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It had only occurred to me that evening when I went to call Annie to inform her of our karaoke plans, that I did not have her phone number. How could I not have her phone number? I noted solemnly that simple tasks like scheduling my hair girl and ordering take-out were always done for me. These things had been done for me since . . . well, all my life, really. I went seamlessly from cradle to movie star with no buffer in between.
I also had a little difficulty finding a few other people for the ruse of needing a private karaoke room. In the end, everyone I asked was busy and couldn’t change plans last minute. That wasn’t concerning to me because I had a backup plan. I always had a backup plan.
When I presented the idea to Annie the following morning, she was noncommittal. But after a shameless guilt trip on my part (in which I may have reminded her of the time she abandoned me, leaving her intern to finish my hair so she could stand in line for Brian Setzer tickets), she finally agreed to come—if only for a little while. That was at least a start.
My day was more or less uneventful other than a row Jaxson had with my co-star, Henry Crawford. That infuriating man was always going off-book and I think it was starting to grate on Jaxson’s nerves. I tried to keep out of it and so I spent my free time searching for Randall to remind him of our plans. If he even showed the least indication he would back out, I was prepared to (wo)man-handle him by his overgrown curly locks, drag him to my trailer, strap him to my chair, and let Annie have her way with his head. They would fall in love, get married, and name their babies after me—even the boys.
When I finally tracked Randall down, he was having coffee at the craft service table.
“A little late for caffeine, don’t you think?” I teased as I approached him.
He gave me a side glance as he simultaneously poured cream and hot chocolate mix in his cup. His lip curled mischievously and a flash of roguery twinkled in his eye. He didn’t respond until he was finished with his chocolate-cream-coffee masterpiece and was blowing on the hot liquid. “I'm going to need it later,” he said over his cup. My eyes glazed over with hot cocoa fantasies, but maybe he was confused by my expression because he added, “We’re going out, right?”
“Yes, yes of course.” I wanted to add with friends, but we’d established that the previous day. No need to call in the Designers Guild lawyers. “What does the caffeine have to do with it?”
“I’m not a night owl,” he grinned. “And if I have a few drinks, I’ll fall asleep.”
Now children, let me give you a little lesson in Matchmaking 101. When you add alcohol to the mix, there could be any number of outcomes. Remember when I told you I was ninety-seven percent successful? The other three percent—that one time it ended in disaster—alcohol was a factor. I don’t like to speak of it, but sometimes the memory of it erupts out of my innards like the creature in Alien. Except my alien is the singing dancing variety ala Spaceballs.
Aaanywhoo.
Randall was a snoozer. I could work with that. It’s what we call in the Cupid industry as passing the baby.
“Don’t you worry about that,” I said, pouring cocoa powder in a paper cup. “I’ll drive.”
“No, no,” he said. “I know when to cut myself off.”
“I insist.” My words were absolute and non negotiable. “I could use a carpool buddy.”
It was a foolproof plan. Randall would ride with me to the club. Annie would arrive alone. Fairly early in the festivities, I would come down with a headache or cramps or foreign accent syndrome and sneak out like the stealthy ninja I was. But before I left, I would pass the responsibility of driving Randall home to Annie. Passing the baby. She would then have him alone in her car, both of them still floating in the euphoria of a karaoke induced fun-fest, and instantly fall in love. End of story. Mic drop. I finished mixing hot water and milk in my cup and took a sip. Ah. Warm heaven.
“What about Jax?” he pressed.
Oh, right. Jax.
I waved my hand in dismissal. “Uh, Jax? He has to go over the dailies, so he’ll be a little late.”
That was wishful thinking on my part because Jax was not late. Not at all. In fact, he followed us in his Tesla the entire distance from the studio to the karaoke club. His tailgating made me a little irritable.
I had only been to Karaoke Unplugged once before, but I glided in, pretended to know everybody there and found a table by the bar. The atmosphere wasn’t like a typical karaoke bar. Oh no. A grand piano stood proudly on a small stage and behind it, a man in a dapper grey vest was accompanying a somewhat over-the-top singer. The singer in question, a young woman wearing a magnanimous amount of makeup, was belting her little heart out to Cabaret like Liza Minnelli on ten doses of Five Hour Energy. I could tell by the way Jaxson’s jaw ticked he was not amused. He shifted his eyes over the entirety of the room. “What is this place? I thought we were going to a private karaoke house.”
