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He does his due diligence and checks his clipboard, using my ID as a ruler as he goes down the list of names that are allowed through the gates without proper identification.
“Thank you, Ms. Philips,” he says with a smile as he hands my license back to me. I open my mouth to correct him, but the words fail on the tip of my tongue. My eyes begin to water behind my dark glasses as I offer him a strained smile.
Once the crossbar is lifted, I pull through and follow the directions I was given to the sound stage. I’ve opted to leave my window down for a little bit of fresh air knowing full well that no one on this production lot gives a rat’s ass about me and what I’m going through.
As soon as I put my car in park, Darian is at the driver’s side door and opening it. “You’re late,” he says. “Caleb didn’t think you were going to show.”
“I’m here, and maybe if the label had sent a car, I wouldn’t have had to drive and be mindful of the paparazzi that have been camping outside my house for a month.” My tone is snippy and not meant to piss Darian off, but I can see that I have. “Look, I’m sorry. I don’t mean to snap at you. I’m just angry at this whole situation.”
“I know. C’mon.” Darian puts his arm around me and leads me to the sound stage door where Caleb Gilbert is standing and taking up most of the space with his hulking frame. Caleb is an executive from the record label who tells us what to do and when. His job is to make sure the label doesn’t suffer, and I have a feeling he’s none too happy with Van and me right now.
“Zara, it’s nice of you to show up.”
Mentally I’m flipping him off. Physically, I’m smiling as brightly as possible while my eyes are throwing daggers into his.
“Traffic was a bitch,” I tell him. I feel Darian tap me on my back. It’s his subtle way of telling me to be nice. I cock my eyebrow at Caleb and motion toward the inside of the studio. Obviously, if I’m late, you’d think he would want to get started.
When he finally does move, it isn’t without great effort and a dramatic sigh. His antics aren’t lost on me. He’s a diva. I’m a diva. It’s what makes us money. He’s also a huge fan of Van’s and probably feels like I’m overreacting.
As soon as Darian and I step in, there are gasps and murmurs from the galley of extras that will be in the video. Funnily enough, the song is veryWest Side Storywith a girl falling for a guy from the wrong side of the tracks. The dancers are supposed to tell the story through their interpretation while Reverend Sister sings in the background. I tried to get the label to agree that we didn’t need to be on set for this to happen, that the dancers could perform to a recorded version, but the big wigs wanted live. Every production nowadays has to be live, and that can be exhausting for an artist.
The personal assistant on set intersects with us and pushes Darian and me toward the dressing room. The closer I get, the more stalled my steps become. Knowing Van is behind that door really does a number on my psyche and I’m not sure I can handle seeing him.
“It’s okay,” Darian whispers in my ear. “He’s not in there.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah. I asked Caleb to make sure you had your space before the shoot started. He’s here though, Zara, and he looks like shit.”
We stop right before the door marked “dressing room” and I turn to face Darian. Slowly I lift my sunglasses so he can see that I too look like shit. This past month hasn’t been all sunshine and rainbows for me.
Darian sighs and nods toward the door. “Let’s go get ready.”
I’m sure in the back of his mind he thinks that I’ll need extra time in the chair to eliminate the dark bags and puffy eyes. He’s right to think that. As much as I wish I could say my nights have been filled with sleep and I haven’t cried since the day I caught Van, I’d be lying.
I’m trying to remain strong, but it’s hard. Van is the only man I have ever been with. He was my first kiss, my first love. . . I gave him everything and only asked that he love me in return. Lately, I’ve been wondering what the triggers were or what they might have been. We didn’t fight, rarely argued over anything that would cause either of us to seek solace in another person, and genuinely loved spending our time together or at least I thought we did, but clearly I was mistaken.
The make-up artist and hair stylist get to work once I sit down. Oddly enough I find this very relaxing. Neither of them says anything about my disarrayed look. Probably fearing they’d get fired if they were to open their mouths and ask what the hell have I beennotdoing to myself. These women are professionals though and can handle anything that sits in their chair.
Some rank-smelling cream is put on my face, right under my eyes. The scent cleans out my nasal passage rather quickly. I don’t even have to ask her what it is. I’ve been a victim of bags under my eyes before and already know she’s put hemorrhoid cream on me to curb the swelling. I tell myself to suck it up. I knew this shoot was going to happen and I could’ve prepared better.
I’m poked, prodded, and painted to look somewhat human and more like the Zara Phillips that everyone knows. The one that showed up today is not how I usually leave the house and know I need to make a conscious effort to be better about that. I can’t let Van have this much control over me.
Looking at myself in the mirror, the girls stand beside me, marveling at the job they’ve done. In a matter of seconds, they turned me back into the person that I’m used to being. They brought life to face and hair with a few strokes of their personal magic.
“Beautiful as always.”
I freeze at the sound of Van’s voice and slowly turn my head to find him standing in the doorway, looking as sexy as ever in his leather pants, combat boots, and ripped T-shirt that probably cost a few hundred dollars.
The young girl who fell in love with him wants to run to him and collapse in his arms, but the woman he scorned has a stronger voice. Van takes two steps into the dressing room, and I shake my head while taking steps toward him. We’re almost torso-to-torso with him looking down at me.
“You don’t get to say that to me,” I say through a clenched jaw.
“You’re still my wife.” He casually points out.
“The day you stuck your dick into someone else is the day you stopped being my husband.” I side-step him and rush out the door, not watching where I’m walking and run smack into a man and his hot cup of coffee. “Ow, mother fu. . .” I let my f-bomb trail off as I jam the part of my burnt hand into my mouth. Tears begin to form, but I refuse to cry knowing that Van is right behind me.
“Z are you okay?” he asks, pulling on my hand while the man in front of me looks on with larger than life eyes at the scene that is playing out in front of him. If I had to wager a guess, I’d say he’s an extra for the shoot, but he’s dressed wrong in his trucker hat, plaid shirt, tight jeans, and from the looks of it, cowboy boots.
