Abby Road (31 page)

After one last glare, Hal knocked my shoulder and stomped off around the corner. If there was one thing he really loathed, it was being told how to play his guitar. He never voiced it, but Max drove him berserk. I still enjoyed pushing Hal’s buttons when I could.

Todd was shutting down his laptop and gathering some books from a tall, round table in the corner of the lobby.

“If you keep this up,” I said, gesturing to his computer, “you’re going to know more about producing than Nate.”

Todd looked up. “And Max?” he said with a wink.

“Todd Camford, L.A.’s newest impresario! Are you ready to see your name in lights?”

He narrowed his eyes. “Hilarious.”

Hearing Max’s voice behind me, I whispered, “Let’s make a run for it before he changes his mind.” I motioned subtly at Max through the open doorway.

Todd looked surprised. “Are you done for the whole day?”

“Because of the red carpet tomorrow,” I confirmed, leaning on the couch shoved against the wall. “I’ve been starving myself to fit into that stupid dress.” I planted my hands on my hips. “But I’ve had the last fitting, so all bets are off. Shall we go back to your place and scramble something?”

Todd grinned and slid a hand around my waist.

“I bet you’re bored stiff in there,” I said as we walked past the control room. “You’ve been sitting in that same chair for more than a week.”

“Nope,” he replied. I was relieved to hear joy in his voice again. “Just yesterday I was sitting in
that
chair.” He pointed at the short, blue-cushioned armchair that sat directly before the glass. “Front row, center. Best seat in the house.” As he looked at me, my heart went all gooey.

Just then, Nathan rounded the corner, trudging directly toward us. His left arm was full of brightly colored manila folders, while his right hand pressed a cell phone to his ear. Luckily he stopped just before crashing into us.

“Oh, hey,” he said, looking a little startled to see us standing there. His brown hair was floppier than usual, giving Hugh Grant a run for his money.

“You all right?” Todd asked him.

“Oh, sure. Good deal, good deal.” He turned on his heel, always a little too neurotic. “Just work stuff.” He took three steps toward his office and stopped. “Hey, Abby?”

“Yeah?”

“I was wondering, during that final take of ‘On the Rocks . . . ’” His head pointed toward the recording booth. “Why did you take those extra rests at the verse before the bridge?” He took a step toward me. “You did it that way only the last time through.”

I shrugged. “Didn’t it work?”

He snorted. “Of
course
it did. It was really genius. I just want to know what made you change your phrasing at the last minute.”

I pushed out my bottom lip, pensively. “Well, I’d been thinking about it during the other takes, wondering how it would sound. It made sense to me. I don’t know, I just . . . felt it.”

Nate raised a smile, and then he glanced at Todd. “I told you, man,” he said. “I told you she was good. Complete natural.”

A noisy group of six or seven office workers marched past us, separating Todd and me from Nate. After they passed, Nate was still standing at the doorway, one hand on the knob. “By the way,
what
is she still doing here?” He was speaking to Todd while pointing at me.

I caught a quick flash of unspoken understanding in both men’s eyes.

“I’m taking her home right this second,” Todd assured him in a fatherly voice.

I could see that he and Nate were becoming good friends. Ten or so twelve-hour days could do that to two guys. Plus, on a personal note, I obviously considered Todd to be irresistible. I hoped it was only a matter of time before even Max Salinger succumbed to Todd’s charms.

“Good deal.” Nathan nodded in approval before opening the door. “Hey,” he said to Todd, “good luck on the carpet, man.”

Todd cleared his throat and slid his hands in his pockets, looking a little embarrassed. “Thanks. Any advice?”

Nate scoffed. “Not from me. I don’t do those industry shindigs.” He nodded at me. “Strictly A-list celebs.”

“A-list?” I chuckled. “I’m just there to hobnob and get autographs. Hey, do you think I’ll finally meet Paul McCartney this year?”

Todd and Nate groaned in unison.

{chapter 21}

“LONG TALL SALLY”

M
ustang Sally was not up for an award, but we were presenting one. When wrapped in the right packaging, and if all the planets were aligned, red-carpet events could be pretty cool.

On the upside, dressing up for one night wasn’t so bad. Red carpets meant meeting with Jillian, my stylist, to sort through the designer endorsements shooting down the pipe. At every RC event, I was asked the same question, “Who are you wearing?” a zillion times, as my small army dragged me from one interview to the next. I always made sure I was well informed about each article of clothing and jewelry attached to my body.

On the downside, red carpets made for excruciatingly long evenings, the sleazy paparazzi came out in full-force, and if the RC was in Los Angeles, the sky was either pouring down rain or the air was a hundred degrees. Or both.

“Mwah! Mwah! You look beautiful, Abigail. You look like a million bucks!
Love
the dress!”

Ironically, those same bloodsuckers chewed you up and spat you out the next day, replaying
ad nauseam
that split second you’d scratched your nose or adjusted your underwire. The majority of my morning-after reviews were kind if not over the top. At least I had
that
. I knew of a few A-list women who sank into dark depression and even resorted to unnecessary surgeries after an RC snafu.

That particular Sunday evening, I was more nervous for Todd, it being his first industry event as well as our public debut. I could hold my own against those press jackals, but Todd was brand new to the hype, and it wasn’t exactly his scene. Although not even A-list celebs could hold a candle to him in his vintage Armani tux, snowy-white French-cuffed shirt, black silk tie, and gold cufflinks.

Eat your heart out, Sinatra.

I squeezed Todd’s hand between both of mine when our car stood next in line at the throat of the red-carpet drop-off point.

