The next few days are pretty good. I see Nicolo almost every day, and he takes me to dinner, the theater, parties…After more time with the new and improved Nicolo, I start spending a few of my nights at his luxury penthouse overlooking the lake. It’s great, but Booboo Kitty is mad that I’ve been away so much.
Maybe that’s why princesses in fairy tales don’t have pets. I miss Booboo, but my life sure feels like a fairy tale. I’m up to my OPI Marquis d’Mauve nails in affection and gifts. Every day there’s a surprise—flowers in my office, a jeweled barrette, a painting by an up-and-coming artist, a pearl choker. He’s courting me in every sense of the word.
It’s not all glass slippers and fairy godmothers, though. I never realized how relentless the media can be. We’re in all the local papers as well as some of the national ones, and they’re calling me Princess Allison, which I kind of like, even if it’s not accurate. The press is another reason I’ve been staying with Nicolo—reporters, mostly European, have been sitting outside my house for the last few days, and I’m afraid I’ll open the door and find one of them going through my trash.
Last night I stayed at home, and I woke up in the middle of the night, stumbled into the bathroom, and looked up from my seat on the toilet to see a reporter peering in my bathroom window. This morning when I went out to get the paper, a dozen flashbulbs went off in my face, and when I tried to drive away, my car was swarmed. I shook for an hour afterward. I’m not used to that much stimulation before nine A.M.
As for the office, I’m getting used to splitting my time between the show and real work. We’ve still got two more shows to film. Then next week the vibrator show airs, and while Rory is planning a big viewing party, I’m trying to think of a way to keep my parents from seeing it.
But this morning, I start hoping no one sees the show. Any of the episodes. We’re in a tiny apartment near the now defunct Robert Taylor Projects getting miced. The family who lives there is staring at the motley group of cameramen, designers, and Japanese guys mulling about their house. Watanabe is on a cell phone, screaming something in Japanese, which Yamamoto translated as, “This show very exciting.”
Right.
When the sound guy finishes, I lift my clipboard and double-check the list of supplies we’ve brought, drowning Watanabe out by humming “They Can’t Take That Away from Me.”
Yamamoto has taken the phone from our director, and now he’s screaming into it as well. I plop down on top of one of the boxes we lugged upstairs and watch Miranda talking to the Ron Howard producer.
“Should we ask what the problem is?” Josh asks.
“No. He’ll only tell us Yamamoto is very, very happy to work with us.”
Yamamoto screams again and holds the phone out to Takahashi, one of the Japanese designers. They’re going to be doing the apartment next door. Takahashi scurries over. “Hai.”
“Where’s the princeling?”
“I don’t know. He’s not talking to me because I didn’t go out with him last night.”
Josh gapes at me. “We were working until nine.”
I shrug. “I know.”
“Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Who are they talking to?” I ask instead of answering Josh’s question.
“No idea.”
Then we both stare as Takahashi begins to sob loudly. The door opens, and I stiffen but, thank God, it’s not Nicolo. I can’t deal with him right now. Fukui, the other designer, enters, wearing a blue tuxedo shirt with ruffles. Strange decorating outfit, but I guess Hildi on Trading Spaces wears Prada pumps.
“I wish someone would tell me what’s going on,” Josh moans.
“He is talking to Mr. Kobayashi in Tokyo,” Fukui says.
Josh and I stare at Fukui. Josh recovers first. “You speak English?”
“Of course.”
“But why didn’t you say so before?” I ask.
Fukui smiles.
“So, who’s this Kobayashi?” Josh asks. “Why’s Takahashi crying?”
Fukui sighs. “Kobayashi is CEO of Dai Hoshi. He is angry that first show not on air yet.”
“It’s airing next week,” I say.
“We are behind schedule. We should have film last show today. Lose money.”
“Oh. But Nicolo set the filming schedule.”
Fukui gives me a long look. “Your prince cause more trouble than good.”
Josh glances at me. “How?”
“You read contract?”
“What does that have to do with anything?” I say.
Fukui looks like he might answer, then Yamamoto motions to him, and he walks away.
“What’s that about?” Josh asks.
“I don’t know, but do you ever get the feeling we’re on Survivor?”
Finally the phone calls end, and we all get to work. For this project, Watanabe gives both groups twenty rolls of duct tape. I glare at Miranda, but she doesn’t say anything. Here we go again. Fix something that isn’t broken. I look around the tiny apartment. The family who lives here seems so nice. I’d like to do something really great for them; instead, I’m going to cover their home in duct tape.
