“It’s a hundred and two, if you really want to know,” Val said, dipping a handkerchief in one of the ice buckets and using it to mop the back of her neck. “And it was your idea to shoot outside.”
“I should be fired,” he muttered.
“Never mind,” she told him. “We’re moving inside for the rest of the week. We’re losing time and money with all these breaks, and anyway, the Weather Channel is predicting pop-up thunderstorms all week. As soon as we wrap up with your tomato and Vidalia onion pie, we’ll start breaking down the set.”
“Inside where?” Tate asked, looking around.
“Right there,” she said, jerking her head in the direction of the studio. “I just got it all worked out. There’s an empty soundstage available. We can move the Vagabond right through the loading dock. I’ll send BoBo to Home Depot for some trees and outdoorsy-looking crap. We hang a blue scrim, and voilà!—the great outdoors. Only indoors and air-conditioned. We can even use the Barbie doll’s prep kitchen.”
“I don’t like it,” Tate said. “You know we always shoot on location.”
“We’re still shooting on location,” Val said, patting his hand as though he were a cranky toddler. “But this particular location is climate controlled.” She leaned over and fanned away a mosquito hovering over his eyes. “And bug-free.”
Tate sighed, a sure signal that Val had won this little skirmish. “Does she know?” he asked.
“Who? Barbie? Why should she care? Fresh Start doesn’t own the studio. They lease the time and space just like we do. And our money spends just as good as theirs.”
He had a brief, pleasurable vision of Regina Foxton, down on all fours, fishing around on the hot asphalt for a roving can of pumpkin puree, her cute little butt pointed skyward. He flashed an evil version of the moneymaker. “Oh, she’ll care. She’ll care big-time.”
Chapter 22
Gina raced into the dressing room, locked the door, and peeled off her sweat-soaked clothes.
“Gina!” Scott was pounding on the door. “Dammit, we’ve got a crew waiting on you.”
“I know,” she called, gritting her teeth. “Get the girls busy prepping the veggies. There’s no time to cook the turkey. Have Jess brush it with some soy sauce and run it under the broiler. I’ll be right out. Just let me get cleaned up a little. Give me ten minutes.”
“More like an hour, I’d say,” D’John said, leaning back in her desk chair. “Girl, you look like who-shot-Sally!”
Standing in her bra and panties, she held a towel under the faucet in the mop sink, and proceeded to take what Birdelle, ironically, referred to as a bird bath, dabbing the soapy cloth on her face, chest, arms, and legs.
“Girl, please,” D’John said with a deep sigh. He walked over, put his hand on the top of her head, and held it under the running water. She came up sputtering. He grabbed the towel and wrapped it around her dripping head, and guided her to the desk chair.
He clucked and tsked, and squeezed an inch of hair gel out of a pink tube, briskly working it through her short, dampened strands.
“Lisa trimmed off most of the broken ends, and it didn’t look too bad yesterday,” she said. “Can you make it work?”
“Have to,” D’John said, picking up his hair dryer and aiming it at her head. “Otherwise, Scotty-boy is gonna have you wearing that thing over yonder.” He jerked his head in the direction of the bookshelves.
For the first time she noticed a Styrofoam head form perched on the top shelf. Pinned to it was a wig—a gleaming, honey blond, shoulder-length wig.
“Oh, God,” she gasped, horrified. “Where’d that come from?”
He rolled his eyes. “Wigs ‘R’ Us? You tell me. I got to work this morning, and he brought Doris Day over there in and told me you’d be wearing it for the shoot today.”
“Like hell,” she said.
“That’s what I said,” D’John agreed. “Somebody sees you wearing that thing, they gonna think D’John here been smoking some baaad crack. Don’t worry. I’ll put a do-rag on your head before I plant that thing on you.”
Five minutes passed. He blasted her head with the dryer, tweaking and twisting her short hair this way and that, then finally put his hands over her eyes as he misted her with hair spray.
“Now,” he said, handing her a hand mirror. “Behold!”
“It’s nice,” she said, turning her head to the right and left. “Even better than yesterday.”
“I should hope so,” he said tartly.
They heard the doorknob turn, and then Lisa’s voice.
