“Callie,” he murmurs, his voice rasping with want. “I’ve got to tell you...”
“Tell me later,” I whisper, pressing myself to him as I tilt my face up to his. “I can’t—”
I nearly send myself crashing to the floor as a clattering knock on the door makes me jump. Thankfully, Jack is a far more coordinated creature than I am, and manages to set me down on my feet instead. I take a hasty step away from him as another knock rings out from the door of his penthouse, as if we were about to get busted for making out under the bleachers. Seriously though...something was about to go down between us. Unless my imagination is as drunk as I was last night.
“Is that Miss Johansson, at last?” I breathe, trying and failing to play it cool.
“Ha. Not exactly,” Jack says back to me, shoving a hand through his hair.
“Then who—?” I ask, glancing at the door.
“Mr. Cole!” a high-pitched female voice chirps from outside. “Mr. Cole, I have the double espresso you asked for! I didn’t know if the hotel’s coffee would suffice.”
“Mr. Cole? Double espresso?” I echo, as Jack strides over to the door. “Who is that, your assistant or something?”
“Not exactly,” Jack replies over his shoulder, “As of this moment, she’s yours.”
“What?!” I exclaim, as he opens the door.
In a caffeinated blur, a diminutive figure bursts into the penthouse. I blink up at the slight young woman standing before me. She’s even smaller that I am—five feet tall and maybe a hundred pounds, dripping wet. We seem to be the same age, though if anything she’s a little younger. Her wide, confident smile takes up most of her face, and a pair of dark-rimmed glasses claim the rest. The woman’s jet black hair is pulled back into a huge perfectly curled ponytail, and she’s rocking the hip early professional uniform of skinny jeans, a white button down, and a cropped blazer. She carries a tray of coffee cups in one hand and has a smart phone all but glued to the other. In about three seconds, I can tell that this is a woman who gets stuff done, kicks ass at her job, and should never, ever be trifled with.
“Callie,” Jack says, nodding at the woman, “This is—”
“Penelope Barker,” the woman cuts him off, beaming at me from across the room, “Your assistant for the duration of the shoot. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Benson.”
“H-hi,” I stammer back at her.
“Not much of a talker, huh? That’s fine,” she goes on, bustling across the room and thrusting a coffee cup into my hand, “Hope espresso is fine for today. You can tell me your exact coffee order for future reference. Now, why don’t we sit together while you down that and get ourselves on the same page about the next few days?”
“What’s happening in the next few days?” I ask her, as she pulls me down beside her on the couch.
“Only everything,” she says with a chipper laugh. “We’ve got to get you all up to speed on the project. You’ll need to have some styling done, a boat load of media training, a meeting with the studio head...”
I raise an eyebrow at Jack as he saunters over to us. “Word sure does travel fast,” I remark, “I’m pretty sure I only agreed to work on this project about three minutes ago.”
The grin fades away from Penelope’s face in a heartbeat. She whips around, glaring up at Jack. “Is this true, Mr. Cole?” she demands.
“Define ‘true’...” Jack smiles.
“I was under the impression that Miss Benson signed onto this film days ago,” Penelope goes on, “As soon as we got the news of...The studio has been on overhaul these past few days switching gears to accommodate Callie. Are you telling me you weren’t even sure she was going to say yes until this morning?!”
“She’s on board now,” Jack replies, “What’s the problem?”
“Oh nothing,” Penelope says sarcastically, on the edge of hyperventilating. “Just having a little heart attack over here. Don’t mind me.”
“If it makes you feel any better, he blindsided me too,” I tell her, laying a hand between her wing like shoulder blades. “It’s sort of a habit with him.”
“That’s very sweet of you to say,” Penelope tells me between tiny gasps of air.
“So. When do we start?” I ask her, trying to keep the nerves out of my voice.
“Oh, immediately,” she says brightly, coming to. “There’s a car waiting for us outside.”
“A car...? Where are we going?” I ask, looking between her and Jack for answers.