I brushed aside his question with a strained laugh. “Oh, Jax. You know we come here all the time. Sit down before they drag you on stage again.” I turned to Randall who took his seat on the other side of me and explained how Karaoke Unplugged worked.
“The pianist can play virtually any song by ear,” I shouted over the noise. “If you need it, he’s got sheet music or just song lyrics for you to sing to. See that music stand? It has a digital monitor that scrolls as you sing. Don’t ask me how it works, it just knows where you are in the song. Probably based on the time signature.”
He nodded, trying to appear keen to my briefing, but by the look in his eyes he was a bit horrified by the idea. I gestured to the other patrons around us.
“Most everyone who comes here is a musical theatre performer,” I said with some enthusiasm. “One night, half the touring company from Rent came in after a show at the Pantages. Of course, there are a lot of amateurs and college students too. It’s a fun mix.”
The cocktail waitress came to our table to take our drink order. A nauseating fangirl admiration for Jaxson played on her features. She didn’t seem at all impressed by me, which didn’t concern me at all except I could perceive she was only fawning all over Jaxson because she was most likely an aspiring actress. Uh, newsflash, lady. Directors aren’t in charge of casting, and even if they were, careers aren't made in karaoke bars, restaurants, or bathroom stalls. Not usually. Nevertheless, Jaxson placed our order with his darling smile, thanked her cordially, and addressed her by name in the most sincere manner imaginable. He was indeed rather remarkable. No wonder the entertainment shows dubbed him the nicest man in Hollywood.
I nudged him in the ribs. “What are you going to sing, Jax?”
“Oh, that’s a surprise,” he winked and my heart skipped a beat.
“You know I hate surprises.”
“Then call it a mystery because I’m not going to tell you. I’m in it to win it.”
“What did you order?”
“Nineteen-year-old Glenfiddich. It’s the most expensive thing they’ve got.”
I poked my finger on his chest. “You are going to be sorry you did that, Jaxson Knightly.”
“I don’t think so. I did proper vocal warm-ups on the way here. Prepare to lose fantastically.” He focused his eyes beyond my shoulder to Randall, giving him a conspiring nod. I volleyed my head between them. I felt like a bloody tennis ball.
“Randall does not have a vested interest in the outcome of the bet.” I pierced Jaxson with my eye daggers. “He drinks for free regardless.”
I had actually forgotten about our daft bet until that moment. I honestly didn’t care. If I could get Annie to take Randall home, then I considered myself a winner. But watching Jaxson, with his smug, confident, dazzling smirk, I was suddenly resolved to rise victorious and then rub it in his handsome face.
He shrugged and casually leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. “Where’s Annie?”
Blimey. Where was Annie? I made sure to go over the directions with her before she left for the day. I even exchanged phone numbers with her. She promised me she’d come.
“She probably got held up feeding her cat. Or skydiving,” I said dismissively. I don’t know where I came up with that rubbish. She didn’t have a cat.
Randall leaned into the table to get a better angle in the conversation. “Didn’t you say we were meeting a group of people here?”
I was saved from answering by the arrival of the aspiring actress-waitress and our drinks. Or should I say, Jaxson’s small fortune in a snifter and normal drinks for me and Randall? Jaxson raised his glass to toast the air and sipped the golden liquid slowly and deliberately. He savoured the amber notes on his tongue with ardent reverence, his eyes closed. He was practically making love to the scotch.
I wagged my brows at him. “Would you like to be left alone with your date?”
His eyes flashed to mine, snapping out of his trance and blinked at me.
“Date?”
I sighed and shook my head. “I’m going to sing a warm-up song while we wait for Annie.” I grabbed Randall by the wrist and pulled him up. “Come on. We’ll do a duet. You can bring your drink.” He protested all the way to the stage, comparing his voice to frogs in heat. I had no idea what that meant, but I managed to get him on stage and relied on the enthusiasm of the crowd to encourage him.
The pianist (let’s call him Sam) approached the microphone and wrapped an arm around my shoulder. “Ladies and gentlemen, looks like we’re in for a treat tonight. Emma Woods is going to sing for us.” The crowd clapped. A few of them hooted. Sam craned his neck around me to get a look at Randall. “And who’s your friend, Emma?”
