indignantly.

  “Are you dating anyone?” Billy Fox, getting to the heart of the matter.

  “No,” I answer truthfully. “No, I’m not.”

  THIS WHOLE NIGHT is completely surreal. Billy made me forget he’s a movie star before the appetizers arrived.

  The lights go down when the live band takes over the hotel’s main bar lobby. Billy finally gestures that he can’t hear me anymore and actually looks disappointed. I must be imagining that part. I awkwardly fiddle with my cocktail napkin, wondering what happens now. I don’t have any practice in flirting, but I know for sure I don’t want this night to end. And somehow I have this crazy inner confidence that Billy feels the same way. But just in case, I offer him an out. “You probably have to get back to your hotel.” I look for our server.

  “Don’t you dare be lookin’ to pay for dinner. I’m buying,” he says. “And I’m not ready for this night to end. I don’t have to drive—I’m staying here.”

  “Really?” I ask, surprised.

  “Yeah, I don’t need to be put up at some fancy Beverly Hills hotel. I like Pasadena. Reminds me of home.” He looks me in the eye. “You shouldn’t be driving, either.” And he means it seriously; it’s not an invitation.

  “I rode here with Hillary, so I was going to Uber back anyway. But I can stay for a while.” And then there is no doubt. He takes my hand and leans in so his lips are right up against my ear.

  “Wanna dance?”

  I feel his body heat even as he pulls away to see my response. I give an enthusiastic nod. And in the next breath, he’s slid out of the booth and then pulls me to my feet. It’s so dark now, it’s hard to make out his features, but the LED lights occasionally flash over us as Billy pulls me out onto the packed dance floor. We find an isolated little corner, and maybe it’s the wine or the company or the night, or maybe some mystic combination of all of the above, but I’m just enjoying the chemistry with a gorgeous guy who is clearly as into me as I am into him. We dance and sweat and sing along to all the same classic songs.

  When the band starts the opening beats of Queen’s “Somebody to Love,” I turn to Billy and feel my insides melt when I see my excitement mirrored on his face. He grabs me around the waist and we face the stage. His body tucks in behind mine and he sways us to the beat. In the dark, lost in the crowd, it feels so good and easy to just lean back into him and go with the flow. And from there everything changes. Even as the beat picks up for the next couple of songs, we are glued to each other. He’s turned me back to face him, my arms fall naturally around his neck, and his hand is on my lower back, holding me against him. I’ve officially lost all sense of time.

  He takes my hand with a casual Texan chivalry and escorts me back to our table. Billy tosses a few large bills onto our check. My whole body is buzzing, feeling his warmth next to me. And then we’re off. By the time we step into the elevator, I am so charged up and he hasn’t even kissed me. We’re alone so I’m able to breathe normally, riding up in silence. Billy is leaning against the opposite wall, but his eyes are searing into mine, keeping my attention on him and not the walls closing in on me.

  “I think if I kiss you right now, I’m not going to be able to stop.”

  I add mind reading to his list of good qualities.

  I am more turned on now than I have ever been in my entire life. I feel more desired now than I ever felt with Sean. I banish the thought of my ex from my brain—I’m not going to let him ruin this experience for me.

  In an instant we’re arriving at the double doors leading to his suite. He swipes his key card and the door clicks open. Billy gallantly steps back to let me through.

  “Wow. It’s beautiful.” Billy has let us into a completely decked-out suite. The Mediterranean-style hotel has designed the rooms with luxury in mind. We’re on a landing looking over a gorgeous eight-seat dining room table in rustic walnut; the guest bathroom to our left, decked out in gold fixtures and marble countertops, makes a pretty fancy first impression. Behind it is an archway that must lead to the private kitchen. On the right is a seating arrangement in front of an oversized fireplace.

  I don’t notice I’m frozen in place until I feel him move in behind me. His hands land on either side of mine on the railing and I can feel his breath on the back of my neck.

  “I’m glad you like it,” he says against my ear.

  “Do you have dinner parties here? What’s with the dining table in a hotel room?” I really don’t know how to be sexy. There’s no point even trying. Obviously Billy doesn’t mind because I can feel him smile as if I just said the perfect, most attractive line in the book. He kisses my ear, then nuzzles my neck, and instinctively I stretch my neck to allow him more room to play.