None of this feels right. But I have the duct tape, and I have a job to do. I look at my rolls of tape. The last thing the apartment needs is duct tape, but I try to think creatively. What about all those kids who make prom dresses and tuxedos out of duct tape every year? Maybe I can make household items out of duct tape.
But after three or four hours of working with the duct tape, I have new respect for the prom kids. This stuff is hard to work with, and if you mess up, there aren’t any do-overs. This stuff sticks—to everything. My hands are sticky, my scissors are sticky, and I have pieces of silver duct tape in my hair and on my jeans (my Michael Kors jeans, which I wore because after the Chippenhall house, I didn’t anticipate another foray into the ghetto). I am never going to get this stuff off.
Finally, with only about two hours left, I’ve made some progress, and I’m painting over the duct tape I’ve fashioned into trim for the kitchen cupboards and thinking about how much I hate this stupid show when I hear a thump.
The Japanese designers’ apartment is next to this one, so at first I ignore it, figuring they’ve dropped a ladder or something. But then I hear another thump followed by a sharp cry, and I run for the living room. Watanabe is watching our camera crew film Miranda patching a torn sofa cushion with the duct tape, but they turn when I run in.
“I heard something next door,” I pant. “A bang and then a scream.”
We rush into the hall and pause when we see the faces of the Iron Designers’ production team. They look stunned. Watanabe asks something in Japanese, and one of the team answers, motioning us inside. Takahashi is lying on the floor, his hand to his forehead, and Fukui is kneeling beside him.
There’s a long conversation in Japanese, and finally Yamamoto tells us what happened. Drug dealers came by looking for the owners and thought Takahashi and Fukui were lying when they said they didn’t know where they were. One of the drug dealers hit Takahashi with a lamp, and now Fukui is taking him to the hospital as a precaution.
And since Josh and I don’t really want to hang around our unfinished apartment, waiting for a drug dealer to come quiz us, we start packing up to go. The camera crew helps, and we’re climbing into the van when Watanabe and Yamamoto come over. Watanabe says something, which Yamamoto translates as, “Work not done. You go back and finish.”
I glance at Miranda. She looks ready to capitulate, so I step in. “No way, Mr. Watanabe. I’m only going in there if you have security.”
Josh nods, and Watanabe’s face flushes when Yamamoto translates. “Then you lose.”
“Only if they lose, too,” Miranda says, pointing to the ambulance taking Takahashi away.
Grumbling in Japanese, Watanabe and Yamamoto walk off and Josh and I glance at Fukui, standing nearby, watching the ambulance pull away. “What’d they say?” I ask.
Fukui shrugs. “Same thing he always say, but Yamamoto usually make it sound nice.”
Josh narrows his eyes. “What’s that?”
Fukui thinks for a moment. “Hard to translate, but I think something like, ‘You Americans are more stupid than water buffalo and uglier, too.’”
Josh and I gasp. “He didn’t say that!”
Fukui smiles enigmatically and climbs in the van.
The day before the first show airs, we’re filming the last show back where the Robert Taylor projects used to be. This time Watanabe has security, though, and both teams are working practically side by side. Interiors by M has the apartment complex’s laundry room, while the Japanese designers are assigned the rec room.
Our goal is to use about a hundred rolls of plastic wrap in various colors, including holiday green, red, and, just for fun, blue. It’s very hard to decorate with plastic wrap. I can’t even get it to stay on my bowls at home, so this task is nearly impossible. Even the intrepid Fukui isn’t quite sure what to do with it.
Our main problem has to do with heat and plastic wrap. Apartment tenants are in and out, dropping clothes from the washers into the dryers, and the heat from the industrialsize dryers makes the room feel like a tropical rain forest. The warm metal dryers also act as magnets for the plastic wrap, so that every unattended or unsecured piece of wrap gets sucked onto the dryers, melted by the heat so that we have no hope of ever removing it.
I’m sure this is a major fire hazard, and I’m about to say so, when the dryer I’m peeling plastic wrap from suddenly makes an unfamiliar noise, and there’s a whoosh! I peer around the back, and a flame of searing fire licks at me. “Oh, fudge!” I scream.
