The Prince's Nanny (27 page)
Then he went over to Sofia, still in a state of aggravation, and said “Jesus Christ, Sofia! You DON’T KNOW how gorgeous you are. Can I have your number?”
”No.”
”Do you want to go out?”
”No.”
”Here. I’ll give you my card.” He gave her a card, then pulled me aside.
”See Andrew, she probably won’t go out with me. But it’s worth a try. You know? That’s what I’m trying to teach you. Everything is worth a shot. Even if you get discouraged. Don’t EVER give up. In life. Just don’t give up. For your acting career, too. Same advice. It applies to everything. Do you hear me?”
”Yeah.”
”Do you understand?
”Sure.”
”You get it?”
”Uh-huh.”
”Don’t EVER give up. Have you had dinner?”
”No.”
”I’ll buy you a burger. I have to get home in time for Britney Spears on Dateline. You like Britney Spears?”
”Yeah, she’s alright.”
”Can you drive me home?”
Oh my God.
”Sure, Syd.”
As we left Syd said goodbye to Sofia, who didn’t respond. As we walked, Syd had to jog to keep up with my long strides.
”This Time article is great. Do you know how many people read this magazine? I mean, this is the biggest thing that has ever happened to me. It’s a mitzvah. I want to be famous so fucking bad, Andrew. I’m on the verge.”
”Yeah, this could be it, Syd.”
”Sofia probably won’t call me. What a schaunder. Oh well. See if you can get the number to Rolling Stone Magazine, maybe I can get an interview. And Spin Magazine, the E! Cable Network, the Daily Show with Jon Stewart. Call them and tell them about the article. I can do segments on the Daily Show. I can do anything! Tell them that. Tell them, tell them—remember this— ‘When you fly air Hollywood, you fly first class.’ It’ll be a catch phrase. Hahaha, that’s good. Air Hollywood, first class.”
”Yeah, that’s funny.”
We got to the car.
”We can do this, Andrew. I’ll take you straight to the top. You’ll write my jokes.”
We drove to the In-N-Out on Sunset and parked. Inside there was a huge group of USC kids in Trojan Marching Band jackets milling around waiting for burgers. Immediately Syd whipped out a copy of the article and waved it around, announcing “Hollywood Syd Ross here!! I’m in Time
magaziiiiiiine
!”
The marching band kids all looked over at Syd, laughing. Relishing the attention, Syd announced, “My assistant Andrew Culver, a USC graduate! I love the Trojans!”
I went over to order our burgers. Waiting in line, I looked over and saw Syd surrounded by a Mexican family. He was handing out copies of the article, speaking fluent Spanish.
All I could make out was “
No soy Latino, pero hablo Espanol. Tengo amor para la gente hispanica
.” Pretty soon the marching band members, Mexican families, skate-boarders from Hollywood High, hoboes, and guys from some punk band were surrounding Syd and reading copies of the article. He was in heaven.
After the burgers we started driving towards his place. As we drove he pointed out Hollywood landmarks.
”Marilyn Monroe used to live on this block. And there used to be a studio in this parking lot. It’s called the phantom studio, nobody knows about it. They tore it down to build a parking lot. Can you believe that? See, a lot of these bungalow apartments were built in the twenties by the studios for their stars. They came from New York. Classic Hollywood bungalows. See that Chinese restaurant Wok of Fame? Over there. No, over there. Phil Spector’s record label used to be there. You know what, Andrew? I could never leave Hollywood. I love this place. There’s magic here, Andrew. There is magic in the air!”
”There’s definitely something in the air, Syd.”
I got him back to his apartment just in time for Britney Spears. He gave me my payment for the week and hurried inside. On the drive home it started to rain. And as I drove past the phantom studio I thought I understood what Syd was saying about Hollywood.
Read more of Andrew’s adventures in LaLa Land in his book
Yellow Days
at:
http://www.amazon.com/Yellow-Days-ebook/dp/B004BSGG9G/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1312861947&sr=1-1
Welcome to Paradise
The day was hot, the trail was long and her suitcase was so heavy she almost regretted packing her portable espresso machine. But a summer without good coffee? Unthinkable. Especially a summer where the days are warm but the nights are cool. Chloe rested her fanny against a pine tree to catch her breath and unfolded a piece of tattered, yellowed paper that she took from her pocket.
Paradise Hot Springs, where the Ute Indians once wintered near warm thermal waters, invites tourists to enjoy warm days and cool nights in the mountains of Colorado. Mineral waters known to cure gout, obesity, broken hearts and old gunshot wounds. Guests will be met by stagecoach. El. 7500 ft. Your genial host and proprietor: Horatio W. Hudson. Est. April 1912.
"Where is the stagecoach?" she muttered. "And where is the genial host?" She knew the answer to that one. Great-Grandpa Horatio Hudson was dead at age ninety-seven. And Paradise Springs was hers now. If she could find it. There had been one hand-carved wooden sign that pointed the way, and then nothing. Just a narrow trail overgrown with blackberry thorns and nettles.
Nobody told her she'd have to leave her car at the entrance. Nobody told her she'd be walking miles uphill in suede chukka boots.
"Buy boots," they'd said. They didn't say what kind.
"Take your camera." It was hanging around her neck like an albatross.