He looked at me, his eyes big and green, surprisingly serene.

I guess I’m more nervous than he is
, I thought, still wringing his hand.

Despite how neither of us cared about such things, Todd and I surely appeared a gorgeously smashing couple that night. My hair was piled high in shimmering ringlets, with long golden tresses tumbling down my back, bouncing when I moved. My black silk, beaded, slit-up-to-here, cut-down-to-there had been designed specially for me. A major rush job, since my measurements had altered slightly over the summer.

My free hand moved to my wrist and then my neck, rechecking the borrowed baubles, lest we forget to mention the Fort Knox–worth of crown jewels that had been lent to me for the occasion. Throat, wrists, fingers, ears—all important areas of skin—screamed Harry Winston, Cartier, and Tiffany’s. Exhibiting that much ice in public was an unnerving feeling, but it was all part of the game.

“Have you ever been to Buenos Aires?” I asked Todd, attempting to divert him from staring out the window at the flashing lights and chaos.

He turned to me but didn’t answer.

“Because,” I continued, feeling a twinge of nerves, “the crowds there are the absolute worst. It’s like every single citizen is a pop music fanatic. Insane. We always have to hire extra security.”

“Huh,” Todd replied distractedly.

“Have you been there?” I asked again.

He nodded once.

“When?”

“Several years back.” He was looking down, winding a cufflink.

“Vacation?”

He shook his head, one corner of his mouth pulling back. It wasn’t like Todd to be purposefully evasive. He had me fascinated.

“What was the occasion?”

He took a quick glance at the driver in the front seat of the limo and then back at me. “Work,” he said with a slow blink.

Hmm
, I thought as I watched him watching me. If it had been several years ago, his work wouldn’t have been his surf shop. “So the New York firm you worked for sent you to Argentina? Why?”

“It was before grad school, Abby.”

“Before that?” I said, thinking aloud. “But weren’t you still in the Marines? What work were you—”

“I was sent to Buenos Aires to follow a terrorist back to Iraq and then shoot him through the heart at thirteen hundred feet.”

I gaped.

Todd smiled. “And now,” he said as my car door was being pulled open, “a little Hollywood pressure seems like nothing.” He brushed his lapel. “I think we’re on.”

“Abigail! Abigail!”
The crowd roared when Todd and I stepped out of the black stretch limo and onto the scarlet runner.

“Couldn’t we just make out in the car all night instead?” I whispered to him. “I’ll let you get to third base. Twice.”

He chuckled and grabbed my hand. “After”

First we had to slowly pass by the seemingly never-ending wall of cameras. We smiled and waved, then Todd stepped back while I made a few thousand or so requested turns as cameras flashed. By the time we reached the first interview stop, I could tell where all eyes were focused. And they were not on me. Designer-ensconced women were a dime a dozen in this town. Elegant, sophisticated, debonair gentlemen, however—who made a tuxedo look like second skin—were a rare breed. Cary Grant, George Clooney, Todd Camford.

Standing next to Todd, I was secondary, which I graciously welcomed.

“Who are you wearing?” was our first question
.

Shocker.

I offered up the necessary information, but I doubt anyone was listening.

“You must be
the
Todd Camford the whole entertainment world is buzzing about.” She gleamed a toothy smile, shoving the mike under Todd’s nose. Her imitation Chanel Number Five was gagging me.

“Yes, this is Todd,” I answered for him, but she didn’t even look my way.

“Your first time at this three-ring circus?” she asked him, nearly bubbling over with gusto.

“Yes, it is,” Todd said with a modest, dignified air. The enchanting smile he gave her managed to make even
my
heart flutter.

The woman actually giggled. “That’s a sharp-looking monkey suit,” observed our friendly press hyena once she regained composure. “Who are
you
wearing?”

“An-gel-lee-no,” Todd pronounced down into the mike, carefully articulating every syllable. I felt his open hand on the small of my back, delicate, overly cautious, and careful not to snag my dress. “He’s that very prolific, esoteric Greek designer,” Todd further explained.

“Ah,
yes
.” Our interviewer beamed, somehow showing at least fifty front teeth. “
Love
him. He’s absolutely
fabulous
.
Love
his fall line.”

Almost like we’d planned it, Todd and I both tilted our heads and smiled at her, charmingly, artificially. Todd’s fingers pressed into my back as tooth lady returned our simpering smiles. She was completely oblivious to the fact that Todd had invented said “prolific, esoteric Greek designer” on the fly.

“Nicely done,” I whispered as Molly dragged us to the next interview station.

“You were right,” he whispered back. “This is painfully brainless.”

“Just keep smiling,” I sing-songed through my teeth as we approached the interviewer.

“
Mwah! Mwah!”
Et cetera, et cetera.

We were offered the same compliments, asked the same questions, and Todd had a different answer for the origin of his tuxedo every time. By the end of our carpet walk, he had the makings of a bruise on his bicep from my pinching him to keep myself from laughing. That evening, while hanging off Todd’s right arm, was the first occasion when I really did feel like we belonged in the spotlight. We totally killed that carpet.

Hal, Jord, and Yosh joined Todd and me at the last stop. The clicking of cameras sounded like hummingbirds as the five of us, arms around one another, posed for final pictures before we ducked into the venue.

The balance of the evening went pretty much as expected: unearned awards, lengthy speeches thanking everyone from Allah to “my dog who ran away when I was five,” and the occasional drunken and inappropriate political protest. Lovely.

We sat three rows back, just left of center. It seemed like the television cameras swung to catch our reactions more times than necessary. I blamed the chiseled, Hollywood-like features of my dashing date for that.