“What is it?” Miranda says, turning from her plastic-wrapped clothing hangers. The cameras turn with her, and I suddenly realize this could be very bad if it’s caught on film.
“Oh, nothing,” I say with a smile.
Miranda glares at me for interrupting her for no reason, but I ignore her, scanning the room for a fire extinguisher. I spot one and try to sidle over to it without drawing the attention of the cameras. Meanwhile, I can see the fire poking hot fingers over the top of the dryer. I take the fire extinguisher from a wall, pretend to examine it for possible decorative value, then scoot back over to the dryer, pull the extinguisher’s pin, stand back, and aim. I squeeze with all my strength. But nothing happens.
What the fudge!
“What’s that smell?” Josh says from the other side of the room. “It smells like smo—”
“It’s nothing!” I snap, cutting him off and becoming much more frantic now. I try the extinguisher again, and still nothing happens.
Across the room, Josh gasps as fire rises on the wall behind me. I shake my head, appealing desperately with my eyes for him to keep his mouth shut, but then I glance at the round indicator on the extinguisher’s nozzle. There are two pieces of colored pie labeled full and empty. The pointer on the indicator shows empty.
Fudge!
And that’s the last thought I have before the fire alarm goes off and water rains from the sprinklers in the ceiling.
By the time the fire department leaves, I’ve almost forgotten the reason we were here. If I’d known firefighters were so cute, I would have started more fires. But not here. The residents forced out of their apartments for the past three hours look less than happy to see cute firemen.
And when we’re all allowed back into the laundry room, I wish the fire had done some damage. Now not only is there plastic wrap everywhere, there’s smoky, wet, singed plastic wrap everywhere.
In the end, after twelve hours of wrestling with plastic wrap, fire, and irate residents, we’ve ruined another perfectly good room. Before leaving, we peek in at the Japanese designers’ finished product. Thankfully, their sopping-wet made-over rec room isn’t much better than our laundry room.
I never thought I’d say this, but at the end of the last show, I’m thoroughly sick of reality TV. I’m so glad the show is over, and if I never watch another reality TV show again, I won’t shed a tear. I hope I don’t shed too many at my television debut tomorrow night.
Since it’s been a long week amid a series of long weeks, I’m capping this one off with a party at the Ritz-Carlton for Nicolo’s friends, who have flown in for the Kamikaze Makeover! premiere tomorrow. Nicolo reserved the hotel’s greenhouse—a gorgeous room with a view of the city. All around me men and women are reclining on plush antique-styled divans and chairs, standing on thick oriental rugs, placing glasses of Napoléon brandy and Krug 1990 Clos du Mesnil Blanc de Blancs champagne on gilded cut-glass tables. Everyone is laughing and talking. And I’m miserable. Before the party even began, Nicolo and I had a huge fight. Huge. I’d put on my favorite vintage Valentino, but Nicolo had bought me a bland beige creation by Alexander McQueen and insisted I wear it.
We finally agreed on a sexy black Alaia, but it pisses me off that I should have to even discuss my fashion choices with a man. I’ve got my own style. I know what’s being shown in the couture shows on the Paris runways, but I don’t want to be like everyone else. I want to wear a romantic silk Galliano, a vintage layered tulle by Schiaparelli, or something slim and gorgeous by the defunct Augustabernard house.
Now, I’m standing at one of the windows overlooking the city, partly shielded by a large tree, trying not to cry. I hate the stuffy, pretentious Ritz-Carlton, and I hate the Alaia I’ve been forced to wear. Okay, I love the Alaia, but I hate the idea of it. And I especially hate Nicolo’s friends, standing around blathering about how much Chicago sucks, how boring Cannes is at this time of year, and how stressed they all are, jetting about the globe and looking chic.
I mean, are any of these people real? Do they ever worry that the guy they like won’t call for a second date, or that they’ll multiply wrong and the whole budget will be off, or that they’ll set an apartment building on fire? Are these people for real? Is Nicolo?
I want to go home, but if I do all the reporters will write that Nicolo and I are having a fight. Which we are.
“What are you doing here all by yourself?” Nicolo says, coming up behind me. “You are not still sulking?”
I watch his reflection in the glass—a tall, regal man, a prince, standing beside a little girl pretending to be a princess.
I take a breath and turn. “I don’t sulk. I was thinking. You might try it sometime.”
“Ah, yes. That coming from you, whose big decision is the red nail polish or the pink?”