“Gina? Come on, let me in.”
Gina unlocked the door.
Lisa walked into the office and looked at her half-dressed sister, and then at D’John.
“Am I interrupting something?” she asked.
“Shut up,” Gina answered. “I’m late already. And why, may I ask, are you here instead of in class where you belong? And what’s with the clothes and curlers?”
Instead of her usual tight jeans and tighter T-shirts, today Lisa was dressed in a conservative-for-her pair of black slacks and a red sweater. Her blond hair was wrapped around jumbo hot rollers.
She dropped onto the chair next to Gina’s, and stuck out her tongue at her sister. “No class today. My professor’s got a stomach bug.” She leaned over and gave Gina’s desk chair a swivel. “Hey,” she said, whistling in appreciation. “Good job, D’John.”
“It really doesn’t suck?” Gina said, looking from Lisa to D’John.
D’John was unpacking his tackle box full of cosmetics, carefully laying out the pots and tubes and brushes on Gina’s desktop. “Drama eyes,” he muttered. “Neutral lips. And earrings. We need some bigass earrings.”
“Here,” Lisa said, unfastening the heavily beaded Celtic crosses that hung from her own ears. “Wear these.”
“Thanks,” Gina said dryly. “I was. Until you swiped them several weeks ago.”
“Sharing is caring,” Lisa said. She looked over at D’John. “Am I next?”
“Next for what?” Gina demanded. “We’re working here, Lisa. Not playing beauty shop.”
“I know that,” Lisa said. “I came down for the Thanksgiving show taping. Scott said it was all right. In fact, he thought it was a great idea. I mean, I’m not gonna try and cook or anything. But Scott said—”
“We’ll shoot a family dinner scene at the end of the show,” said Scott, walking into the office.
“Can’t you knock?” Gina snapped, grabbing the damp towel and draping it across her chest in a futile attempt at modesty.
“Door was open,” Scott said. “What’s taking so long here?”
He glanced meaningfully at the wig on the bookshelves, and then at D’John.
“I tried,” D’John lied. “But she refused to wear it.”
“No way,” Gina repeated. “I am not wearing a wig. Not now. Not even if every hair on my head falls out.” She glared at Scott. “Got that?”
“Fine,” he said, returning the glare. “Just get your ass out to the set, will you? We’ve got no money left in the budget for overtime.”
“What’s this about a family dinner scene?” Gina asked.
“I was gonna let the crew kids dress up and act like family. And then Lisa called with this great idea of hers. It makes perfect sense. She actually is family. And she’s not a bad-looking kid,” he said.
“Gee, thanks, Pops,” Lisa sniped.
“I thought she could chop onions for the stuffing. Or do the whipped cream for the pie. Like that. Viewers will lap it up.”
“See?” Lisa stuck her tongue out again.
“She called you,” Gina said. “Gee, there’s a news flash. Do you have any other little surprises for me?”
“There is one more thing. Deborah wants to talk to you about some great ideas she’s got for publicity. She’ll be in as soon as she gets off the phone with New York.”
“New York?” Gina’s stomach fluttered.
“Yeah,” he s
aid enthusiastically. “I’ll let her fill you in. They need me out on the set. You too,” he added.
D’John patted moisturizer on Gina’s face, then handed the bottle to Lisa.
“Isn’t this fun?” Lisa asked, applying her own face cream.
“It’s a blast,” Gina said, as D’John applied a layer of foundation, followed by a blush, concealer, and what he called his “drama eyes”—carefully blended bands of contoured shadow, heavy liner, and the thickest, lushest false eyelashes Gina had ever seen.
“Isn’t this a little much?” Gina asked, her left eyelid sagging under the weight of the gunk and the lashes. “I feel like a drag queen.”
“Trust me,” D’John said, turning his attention to Lisa, but with a lighter hand.
Gina dropped the damp towel and started getting dressed, carefully working her arms into the sleeves of the blouse Scott had brought her.
“Ooh,” Lisa said, reaching out to touch the fabric. “How yummy. Is that a Chloe?”
“I guess,” Gina said, fastening the buttons. “Scott picked it out. Not my favorite color. It reminds me of the color of cheap olive oil.”
