Spotlight

by Melody Carlson

  I stand up and let Paige take my place. “The tall hats were designed to make the soldiers look taller for battle. More intimidating.”

  “Ah-hah,” Paige says. “You see, there are many reasons for various fashion statements.”

  Paige’s sweet spirits continue on throughout the morning. She is gracious and kind to everyone—from the doormen to the CEOs. Her compliments flow like a river and yet each one sounds genuine and unique. Whether designers, models, or assistants, they all just warm right up to her aura of happiness. Every interview seems to go as smooth as butter. Really, it’s like she can’t say or do anything wrong. It appears the magic is back and everyone seems to adore her.

  And, naturally, I am getting suspicious. What exactly did Dylan say to her last night? What could he have possibly done to bring about this miraculous transformation?

  When we hop onto the double-decker bus, Paige is still full of sunshine and joy. Her mood is contagious as other tourists begin to laugh and joke with her, and she even manages to snag some interesting conversations which JJ catches on camera. Meanwhile I enjoy the London scenery, take a few photos myself, and actually listen as the guide explains what it is we’re seeing.

  Finally, the hardest part of our shooting for the day seems to be done, and after one more hop-on, hop-off bus ride we’re back at the hotel with enough time to relax for a couple of hours before tonight’s fashion show.

  “I know,” Paige says as we’re riding up in the elevator. “Let’s eat downstairs in the hotel restaurant tonight. We can dress up for the fashion show and then we’ll walk into the restaurant and see how many heads we can turn. Jenny Packham was supposed to send over some dresses today.”

  I’m considering this. The truth is it’s been a long day, and because this place is already crawling with models, I’m sure heads will be turning in every direction—not just at Paige.

  “Come on,” she urges me, “it’ll be fun.”

  “Count me in,” Fran tells her. “I’m willing and hungry.”

  “Erin?” She looks hopefully at me.

  “Sure. I’m in.”

  “I’ll call down for a reservation,” Fran says as we’re going into our rooms. “Let’s say six. That should give us time to get to the show.”

  “Come on into my room,” Paige calls to me. “I’ll help with your hair and makeup and then we’ll pick out a sizzling outfit.”

  It takes less than an hour until Paige and I are both dressed to the nines. As promised, Jenny Packham came through and sent over several fantastic-looking cocktail dresses. “Are you sure this isn’t too much?” I ask Paige as I check out my image in the mirror. My dress is a black and hot pink number that reminds me a little of the Roaring Twenties with its beaded fringe and beautiful corset belt. Paige looks elegant in a silky dress of peacock blue with touches of beading around the neck and the waist. We’re both wearing dark hose with a bit of sparkle to it—compliments of Jenny—and some very cool platform shoes.

  “I feel like a grandma with you two,” Fran says when she meets us in the suite. She has on a two-piece black dress that is actually quite nice.

  “You look great,” Paige tells her. “Sophisticated chic.”

  “Or middle-aged frump?”

  “No way,” Paige assures her. “You are hot, Fran.”

  I nod. “You always look great. Very director-like … with authority and class.”

  She smiles. “Well, no one will be looking at me tonight anyway. You girls look stunning.”

  I suppose I was wrong about not turning any heads tonight. As we walk across the lobby, I notice a number of people looking. Some seem to know who we are, while others look curious. But everyone is rather nonchalant too, like no one wants to be caught looking.

  We enjoy a nice dinner and as we’re finishing up, I tell Paige thanks for coming up with a good idea. “This really was fun. Much better than eating in our rooms.”

  “See, you just need to trust me sometimes.”

  “I must commend you on your amazing comeback today,” Fran tells her as she sips her coffee. “I already left a message for Helen telling her what a brilliant job you did today. Both you girls.”

  I shrug. “I didn’t really do much.”

  “But I am curious, Paige. What made you able to pull yourself out of the depths like that? What’s your secret tonic? Is it something we can bottle? Legal, I hope.”

  Paige just laughs.

  “Maybe it was the sunshine,” I say quickly. “It really was a pretty day.”

