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Fish chuckles. “Sure. Count me in.”
Thankfully, there’s been no lasting tension between Fish and Reed, deriving from when Fish ripped into Reed at his party. Backstage at the charity concert earlier tonight, Fish pulled Reed aside and apologized for calling him a prick that night. To which Reed replied, in true Reed fashion, “I don’t even know what you’re talking about, Fish.”
“What will Fish and I have to do for this ‘cute little love story’?” Alessandra asks, looking on the verge of panic.
“Don’t worry, honey,” Maddy says reassuringly. “You’ll be the performer onstage at the coffee house, as we discussed, and Fish will play the shaggy barista across the room. All you two will have to do is make googly eyes at each other, from afar, like you’re totally smitten with each other.”
Fish smiles shyly at Alessandra. “Well, speaking for myself, that shouldn’t be hard to do.”
Alessandra blushes the color of a vine-ripened tomato, and my heart skips a beat for her. “I think I could manage that,” she says, through her lashes.
Reed looks at me. “Georgie, you’re going to star in this thing, too.”
“Me?”
“Yes. You and Laila are going to be in a campy love triangle with Keane. Laila already said yes. But we need two smoking hot women to pull this off, and it’s too late to hire someone else on such short notice.”
“But I’m not an actress.”
“Oh, yes, you are,” Reed says. “You’re a better actress than half the professionals in Hollywood.”
“Georgina, I saw you on Good Morning America,” Maddy says. “The camera loves you.”
I make a face that plainly telegraphs I’m freaking out.
“Sweetheart. Pull it together. This is happening. You’re always saying you want to give me a present. Well, this is your present to me. From the first moment I saw you in that lecture hall, I fantasized about putting you into a music video. Well, this is my chance. Don’t you dare deny me this pleasure.”
I laugh. “Okay, okay. Count me in.”
Reed smiles at Alessandra. “Wait till you hear this next thing.” He motions to the array of artists seated at the far end of our long table, none of whom are paying a lick of attention to our conversation. “See all those rock stars down there? They’ve all agreed to stop by the coffee house tomorrow to shoot quick cameos for the video.”
“Whaaaat?” Alessandra blurts, making Reed and Maddy laugh with glee.
“You’ve hit the jackpot, Alessandra Tennison,” Reed says gleefully. “Having all these superstars in your debut video—plus, having Laila, Keane, and Fish in starring roles alongside you—is going to give you so much street cred, it’s ridiculous. Without a doubt, all this star power is going to make this video go viral. Which, in turn, my dear, is going to rocket your song to the top of the charts.”
Alessandra and I flip out, and then begin peppering Reed and Maddy with a thousand questions, asking them to describe their two storylines in detail. In response, Reed calls Laila over, so she can hear what he’s about to tell the group. Plus, he calls Owen to come over, too.
“Hey, O,” Reed says. “Do me a favor and arrange to buy a really cheap used car for use in Alessandra’s music video tomorrow. We’ll need it by midmorning or so. Laila and Georgina are going to beat it to smithereens with baseball bats.”
Owen says he’s on it, boss, no questions asked, and heads off to look online for some possible candidates. And then, finally, Reed leans back in his chair and, with an exuberant assist from Maddy, tells our group about the concept for Alessandra’s music video:
The setting is a packed coffeehouse in Brooklyn. Alessandra is the performer on a small stage, her audience filled with famous faces. Fish is the shaggy barista behind the counter—Alessandra’s “secret admirer” who covertly writes her love letters on distinctive pink stationery. Although, sadly, Fish never musters the courage to give Alessandra any of his pink love letters, but, instead, throws them, one after another, into a nearby trashcan.
Meanwhile, Keane is a hot douche-canoe customer who’s been shamelessly two-timing both waitresses at the coffee house, Laila and me... by giving us both the distinctive pink love letters he finds in the trash. Throughout the video, we see Laila and me, pink letters in hand, separately following Keane into his beat-up love mobile, presumably for some hanky-panky.
Midway through the video, the love triangle explodes, and Laila and I confront Keane together, both of us standing shoulder-to-shoulder as we angrily hold up those distinctive pink love letters and let him have it. After soundly chewing him out—and looking hot as we do it—because, you know, angry women are hot—Laila and I drop our notes to the floor, and march outside the coffeehouse with purpose, as Keane trails behind us, pleading his case.
