Blonde and Fabulous

by anna snow

  He smiled at the camera. "So as you can see, the dental industry has a long standing history of using poisonous products to clean your teeth. But what happens if we delve deeper into the ingredients found in your mouthwash?"

  I watched as Bobby went through a two-minute spiel where he moved mouthwash around in various beakers, all the while totally grossing me out with what was really in it. Involuntarily I felt my tongue trying to wipe my teeth as he talked. I was going to have to pick up some of that natural toothpaste next time I was in Whole Foods.

  "And that, my friends," Bobby said, wrapping up the segment, "is the whole tooth about your mouthwash."

  "Cut!" the director yelled. "That was great. Let's go one more time."

  "What for?" Bobby argued, the scowl immediately back.

  "Let's just do one more for safety." The director smiled at Bobby, though I could see a hint of fear behind it. Geez, this guy had the entire crew on edge. "Okay, Bobby?"

  "Was there something wrong with the way I did that take?"

  "N-no. I just think we should—"

  "Then we're moving on." Bobby stared the director down as if challenging him. I felt my eyes, along with the entire crew's, ping-ponging back and forth between the two men.

  The director paused, took a deep breath, and then blew it out on a resigned sigh. "Okay, moving on." I thought I saw Bobby smirk as the makeup woman descended on him again, adding more powder to his nose as the crew moved props for the next scene.

  The next couple of hours went on much the same. The cameras went on, Bobby smiled and joked with the viewing audience, the director yelled "cut," and Bobby morphed into Diva Man, instantly jumping on whichever crew member was closest for not doing their job up to his standards. The light was weak. The mic was in his way. The prop should have been on his left, not his right. With his winning personality, I was honestly starting to wonder how Bobby hadn't gotten in more altercations lately.

  I checked the clock. I'd been on set for well over three hours. Bobby hadn't so much as glanced my way. I wondered when he planned to "fit me in" as I shifted in my chair to get a little feeling back to my right cheek.

  The director called another scene number, and the crew once again reset for the next shot. An old-fashioned mailbag was brought out, and I recognized the upcoming segment immediately.

  At the end of every show, Bobby read a letter sent in from a fan, usually a child or their teacher or parent, and proved or disproved their question. I loved this portion of the show. Kids came up with the coolest questions, and it was fascinating to see the conclusion of the experiments Bobby performed.

  Bobby reached into the bag, the director yelled "action," and our charm-oozing host began reading a selected letter. It was from a local elementary school teacher concerning what would happen if a person ate Pop Rocks and drank soda at the same time.

  "Well, let's test this theory out," Bobby told the camera. "As you can see, we have a bag of popping candy here and a bottle of soda. Now the carbon dioxide trapped in the candy will have a reaction with free carbonation in the soda, but will it cause an explosion? Only one way to find out—that's it!" Bobby's happy face melted, and he slammed the little black package of candy onto the table. Tiny red rock candy burst all over the stage like confetti. "I cannot work like this! Are you kidding me?!"

  I looked around in confusion. What in the heck had just happened? Everything had seemed to be going great, at least to me. What had I missed?

  The director hurried up onto the set and stopped in front of Bobby. They talked heatedly for a few seconds, though in low enough tones this time that I couldn't make out the words. Finally Bobby threw his hands into the air, turned on his heel, and stormed off the set toward his trailer.

  "Take five, everybody," the director called out wearily then made his way past the camera equipment and out of sight. I figured he was most likely looking for a bottle of vodka. Not that I could blame him. I had a feeling that my interview—if I ever got one—was going to be about as pleasant as a case of poison oak on my bikini area.

  I shifted in my chair, wondering just how long this "five" was going to be. How long did it take to sooth the savage diva ego?

  After half an hour had passed and Bobby still hadn't appeared back on set to finish filming, I decided to go in search of someone who could tell me what was going on before my entire day was wasted waiting around for an interview that wouldn't happen. With a quick sweep of the area, I found Bobby's personal assistant, who had originally greeted me on set. He was standing to the left of the set, talking animatedly on the phone. I stood, adjusted my skirt, rolled my lips to even out my lip gloss, and wove my way through the crowded set. My pink high heels clicked on the cement floor beneath my feet as I approached him.