  “Yes,” Paige agrees. “The sun came out and that makes everyone happy.”

  Fran looks a bit skeptical. But then she glances at her watch. “I better tell the driver to bring the car around if we want to get there in time to film some of the behind-the-scenes stuff. I’ll bet the crew is already there.”

  “Do we need to check our hair or makeup?” I ask.

  “No, you both look great.”

  “We’ll touch up our lips in the car,” Paige says.

  As Paige and I are doing our last-minute primping, Fran’s iPhone chimes. She lets out a little groan when she checks to see who’s calling. “Hello, Mark,” she says in a falsely cheery tone. “What’s up?” As she listens, two sharp frown lines crease her forehead, and I can tell something is wrong.

  “What happened?” I ask as she slides her phone back into her bag with a low growl.

  “That was Mark McCall.” She presses her lips together and folds her arms across her chest.

  “The producer of Britain’s Got Style?” Paige asks with a worried look.

  Fran nods grimly. “He called to inform me that your presence is no longer needed on their show.”

  Paige’s shoulders droop and she looks down into her lap. “Because of me.”

  “Or because Mark McCall is a great big chicken.”

  “I just don’t get it,” I declare. “I thought reality shows loved controversy and any kind of publicity. Mark should be grateful for all the press Paige has gotten recently. Viewership should be higher than—”

  “Unfortunately, there seems to be a lot of pride involved here,” Fran says crisply. “Maybe it’s the old Brits-versus-Yanks competition, or maybe it’s something more. I don’t know. But I’m not eager to report to Helen.”

  “Is there anything I can do?” Paige asks meekly.

  Fran lets out a long sigh. “Just do your best for the rest of this trip. Be a professional.”

  Before long, we’re behind the scenes and Paige is interviewing models as they get ready. I’m sure no one but me could possibly guess how bummed she’s feeling about being shut out of Britain’s Got Style right now, because she’s like her old self, smiling, passing out the compliments, and doing a magnificent job of saying the right thing to put others at ease. However, I suspect that if Paige acted like this all the time, our show would either be a huge hit or viewers would get tired of Pollyanna. Okay, I can’t believe I actually just thought that. But, hey, I’m a realist.

  Finally, it’s time for the style show to start and we head for our seats in the front row. But as I’m about to sit down, I notice a familiar name on the placard that’s sitting on the empty seat next to Paige’s chair. “Dylan Marceau is coming here tonight?” I exclaim as we sit down.

  Paige gives me a nervous smile, then nods. But she looks too much like that proverbial canary-eating cat, and this makes me curious.

  “How is that possible?”

  She turns and peers at me. “What do you mean—how is what possible?”

  “I mean why would Dylan be here?” Even though I’m confused, I realize I don’t want to blow my cover. “He’s not a British designer.”

  “Not all the shows this weekend are British designers,” she reminds me.

  “But he doesn’t have a show here, does he?”

  She shakes her head no. “But it’s not out of the ordinary for a good designer to hop over the pond to check out the competition, Erin. London Fashion Week isn’t that far away. May
be Dylan wants to do some spying.”

  “Right…” I slowly nod, still taking this news in. “So where is he then?” I whisper as the lights go down and the music begins.

  She shrugs then looks straight ahead. “I have no idea.”

  Then the show is about to begin and the amazing runway, which is actually multiple runways that resemble a maze, is suddenly flashing with colored lights and smoke and other special effects that make me feel slightly dizzy. The music is booming so loud it’s like I can feel it pulsing through my veins. As I watch model after model parading some pretty extreme designs and strutting up, down, and all around this runway, I totally forget about Dylan’s empty seat next to Paige.

  Finally, the show ends and with my ears still ringing, I glance over to see that Paige looks disturbed.

  “Are you okay?” I quietly ask. “Are you still upset about Britian’s Got Style?”

  She shrugs. “A little.” Then she points to the empty seat next to her.

  “Oh …” I nod. “Dylan didn’t make it?”

  With troubled eyes, she holds her chin up. “His flight was probably delayed.”

