“Sophia Hartland, put that tray down and come with me right now!” Poppy hopped from one foot to another, her face agitated.
“But Hannah said they need more shrimp.” I tried to carry the heavy-laden tray past her.
“Oh, bother Hannah!” Poppy grabbed the tray out of my hands and shoved it into the hands of a passing waiter, hired for the night. “Pedro, take these out to the main buffet table and replace the empty.”
The surprised Pedro nodded and headed back out into the throng of party guests.
“Here, put some of this on.” Poppy handed me a tube of lip gloss from her pocket. She reached behind my head, and, undoing the alligator clip, allowed the heavy, dark tresses to fall down my back. She ruffled the locks with her fingers.
“What are you doing?” I stood with an opened tube of gloss in my right hand and tried ineffectually to grab with my left the clip Poppy had removed from my hair and attached to her pants. “I need that! It gets too hot with my hair down.”
She grabbed me by the shoulders, and, with a hearty shake, got my full attention. “Sophie! Ian O’Connor wants to meet you!” Her hazel-green eyes bore into me.
“Okay. Who’s Ian O’Connor and why does he want to meet me?”
“What! Are you kidding? Do you live in hole? Ian O’Connor! You know, Eeeaann Oh-Coonnneerr.” She said it like I was deaf and could read her lips if she spoke nice and slow.
I shook my head, completely lost.
“He’s one of the hunks on the hottest new cop show this year, LA Heat. It was a mid-season replacement in the spring, and it’s been picked up for a full season this fall. He’s so smokin’ hot, women throw their bras at him. You know, he plays Ryder McKay.”
“Nope.” I shook my head. “Sorry. Not one of the shows I watch. Why does he want to meet me?”
“He said he liked the painting in the front hall and asked who did it. I was pseudo-stalking him, and thus in hearing distance, so I cozied up and explained all the credit went to you, my best friend and interior designer,” Poppy said in a rush. “And he said he’d like to meet you sometime. And I said, ‘well she’s here tonight’ and if he was serious I could introduce you two.” She bounced up and down like a rabbit and squealed, “And he said, ‘sure.’”
I rolled my eyes, always the cynic. “Poppy, he probably happened to mention it in passing, and then when you attacked, he was just being nice. This guy has likely made a beeline to another part of the house by now to get away from you, crazy stalker woman. We’ll be lucky if he didn’t already bolt from the party.”
I loved Poppy dearly. She was my best friend in LA, and as the owner of Poppy’s Party Planning, she gave me jobs that helped supplement my income when times were slow, and I was between design contracts. I met my intelligent, crimson-haired friend at a party six years ago, early in her career. This job was for a director’s birthday party, and Poppy had come up with the idea of going old Hollywood and asked for my help with the party décor. I decided nothing screamed old Hollywood like art deco and created an entire theme around it. Unfortunately, Poppy had a quirky tendency to fall in and out of love with TV and movie actors as often as she changed her socks. I feared Ian O’Connor was her latest fixation.
“Please tell me we aren’t doing two a.m. drive-bys with this Ian fellow.”
“Sophie!” she exclaimed. “You have it all wrong. Ian’s not my latest crush. Seriously, he wants to meet you. Do you have one of your business cards?”
I always carried business cards with me, especially to Poppy’s Hollywood parties. I hoped to break into the A-listers and dreamed of becoming the “it” designer. So far, my business saw mild success, but I had yet to work on a big director’s or actor’s home.
Pulling a card out of my pocket, I fluttered it in front of her face. “Okay, stalker lady, if this guy is still around, take me to him.”
“Here. Use this on your nose. It’s shiny.” Poppy handed me a small compact and to please her, I powdered my straight nose, wiped a black glob of mascara from beneath my blue-eyed lashes, and slicked on strawberry-flavored lip gloss. My dark hair was ruffled, giving me a slight bedhead look.
“Have you got a comb? My hair is a mess.”
“It looks good. You know, sexy messy, like one of those Victoria’s Secret models.”