  The assistant saw me walking toward him and held up one finger. I stopped a few feet away from him so that he could continue his call in private as I tried to remember the guy's name. Harry? Hunter? Something with an H.

  He was short for a man, only a few inches taller than my 5'3", and slim. His medium brown hair was thinning, his skin was pale, and his eyes were rimmed in dark circles that spoke of too many hours doing Bobby's bidding and not enough sleeping. He wore the same earbud and microphone combo I noticed most of the crew sporting, though his dangled from his ear as if he'd pulled it out to make the phone call. He finished quickly then shoved the phone back into the front pocket of his jeans.

  "Ms. Quick?" he greeted me.

  "That's right. From the L.A. Informer," I said with a smile. I pointed at him and raised an eyebrow. "And you were…"

  "Henry. Henry Klein," he supplied.

  I nodded in recognition and committed that name to memory. "I'm supposed to have an exclusive interview today with Bobby? About the incident with the fan."

  "Right. So sorry to keep you waiting. Bobby's…" He trailed off with a wave of his hand in the direction Bobby had stomped off to, as though he was trying to come up with a polite word for jerk.

  "That's alright. I understand." I smiled and patted his forearm as I went into reporter mode. Henry wasn't Bobby Baxter, but as his personal assistant, I'd bet he knew a lot about Bobby. There was always a chance that he could tell me something I'd never get out of Bobby himself. I put on a little extra charm and stepped closer to him.

  "While we wait for Bobby to come back out, could you tell me a little bit about what happened the night that he had that run-in with the fan at Beverly's?" I smiled up at him as sweetly as I could and pushed my chest out just a bit as I patted his arm.

  While I was keen on feminine equality as any woman, I knew you could catch a lot more flies with honey—or in my case a pair of ample Ds—than with vinegar. A little flirting went a long way to getting the answers I wanted, especially in Hollywood.

  "Me?" Henry squeaked out, his voice about an octave higher. "Oh, I don't know…"

  "It's just that anything you might be able to tell me would really help me out. And help Bobby. I mean, you'd be saving him time by filling me in now."

  Henry shifted uneasily. "I just don't know if that's a good idea. I'm sure Bobby will tell you everything about that night as soon as he's finished taping the show."

  "Oh, I'm sure he will, too." I batted my lashes at him. "I was just hoping that maybe you could tell me what you know or what you might have heard about it all. You know, just in case Bobby forgets something small. I like to get all of the details so that my story is completely accurate. I'm sure you understand." I continued smiling.

  "Well, I guess it can't hurt." He finally returned my smile. "But I only know what I saw."

  "You were at the restaurant with Bobby on the night of the altercation?" How lucky could I get? Henry was an eyewitness.

  Henry nodded. "Yeah. Sort of. I mean, I was there, but Bobby likes me to hang back a bit. He says I scare off the ladies."

  I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. Bobby was a regular pal. "Any lady in particular with Bobby that night?"

  Henry glanced around
like Bobby was going to jump out from behind a wall with a pink slip if he saw him talking to me. "No. He was alone at the bar, sitting on a stool and talking to whoever passed by." He frowned. "He'd, uh, maybe had a bit too much to drink."

  I raised an eyebrow. "Oh? What makes you say that?"

  Henry licked his lips. "Well, he was being loud—well, louder than usual. Kind of…um, maybe bothering some of the other patrons."

  Translation: diva turned obnoxious drunk.

  "Go on," I prompted. "Was the fan he hit one of those patrons he was bothering?"

  Henry shook his head. "No. I mean that guy seemed friendly enough from where I was sitting. He just walked up to Bobby and started talking to him."

  "The guy wasn't being confrontational?" I asked.

  "Not at all." Henry shook his head. "They talked for a minute, and then the next thing I know, Bobby hauls off and punches the guy right in the face. I've seen Bobby in a mood, but I've never seen him hit someone."

  "What happened then?" I asked.

  "The guy fell to the floor. Then all hell broke loose. Security guards came running out of nowhere and grabbed Bobby by the arms. Of course, Bobby was yelling for them to let him go and fighting to get out of their holds. Then the cops showed up and arrested him. He was still yelling and acting like a fool when they shoved him into the cop car and drove away."

