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“I could put you in touch with the director of public relations for Rx Smile on Monday,” Michael says. “Since it’s a volunteer organization, I imagine you’d have to pay your own expenses getting to and from Lusaka, as well as lodging and meals. But if you were willing to do that, they’d be open to having you there. In fact, they’d be grateful to have you. It’d be a wonderful opportunity for them as well.”
My heart’s jumping. I’m excited, really excited, and mentally I go through my finances, as well as my experience with cameras. It’s been a long time since I did my own camera work, although in the beginning every reporter learns how to do a one-man stand-up. “Yes, I’d love a name and number. Definitely interested.”
Driving back to Redlands late that afternoon, Christie asks me if I’m serious about tagging along on the Zambia Rx Smile mission, and I tell her I’m very serious.
“This is what I’ve been dying to do. It was hard skiing this afternoon because I kept thinking about all the logistics, wondering if I can combine Sveva’s story with the Zambia mission, wondering if I can manage to interview and film. I’ll need to look into travel requirements as well. See if I need any visas and vaccines— ” I break off, gulp a breath as my pulse quickens. “Wow. It’d be incredible if I could pull this off. I really want to do it.”
She glances at me over her shoulder. Smiles. It’s her smug Christie-knows-best smile, and I pretend I don’t see.
It’s not until I’m in bed that I finally let myself think about Michael and the kiss in the bar.
I really can’t believe I did that. I don’t know what in God’s name I was thinking. Michael’s a player. I don’t need a player. Obviously I wasn’t thinking. Obviously that can’t happen again, especially in Zambia.
Shame. Because nothing has felt half as good as that kiss in a long, long time.
Chapter Twelve
I wake up Sunday morning feeling happy and very, very relaxed. And then yesterday starts to come back to me in embarrassing pieces.
Skiing. Michael. Drinks. Talking. Flirting. Kissing.
Kissing.
Kissing Michael O’Sullivan. I press my pillow to my face, groan into the feathers. Can’t believe I did that. Can’t believe I’d fall for his charm. He’s so blatant. So obvious. You’d think I’d know better.
First thing— there’ll be no more kissing. And if I do go to Africa when he’s there, I’ll keep my distance. There’ll be very little contact and no moonlit conversations and definitely no canoodling. Africa is business. Work. Only work.
I’m pouring milk on my cereal when Christie phones to check on me. “How are you doing?”
“Good.” I play with my spoon. “Excited to talk to Michael’s contact at Rx Smile tomorrow. I can’t stop thinking about the trip. Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve done something like this?”
She laughs. “I’m more interested in hearing about Michael. What’s going on between you two?”
“Nothing,” I say, hating the twinge of anxiety. This is exactly what I don’t want or need. Michael isn’t what I want or need.
“That’s not what I saw.”
I’m reminded suddenly of how I felt kissing him, how there was something so right being near him; but then there was that horrible painful embarrassment after. “The kiss was a one-time-only thing. We were joking around, being ridiculous, and then it just happened. But it won’t happen again.”
“Oh.” She sounds so wistful.
“Now I’m going to hang up because my cereal is getting soggy. But I’ll call you later this week and let you know what’s happening with Zambia, okay?”
“Deal.”
After my tan, nail, and hair appointments, I rush home to meet Shannon, who is literally sewing me into my dress. The dress is beyond gorgeous, but it’s tight, very, very tight, and the snug corset of a bodice is going to mean I eat and drink very little tonight.
Shannon also helps me apply my false eyelashes, and once she’s gone I deal with the rest of my makeup, which goes on quickly. Finished, I stand back to examine my face and hair with the dress. It all looks good. I look good.
And then something else happens. I don’t see me. I see my mom.
It’s the strangest jolt of recognition. This is what my mom looked like when she died. She was my age, thirty-eight. Leaning close to the mirror, I stare at my face, into my eyes, searching for my mother.
There were times after the car accident when I envied my sisters for going with her. Envied that they all went together. I didn’t want to be left behind.
I used to tell myself there was a reason for being left behind.
I’ve still been searching for answers, for that elusive reason why I survived when no one else did.