  “I mean… I can see how people need a place to host, I guess… if they’re staying here a long time. I didn’t mean that it’s not super cool. I mean, it is… super cool… I just—” I’m still babbling as Billy grabs my hips and stops my words by spinning me around so my back is against the rail and my front is pressed right up against his. And then he’s kissing me. No hesitation, no introductory, tentative, warm-up kisses. It’s just one never-ending incredible, deep, soul-searing kiss.

  Everything that happens after that is a blur, because he never stops his mind-drugging kiss. I know I throw my arms around his neck, running my fingers through his hair, letting him know the only way I can that I don’t want to stop kissing him. Ever. He responds to my silent yes by lifting me up, pulling my thighs around his hips. And I hold on tight as he carries me down the hall. Since he didn’t break the kiss, I have no idea where we are. All my attention is on him. But when I land on his bed, I can’t wait for what happens next. And it is everything I never knew I wanted until now.

  I WAKE UP with a start and realize two things immediately. Billy Fox’s arm is draped around my naked body, holding me close to him, and the bright digits on the alarm clock in front of me read 4:37 a.m. I have a flight to catch. Oh God. I immediately tense up, realizing that if, God forbid, I hadn’t woken up, I’d have missed my flight to New York, not to mention being stuck with some horrible morning-after scenario with Billy Fox.

  It doesn’t take me but a second to conclude that last night was the best night of my life. Hands down. And the last thing I want to do is ruin it with some awkward conversation where Billy has to get rid of me. It’s easy to slide out from under his sleep-slackened arm, but not as easy finding my clothes strewn around his darkened room. A hundred memories come flooding back as I gather up everything I was wearing yesterday by feel. I tiptoe into his bathroom and switch on the light only after I’ve shut the door. I pull up the Uber app and discover with massive amounts of relief that even at four in the morning, there are several cars just five minutes away. I order one and quickly dress. Feeling my way through his room toward where I remember the entrance being, I dig into my purse and rip a sheet of paper out of my pocket-sized notebook. I write quickly, glancing at my watch. The last thing I want is to have the driver leave if he doesn’t see me right away.

  Thank you for the perfect night. XX Alex

  My pen hovers over the page
while I consider leaving my number. But in the end I decide it’s just too tacky. Plus, how long would I spend staring at my phone, hoping he’d actually call? Better to make a clean exit. I put the note in the center of the dining room table, where I’m sure he can’t miss it. And like the conscientious girl I am, I double-check his door is locked on my way out.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  I’ve been in Manhattan for forty-eight hours, and other than eating late-night take out and sleeping at Emma’s, I’ve only really seen the inside of Hillary’s West Side studio. I am itching to get out and explore anything beyond Times Square. I want to see the city, I do, but I haven’t quite wrapped my head around Emma’s tour guiding idea.

  “We’re walking up Fifth Avenue,” I repeat. The words are English, but the meaning hasn’t sunk in. “All the way?”

  “Yes! I think it would be such a great way to introduce you to the city.” Emma checks her watch. “I’m going to have to get back to the kitchen; my copycat Cinnabons need to come out of the oven.”

  “Okay, but let’s talk about this, Em. That sounds like a really far walk…”

  “Oh, stop. You Angelenos, you love to exercise but you won’t even walk next door. It’ll be great. You’ll love it.” And she’s disappeared through the studio doors, heading into her backstage kitchen area.

  Hillary is with Monica now, getting her hair done. Monday they aired a repeat to give Hillary a chance to travel home. But first thing Tuesday morning I was thrown into the deep end of making a TV show, and I knew no one was going to take the time to teach me to swim. At first I hung out with Monica and Hillary in Hillary’s thankfully spacious dressing room, trying to soak up everything I could learn from them regarding the show as they made small talk. I also want to make sure Hillary knows I am happy to be here, and happy to be at her beck and call. But now that Monica knows she’s stuck with me permanently rather than when I was just helping out in LA, she’s made it clear that she doesn’t want me in her way while she’s working on Hillary. So today, Wednesday, I decide to stroll the hallways, grab a cup of coffee, and chat with Emma for a few minutes during the hair-drying portion of Monica’s work. That machine gets so damn loud, but Hillary doesn’t seem to care, she just raises her voice over the roar of the dryer. Not only does she talk nonstop about her life, her friends, and her enemies, but she definitely likes us to validate her choices, her snappy comebacks, and her decision to bitch out her useless agent.