then again, this was Hollywood, and anyone with a credit card could get that.
“My feet hurt,” Gaby said plaintively, shifting her weight from one leg to another. “I don’t know why ballet flats aren’t considered red-carpet worthy.”
Madison rolled her eyes. “Because you want height, Gab,” she said. “Every inch subtracts five pounds.”
“Really?” Gaby said. “How?”
But Madison didn’t have the energy to explain it to her. She was scanning the crowd, waiting for an event publicist to show them to their seats. She saw a couple of young stars from the latest HBO series and the members of The Royal We, Philip Curtis’s newest musical discovery, but so far it wasn’t exactly an A-list event. More like a B, Madison thought, or even a B minus. That was disappointing.
When, after another few moments, no publicist materialized, Madison grabbed Gaby’s hand. “Come on,” she said. “We’ll just find our own seats.” She was annoyed; this was hardly the star treatment she’d grown accustomed to.
They threaded their way through the crowd, moving toward the front row of folding chairs. At least they had front-row seats to the show, Madison thought. Maybe they’d be next to Anna Wintour.
But as they arrived at their designated spots, Madison was surprised—no, make that shocked—to see that they were taken.
By Carmen Curtis and some blonde with a botched nose job.
“Gaby,” she hissed, “go get the event coordinator!”
Gaby looked down at her ticket and then back toward their seats with a puzzled expression on her face. “I thought we were in the front row. Hey, isn’t that Carm—?”
“Gaby!” Madison whispered fiercely, while trying to maintain a smile. “Just go get the event coordinator!’
Gaby, like the good little doormat she was, did as she was told, and moments later the frazzled event coordinator appeared, a headset nestled in her updo and a clipboard clutched in her hand.
“Is there a problem?” Her tone was sharp.
Madison bristled but kept her voice low. She didn’t need the PopTV cameras, not to mention every person in the room, noting that Carmen had the nerve to steal her seat. “Yes, there is,” she said. “Those girls”—she nodded toward Carmen and her one-person entourage—“are in our seats.” Madison tilted her ticket toward the woman.
The event coordinator didn’t even look at it. “I’ve got two seats in the fifth row. We’ll move you there.”
Madison had to keep her mouth from falling open. The fifth row? “Excuse me?”
“I can place you in the fifth—”
“You mean the back row,” Madison said icily. “I don’t think you understand. I need you to ask those girls to move. Those are our seats. They were assigned to us. PopTV guaranteed us front row, and that is the only reason we are here.”
“I’m sorry, your name again?” the woman asked as she flipped through the pages on her clipboard.
Really? This glorified secretary didn’t know who she was? “Madison Parker,” she said through her teeth. A fire lit inside her.
The woman circled a name on her list and looked up. “Okay, Miss Parker, sorry for any confusion, but this isn’t a PopTV event, and those seats belong to Miss Curtis and her friend. The show is starting in three minutes. Do you want the seats in row five or not?”
Madison didn’t answer. Did she want the seats in row five? What she wanted was to take off her Louboutin and stab this woman in the eye with it. Everyone knew that where you were seated at a fashion show was in direct correlation to your celebrity status. Front row: star. Back row: nobody.
“We’ll take them.” Gaby grabbed the two new tickets from the coordinator’s hand and tried to pull Madison toward the back row. “Madison, come on. Let’s just go to our seats.”
Madison’s eyes sent daggers toward Carmen and her homely little friend. “They aren’t our seats,” she said, jerking her arm away.
The lights began to dim, but Madison stayed frozen. She watched as Luke Kelly made his way over to the place she should have been. A giant grin broke over Carmen’s face as she leapt up to hug him.
And that was when Madison saw the telltale bulge at the back of Carmen’s dress. A mike. She turned quickly toward the far end of the row. Sure enough, there was the new Dana (who’d gotten promoted, apparently) and a PopTV camera, focused not on Madison but on Carmen.
Madison took a deep breath as the information sank in. So it wasn’t going to be some sad nobody doomed for obscurity; Carmen Curtis was going to be the aspiring actress on The Fame Game. Trevor had landed himself a piece of Hollywood royalty—and she already had a film under her belt. Bully for him.
He was probably pretty happy with himself right about now, Madison thought. Well, she’d have to do what she could to change that.
Kate tossed a pile of sweaters into a cardboard box and then collapsed onto the leopard-spotted beanbag chair she’d had since junior high. She’d been packing for five hours now and her enthusiasm for the job was seriously fading.
“More coffee?” Natalie asked from the doorway.
Kate smiled up at her roommate. “Do I look like I need it?”
“You look like you need to be peeled out of that chair with a spatula,” Natalie said, coming into the room and sitting down on Kate’s bare bed.
“Yeah, well. There’s one in the kitchen, should it come to that.” She laid her head back on the faded chair and closed her eyes.
“Be more excited,” Natalie scolded her. “You’re moving to some fancy place in West Hollywood! You’re going to be on TV! It’s like my hippie grandma used to say: ‘Today is the first day of the rest of your life.’”
“I am excited,” Kate said. “I’m just resting.”
But the truth was, she had begun to feel more apprehensive than anything else. She was leaving her only friend in L.A. and the shabby but totally comfortable apartment that they shared (with thanks to Craigslist for both) and heading off into unknown territory—to be followed around by TV cameras 24/7. Had she really signed up for this? Was she ready for it in the slightest?
She felt in her pocket for the BlackBerry that Dana had given her. “Keep it on you at all times,” Dana had said sternly. “Keep it charged, and keep it on.” She’d made it sound like the world would end if Kate weren’t at her beck and call. “Maybe you should just get me a radio collar,” Kate had joked. “You know, like a polar bear or something?” But Dana hadn’t found that funny.
“What I don’t get is why you have to move,” Natalie said. “I mean, if it’s reality TV, shouldn’t they film you where you actually live? As opposed to setting you up in this new place and pretending it’s where you’d live?”
“Yeah, and pretending like I could afford it.” Kate smiled. “But think about it: Do you want someone filming you while you burn your toast in the morning?”
Natalie wrinkled up her little nose, looking horrified. “No!”
“Well, that’s part of why I can’t live here.”
Natalie nodded, her dyed-black bangs falling into her eyes. “Right. Plus what else would they film me doing, studying for my textiles exams?” Natalie was in her second year at the Fashion Institute of Design & Merchandising, aka FIDM. Every piece of furniture in the place was upholstered with some amazing fabric she’d designed herself.
“Dude.