Before I can retaliate with my own scathing commentary, Nicolo holds up a hand. “No. I am sorry. I do not want to argue with you. We put all that aside, yes?” He scans the room, his gaze critical. “Come. Sixte has been asking for you.”
Nicolo leads me across the room, where a small group of Europeans including Sixte, Valencia, and Maxmillian have gathered. We embrace and kiss as though we haven’t seen one another in years. When I sit down, they continue their conversation.
“I refuse to ride in a white limousine,” Valencia says. “I look fat in white.”
Valencia is wearing a gown by Badgley Mischka, and if she’s larger than a size zero, I’ll eat my Emilio Pucci bag.
“Black is the only color for a chauffeur-driven car,” Maxmillian adds.
“Well, I for one intend to take a Rolls back to the airport,” Valencia says. “I cannot abide these dinosaurs some people consider cars.”
I hear a muted sound and glance around until I notice one of the bartenders has a portable TV. He and a waiter are watching the Bulls play-off game surreptitiously. The cameras flash on Benny the Bull, and I can’t suppress a smile. God, that Gatorade incident was horrible. Horrible and crazy and real. I glance at Nicolo, seated beside me on a divan. His expression is blank, the perfect mask of ennui.
My purse vibrates, and I jump in surprise. “Excuse me.” I walk away, feeling Nicolo’s frown burning into me.
“Sweetie, where are you?” It’s Josh.
“The Ritz.” I retreat to my corner behind the plant and stare at the lights of the city behind the windows.
“Ooh, swanky. Okay, quick question, since I know you’ve got all those royal affairs to attend to. Do we have everything ready for the next Wernberg meeting on Monday, or should we go in tomorrow?”
I close my eyes. “Josh, I don’t even know. My brain is so fried right now.”
“Sweetie, go home and turn in early,” Josh says. “You sound exhausted.”
“Nicolo has been dragging me out every night. I’ve gotten like no sleep.”
“So tell his royalness you need a night off.”
“We already had one argument today. It’s easier just to humor him.” I touch my fingers to the glass, tracing the outline of a building a few blocks away.
“Well, be a martyr, then.”
“Look, I can meet tomorrow to double-check everything, but it has to be either early or late. I’m going with Gray to basketball camp.”
“The princester’s letting you out?”
“Josh.”
“Sorry. Well, look at it this way: The sex is good, right?”
“Yeah. I’m just tired. I want a break from my life.”
“Not next week, sweetie. We’ve got a show to watch, and a game to win.”
I groan.
“Come on, girl. You were the cheerleader.” I can almost see him jump up and strike a pose. “Give me a J.”
“Josh, the Village People do that, not cheerleaders.”
“Come on! Gimme a J!”
“J.”
“With spirit!”
“J!” I growl.
“Ooh! Give me an O.”
“O.”
“Give me an S and an H.”
“S, H.”
“What does it spell?”
“Idiot.”
Josh huffs. “You are no fun. I say you ditch the princelet and come out with me and Carlos tonight. We’re going salsa dancing.”
I glance at Nicolo across the room. He’s frowning at me. “Better not, Salsa King.”
“Speaking of kings, what’s it like sleeping with royalty? Are you like, ‘Oh, Your Majesty! Oh, oh!’?”
“Hey, when you tell me about Carlos, I’ll tell you about Nicolo.”
“But there’s nothing to tell about Carlos. Yet.”
“Well, then you better get moving, Salsa Boy, or he’s going to mambo off with someone else.”
“So, how are things with the prince?” Gray asks on our way home from camp the next morning.
Oh, good. This question again. “Fine. Except he’ll probably be pissed that I’m staying in tonight, but I’m too tired to deal with his bullshit friends.”
“Better get used to it.” Gray slips a Nickelback CD in the player and turns the volume up. “You’re going to be almost royalty. That’s a job that entails a lot of partying.”
“Hmm.”
“That guy Dave asked about you today.”
I swerve. “Who?”
“Nice try. I told him you were a princess in training.”
“Oh.”
“He said to tell you the prince is a better mechanic than he is. Does that—hey, you ran that stop sign.”
“This music’s too loud. I can’t concentrate.” I punch the power button on the CD player and we’re cast into silence. I don’t know why I’m annoyed at Dave’s comment. It’s probably true, and what do I want him to say, anyway?