I rolled my eyes again. I was about as far from a Victoria’s Secret model as you could get. My wavy hair fell just above my bra line when it was down, which was rarely. I was about five seven and currently wore a size eight, which was thin for me. However, in LA, a size eight was pretty much comparable to a rhinoceros when a majority of the women prancing around wore a size two. Poppy, her patience finally at an end, snapped the compact shut, grabbed my hand, and dragged me into the party mob to search for the elusive Ian.
Ian apparently wasn’t that elusive; Poppy ran him to the ground at the bar. All I could see was a head of dark, wavy hair and an incredible set of broad shoulders. His back was to us, and he was engaged in a conversation with a sylph-like creature barely wearing a white dress.
I jerked back from Poppy’s grasping hand. “I don’t think now is a good time. He’s busy talking with someone. Maybe I’ll meet him later tonight.”
“C’mon. Don’t be a chicken. Mr. O’Connor. Ian, yoohoo.” Poppy waved a hand, her bracelets jingling merrily.
Ian turned and caught Poppy’s eye. She crooked her black polished finger, and, much to my surprise, he disengaged himself from the sylph and strolled our way.
Taking a gander at Ian from the front was even better than seeing him from the back. He was one of the many “beautiful people” inhabiting the LA-Hollywood scene. I couldn’t see the color of his eyes in the gloom, but the face was well worth looking at. A chiseled jaw and strong cheekbones flexed as he took a drink from the dark beer bottle and licked his lips. He clearly worked out on a regular basis, because his pectorals were perfectly formed and part of a tattoo peeked out from beneath the tight blue T-shirt, which clung to a rock-hard bicep. The air pressure surrounding me dropped, and my mouth went arid as his six-foot-plus frame approached.
“Ian O’Connor, meet my good friend Sophia Hartland, designer extraordinaire.”
I blushed at Poppy’s intro and subtly wiped a sweaty hand on my pants before taking his warm, caressing grip.
“It’s lovely to meet you, designer extraordinaire.” He spoke with a slight Irish brogue. He held my hand a moment longer than necessary.
Oh, lord, it wasn’t enough that the looks made my heart speed up; the accent was going to put me over the edge. I could see why Poppy was crushing on this dude. I cleared my throat. “You, too, Mr. O’Connor. Poppy’s a big fan of your show. She was telling me all about it.”
“What about Sophia Hartland? Do you watch my show?” He flashed a perfect, white, toothy Hollywood grin.
I shook my head. “No, I don’t care for cop shows.”
That got a rumbly laugh. “Ouch. You’re the quite the foil to an actor’s ego.”
Oh, geez. I grimaced. Twenty seconds with this guy and I’d insulted him. I was completely thrown off my game and saying whatever popped into my head. Generally, I had more tact. I knew better at these swanky parties. I needed to be all smiles and ingratiating to get more clients. Unfortunately, toad-eating didn’t come naturally to me.
“Sorry. What network is it on? I’ll set my DVR to record it. I’m sure I’ll love it.” I glanced around for Poppy to save me from myself.
She must have wandered off or been called away. Suddenly, I was in a crowded room one on one with this handsome Irish thespian, making an utter fool of myself.
“No, no. Don’t apologize. Your first answer was best.” His chuckling died down.
“Umm … listen, Poppy said you liked the art deco theme I put together. So … um … here’s my card.” I thrust the little piece of cardstock at him. Yikes, this was so unusual for me. I never lost my cool over a guy, especially an actor. I mean come on, an actor? What was it was about this dude that was making me behave like a stuttering idiot?
“That’d be grand. I just moved into a new place and figure it needs a lady’s touch, so I could have a fancy party like this.” His Irish accent pulled out the a’s and rolled around in a singsong lilt.
I was relieved to be on a topic where I couldn’t fail. “Sure. I’d love to see your place and work with you to create a luxurious space that makes you feel comfortable and yet is great for entertaining. If you want to give me a call, we can set up an initial consultation. I can see your home, and we can determine your style.”
He smirked. “Not sure I’ve got a style, luv.”