“The salon, of course,” she tells me, “You’ll be styled by the one and only Parker Bayard. He’s a living legend. We’ll have to get your look taken care of before we can go any further.”
“What’s the matter with my look?” I ask, glancing down at myself.
Penelope stares at me blankly for a long moment, as if waiting for the punchline. But when she realizes that I’m actually asking, she replies, “Well, you obviously already look quite a bit like your sister, but there are a few adjustments we still need to make.”
“Oh. Right,” I say faintly, a pang of guilt and grief twisting my core. With all the excitement of accepting Jack’s offer and starting out on this journey, I forgot for all of five minutes why it is I’ve been asked to step in. This opportunity has nothing to do with me as a person or an actress. I’m just the closest thing to Avery that the studio could afford. It would do me well to remember that.
“You’ll have to go blonder, obviously,” Penelope goes on, appraising me. “We’d love to get you into a tanning bed, if possible. There’s not much we can do about muscle tone in the next few days, but the good news is that the film is set in the ‘50s. Women were allowed to be a little plumper back then.”
“Oh. Neat,” I say flatly.
“We’ll let Parker and his team figure out all the rest, don’t you worry,” Penelope says, opening up her enormous handbag. “Ah! I almost forgot. Here you go...” she says, dropping a massive stack of papers into my lap. On top is a title page that reads “City in Red”.
“Is this...the script?” I ask, aghast.
“Sure is!” she replies.
“I thought we were shooting a gritty cop drama, not an adaptation of the Encyclopedia Britannica,” I grumble, straining to pick up the massive tome.
“We’re still making edits,” Jack shrugs.
I flip open to the first page of the script and read over the list of characters, searching for my own. Jack’s character—Joel Brennan—is right there at the top, followed by about twenty supporting characters, all of whom are male. I run my eyes down the long list until finally, right at the end, I find a female name. The only female name.
“‘Rosalie Danes,’” I read aloud, “‘A classic beauty, very attractive, a neat figure with legs for miles...’ Are you frigging’ kidding me, Jack?”
“What’s the problem?” he asks.
“That’s not a character description. That’s just three different ways of saying she’s hot,” I reply tersely.
“We’ll deal with the actual character later,” Penelope cuts in, rising to her feet. “For now, let’s just worry about getting you pretty.”
“Well, that’s all that matters anyway, right?” I mumble.
“You heard her,” Jack grins, as Penelope marches away. “It’s out of my hands now.”
“Legs for miles...What a load of bull...” I mutter sullenly, following my new assistant—or rather, taskmaster—to the door.
“That’s the spirit!” Jack smiles as I pass. “Welcome to showbiz, kid.”
Chapter Ten
“Well?” Penelope prompts me, peering over my shoulder in the salon mirror. I’ve just been spun around to see my brand new look for the first time. “What do you think?”
I gape back at my reflection, at a loss. The person staring back at me through those accentuated, smokey eyes is a complete stranger. There’s no denying that she looks damn good, rocking a face full of ‘50s-inspired makeup and platinum blonde locks. This is the sort of look that belong
s in magazines, the big screen, and the red carpet. I know this for a fact, because this face has already graced those glamorous locales.
This is Avery’s face. Not mine.
“You hate it,” my stylist Parker pouts, his handsome face collapsing into a worried scowl. He’s a stoic, intimidating man, but I can tell that underneath it all he’s sensitive about his work.
“No, no,” I tell him quickly, struggling to keep my eyes open under the weight of my false eyelashes. “It’s just...different, is all. Not what I’m used to.”
“You’ll be used to it soon enough,” Penelope says, “Starting tomorrow, you’ll be on set. That means hair and makeup every morning.”
“Oh. Great,” I say flatly, tentatively touching my crown of retro platinum curls. My hair has never been any other color than its natural dirty blonde. Except for that one month when I experimented with purple streaks, of course. Oh, college.
“Mr. Cole has just arrived,” Penelope tells me, consulting her phone, “He’s waiting for you in the car outside.”
“He’s not going to whisk me off to a plastic surgeon or anything, is he?” I ask, only halfway kidding.
