Chapter Two

Francesca awoke the next morning to beastly blaring—and a bad bout of drinker’s remorse. Besieged by a blinding headache, it took her several seconds to realize that the ringing came not from within her head but from without.

Cell phone, bollocks.

Eyes squeezed closed against the shards of light cutting through the uncovered bedroom window, she rolled toward her night table. Feeling around the littered top, she located the culprit charging in its cradle.

She cracked open an eye and punched a finger in the vicinity of the PDA’s green answer icon. “Hullo?” She had to work to slide the word over the cotton wool coating her tongue.

“Frannie, baby, it’s me, Jerry.”

Francesca opened both eyes. Frannie? Baby? And who the bloody hell was Jerry?

“Sounds like you could use some fizz in your fun, kid,” the caller joked.

The paraphrased commercial jingle jogged her memory, giving her booze-soaked brain just enough of a jolt. “Oh, right, Jerry.”

Television producer Jerry Bernstein of the perma-tan, toupee, and velour tracksuit set. His diet soda commercial for which she’d contributed New York Fashion Week footage had been her first and, she’d sworn, final foray into anything to do with TV. Until glimpsing him at the On Top party the previous night, she’d put the project out of her mind and had congratulated herself on slipping past him unseen. Apparently she’d been premature.

“Saw you at On Top last night looking gor-ge-ous as always,” Jerry droned on. “I was hoping we’d get a chance to catch up, but you disappeared on me.”

It seemed Starr had done her even more of a favor than she’d known. “What can I do you for you, Jerry?” She ran her parched tongue along her bottom lip, wishing badly for a cup of English breakfast tea.

“It’s all about what I can do for you. When you hear the opportunity I’m about to lay at those gorgeous feet of yours, you’re going to thank me.”

Oh, right, Foot Fetish Jerry. She’d forgotten that bit.

She grabbed a second pillow, shoved it behind her head, and leaned back. “You have me on tenterhooks, Jerry. What is it?”

“I’m launching a new reality TV show. Think The Biggest Loser meets What Not to Wear meets Project Runway.”

A bloody reality TV program, that’s what he’d woken her for?

Swallowing a sigh, she said, “Congratulations.” If only her supposedly magical scarlet slippers might patter into the kitchen and conjure that cup of tea—and perhaps an egg-white omelet to go with it.

“We start filming in two weeks. The platform—and you’re going to love this—is Cinderella.”

“The fairy tale?” she asked, smothering a yawn.

“Bingo! We take six Cinderella contestants, three dudes and three chicks, certifiable style disasters from various walks of life, and subject them to eight grueling weeks of diet and exercise, social skills and etiquette, and complete makeovers—hair, makeup, and clothes. Each themed segment will be led by a different contestant coach—fairy god-mentors we’re calling them.”

“Fairy god-mentors?” Was he bloody serious?

“So far I’ve got an A-list hair stylist, a dance instructor I personally wooed away from Dancing With the Stars, an etiquette advice columnist billed as the new Miss Manners, and Madonna’s former personal trainer. Guess who I don’t have?”

Distracted by wondering whether the eggs in her refrigerator had reached their expiration, Francesca took a moment to catch up. “You’ve lost me,” she admitted.

“Fashion, baby! We need someone who knows the rag biz—and that’s where you come in.”

That got her attention. “Me? But Jerry,” she protested, fitting a hand over her throbbing forehead, “I’ve only ever done the one commercial. I’m not really a…television person.”

So far as she was concerned, most American television was a bore and reality TV was the very worst of it—formulaic rubbish that not only elicited but celebrated the worst in human behavior. Other than watching the odd episode of What Not to Wear, which Sam had fancied, she avoided it like the proverbial plague.

“Based on what I saw of you last night, viewers will eat you up. After the contestants get buffed and beautified, they’ll each have a one-on-one seminude photo session with you.”

“You want me to photograph the contestants in the buff?” She ground back a groan. Boudoir photography was the very bottom of the barrel.

“Seminude—as nude as the censors will let us get away with on prime time. The glammed-up photos will be featured in a national billboard campaign as part of the press push for the show.”