“Hmm,” D’John said, regarding her critically. “You could be right. Avocado is definitely not your friend.”
“I’ll take it if you don’t want it,” Lisa said. “I’d kill for a Chloe.”
“Regina Foxton! Is that really you?”
Both women turned to look in the direction of the doorway.
A willowy Asian woman dressed in a form-fitting pink business suit swept into the room.
Deborah Chen’s kohl-rimmed eyes took in every detail of Gina’s new look. She hugged a thick file folder to her chest. “Very nice,” she said finally. “Your viewers will be shocked at the transformation.”
Gina frowned, wondering if she’d just been dissed. “Hi, Deborah,” she said. “You don’t think I look too…plastic?”
“Plastic?” Deborah laughed. “Honey, this is television. Plastic is good in our twisted little vid-world.”
“Scott said you had some stuff to talk to me about?”
“Oh, yes,” Deborah said, sitting down in the chair Lisa had vacated. She crossed her legs, and the hem of her skirt rose perilously high. Although, Gina noted, she had the thighs for short skirts. Deborah rifled through the papers in her folder, found the one she wanted, and put a pair of cat-eyed reading glasses on the tip of her nose.
“Wait until you hear,” she said. “First off, we’re going to have new publicity stills shot to send to TCC. They’re going to publicize the hell out of this grudge match between you and Tate Moody.”
“Grudge match?” Gina frowned.
“Absolutely,” Deborah said. “We’re going to capitalize on the animosity between the two of you.”
“There is no animosity,” Gina said. “I just don’t like him.”
“Fine. Go with that.” Deborah beamed. “It’s great publicity for TCC, and for us, of course. And you’ll never guess who the photographer is.”
“Annie Leibovitz,” Lisa said breathlessly.
“Guess again,” Deborah said dryly. “We are talking public television here.”
“I don’t know,” Gina said. “Anyway, why do we have to have new photos made? What was wrong with the old ones?”
“Seriously?” Deborah pulled the offending eight-by-ten publicity still of Gina from her file folder and wrinkled her nose in distaste. She ticked off her complaints one by one. “The lighting was too harsh. Your face looks puffy. Your nose was shiny. You had a cowlick, for God’s sake. And that shirt with the pussycat bow…unfortunate.”
“That was my favorite blouse,” Gina said.
“It made you look like a Sunday school teacher,” Deborah said. “Other than that, it was perfect…for a 4H convention.”
“I always hated that blouse,” D’John said helpfully.
“Me too,” Lisa chimed in.
“Anyway,” Deborah went on. “By the most amazing stroke of luck I was able to book Just Joel for the shoot. Isn’t that fabulous?”
“Joel who?” Gina asked.
Deborah shrugged. “Just Joel. That’s his professional name. I don’t know if he has a regular name. It’s a real coup that we got him. He’s usually booked months ahead of time. He jets all over the country. Print ads, fashion layouts, editorial work. He’s the go-to guy for high-society social events. Fortunately for us, the wedding he was supposed to shoot in the Hamptons this week got canceled because the groom ran off with the best man.”
“This week?” Gina said nervously. “You don’t mean this week, right?”
“This week absolutely,” Deborah said. “Tomorrow, in fact.”
Gina’s hands flew to her head. “But my hair,” she wailed. “It’s still so short.”
“That’s why we got you that wig,” Deborah said. “It’s perfect. And the nice thing is, you can take it off when you get done shooting tonight, put it on the stand, and pop it back on tomorrow. No bed-head. No fuss, no muss.”
“No wig,” Gina said. “And no publicity photos. I’ve still got more shows to shoot this week.”
“This takes precedence,” Deborah said briskly. “We’ll get the shows worked in, but the publicity is actually more important. It’s what Barry wants.”
She reached back into the folder for another sheet of paper. “I’ve already started setting up the print interviews. We’re going to do a video conference. Won’t that be fun? So far I’ve got you set up with the television writers from the Nashville Banner, the Memphis Commercial Appeal, the Charlotte Observer, and the Orlando Sentinel. I’ve got calls in to the Constitution, of course, since you used to work there. And I’m waiting to hear back from the Miami Herald.”