"Have a great vacation." She sighed. Maybe once she got there.
After another two hours of wading through a shallow creek, spanning fallen trees and climbing at least another thousand feet in altitude, Chloe was dripping with perspiration and gasping for breath. For two cents she would have thrown her suitcase over a cliff, coffeemaker and all.
But then she saw it in the distance. Steam rising in the clear blue sky. With one last burst of energy she dragged herself forward to the end of the trail. And there it was: Paradise Hot Springs in all its glory.
A group of dilapidated log cabins at the edge of a clearing.
A huge, empty pool, cracked and stained with orange.
An abandoned wooden bathhouse.
The pungent smell of minerals in the air.
She set her suitcase in the clearing, left her camera on top of it, and walked to the bathhouse. From the looks of the place, this was the end of the road. And the end of her dream.
She pushed and the door swung open on rusty hinges. She gasped. In her bathhouse, in her old enameled bathtub, was a cowboy. He was up to his neck in hot thermal water, wearing only a hat tilted low over his forehead. Shafts of sunlight poured through the cracks in the roof, illuminating his broad shoulders and large feet. The rest she could only imagine.
He turned his head. Electric blue eyes met hers and gave her a long appreciative look.
"Hello, darlin'," he said with a lazy grin. "What can I do for you?"
She swallowed hard. "You can get out of my bathtub."
Obligingly he braced his hands on the edge of the tub and stood.
She should have closed her eyes.
She should have looked away.
She should have run for her life.
Order here:
Here’s an excerpt from WILD MUSTANG MAN
Bridget McCloud braced her elbows against the wooden fence and held her binoculars up to her eyes. There on a hilltop, riding a wild mustang horse, was the man she was looking for—strong, virile, powerful and sexy. Unable to restrain herself, she let out a whoop of joy. She was not a bounty hunter or a desperate spinster. She was the president and owner of Bridget McCloud Advertising, about to land her first major account with the manufacturers of Wild Mustang men’s cologne.
Now that she’d found her Wild Mustang Man, nothing could stop her. She grinned to herself, wishing her administrative assistant and best friend Kate was there to share the excitement and the view. Not that she would have surrendered her binoculars. Not just yet.
Silhouetted against the blue Nevada sky, wild horse and rider moved as one. Bridget could almost hear the rhythmic fall of the hoofbeats, feel the muscles ripple under the man’s denim shirt and smell...yes, she could almost smell the tangy, masculine scent of Wild Mustang men’s cologne.
With a sigh of ecstasy, she let the binoculars fall against her chest and lifted her Nikon from its case, pressed the shutter and filled her memory card with shots of her future Mustang Man. She never saw the bicycle bearing down on her from out of nowhere. If she had she would have leaped out of the way before it plowed into her and knocked her to the ground.
The bike crashed onto the dirt road, the rider thrown to the side. Bridget staggered to her feet, dazed and bruised, head pounding. The daredevil rider, all four feet of him, was sitting in the dirt, staring at his skinned knees.
“Sorry,” he said, wide blue eyes looking up at her as she limped toward him. “Didn’t know anybody was there.”
“Same here,” she acknowledged. “But I think you got the worst of it. You or your bike,” she said, noticing the smashed spokes, the twisted handlebars. “I better take you home and get you bandaged up.”
“I am home,” he said, waving at the fields on the other side of the fence. Painfully he got to his feet, but his knees buckled and Bridget caught him in her arms before he lost his balance again. His dusty hair tickled her nose. She felt his body stiffen like a wounded animal, before he yanked himself out of her arms. “I’m okay,” he said, his upper lip stiff with pride. But his voice shook ever so slightly. “I can crawl through the fence and be back before my dad knows I’m gone.”
Bridget frowned at his stubborn determination, more than a little concerned about the cut above his eye and the blood oozing from his knees.
“What if I crawl through the fence with you and make sure you get there?” she offered.
He shrugged his narrow shoulders, and his teeth chattered. Bridget wondered if there were more injuries than met the eye or if he was that afraid of his father. “Okay, but we gotta hurry. If my dad finds out about this he’ll have my hide.”
“What’s left of it,” Bridget muttered, giving him a worried glance as she followed him, squeezing herself through the slats in the fence.
The two of them staggered up a sagebrush-covered hill toward a sprawling ranch house, two steps forward, one step back as Bridget’s binoculars bounced against her chest, and her camera case swung back and forth from her shoulder. She began to wonder who was helping whom. The further they walked, the stronger the boy got, and the weaker Bridget felt. Oh, to be young again, she thought, as he pulled her forward, his small grubby hand in hers. Oh, to be wearing sensible shoes instead of sandals.
She wasn’t married, though she’d always thought she would be by now with a child of her own. Not a daredevil boy who raced a bike in defiance of his parents’ wishes, but a sweet obedient little girl dressed in ruffles. She sighed. Because it was not to be. She’d seen her plans for marriage and a family go down the drain this past year and was proceeding full steam ahead on the next best thing—her career. She couldn’t deny, however, that the stubby, grubby little hand in hers brought a rush of maternal and protective feelings she thought she’d successfully buried, even though she, with her bruises, was in no shape to protect anyone, especially not this tough little kid here.