Risqué photos, national billboard campaigns—she felt as if she were spinning. “Jerry, I really think you’d be better served by someone with more experience in the…genre. I’m probably not sufficiently cutthroat to vote contestants ‘off the island’ or whatever you’re calling it these days.”

“Fran, sweetheart, fairy god-mentors don’t vote, they coach. Viewers do the voting by calling or text messaging in their choices during the final live episode: one dude and one chick to be crowned as the ultimate Cinderella makeovers. Each gets a cash prize, twenty-five grand, plus an all-inclusive romantic trip for two somewhere warm and tropical and cheap, Belize probably.”

Francesca suspected she would regret asking and yet… “For two? You mean to say together?”

“The public’s in love with love, Fran. With luck, we’ll get an on-air wedding, or at least a proposal, out of it—can you say spin-off! Either way, if the ratings are good—and with fitness, fashion, and sex as themes, why the fuck wouldn’t they be?—we’ll have a solid shot at being picked up for a full season next year.”

Finger-combing her tangles, it occurred to her to ask, “Isn’t it a bit late to be lining up a fashion coach?”

For the first time since the call commenced, Jerry hesitated. “Okay, you got me! Our celebrity fashion coach dropped out at the last minute, some crap about a contractual conflict, and I need to fill her slot ASAP.”

So she was sloppy seconds—how utterly unflattering.

“I couldn’t think who to get to fill in, and then I saw you last night. Lucky, huh?”

“Just so.” Cradling the phone in the crook of her shoulder, she pushed back a cuticle. “I’ll have to give it a think and get back to you.” When she next spoke to Jerry, she would be prepared with her answer—a friendly but firm no.

To her surprise, Jerry backed off. “Sure thing, kid, no pressure, I have a half dozen other people I can call if you decide this project isn’t your bag. I’ll bet Deidre Dupree would jump at the chance to be on live TV, but because you and I have a history, I wanted to give you first shot.”

Francesca bolted upright, sending pillows flying. “You cannot be serious!” What a trend tracking, collagen-injected milcher like Deidre knew about style would fill a thimble with room to spare.

“Well, I’m not saying I’d want to but I need to fill this fashion fairy god-mentor slot pronto or it’s my ass on the line. Production delays get investors all kinds of antsy. I’m in a real bind here, baby. Stop busting my balls and say you’ll do it.”

Francesca paused, wondering if he was playing her. Had he heard about her feud with Deidre and dropped her name purely to get Francesca to sign on?

Either way, she heard herself say, “E-mail me the program specs and the contract. You’ll have my answer by tomorrow morning.”

Jerry’s relieved whoosh of breath sounded over the static. “My assistant’s pushing send on the PDF files as we speak. This deal’s so sweet it’s making my teeth hurt. Forty grand an episode, plus transportation, accommodation, and living expenses all picked up for the full eight weeks.”

Forty thousand dollars an episode! Living expenses covered! Was he having her on? That was more than…three hundred thousand dollars for a mere eight weeks of work. Making that amount of money would afford her a new freedom—to work less and spend more time with Sam, at least for the entire summer.

“Anyway, look it over and let me know if you have any problems, but I’m confident you’ll see we mean to treat you like the fairy goddess you are. Ciao, baby.”

“Ciao,” Francesca echoed, clicking off the call.

As soon as she did, her iPhone dinged, announcing the arrival of a new e-mail. Holding the phone aloft, she stared across the room to the open closet where the vintage Saks heels took pride of place on her shoe rack, the previous night’s scotch-sloppy wish coming back to her.

To happily ever after, fairy tales, one true loves, shooting stars, magic wands, brownies, elves, fairy godmothers, and the ruddy lot of romantic rubbish.

Happily ever after still struck her as a tall tale, but it seemed as though the Powers That Be had landed a game-changing opportunity in her lap. Given the money—and more to the point, what that money would mean to her—she’d be a fool to refuse. Without yet reading the contract, in her heart she knew she’d as good as made up her mind.

Bugger all, I’m bound for La La Land.