  “Yes.” I nod in agreement. “Or he got stuck in London traffic.”

  Then, almost like magic, Paige puts on her sunny face, which has just a trace of sadness in it, and with JJ trailing her through the crowd, she launches into some off-the-cuff interviews with some of the glitterati in the British fashion world. I can’t help but question Mark McCall’s judgment. Can’t he see that Paige is still a hot item over here? Our camera guys are hard-pressed to stick with her, so many fashionistas are glomming onto her. After about an hour, right as she’s just finishing up with tonight’s designer, I see Paige’s eyes light up—like she’s just spotted something over the designer’s shoulder. Something I can’t see. But Paige remains professional, wrapping up her interview with high praises to the designs and tonight’s show. And that’s when I see Dylan waving as he pushes his way toward her.

  The next thing I know, Paige is in his arms and I’m just watching what looks like a scene in a movie—a final scene. Our camera guys are watching too—through their lenses. Although I suspect this is a scene that will end up on the cutting-room floor … or maybe not.

  Chapter

  19

  I wasn’t too surprised when Paige opted to let Dylan give her a ride back to the hotel. I didn’t stay awake to make sure she got back at a decent hour either. Dylan is a good guy. He cares about Paige, and he’s mature and trustworthy. Especially compared to Benjamin Kross. Really, compared to Benjamin, Dylan is a white knight in shining armor. And if his presence in London, if only for a few days, picks up Paige’s spirits like this, well, who am I to complain?

  But when Paige wakes me up at 6:48 on Saturday morning—a day when we weren’t scheduled to go to “work” until noon—I feel a bit grumpy. “What’s up?” I ask groggily, blinking at the light that’s coming in through my opened shades.

  “Sorry to wake you.” Paige sits down on the edge of my bed … and suddenly I feel worried.

  I sit up now and, rubbing the sleep from my eyes, I frown to see that Paige is still wearing that pretty peacock blue dress from last night. “Did you stay out all night?” I demand.

  “Don’t worry,” she says with a smile that’s even sunnier than yesterday’s. “We didn’t do anything you wouldn’t approve of.”

  “How do you know what I would or wouldn’t—”

  “Never mind.” She stands, strutting across the room like she’s walking on a cloud.

  “What is going on?” I ask as I crawl out of bed and walk over to look at her face. “Why are you so happy?”

  She holds out her left hand and I feel a wave of shock and disbelief rush through me as I stare at what appears to be an engagement ring. “Please, Paige,” I whisper, “tell me that’s not what I think it is.”

  She nods and giggles. “It is!”

  I sit down on the chair by the window and can only shake my head. How is this possible? Paige is barely twenty—how is it possible she is engaged? I feel slightly dizzy.

  “I know you’re shocked, Erin. But just be happy for me, okay? Last night was the most romantic night of my life. First of all, Dylan had hired a carriage ride that took us all through London—it was amazing and wonderful. And then he had arranged a midnight dinner, which was like something out of an old movie. Dylan has such a sweet old-world spirit.” She sighs. “Then just after dessert was served, he pulled out a little blue box. Tiffany’s blue.” Paige sinks down into the chair across from me. “I thought I was going to faint when I saw it.”

  “And?” I try to make my face look happy, expectant, pleasant … but I feel like such a fake.

  “And Dylan got down on one knee and told me that I was the love of his life and that he knew I was a little young, but that I would make him the happiest man in the world if I would agree to marry him.”

  “And you said yes.” My voice sounds way too flat, but it’s the best I can do.

  “Of course.” She holds out the ring again—like evidence. “Aren’t you happy for me?”

  I take in a long, slow breath. “I think I’m just in shock, Paige. It’s a lot to take in. And it’s so early.” I stare at her in wonder. “Did you really stay out all night?”

  “After he asked me, we were both too excited to call it a night. So we went dancing and had another carriage ride, then we walked along the river and talked and talked, and finally right after the sun came up, which was incredible, Dylan brought me back to the hotel.”

  “Wow … you must be tired.”