“That’s Randall. We’re going to sing a duet. What do you suggest?”
He looked at me, looked at Randall, looked back at me again and said, “Do you guys know the Dirty Dancing song?”
All the blood drained from Randall's face. He waved his free hand in front of him in the universal gesture that meant 'no, no, no’, but everyone in the bar cheered him on. I thought I heard someone shout, ‘You can do it.’ a la Rob Snider. A few people laughed at that. I motioned for him to chug his Jack and Coke then turned back to Sam. “Sure,” I said with a smile. “Everybody knows that one.”
I wondered momentarily how Sam the piano man, wonderful musician that he was, could pull off an 80’s pop song that was mostly guitar and bass driven. Then I saw three men take the stage and I noticed as they reached for their instruments that there was an electric guitar, a bass, and a full drum set behind me. I was more than a little impressed and suddenly wanted to sing a Cheryl Crow song. I waved at them amicably. They waved back. The drummer winked. Randall looked like he was about to run.
“We got your back-up,” the lead guitarist said as he slapped Randall on the shoulder. Surprisingly, this seemed to put him at ease.
The music started, just a solitary note suspended, unwavering, waiting for the male vocals to begin. The words appeared on a screen before us, ready to scroll through the song. Randall froze. The band behind us tried to prompt him but his mouth looked like it was better poised for croaking. All that confidence, all that foxy George Clooney swagger was road-kill somewhere on Melrose Avenue. It must have flown out the window on the way to the pub. This version of Randall was a sad, clammy fish.
The dear bar patrons helped him sing the opening lyrics to I Had The Time of My Life with the robust encouragement of a grade school choral teacher. I was right. Everyone did know that song. Everyone except Randall. He chimed in once every other line with a single word on a single note, but not quite in the correct key. He was really butchering the song, but to his credit, he had warned me. The veins in his neck were strained under the tension of his efforts. He looked like he was in actual physical pain. Poor man.
The next verse was mine. I took over the leading vocals with all the feeling my theatrical training afforded. I crooned the slow ballad melody and took his hand in mine for dramatic effect, squeezing it to show him some comfort. I was rewarded with a sprinkling of applause. He squeezed back with a small smile. His upper body was still rather stiff, but the features of his face began to relax.
Then the rhythm started to pick up and it was time for his next solo. But he didn’t even attempt to sing this time. Instead, he held the microphone by his hip, tapping his cowboy boots and rocking his head to the beat. Again, the band behind us and the bar crowd sang his lyrics. Everyone was joining in, really truly enjoying the office of singing his part for him. I noticed a smile form on his face as it reached his eyes. He was finally starting to loosen up, having fun. Another Jack and Coke and my plan would fall into place. As long as Annie got there soon.
The chorus of the song was approaching. By this time, Randall had completely abandoned his microphone and placed it on the stand for the guitarist to use, who incidentally had a fantastically raspy rock-and-roll delivery. He and I were throwing down some ace harmonies while the rest of the band joined in and the entire club became a scene out of a movie musical. Randall continued to bounce his head, playing air guitar. He’d found his lost swagger.
Then he did something entirely unexpected and man-unicorn fantastical. He broke out in full Patrick Swayze choreography. He had the footwork, the spins, the hip thrusts—all down cold. Or should I say hot? Certifiably hot. The crowd went absolutely bonkers. This bloke could dance!
And it was absolutely contagious. Still singing the duet with the guitarist, I swayed my hips, clasping the side of my skirt with the movement. I couldn’t help myself. By this time, some of the patrons had gotten up from their tables to dance, some of them recording videos with their mobile phones. Scanning the crowd, I searched eagerly for Jaxson but came up naught. He was nowhere in sight.
Then, as if Randall couldn’t surprise me more, he straight up lifted his knees to his chest and jumped off the stage. Then, gracefully recovering from the jump, went into a tour en l’air transitioning into a kick, kick, sliiiiide, ball-change sequence. I was gobsmacked. Everyone in the pub was on their feet. Those who didn’t have room to dance rocked in place, clapping and singing along. It was bloody brilliant.