Shaking the whisper of sadness, I smile at myself and my deep dimples come and go. The dimples weren’t my mother’s. Those I got from my father. He said they were unmanly. We children loved to put our fingers in them. Smile, we’d say, climbing on him, arms circling his neck. Smile. And then we’d gouge the dimples and laugh.
He acted as if he hated it, but his eyes laughed with us.
Two hands to the mirror, I try to capture them, the people I lost, the people I miss. It’s futile, but it doesn’t change it or make it easier. You’d think after this many years the grief would sleep. And it does, sometimes for weeks, even months, life goes on, but then something wakes it and the sorrow returns, resting on my rib cage, riding my heart.
I push away, take a deep breath, settle my shoulders. Time to go. Time to shine.
The Golden Globe Awards are given out each year by the Hollywood Foreign Press Association and are the favorite awards for those of us in the industry who work the red carpet. The awards are a combination of the Oscars and the Emmys, as they recognize outstanding performances in both motion pictures and television.
When I first started working for America Tonight, the awards were held at various theaters around town, but now they’re a steady fixture at the Beverly Hilton Hotel. Unlike the Oscars, where everyone sits in theater seats, the Globes ceremony is a seated dinner.
With twenty-five different categories, the Globes are also shorter than the Oscars, but the fans still descend beforehand to get a glimpse of the big names attending the party. However, bleacher seats for the Globes aren’t free, as they are for the Oscars; instead, they’re sold as part of a guest room package at the Beverly Hilton Hotel, and the package price starts at around two thousand dollars.
I know from working the red carpet that stars begin showing up at the hotel around three-thirty, although I used to arrive between noon and one. Because Peter is not running the gauntlet of international journalists and American entertainment reporters, tonight we don’t actually arrive until five, but that’s due partly to the backup of limousines inching toward the hotel entrance.
I have butterflies as our limousine pulls toward the hotel curb. I don’t get nervous often anymore, but I’m certainly nervous tonight.
There could also be some butterflies because I’m about to step from the relative safety of the limo and into the lion’s den.
Peter, a senior writer for Die Welt as well as a regular columnist for German Vogue, pats my hand. “Du bist sehr schön,” he says.
You are very beautiful.
The driver puts the car in park and comes around to open our door. Photographers press toward the car. Peter reaches for my hand and nods once at me. I nod back. And then he’s stepping out and assisting me.
I straighten as dozens of lights flash around us. I’ve never been in the middle of such a crush of photographers before, but I’m used to cameras, I know what to do with cameras. I tilt up my chin, drop my lashes ever so slightly, and smile.
* * *
We walk the length of the red carpet; lightbulbs flash and publicists escort the stars to some journalists and past others. I see Shelby and Manuel interviewing Tom Hanks. Nancy O’Dell’s talking to Trevor. George Clooney is chatting with Pat O’Brien. It’s a crowded r
ed carpet, and it takes us several minutes to make our way inside.
Our table is way in the back, and we’re packed together like sardines. The front tables with the stars seat eight to ten. Our tables are squished with twelve, and here and there you can count fourteen. Fortunately, members of the Italian and French press are quite lean.
I’ve always enjoyed working the carpet outside before the show, as well as the post-awards interviews, but I’m having a wonderful time at our table, which is mostly German, Swedish, and Finnish, with a Latvian journalist thrown in. There’s quite a bit of drinking and joking, but once the awards begin, everyone quiets down. These awards are taken seriously and often viewed as a precursor for the Oscars, although it’s said that the foreign press tend to favor their own.
NBC’s huge cameras roll back and forth to capture the presenters walking to the microphone and then the award winners as they move through the ballroom to the stage.
I’m having such fun with Peter and the gang that I forget all about Trevor until his category, “Best Performance by an Actor in a Supporting Role in a Motion Picture,” is announced and my stomach falls.
The camera zooms in on each nominee, and there are five in his category. Trevor’s table is filled with fellow actors and actresses from the nominated film, and they applaud him as his name is read.
“And the Golden Globe goes to…” The envelope is opened and the presenter glances at the card and then smiles at the audience. “Tom Hanks.”