  She sighs and nods. “I guess I’m tired … but I might be too excited to sleep.”

  “You need to sleep, Paige. Today will be a long day.” I take her by the arm, leading her back to her room and, as she continues to babble on about Dylan and how happy she is and how perfect this is, I help her out of her dress and into bed. “Just close your eyes,” I say quietly. “Dream about Dylan.”

  She nods and smiles. “Yeah … that’s what I’ll do.”

  After she’s safely snuggled in, I go and put the Do Not Disturb sign on her door. Then I write a note that I slip under Fran’s door explaining that Paige needs extra sleep this morning and shouldn’t be awakened until noon. Today’s first fashion show isn’t until two, but there are three altogether and the last one won’t be over until after ten. So if Paige wants to be in top form, she will need some rest. I’ll leave it to Paige to tell Fran her news. How this will impact our show is anyone’s guess. I’m just hoping that I still have time to secure a place in film school this coming fall. Because as I get dressed—and not very carefully—I am telling myself that I am almost finished with this rollercoaster ride called On the Runway with Paige Forrester.

  With sunglasses on and a hat pulled low on my head, like I’m worried that I’ll suddenly be the target of paparazzi—which is ridiculous—I walk through the hotel lobby and over to the restaurant where I had the good English breakfast a few days ago. Was it only a few days ago? But as I sit down and look over the menu, it occurs to me that I’m not really very hungry, and so I only order coffee and toast.

  “No rashers?” the waiter asks hopefully.

  I realize this is the same guy who waited on me before, the one I raved about the rashers to. “Sure,” I tell him. “I’ll have some rashers too.”

  He grins. “I saw you on television. Nicely done.”

  I smile and nod. “Thanks.” Yeah, nicely done, I’m thinking. My big mouth about Paige’s love life ignited this whole thing. As I eat I’m longing to talk to someone about what’s going on. I consider Mom, but know that Paige should be the one to tell her. Then I think of Mollie, but I don’t totally trust Mollie not to go public with this. Finally, I decide to tell Blake. He’s been a good one to keep confidences before.

  So after I leave the restaurant, I go outside and hit speed dial for Blake’s cell phone. I have no idea what time it is in LA, but I’m desperate.

  “Hey,
” Blake says in a congenial tone, “How’s London, Erin?”

  “Oh, it’s so good to hear your voice.” I tell him about how Paige was uninvited from Britian’s Got Style. “She took it pretty hard.”

  “That’s too bad,” he says. “So how’s everything else going? You girls have sure been getting a lot of press.”

  “Even back home?” Maybe I should pay more attention to this gossip thing.

  “This is LA, Erin.”

  “Oh, yeah.”

  “So, really, what’s the story on Paige’s mystery man?”

  I take a second before I respond. “You heard that too?”

  “Oh, yeah … it’s the talk of the town.”

  “Well, can I totally trust you?”

  “Of course. But hang on a minute, okay?”

  “Sure.” So I wait for what is actually about a minute, then Blake is back.

  “Sorry about that,” he tells me. “I was with Ben.”

  “You were with Ben?”

  “Yeah. He’s kinda bummed about Paige. He asked me to hang with him. And, hey, at least I’m keeping him from a bad night of clubbing.”

  “What time is it there, anyway?”

  “A little past midnight.”

  “Oh … right.”

  “So what’s up?”

  In one long rambling sentence, I tell him about Paige’s engagement.

  “Wow.” He lets out a long sigh.

  “I know … wow. I’m still in shock. I mean, she’s not much older than me. And there’s the show. I just can’t believe it.”

  “Is she happy?”

  I consider this. “Yeah, she’s like over-the-moon happy.”

  “Good for her.”

  “Really?” I consider his point. “You think this is a good thing?”

  “Well, if she’s happy, how can I not be happy for her? Dylan is a good guy.”

  “Yeah … I guess.”

  “But you’re not happy for her?”

  “I just feel caught, Blake. Like I’ve been so jerked around in this show. I’ve given up a lot. Now it’s like the show is going to go straight down the drain.”