other members of the group disagreed. A man dressed in blue jeans, lace-up boots, a black long sleeved polo shirt and a Ford cap spoke up.
“Man, you is just playing with us. Doncha blowhard, my man.”
“Playing with you? Cha,” replied the tall man. “How do I know? Yo dude! I used to work for the Eagles Junior Bowl and Ivy College Leagues, that’s how I know.”
“OK, OK, you’re the man,” replied the dude. “Let me buy you a double.” The tall man smiled insincerely and gave him the thumbs up with his left hand.
As the group continued stealing glances in his direction, Brett turned on his stool and stared coldly back at them.
“Who are you looking at?” he growled.
The herd of men, collectively, looked away.
Back at the Kodak Theatre, the “Estee Lauders” broadcast returned from a commercial break, somewhere past mid-point in the proceedings. It was the photo opportunity, cheesy-interview, meet-the-contender-phase. Branson had the smooth-cabaret routine down pat. His black bow tie and body language soft but firm as he stood, relaxed, at the podium.
“Welcome back everyone ...”
Branson waved at the crowd and they cheered right back at him. He savoured the massive reaction.
“Wow! What a wonderful audience you are. You deserve to give yourselves a round of applause.”
Branson waved his hands like an orchestral conductor and applauded the beautiful people of Los Angeles.
The cameras showed celebrity members of the audience enjoying the atmosphere in that magnificent domed auditorium as Branson milked yet another magic moment.
“Thank you,” Branson said and bowed. “Thank you,” he repeated, bowing again. “Thank you.”
Branson flashed his best wide smile and let the applause run until it had faded enough for him to break in.
“Can I just say, meeting each of the 2009 Estee Lauder International Modelling Awards contestants in an up close and personal kinda way has got to be my favourite part of this wonderful ceremony.”
The M/C gestured to six alluring women - Miranda, FuXai, Elizabeth, Hannako, Gabriella and Amber-Jane - who were aligned to his left.
“Before the break, we met the beautiful women who make up the first group of contenders for the 2009 Model of the Year crown.”
The audience responded energetically.
Branson then motioned toward a second group of six models to his right. Joanne, who stood tall and proud at the front of the queue, struggled to get her money-shot smile happening. Angela, Jenna and Ellen, all bearing their best million-dollar smiles, were also among the second group.
“Now it’s time to meet the women in our second group of contestants. And, hey, who better to get things moving than the lovely Joanne Hart?”
Joanne sashayed down the runway, poised and elegant. She was brimming with confidence, her exemplary catwalk skills clearly on display as she strutted, technical issues with the smile apparently resolved.
Jenna was not smiling in the background but Branson was.
“Ladies UND gentlemen! All the way from Indian Hills, Los Angeles, would you please make Joanne feel welcome.”
The crowd greeted Joanne with an enthusiastic ovation. Photographers’ flashes exploded, creating a tsunami of white light that erupted like a solar flare. Branson shielded his eyes.
“Hello again, Joey,” he said with a dazzling ice white smile.
Joanne and Branson, laughed, curtsied, exchanged air kisses and embraced. She smiled glowingly. He brushed her bottom lightly with his right hand.
“At 23, Joanne is clearly one of the rising stars of American modelling and some of my wisest friends tell me she has the potential to be even bigger than Kate or Stella…”
Joanne acted as if she was completely amazed at this revelation. She blinked at camera 2. Tears started to well in her doe eyes and her voice began to crack.
“Branson, how sweet of you to say that. But really, I’m just a little ol country girl who is lucky enough to be following my dreams.”
“I … I ...”
Joanne had the lip-trembling, onion-tears thing going on. Branson slipped his arm around her shoulder, smiled and paused to emphasise Joanne’s well-rehearsed dramatic turn.
“Let’s take a brief look at some of the career and life highlights of a name - ladies UND gentlemen - that we’re surely going to be hearing a lot more about in the years ahead!”
Joanne’s eyes widened as if she were even more astonished while Branson subtly checked how his makeup was holding up to the burning glare of the stage lights. “So far, so good,” he thought to himself.
Joanne’s 30-second package included family-video-footage of her as a nine year old ballerina dancing in tights and tiara; winning a Hollywood modelling award at 15; a brief interview with her 1979 Playboy playmate mom and Indian Hills golfer step-father saying how proud they were of her; a collage of images of Joanne storming the catwalks of New York and Paris; dressed in white and walking arm-in-arm with famous footballer Brett Farrell in a lush flower garden; and pictures of her parading Dior couture wear with Angela at an enormous Tokyo shopping mall.
Aretha Franklin’s I Say a Little Prayer accompanied the Model Citizen’s video highlights.
“My darling believe me,
For me there is no one
But you.”
The compilation faded to purple with white and yellow hippy flowers. Branson grinned boyishly and gave a thumbs-up sign of approval for the audience and camera 3.
CALIFORNIA GIRLS
Back at Joe’s Bar, the group of men - and the two hostesses - were now gathered around Brett Farrell. He was happily telling tall football tales, surrounded by dozens of full and empty spirit glasses and beer bottles.
Brett had removed his baseball cap, showing the hulking 31 year old’s receding hairline. He had tattoos on his arms, neck and chest.
“So Turvey turns to him and says who scored the touchdowns anyway?”
The big name quarterback chortled loudly at his own joke and took a shot of whisky while soaking up the group’s laughter - they all seemed determined to outdo each other. They’d be recounting this meeting and Brett’s locker-room tales for the rest of their days.
The football star gently lifted the mini-skirt of one hostess as she turned away from the group to check a text on her phone. He lowered his head down and sniffed her bottom.
The other hostess spotted the sleaze and glared angrily at Brett. He dropped the skirt, lifted his head and raised the thumb of his huge right hand in her face. The group laughed again and Mr Football earned himself several supportive slaps on the back.
The hostess shook her head and walked away from the group with head held high. She made straight for the bar manager to make a complaint.
“He’s a strange one, Turvey, that’s for sure,” Brett slurred as he leered at his victim’s breasts.
The group of fans laughed along drunkenly. Brett looked up, noticed the hostess of choice scowling at him and winked. She looked uncomfortable, put down her drink and picked up her phone.
“Don’t you think that