…

Los Angeles, Two Weeks Later

“Stage Eighteen, this is it, folks,” the studio shuttle driver announced, pulling up in front of a windowless box indistinguishable from the several other big buildings they’d passed since entering through a gate named after a famous action film actor.

Corralled inside the tram with his fellow contestants, Greg grabbed his backpack and climbed down onto the blacktop of Avenue P, his heart doing double time. They’d seen only a small portion of the more-than-sixty-acre studio lot, and already he was impressed by its vastness. Passing the location for one of his favorite New York City–set crime dramas had been a huge fan thrill, seeing the lumberyard and tiered parking tower less so but still exciting. So far he hadn’t sited any actual celebrities or all that many actual people, but then March through August was the off-season. Project Cinderella would air as summer filler, eight consecutive weekly episodes of mostly taped footage with the final “elimination” episode airing live. If the ratings were decent, the program might be picked up for a full season the next spring, or so they’d been told at the breakfast orientation that morning.

“Nervous?” a female voice asked from behind.

He turned to Contestant XX2, Brittany Meyers, a children’s librarian from Columbus, Ohio. Brittany had kind eyes and buckteeth and an unfortunate tendency to look on the cloudy side of things, or so she’d come across to him. He recalled from reading her entry bio that she divided her days between the two-bedroom split-level she shared with her elderly mother and the local library where she’d worked since college. He tried again to picture her as his perfect match, his soul mate, but nice though she seemed, he wasn’t feeling it. They were just too different. Compared to Brittany, he was a party animal. Besides, she still carried a flip phone.

“A little, I guess,” he admitted. “You?”

Biting her lip, Brittany tucked a lock of lank brown hair behind her ear. “Yeah, but I’m excited, too. I’ve been on more than twenty diets in the last five years. I lose a couple of pounds and the next thing I know I’m back eating cheese puffs by the bag. I don’t want to be this person anymore.”

Greg gave her a commiserating nod, though his baggy clothes hid a fast-track metabolism that Brittany would no doubt envy. “But Project Cinderella isn’t just about dieting or changing the way we look. It’s about changing how we feel on the inside too, and then projecting that aura of confidence and attracting all the positives in the style of The Secret,” he ended, paraphrasing the program press release.

She cast him a skeptical glance. “Do you really believe that?”

He hesitated. “I’m not sure—but I want to.”

“Yeah,” she answered. “Me, too.”

They turned in unison to stare up at the enormous studio shed. Featureless beyond its domed roof, it was hard to believe that the set housing the collective hopes and dreams of six people, all strangers until today, lay within that bunker-like building.

“So this is where the magic happens,” he said, checking out the other two female contestants stepping down from the bus. If he won—make that when he won—one of them would be his partner on a two-week tropical vacation.

Decked out in black leather, Kimberly Santora from Staten Island was a spiral-permed beautician with fanglike fingernails, a tight Metallica T-shirt, and a serious case of camel toe. She was too much of a biker babe to be his soul mate, not to mention he hated heavy metal and had never been partial to redheads. Lastly, there was Patti Sullivan from Boston, who wore her Red Sox baseball cap backward along with rainbow-colored leg warmers pulled up to torn-at-the-knees jeans—definitely no love connection coming from that corner.

Resigned to be on the lookout for a cute prop girl or someone else connected to the show, he shifted to assess the male competition: Hadley Jones, a tattooed trucker from Maryland’s Eastern Shore whose bio listed competitive eating as his chief talent and Jonas White Eagle, a commercial salmon fisherman from Washington State who wore a flannel shirt and Gore-Tex vest despite the temperate Southern California climate. Based on the biceps bulging from their rolled-up sleeves, both men were in wicked shape.

Greg wondered how he stacked up. Sure, of all of them he had the high-powered position and the mega millions—actually billions—that went with it, but Project Cinderella wasn’t about those things. The show was essentially a beauty pageant. Being smart and rich wouldn’t give him any kind of edge. Though he’d known that in advance, seeing his competitors face-to-face hammered home how hard he was going to have to work—and how far behind he would have to leave his comfort zone—to win.