  "Did you happen to hear what the fan and Bobby were talking about before Bobby hit him?"

  "No. Sorry." Henry shook his head. "I was too far away."

  "That's all right," I said. "I'm sure I'll get the rest from Bobby." I checked my watch again. "If he ever comes back out here."

  "Let me go back to his trailer and see if I can get him to come out. He did promise you an interview, and it wouldn't be right to make you wait around all day. Give me just a second."

  I watched Henry jog outside the warehouse to where Bobby's trailer sat beside two others labeled hair and makeup and wardrobe.

  I hoped Henry could coax Bobby out. Unfortunately, the assistant hadn't told me much more than I'd already known from the social media accounts of the evening. What I really wanted to know was what the fan had said that ticked Bobby off so much. I'd seen firsthand today how easily Bobby could fly off the handle. But hitting a complete stranger seemed a bit much, even for him.

  I meandered over to the Craft services table while I waited, picking up a pair of blueberry mini muffins and a fresh coffee. I was just polishing off the second tiny treat when Henry finally appeared again. The expression on his face told me all I needed to know.

  I wouldn't be getting my exclusive today, if ever.

  He hurried up to me. "I'm so sorry, Ms. Quick." He held up his hands pleadingly. "But Bobby's refusing to talk to anyone. I know you were promised an interview, but when he gets like this, there's no changing his mind. He did say he would talk with you tomorrow morning if you're willing to come back then."

  "Of course." I nodded. "I can come back in the morning." What was I going to do? Refuse and lose the story? Not likely. I didn't really have much of a choice. On this, like it or not, Bobby was calling all of the shots.

  "Again, I'm so sorry about today."

  "It's not your fault," I assured him and patted his arm again. "Does he get like this often?" I motioned toward the trailer.

  Henry shook his head, and a lock of his thin brown hair fell over his forehead. "To be perfectly honest with you, he's always a bit of…a handful. But things have been worse since his arrest. Snapping at people, always late, paranoid."

  "Paranoid?" I jumped on the word. "How so?"

  Henry pursed his lips as if thinking twice about confiding in a tabloid reporter. Smart man. "Well, it's not one thing in particular, but it just feels like he's always looking over his shoulder, you know? I don't think anyone else has even noticed. Maybe I'm just imagining it." He shrugged then pressed on his little earpiece as if getting a call. "I'll be right there," he said into the mic. "I'm sorry, Ms. Quick, but I have to go. Duty calls."

  "Oh, no worries. I understand," I told him.

  "Be here around ten in the morning, and we'll get you that interview with Bobby before he starts filming."

  "I'll see you then," I called after him.

  I watched him jog away to take care of whatever crisis needed dealt with. Then I tossed the strap of my purse over my shoulder and made my way back to the golf cart that I'd ridden to the set. I hopped inside and steered in the direction of the studio visitors' parking area.

  Henry hadn't exactly been a fountain of information, but the bit about Bobby seeming excessively agitated and paranoid since the incident made me even more curious as to what was said between him and the fan he'd smacked around. Was Bobby hiding something? Did he know the fan personally? Did the fan know something about Bobby that he didn't want getting out? Did Bobby have something on the fan? My reporter brain spun in circles with a zillion questions.

  I parked the golf cart in its assigned slot by the main entrance, waved at the guard manning the gate, and hurried to my car. I'd sat on the set most of the day only to be told to come back tomorrow.

  An entire day wasted.

  I didn't lead a glamorous, exciting life, but I did have a life, and I enjoyed what there was of it too much to waste my days. And I didn't like the idea of depending on someone as volatile as Bobby Baxter for my article. What if he decided to give the interview to another reporter?

  I slid into the driver seat of my Volkswagen Beetle. The white vinyl seats seared the back of my thighs. I'd been so excited at the thought of interviewing Bobby that I'd forgotten to put the sunshade over the windshield. I shook my head at my mistake and cranked up the air conditioner. The cool air blasted against my face, and I almost sighed aloud. L.A. was hot no matter what time of year it was, and today I could practically feel my makeup melting off of my face. While the interior of the car cooled, I flipped to my favorite radio station and pulled my phone out of my purse, turned my ringer back on, and texted an update to Felix.