Back on my A-game, I put on my ingratiating business smile. “Oh, everyone has a style. Sometimes it just needs to be developed and refined. Maybe you’re right, and a lady’s touch is just what you need.” I lightly tapped his solid forearm.
A very tall, very thin Barbie doll blonde with long, flat-ironed hair, wearing a strapless red dress and five-inch heels minced up and cooed at us. “Ian, honey, a group of us are gathering in the billiard room to play pool. Come play with us.” She pouted. The way she hung on Ian’s arm shouted possessive girlfriend, and the glare she sent my way declared, “hands off.”
“Who’s this?” Barbie simpered.
“Tanqueray, this is Sophia.”
Tanqueray? Really? I did a mental head slap.
Tanqueray thrust an empty champagne glass into my hand. “Sophia, why don’t you be a sweetheart and get me a refill. Can you bring it to the billiard room?”
“Hold up, Tanqueray. Sophia’s an interior designer. She’s not the waitress.”
Barbie doll eyed my black pants, sturdy black shoes, and tailored white button-down, which clearly identified me as one of the wait staff. Her eyebrow rose in disdain.
I stuck on a honeyed smile. “Actually, I am working tonight. I help Poppy when she’s short on staff.” I laid the champagne glass on a passing waiter’s tray and shifted my gaze back to Tanqueray, speaking directly to her with my faux smile.
“Tanqueray, Tommy the bartender is right behind you,” I pointed over her shoulder. “He can get you whatever you need.”
She made a tsking sound as her jaw dropped. Dismissing her, my eyes locked back to Ian. A muscle twitched at the corner of his mouth, and an eyebrow rose. Oh crap. I couldn’t tell if he was irritated or amused by my dismissal of his girlfriend. I decided I’d better try to make nice and get the hell out of his presence before producing any further faux pas.
“Mr. O’Connor, why don’t I put together a tray from the buffet and have it sent to the billiard room? It was nice meeting you.” With that, I turned on my heel and strode out of sight.
Ten minutes later Poppy found me in the kitchen banging my head against the pantry door.
“Hey, Soph, what’s wrong? Why are you abusing the pantry?”
“I royally screwed that up. This could have been my big chance to get into the Hollywood crowd.”
“Uh-oh. What happened?”
“I allowed Ian’s girlfriend to get under my skin and I was rude to her, right in front of him. I don’t think he was impressed.” Clunk, clunk went my head.
“Okay, honey. Stop that. You’re going to leave a bruise on your forehead.” She pulled me away. “C’mon. It couldn’t have been that bad.”
I explained our conversation.
“Ugh. Tanqueray? Seriously?” Poppy peered at me.
“Seriously.”
“Gee whiz, I would’ve given Ian more credit than to date a woman named Tanqueray. I mean really, who the hell names their kid after a bottle of gin?” Her throaty laugh lightened my mood.
“It’s probably a stage name. She looks like a slasher.” Slasher is the title Poppy and I’d given to the hundreds of wannabe model slash actresses who crawled the streets of LA like cockroaches.
“Don’t beat yourself up over it. There are other Hollywood schmoozers here. Why don’t you take half an hour to do some networking? I’m sure you’ll score a new client.”
So, I handed out five more cards. Two were to Hollywood spouses, one to the wife of a producer and the other to a director. The rest ended up in the clutches of trophy girlfriends, what Poppy and I called hangers-on, also known as “entourage” to bigwigs, the people actually making the money. I didn’t hold high hopes of obtaining an actual client out of anyone except possibly one of the trophy girls.
Poppy sent me home around two in the morning when the party had wound down to about two dozen older guests. All the young starlets and actors gathered their entourages around midnight and moved onto the latest “it” club to see and be seen. The maneuverings of the Hollywood grind made me glad I wasn’t trying to become a slasher. There was too much relying on looks, weight, and whether or not you were liked by certain producers and directors. I was content to have my business, good friends, and my dog. Anything else was overrated. Or at least that’s what I liked to tell myself.
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