Though none of them had had the benefit of any kind of makeover yet—that was the point of the show—he’d made an effort to look his best. His red T-shirt, size large to camouflage his wiry build, was making its maiden voyage. The track pants, also large, were the newish pair, the one without the toner cartridge stains. The bowling shoes maybe had been a mistake, but he’d hoped they’d invoke a cool retro vibe. And because a visual impression was but a beginning, he’d slapped on liberal amounts of his favorite Old Spice aftershave.

Amber, their official greeter and contestant liaison, pushed her way to the front, her swishing blond ponytail striking Greg in the face as she passed. “Welcome, contestants,” she called in what was definitely her “outdoor voice.” “We have a big day ahead of us but don’t freak, I’m going to break it down for you. First you’ll tour the set. For those of you who’ve never been on a working soundstage before, there’ll be lots of sound and lighting equipment and rigging all around, so please watch your step. No broken bones on Project Cinderella, especially no broken noses,” she added with a forced laugh, tucking her clipboard beneath one pencil-thin arm.

Not soul mate material, either, Greg decided. Way too tightly wound.

“After the tour, we’ll convene for a buffet lunch where you’ll meet your production squad and fairy god-mentors.”

As always Greg had done his homework, including running Google searches on the four celebrity coaches: a New York stylist, Madonna’s former fitness trainer—wow!—a sixtyish advice columnist who’d authored several best-selling self-help books, and a dance instructor formerly with Dancing With the Stars. A fifth and final coach representing the area of fashion had yet to be announced.

“After lunch comes the press conference, our big launch event for the show. Pretty much anyone with a press badge gets in, so there’ll be a shitload of reporters and a shitload of questions and a shitload of noise.”

“That’s a lot of shit,” Greg whispered and Brittany giggled.

Amber shot him a sharp look that suggested she was already seeing him as a troublemaker. “At the press conference, you’ll walk down the red carpet in turn to the stage. Once you reach it, you’ll have a photo op in front of the show banner and about ten minutes total to answer reporters’ questions before stepping aside to give the next contestant his or her shot. If you’re not sure how to answer something, just say ‘next question’ and above all, keep your cool and have fun with it. Any questions before we go in?”

Greg held up his hand. “Will the interviews be broadcast?”

She shrugged bony shoulders. “Yes, at least by the major media outlets. You okay with that?” Her tone left no doubt that his reply had better be yes.

He sucked down a bracing breath, hoping the extra oxygen would fuel not only his cells but also his resolve. He had to beat his press-shyness someday, and today was as good as any. “Super trouper,” he answered, striving to sound as confident as he hoped soon to feel.

Her blank look confirmed she’d missed the music reference, but then she probably didn’t have a clue about ABBA—only the most awesome pop-rock band in history. He’d incorporated their hit, “Take a Chance on Me,” into his entry video for the show.

Gaze going over their group, she continued, “Okay, so from now on, let’s see high energy, lots of enthusiasm, big smiles. Can you do that for me?”

Greg recognized it as a rhetorical question, but he joined the other contestants in answering anyway. “Yes.”

“Is that all you got for me?” The pouty face she pulled was super annoying. “C’mon people, let’s hear it again and this time say it like you mean it. ‘Yes, we can!’”

Impatient to get inside, Greg tried viewing the stupid shout as a team-building exercise. Joining in at full force, he shouted, “Yes, we can!” and was rewarded by Amber finally moving to open the hatched door.

…

Zipping along Santa Monica Boulevard in her leased Ferrari, Francesca admitted that after months of fossilizing, it felt good to have a project, even if that project fell far short of art.

As detailed in the program dossier, Project Cinderella would be a hybrid of studio and location shoots. The fully constructed set would serve as the show’s base camp, with the final episode broadcast before a live studio audience. Each hourlong episode—forty-five minutes of actual footage plus commercials—would require a full week of filming. It would be a great deal of work for a great deal of money, funds that would hopefully help bring her and Sam closer.