Despite her reservations, Gina was impressed. “Those are some pretty big papers. They’re interested in doing a story about me? I don’t even think our show airs in all those markets.”
“It doesn’t,” Deborah said, dimpling. “But they can’t wait to get the jump on this food-fight angle I’ve dreamed up. Now, I wasn’t going to mention this because it’s still a long shot, but I guess it won’t hurt to tell you I’ve also had some interest from magazines on this story. Nothing’s definite yet. But I really think we’ve got a shot at People, US Weekly, and Entertainment Weekly. And the guy from Hello! is really hot for the story.”
“Hello!” Lisa yelped. “Ohmygawd. That’s my favorite. It’s my bible.”
“Wait.” Gina leaned forward. “Slow down here. I think I lost you. What food-fight angle are we talking about here?”
Deborah’s eyes glittered with excitement. “I knew you’d be surprised. It even took Scott by surprise. Until he thought about it. Then he realized what a natural this story is. Everybody is really pumped.”
“What. Food. Fight?” Gina said it slowly, emphasizing every word.
“Why, the food fight between you and Tate Moody,” Deborah said. “Over this Cooking Channel competition. We’re going to get huge coverage out of this. We’ll put you both in satin boxing trunks. Pink for you, blue for Tate. Of course, you’ll be wearing a little tank top, but we’ll have Tate bare-chested.” She paused and licked her lips delicately. “Have you checked out the quads on that man? Not to mention the lats? He is buff, he is ripped, he is divine! And did I tell you I have a call in to Entertainment Tonight? It’s kind of a long shot, but one of my sorority sisters from Vandy is an assistant publicist there—”
“No.” Gina stood up quickly.
“No, what? Sweetie, it’ll be in absolutely good taste, I swear. Scott thought we should have you in sort of a wet T-shirt look, but I said—”
“No!” Gina heard herself screaming. Actually screaming. “Hell no. No way, no how, no freakin’ way. No.”
Deborah’s nose got pink. She stood slowly, pursed her lips, and clutched her clipboard even tighter to her chest. “We’ll talk later,” she said. “After the taping. When you’re not so premenstrual.”
Chapter 23
Javi
er Soto eyed the mesh bag of Vidalia onions on the countertop of the prep kitchen with deepening suspicion. The string opening was knotted in a different way. And the bag was not as full as it had been only an hour earlier, when he had unloaded his supplies. Yes, he told himself. It had been opened, definitely. With a scarred forefinger he counted the jumbo sweets one by one.
“Ocho!” he said triumphantly.
“Excuse me?” Jenn had positioned herself as far away from Tate Moody’s prep chef as she could manage in the studio’s small kitchen. Which meant that they were on opposite sides of the brightly lit white linoleum counter.
Jenn and Stephanie had complained bitterly when Scott announced only two hours earlier in the day that they would be sharing the prep kitchen with Moody’s crew, and Jenn had even threatened to quit. But they both knew she wasn’t going anywhere. How many jobs were there in Atlanta, Georgia, for a CIA-trained food stylist? Jenn put down her rolling pin and scooted her pie pans away from the manic chopping of the surly man at the other side of the counter.
“I say there are only ocho onions here,” Javier said, raising his voice. “Somebody is taking my onions. Somebody is stealing my Vidalias.”
“Ignore him,” Steph said, under her breath. She quickly dumped a pan of crumbled corn bread into the bowl with the rest of the ingredients for the Foxton family turkey dressing. On top of this she dumped a skilletful of cooked breakfast sausage, along with the pan drippings. She measured out sage, salt, cracked pepper, and chopped shallots, and began folding together the ingredients.
Javier Soto stopped chopping and sniffed the air. His gleaming black bandito-style mustache quivered with each inhalation.
“You!” he screamed with rage, pointing his knife at Steph. “You are the one who is stealing my Vidalias.” He ran around the counter and snatched up the mixing bowl. He plunged his hand into the glop and held a handful of it up to his nose. “My onions!” he cried. “My beautiful onions.”
“Hey!” Steph yelled. “That’s my dressing!” She grabbed at the bowl, but he was too quick.
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