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“You always astonish me.”
“Thank you.” She held out her arm for him to take. “Ready?”
As they descended the stairs, the hushed, frantic whispers she’d heard since they’d opened the bedroom door ceased, and all eyes turned to her. That was what they looked like to Megan: a whole crowd of eyes. She’d wanted to follow the rules of Hollywood, but she’d failed. And following her own rules might get her Worst-Dressed prizes in tomorrow’s websites. But God, she was comfortable.
“Rock ’n roll,” Petra said. “Is that your shirt, Alessandro?”
“Si.”
Petra put her hands on her hips. “We’ll have to know the designer. It is designer, right?”
“Of course. Federica Arte.”
Jacqui’s phone was in her hand in a moment. “I’m calling now.”
“How does she have the number?” Megan asked no one.
“She has all the numbers,” Alessandro said wisely.
“I guess so. Okay, Petra. In your magic suitcase, do you have some kind of necklace that’s more geometric, more contemporary? And the hugest silver cuff you can find.”
Five minutes later, after a small adjustment to Megan’s hair so the messiness would stay as she wanted all evening and a promise to one of Alessandro’s stylists—who’d given Megan her own homemade cuff—that she’d mention her name as often as possible, they were in one of the black cars and weaving up and down the hills to the ceremony. Alessandro was still shaking his head at her, and Megan was laughing at him laughing at her. With their fingers entwined, they watched the sunset until the car pulled up to the oceanfront hotel, where a massive awning covered a long red carpet.
“You are perfect,” he said, kissing her fingers. “Ready?”
Megan threw a worried glance outside the window at the reality she’d signed up for. She could hear shouts and calls, some of which sounded more desperate than professional, amid popping flashes and jostling crowds. Unlike the fundraiser, which had been a lark, a few feet of red carpet to give the kids something to play with, this was serious business.
“Uh-huh,” she said, gripping his hand now. “Just don’t let go of me.”
“I do not intend to.” He smiled, kissing her cheek. His driver, Max, opened his door, and Alessandro did let go. Megan realized then that the choice of who sat on which side had been carefully orchestrated. Alessandro got out first. Megan tried to watch how he got his legs out so gracefully without falling over his feet, but the lights were blinding her. He unfolded, facing the crowd. Now Megan could see only his legs and back, but he paused, so she assumed he was posing. Then he turned around and reached a gallant hand back to her. She scooted across the seat, glanced down at her decolletage to check that nothing was falling out, and took his hand.
The pants had been a good choice. Nothing stopped her from putting one silvery foot out after another and rising to meet Alessandro. She pushed a stray hair out of her face and looked at him. “What now?” she asked, keeping her mouth in a smile that he returned.
“Just walk and smile,cara,” he said, putting his hand on her back. “And enjoy.”
Megan did enjoy. The red carpet led them past the gamut of photographers and to a spot where reporters were allowed to stop them for quick soundbites. They’d agreed that Alessandro would do the talking, and he did so, talking about how proud he was of his friend Mohammed and the movie that had been nominated.
“It’s nominated butThe Drummerwasn’t. How do you feel about that?”
“It is not a competition.” He smiled. “Oh, wait.”
He received the laugh he expected, and they moved on.
“Megan!” the third reporter called. This was going to happen eventually. But the first question was easy. “Who are you wearing?”
“Federica Arte,” Megan said, hugging herself to show how much she loved the shirt. “It’s Alessandro’s.”
“Oh, that’s so sweet!” gushed the reporter. “You guys are already stealing from each other’s wardrobes?”
“Si.” Alessandro grinned. “She has a vintage Vivian Westwood I cannot wait to try on.”
“A dress or a suit?”
“Either one would look great on me. Don’t you think?”
The reporter gasped and laughed uncertainly. Megan got a vision of Alessandro in a Harry Styles-type kilt or a Billy Porter gown.
“I do think.” She smiled. He turned to her and gave her a big grin and a wink the cameras didn’t see. It didn’t matter. The grin was so unlike Alessandro’s usual look that the reporter stammered a moment before saying, “Well, we’ll look forward to that,” and an usher guided them away.