Coming up on the signage for the studio, she cut a sharp right into the lot entrance. Slowing her speed, she drove up to the security booth, stopped, and rolled down her window.

“Hullo,” she said, craning her neck to meet the security guard’s gaze through the booth’s tinting. “I’m Francesca St. James here for Project Cinderella.”

He had her name on the list. A flash of her driver’s license secured her a day pass and the gate’s lifting. A slender blonde in a tank top and jeans waited on the opposite side of the island.

Crouching to the car window, the girl flashed a smile. “Hi, I’m Cindy. I’ve been assigned as your personal assistant while you’re here. Mr. Bernstein sent me to make sure everything goes smoothly for you today. We’re headed to Soundstage Eighteen. Mind if I get in?”

The VIP treatment indeed, Francesca mused. Moving the lot map off the seat to make room, she said, “Lovely to meet you, Cindy. Please, hop aboard.”

The blonde rounded the car and slipped into the front passenger’s seat. Closing the door, she said, “I heard you caught the red-eye out here, bummer. You look pretty rested, though.”

Continuing on, Francesca followed the signage to Stage Eighteen. “Thanks, I’m used to it,” she answered, unpleasantly reminded of her last West Coast trip, the foiled photo shoot with Gregory Knickerbocker.

The episode had cost her dearly. GQ had yet to ask her back, and once word had gotten out that she’d failed to get so much as a single shot, her freelance business had fallen off considerably. That the magazine hadn’t killed the article but had run it anyway—with his baby picture!—underscored the influence that status and money could command. Indeed, everything seemed to have sorted out swimmingly for the detestable Mr. Knickerbocker. His company, Cloud Flyer, had indeed gone public as planned. So far Francesca had stubbornly refused to open an account.

“How’s the hotel?”

“Lovely,” Francesca said sincerely.

So far it seemed Jerry meant to make good on his word to treat her like a goddess. He’d had her booked her into the Beverly Hilton. The posh penthouse suite featured a sumptuously canopied California king, ample living, dining, and work spaces, and a furnished balcony overlooking Santa Monica Boulevard. The black marble master bath was outfitted with a sunken Jacuzzi tub and separate European styled shower. Fortunately the iconic hotel was only a ten-minute drive to the studio. Arriving directly from the airport, she’d had just enough time to offload her luggage and take a quick shower before leaving for the studio.

Cindy bobbed a nod. “Glad to hear it. We have a packed day ahead starting with a tour of the set. Then there’s lunch with the contestants and the big press conference. Anyway, we’re here.”

Francesca drew up to the building. A big windowless box, it might have been an airport hangar except for its dome-shaped roof. At Cindy’s direction, she pulled into one of several reserved spaces.

“Before I forget, here’s your badge,” Cindy said, handing her the nametag on a chain.

“Thanks.” Putting it on, Francesca followed her inside.

Several steps across the Masonite-covered floor brought them into a beehive of busyness. Camera and lighting equipment hung from the trussed ceiling. Myriad people milled about, barking orders, delivering props, and running messages, all outfitted with earbuds and hands-free mics. Dodging a miscellany of dollies, cranes, and carts, sandbagged lighting rig lifts, and scaffold towers, she followed Cindy to the front. Curved pink-carpeted steps led up to an elevated stage. Swathed in shimmering pink silks and backlit by a neon 3-D Project Cinderella backdrop, it ran nearly the room’s width. Stopping at the foot of the stairs, Cindy gestured to a bank of identical high-backed chairs, their clear plastic frames molded to resemble glass slippers. “This is where you and the other fairy god-mentors will sit during the studio segments.”

Francesca answered with a smile. It was all rather kitschy, but then perhaps pink shimmer and slipper-shaped seats were what the public fancied?

She counted six chairs in all, and yet there were only five coaches including her. Was the sixth chair meant for the program emcee, perhaps? She turned to ask Cindy, but the assistant was already haring ahead toward a side stage door. Rather than risk being caught up in the milling masses, Francesca set aside her curiosity and followed.