I thought to myself, this would be a good moment for Annie to arrive because Randall was off the charts dishy. He knew how to work the crowd. At one point, he took the hand of a random girl and spun her around. She landed right into her date’s arms and they crashed seamlessly into a mambo. I could hardly sing for laughing.
Then Randall’s eyes made contact with mine, and with a slight wink, he nodded. It was that nod. The Patrick Swayze nod, just like in the film. It said, ‘Come at me now.’
And I did.
I don’t know how I got off the stage in the very unpractical stilettos I was wearing. Perhaps some chaps carried me down. I couldn’t be certain, because I was in a musical trance. The rhythm, the energy, the magic of the moment consumed me, and recalling the ballet training I had as a child, I bounded towards Randall in a pas de couru.
Three things happened at once. Seemingly in slow motion. First, I vaguely remember Jaxson shouting my name. The word doooon’t may have come after that. Second, the heel on one of my Gianvito Rossi pumps wobbled under my foot, but I was already committed to the jump before I could slow down. Third, a camera flash went off, and catching Randall’s line of sight, distracted his focus and maybe even temporarily blinded him. I’m not entirely sure. But all these combined contributed to the devastation that followed. As Randall reached for my hips, I could not achieve the height needed for the lift, and in one very painful and embarrassing motion, we crashed to the floor. People gasped. The band stopped playing. Mobile phones surrounded us. And I was straddling Randall, skirt at my waist, with my nose inches from his face.
Flash flash flash.
It must have been only a few seconds, but it seemed like a small eternity: me on the floor, in quite a compromising position with Randall—the homespun, older albeit hot artistic director. That would be a very, very bad time for Annie to arrive.
A pair of strong capable hands lifted me to my feet, and securing me in place, swept the hair from my eyes. The concern on Jaxson’s features was equally mingled with wide open glaring eyes. Whoops.
Mobile phones surrounded us, some of them clearly recording video. Jaxson turned to help Randall without releasing me from his grip, but Randall was already on his feet. He lifted his arms up to show the crowd. “I’m okay.” Some laughed, some cheered. But Jaxson pulled me by the arm and parted the crowd around us like Moses in the Red Sea. “We’re getting out of here.” His voice was stern and commanding. “Now!”
I didn’t realize until we were in the parking lot that he had my handbag. He reached in, deftly retrieved my car keys, and opened my door. Before I could slide in, he rounded on me. “Emma, what were you thinking?”
I didn’t have an answer, and I figured doe eyes would not work on him this time. He shook his head. “You are a public figure, Emma. A household name. That stunt is going to be all over social media within the hour if it isn’t already. Do you have any notion of the consequences your actions caused here tonight?”
I had nothin’. Doe eyes? Chin wobble? Bloody hell.
“It’s not a big deal,” I said, unwittingly resembling a whiny teenager.
His eyes flashed from green to black. “You are so wrong. So very, very wrong. In case you haven’t noticed, your face is all over magazines and billboards and Redbox kiosks. That’s called fame, Emma. And with fame comes responsibility.”
I rolled my eyes. “You sound like Spiderman’s uncle.”
I could hear Randall suppress a laugh behind us but Jaxson went on as if he hadn’t noticed.
“This is not a joke, Emma. People look to you for inspiration. You have an opportunity to make an impact. Instead, you flitter around like an entitled spoilt teenager. Bad form, Emma. Very bad form.”
His words hung in the air like a thick fog. Silence ensued and the staring contest began. He won. I could never hold his gaze for very long. Something about him when he was disappointed in me made me want to crawl inside myself and hide under a blanket. I was eight years old again, bracing myself for a smack on the bottom. Better push that thought waaay down, Emma.
I turned to enter my car, but Jaxson caught my hand and pulled me close. The scent of him—fine musk and oranges—was now mingled with very expensive scotch. I wondered briefly how he had time to pay the bar tab. He searched my eyes and opened his mouth as though he were about to speak, but instead, he reached for my face and planted a chaste kiss on my forehead.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said quietly. His voice was low, gravely like sandpaper. All I could do was nod and get into my little Fiat. As he shut the door for me, I glanced beyond him, signaling to Randall, inviting him in. He had his hands in his pockets and his head down.
“I'll drive Randall back to the studio.” Jaxson's words were firm and resolute. It didn't matter. The whole night—and my plan—was ruined.