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“Have fun!” she says, shooing him off with a smile. But the moment they’re out of earshot, she turns to me with a fierce look. “I swear, if that man shows up to our welcome cocktails already wasted and reeking of cheap cigar smoke?—”
“They won’t be cheap,” I reassure her, amused. “And I’ll have the hotel go bring them high-intensity HEPA air filters, to keep things circulating. Plus, we’ve got that physician on-site with IV recovery bags for anyone who parties too hard. Twenty minutes of vitamin infusions, and he’ll be sober and smiling.”
Avery exhales in a rush. “You’re my savior. But you’re going to change, right?” she adds, casting a critical eye over my wrinkled travel outfit. “Before anyone else sees you. I mean, I know you like to do the whole ‘utility’ look on-set, but you’ll want to blend in here.” She gives me a sugary smile. “My stylist sent everyone the dress code for all the events, with outfit ideas and a look book. Even if you’re just in the background, you wouldn’t want to screw up all the candid shots, would you?”
“Don’t worry,” I reply dryly. “I got the memo.”
All twenty-eight pages of it.
“I have a full wardrobe of event-appropriate outfits… somewhere.” I look around for my luggage, but there’s no sign of it. Somebody’s probably already whisked it to my room. I turn back to Avery. “Now, let me get started, and meet everyone, and I’ll see you later, at the welcome dinner.”
“The stunning, Old Hollywood-themed formal beachfront feast,” Avery corrects me. “Which will be perfect, and amazing, and set the tone for the whole week.”
“Sure,” I agree, beginning to seriously regret saying ‘yes’ to this gig. “No pressure!”
Luckily,Avery flits off to join her bridal party, and a hotel clerk brings me an icy drink with a little umbrella in it, aka, the cure to all ailments. I take a long swallow of the fruity concoction, breathe in the fragrant tropical air, and begin to feel like myself again.
“The wedding has booked out the entire resort,” the clerk tells me, as she grabs my busted-up carry on and leads me away from the lobby. “So anything you need – spa, gym, kitchens – it’s all at your disposal.”
“Sounds great,” I reply, taking it all in. The resort is gorgeous, one of the most exclusive celebrity hotspots in the Caribbean, and I can see why. It’s like something out of a magazine spread. I couldn’t have designed it better myself. Everything is understated and chic, with whitewashed buildings half-hidden in the jungle between lush foliage and pops of bright art and furniture. Shady pathways wind invitingly down to the private beach, and everywhere there’s the scent of wild flowers and something else drifting in the air…
Money. It’s the smell of total luxury.
“You’re right here,” the clerk says, as we arrive at a small elegant bungalow nestled in the jungle with hot pink bougainvillea climbing wildly across the porch. There’s a matching cabana set just across the path, which leads directly onto the sand; the trees parting to give a million-dollar view of the sparkling white sand and clear turquoise water.
“Is it OK?”
I realize the clerk is staring at me, concerned. I stifle a laugh.
OK? Understatement of the year.
“Yes. Thank you. I’m sure I’ll manage to make it work.”
She unlocks the door, hands me the old-fashioned key, and melts away into the trees, leaving me to wander inside and let out another laugh of gleeful disbelief – out loud, this time.
Then I grab my phone and call my daughter. “Lottie, you would notbelievethis place,” I exclaim, hurling myself onto the massive, king-sized bed. The mattress sinks, enveloping me in a cloud of crisp white linens and cloud-like softness, and I groan in pleasure.
“Um, what are you doing, mom?”
“Basking,” I reply, sitting up. “I’m in heaven.”
The bungalow is one big room, furnished with rustic wood and bright textiles, with a green-tiled bathroom and massive closet off to one side. From the bed, I can see straight out of the open patio doors, to the ocean beyond. More bright flowers and gauzy drapes frame the view, and it’s all so perfect and gorgeous, I could almost forget about the actual job I’ve been brought here to do.
Almost.
“You should see the size of this welcome basket,” I report, sampling some of the fresh fruit and truffles laid out on the desk -- along with half a Sephora store’s-worth of beauty products. “It’s better than the time Uncle Jackson got nominated for that Golden Globe.”
“Save the samples for me!” Lottie giggles. “And obviously. Robert is like, the sixteenth most powerful person in Hollywood.”
“Says who?”
“Says the internet.” Lottie exclaims. “Didn’t you do any googling about this job? The guest list is all over TMZ, and deuxmoi posted that Taylor Swift might sing at the ceremony.”
“What have I told you about reading gossip online?” I remind her.
She lets out a weary sigh. “That it’s all fake and designed to drive clicks and sell magazines. I know. But still, is it true Avery flew Beyonce’s makeup artist out on their own private jet?”
“No idea, but I wouldn’t put it past her.” I smile. “But what about you? How did the workshop on spaceship thrusters go?”