“Of course not,” Penelope laughs lightly, “Our legal team would never OK that. You look enough like your sister as it is. Thank god you’re identical twins, rather than fraternal. Otherwise who knows what measures we would have had to take?”
“Ha. Right,” I mutter dazedly, pulling myself gingerly to standing. My feet are strapped into a pair of sky-high stilettos, and my petite frame is wrapped up in a tight red bodycon dress. Parker and his team of stylists wanted to see the whole picture, from hair and makeup to wardrobe. It’s been a particularly harrowing game of dress up so far. And I have a feeling that we’re only just getting started.
Turning toward the door, a flash of blonde catches my eye across the salon. It takes me a long moment to recognize the figure in the full-length mirror as myself. I’m paralyzed all over again by the sight of my transformed appearance, the uncanny resemblance to Avery I now bear. I know that these changes are all superficial, but I can’t help feeling like I’ve signed away a piece of my true identity. Growing up as twins, Avery and I were careful to make sure the world knew we were two separate people. I don’t think I realized until this moment how disorienting it will be, pretending to be her.
But it’s too late to turn back now. I can’t put this dye job to waste, now can I?
“I guess I’ll see you guys later,” I say to Parker, Penelope, and the rest of the crew.
“Wait!” Parker cries, as I move toward the door of the salon. His dancer’s body leaps across the room to me with enviable grace. “Here,” he breathes, slipping a pair of gigantic sunglasses onto my surprised face. “Now you can leave.”
“Are these really necessary?” I laugh, “It’s not like I’m famous or anything.”
“Two hours ago, that may have been true,” Parker replies, planting his manicured hands on tapered hips, “But thanks to us, you’re a movie star now.”
“Oh...” I say, flicking a stray blonde curl away from my eyes. “I guess you’re right. That’ll take some getting used to.”
“You have all of 24 hours to get accustomed to it before the camera starts to roll,” Penelope says brightly, “Now go on! Mr. Cole is waiting.”
And sure enough, I spot a sleek black town car idling at the curb. Car service—yet another thing I’ll have to get used to. With my Jackie O sunglasses fixed in place, I step out onto the SoHo streets. In the three paces it takes to reach the car, something strange begins to happen all around me. People are turning to look at me. Staring, as a matter of fact. And I don’t think it’s because I look like Avery, necessarily. I think it’s just because I look...hot.
A glance back at the windows of the salon confirms it. Standing on the bustling NYC street, I look like I’ve just stepped out of a glossy magazine. That’s going to take some getting used to. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve always been more or less happy with the way I look. But my typical uniform of chunky sweaters, boyfriend jeans, and tousled up-dos didn’t exactly draw that much attention. Skin tight dresses and platinum tresses, on the other hand? It’s a sea of lascivious gazes out here, and I’m just wading through it.
Sliding into the cool, dark interior of the town car is quite the relief. I close the door behind me and actually manage to take a breath. Or as much of a breath as is possible in this dress. That is, until I swing my gaze around to the person beside me. Jackson Cole sits back against the brown leather backseat, his eyes boring into me. The heat of his gaze is palpable against my skin as it rakes along my body.
And I have to say, I’m eyeing him up right back. He’s rocking a warm gray suit, just casual enough to pass for everyday, but sharp enough to stand out. The jacket and slacks are perfectly cut to his body, and his rich brown hair is artfully swept away from his handsome face. His attire has the same vintage feel as mine, and I suddenly feel as though we’re headed off to some chic masquerade ball together. There’s no denying it—we make a pretty sexy couple.
“Whoa,” he murmurs, that lopsided grin drawing me in even further, “Callie, you look—”
“Just like Avery, I know,” I cut him off, staring down at my newly manicured hands.
“I was going to say ‘incredible’,” he corrects me, “You look incredible.”
“Oh,” I reply lamely, feeling a blush rise in my cheeks. “Well. You know. A team of professional stylists will do that to a girl. You don’t look too shabby yourself.”