  No interview today. Diva drama. I'll explain over dinner.

  The phone chimed with a response almost immediately.

  See you at 8.

  I tossed the phone back into my purse and tossed the bag onto the passenger seat before putting the car in gear and pulling through the studio gate. I made a quick stop at the nearest drive-thru and grabbed a chocolate shake. It would take hours on the elliptical to burn off that little cup of deliciousness, but with the day I'd had, it was worth it. I mean, when wasn't chocolate worth it?

  After what felt like an eternity of being stuck in traffic on the 2, I finally turned into my neighborhood and onto my street. My standard gray apartment building was a small fourplex on the outskirts of Glendale, hugging the foothills of the San Gabriel Mountains. Nothing terribly fancy, but it didn't break the bank either.

  I pulled into my assigned parking spot in front of the building and took a minute to appreciate the semi-quiet (for L.A.) neighborhood. Tall trees lined each side of the street, and on a good night when the smog was at a thin layer, I had a clear view of the mountains, which in my mind was almost as good as living in the Hollywood Hills. Almost.

  I killed the ignition, grabbed my purse, hopped out of my Bug, and made my way up the stairs to my apartment door.

  The new sprinkler in the side yard area was blasting away, coating the grass in cool water and making a racket on the side of the building with every rotation. I pulled my keys from my purse and let myself inside. I had one hour to get fab for Felix…and I intended to put it to good use.

  CHAPTER TWO

  My cat, Mr. Fluffykins, greeted me by winding himself around my legs. I reached down and gave his head a generous scratch as I tossed my purse on top of my hand-painted pink coffee table.

  I love the color pink. It might sound silly to some, but the color pink, in all shades, made me happy. And who couldn't use more happy in their lives, right? Especially in my line of work, I felt that pink kept me from becoming jaded…li
ke certain of my coworkers. I'd hand painted and sewn most of the items in my tiny apartment, including the pink coffee table, the kitchen table, which I'd painted gerbera daisies—my favorite—on, and the hot pink throw pillows with gold tassels on the corners that adorned the sofa I'd found on Craigslist.

  I was a do-it-yourself kind of girl. Mostly because my paycheck from the Informer wasn't big enough to be a hire-a-decorator type yet.

  I kicked off my heels and padded to the kitchen, where Mr. Fluffykins meowed and gave me his feed me now, peasant look. I complied, pouring him new bowls of food and water.

  "You wouldn't believe the day I had, Mr. Fluffykins," I said as I pulled a bottle of water from the refrigerator. I'd poured my heart out to my sweet kitty on more than one occasion over the years. He probably knew more about me than anyone else in the world. I was glad that cats couldn't talk, because if he could and ever got mad at me, he'd have plenty of blackmail fodder.

  He looked up at me and meowed then dug into his meal.

  "I was supposed to interview Bobby Baxter, but he stood me up. Rude, right?" I continued.

  Mr. Fluffykins grunted—though whether it was in response or simply a byproduct of inhaling his food, I couldn't say. I went on anyway. "I hate to say the guy's a jerk before I even meet him…but I'm pretty sure the guy's a jerk." I shook my head and took a sip of the water.

  "And now I have a date with Felix in…" I checked the clock on the microwave. "Less than an hour. I better get ready. Can't keep the boss waiting!" I grinned as I gave Mr. Fluffykins another quick scratch and hurried down the short hallway to the bathroom.

  I took a quick, hot shower, dried myself off, and wrapped my hair in a hot pink towel.

  Felix and I had been out together several times over the past few months, but our relationship status was still somewhat ambiguous. While I wouldn't quite call him my boyfriend yet—at least not to anyone but Mr. Fluffykins—if I saw him with another woman, I think I'd be justified in clawing her eyes out. Or his. Not that I thought there were any other women in Felix's life, but the "exclusive" talk was one bridge we'd yet to cross. While I knew Felix had lived in L.A. for years, he still held on to his typically British aversion for discussing emotion in any form. For the most part that worked for me.