“Look,” Gray says. “Nicolo’s an okay guy. If you like him, I like him.”
Wow. Big praise for Grayson. “Thanks.”
“And I’m sorry about what I said at the lake house. I didn’t mean that.”
One more emotional comment like that, and I’m going to start believing the alien body-snatcher theories. “It’s okay.”
“No, it’s not. I shouldn’t say stuff like that to you—about you. I pretty much suck as a big brother.”
I brake at a light, shifting into first. “No, you don’t.”
“Jesus, Allison”—he runs a hand through his long hair—“do you know how sorry I am about everything I’ve done? I’d give anything to go back and do it over again.”
I squeeze his hand, wishing I could make things better, make the pain etched on his face disappear. I can see the fine lines and beginnings of wrinkles when he looks like this.
“Mostly I wish I could go back to that summer. I knew what was going on with that asshole Chris, but I was so strung out I didn’t care.”
“I’ve got as much to be sorry for as you do. It’s my fault you went to jail.” The light turns green, and a car behind us honks. I jump, releasing the clutch too fast so that the car lurches forward.
“No, it’s not.”
“Gray, let’s not talk about it. What happened with Chris is no big deal.”
“He raped you.”
I shift from second to third. “No, he didn’t.” We’re going seventy in a fifty-five zone, but it’s still not fast enough. “I had a huge crush on him. I didn’t say no.”
“You were fifteen. He was nineteen. That’s rape.”
We hit eighty, and I shift into fourth. It doesn’t matter how fast I go. I can’t outrun the poisonous black pit that opens when Gray brings Chris up. Usually I don’t notice it gnawing away at me. Sometimes I think it’s gone, then something happens and the canyon yawns and I plummet down, down, down.
“Slow down. You’re going to get us killed.”
I put in the clutch, brake hard, and turn, tires squealing, into a McDonald’s parking lot. The car shudders.
“Gray.” I turn to him. “It’s not your fault. It happened. I regret it, but we all do stupid stuff when we’re kids.”
“And some of it messes us up more than others. Allie, I look at you now, and I think, man, if I’d just stopped it—”
“If you’d stopped him, what? Everything would be the same.” My heart is beating fast, the blood is rushing in my ears, and the roar of the bottomless chasm in my belly is deafening.
“I don’t think so. You’d be married or at least serious with some guy by now. You wouldn’t be so afraid of getting hurt that you hide behind childish fantasies and designer clothes.”
I recoil, feeling the verbal punch in my gut. My defenses spring forward like porcupine spikes. I roll my eyes. “Please. What do you know about it?”
He sighs. “More than you think. I’ve got my own barricades.”
I’m sort of speechless at that comment. Am I really that much like Gray? Afraid to commit, changing men as often as my nail polish?
Gray glances toward the McDonald’s playground. The sound of laughter and the smell of french fries and Big Macs seeps in through the car’s vents. “You’re so cool, Allie. You never let anyone see you—the real you.”
“That’s not true.”
“Allie, you go through guys like—”
“Nail polish?”
“I was going to say disposable razors, but the idea’s the same.”
His tone is lighter, and now that we’re past the subject of our past, I can see the bridge out of this desert wasteland. My heartbeat slows and returns to normal. “Hey, maybe I just haven’t found the right guy.”
“Allison, you’re thirty-two, smart, successful, gorgeous—not as gorgeous as me, but—”
“What’s your point?”
“I’ve met some of your boyfriends. They’re good guys, but as soon as it gets serious, you ditch them.”
“Ha! Not true. They break up with me almost as often as I ditch them.”
“Because you make it happen. You won’t let them get close. If they start to get past the perfect exterior to the broken interior, you back away.” He puts his hand on my arm. “But you know what, you’re not broken inside. It’s like that useless show you’re doing. Stop trying to fix something that’s not broken.”
“That’s a lot of philosophizing. Have you considered that maybe Nicolo’s not the right guy for me?”
“Maybe not. He comes with a hell of a lot of baggage, but if you’re not sure about this thing, you’d better break it off before you’re in too deep. Before your entire life is fodder for the tabloids. Now I’m going to shut up and buy you an ice cream cone.” Grayson hops out, walks around, and opens my door.
“I’ll have a Diet Coke.”
“No, you won’t.” He pulls me out of the car. “I’m the model, and if I can eat an ice cream, so can you.”