Cutting quickly through a hallway, they entered a break room. Catering staff scurried about, setting out trays of hot and cold foods, filling ice bins, and distributing plates, cutlery, and serving tongs among the various serving stations.

Jerry hurried forward to greet her, entourage in tow. “Fran, sweetheart, so glad it all worked out. Good flight?” he asked, hugging her heartily.

Enfolded in hairy arms, Francesca could do little more than nod.

Releasing her, he gestured to the team who’d followed him over. “This is our fashion fairy godmother, Francesca St. James,” he said, his gaze making the rounds. “Fran, these crazy creative kids are our story producers: Stan, Levi, Doug, Janice, Tracey, and Sean.”

“I hadn’t thought there’d be so many of you,” Francesca said, shaking each hand in turn.

Jerry nodded. “Each contestant has a dedicated story producer and production team to track his or her experience throughout the show.”

Sean spoke up, “In the case of Contestant XY6, that’s me. Then there’s my associate producer, two to three camera operators, a couple of sound people, production assistants, the lighting crew, and of course the grips—someone’s got to move all the crap from point A to point B.”

“That’s a lot to coordinate,” Francesca remarked. Even on larger fashion shoots, she rarely worked with a crew of more than a few people. And thanks to a certain Media-Shy Mogul, her time, as well as that of two others, had been frittered away.

A tall blond-haired man walked up to join them. “Hullo.” Impeccably styled and wearing all black, he didn’t seem to be from LA.

Jerry nodded to the newcomer. “Folks, meet our celebrity stylist, Franc Whiting.” Glancing back to Francesca, he added, “So far you two are the first of our coaches to arrive.”

As soon as the name was out, Francesca knew why she’d felt such an immediate affinity. Mr. Whiting was both a fellow British expat and a New Yorker. Smiling, she offered him her hand. “Francesca St. James.”

The owner of Frankly Franc, a trendsetting TriBeCa salon known for its A-list celebrity clientele, Franc Whiting was Manhattan’s latest stylist guru. Reportedly Gwyneth Paltrow, Jennifer Aniston, and Eva Longoria all entrusted their locks to his shears.

“Please, call me Franc.” Flashing a flawless smile, he took her hand in a fleeting but firm shake.

“We have two Brits on the show!” Jerry interjected as though it was breaking news. Pushing his way in the middle, he laid a hand on both their backs. “That’ll class things up for sure.”

“Quite,” Francesca said, as she and Franc exchanging amused glances.

“Fashion and styling go together like peas and carrots,” Jerry carried on. “Since you two will be working the closest of all the coaches, I’ll leave you two kids alone to break bread and get better acquainted. See you at the press conference.” He turned and headed over to the buffet line already forming. Like well-trained pets, the producers followed.

They waited until Jerry and the others were out of earshot, and then burst out laughing.

“Are you the peas or the carrots, do you think?” Francesca quipped.

“I rather see myself as the carrots,” he replied, “and not only because of the obvious phallic imagery.”

Sides splitting, it struck her. “You’re Macie’s stylist chum, aren’t you? It must have been you who managed her makeover to Martha Jane.” That Macie was not “Martha Jane Gray,” the presumably traditional young woman her conservative ex had hired as his live-in housekeeper to look after Sam, but was instead a reporter for On Top on an undercover muckraking mission, had been a head-spinning discovery

He acquiesced with a nod. “Guilty as charged. I trust you’re not too terribly put off. It was all in the service of helping a friend.”

It would be a waste of time to debate the morality of the farce he’d helped carry off, especially as it had ended so very well for Ross, whom she considered as one of her closest friends. She shrugged. “All’s well that ends well, I suppose. Certainly it was a brilliant transformation. I can’t wait to see what you have in store for our Cinderella contestants.”

Her stomach’s rumbling reminded her that she’d only picked at her airline breakfast. She glanced over at the buffet tables. “I’m famished,” she admitted, eyeing the sushi bar. “Shall we?”

“Best not to face the media feeding frenzy on an empty stomach,” he agreed, offering her a mock bow and his arm. “Fairy god-mentoring promises to be thirsty work as well. Do you suppose there’s a bar?”