“Why thanks pal,” he laughs, signaling for the driver to take us to our next location...wherever that may be.
“What’s with the vintage thing though?” I ask, as we take off toward Midtown, “I thought you were more of jeans and tee shirt kind of guy?”
“I know, I know,” he groans, rolling his eyes at his impeccable getup, “I look like I just strolled out of a menswear blog or something. But the team thought Miriam would want to see us styled with a nod to our characters. You know, just a touch of the ‘50s thing.”
“Miriam?” I echo, “Are we meeting with Miriam Blake today?!”
“We’re meeting with Miriam Blake right now,” Jack tells me, “Didn’t Penelope prep you for this?”
“No!” I exclaim, “Or...Maybe? I was kind of distracted by the whole extreme makeover bit, you know?”
Jack lets out a deep sigh, rubbing his scruffy jaw. “Well. Surprise, then. We’re headed over to Apollo’s New York offices to pay Ms. Blake a visit. She wanted a taste of the fresh blood before we start shooting.”
“Thanks for phrasing that so delicately,” I grumble, sinking back in my seat.
“Hey, I’m just preparing you,” Jack shoots back, “Miriam Blake doesn’t have a delicate bone in her body. You need to walk in there with your head held high. She’ll smell the fear on you otherwise. That woman’s like a great white shark in a Chanel pantsuit.”
“Sounds like a charming broad,” I reply, watching the mayhem of New York fly by through the window.
“Come on,” Jack says, slipping an assuring arm over my bare shoulders, “You know how to deal with hard-asses like her. I know. I’ve met your mother.”
“Good point,” I laugh, relishing the feel of his comforting embrace. “If I can survive eighteen years of Sylvia Benson, I’m sure I can get through a single meeting with Miriam Blake. I hope.”
“That’s my girl,” Jack says, as we glide on through the bustling chaos of Manhattan.
His girl...I think, leaning into his embrace, I kind of like the sound of that.
My confidence fights to stay one step ahead of my nerves as our town car pulls to a stop just off Times Square. Jack opens the door for me and offers his hand to help me out of the car, encumbered as I am by three-and-a-half inch heels. As I step out onto the sidewalk beside him, I feel the breath rush out of my lungs in a baffled gust. A gleaming, mirrored skyscraper rises up before us like a giant chrome beanstalk. Even craning my neck I can’t see t
he top of it.
“This is where our meeting is?” I ask breathlessly.
“Sure is,” Jack grins at me, “Don’t be scared.”
“I’m not scared,” I shoot back, “I was on the NYC audition circuit for a spell after college. Now that was scary. This is just...kind of on a different level.”
“Relax. All you have to do is look pretty and prove to Miriam that you know how to put one word in front of another,” Jack says, leading me toward the bank of doors.
“My, what high standards you have for your costars,” I reply, rolling my eyes behind the huge sunglasses.
Jack and I are swept into the behemoth of a building, and immediately shepherded through the cavernous lobby into a waiting elevator car. Security personnel hover all around us, as if we were actually important or something. I can’t help but think there are probably better uses of their time than babysitting movie actors. But then, what do I know?
We step out of the elevator and onto the 86th floor. A gleaming corridor stretches on ahead of us, lined with mysterious unmarked doors. The glass panels at the end of the hallway are emblazoned with the world-famous Apollo Pictures logo: a chariot wheel ringed by the rays of a sun.
Jack looks right at home as he leads me down the hall and into the Apollo offices. A gorgeous woman stands waiting for us there, smiling at us as we approach. She could easily be a super model, with her sleek black hair and perfect tan. Or a movie star, for that matter. It suddenly strikes me as totally absurd that I should be the one stepping into Avery’s film role when there are women like her in the world.
“Hello Mr. Cole,” the woman purrs, giving Jack a warm, familiar look.
“Diana,” Jack replies, shooting her a million dollar smile. “It’s good to see you again. Callie, this is Diana Crane, Miriam Blake’s assistant. Diana, this is Callie Benson. Our new Rosalie Danes.”
Damaged In-Law Page 10
