She would try to get me to confirm or deny those statements and called me prudish when I declined to discuss the size of my boyfriend’s penis with her.
But she could do a smoky eye better than anyone I knew and I needed to look amazing tonight.
“You’ll have to tell me all the details,” she said. “I bet he’s a total freak in bed. Celebrities always are. I heard one story about that former child actor, Don What’s-his-name, who has his bodyguard pick up women at clubs and take them back to a hotel suite. When they get there, they have to sign an NDA, then they have to shave off all their body hair before they can even go into the bedroom, where he’s lying on the bed wearing headphones. They can’t say anything, they just have to hop on and fuck him while facing away. When he’s done, they leave. No talking at all.”
I would have dismissed that story as another one of Jo’s bullshit “secrets of Hollywood” except I’d heard exactly the same thing from someone who didn’t even know Jo.
“I don’t think there will be any story to tell,” I said. “I’m not his type.”
She rolled her eyes. “Guys like that aren’t having sex with you because they’re attracted to you,” she said. “They do it because they can. Because they know you want it. And that’s what gets them off. Their type is anyone who can stroke their ego. And they care way more about that getting stroked than their dick.”
I knew that if I said “Gabe’s not like that,” she would have laughed me out of the apartment. Because though I did believe it, I also knew it was ridiculous. Even after spending several hours together, I didn’t know Gabe. He was an assignment. And a performer. There was no way I could truly trust anything he said to me.
“Is he picking you up?” Jo asked.
“Someone is picking me up,” I said.
When I’d texted Gabe last night, I’d tried to be cool and casual about it.
If the offer stands, I’d love to see Oliver’s new movie, I’d written.
He’d texted me back almost immediately saying he’d make it happen. Then I was put in contact with someone named Debbie at his agent’s office, who had told me that a car would be coming to my house to get me at six.
“Hmm,” Jo said, her face contorted into an exaggerated frown.
“What?”
“Maybe this is just for the interview,” she said. “Maybe it’s not a date.”
I hadn’t thought it was a date—he was Gabe Parker, after all—but I also hadn’t thought of it as a continuation of the interview.
“Or, you might not even see him,” Jo said. “Maybe he thought you’d write something nice if he got you tickets to the premiere.”
I felt a slow sinking in my stomach, the same sensation I’d gotten when I discovered that everyone knew that Jeremy had been cheating on me back at Iowa. That realization that you’re the last to know and feeling like a complete and total fool.
Jo could be right.
This whole thing could just be a way for Gabe to butter me up so I’d put together a complimentary piece. The thought rankled me, because I had already planned on writing a flattering article. I didn’t need to be bribed to do that.
“He’ll probably say hello,” Jo said. “But I bet you won’t be sitting with him during the movie and you definitely won’t walk the red carpet with him.” She looked at me in the mirror. “You weren’t thinking you would, were you?”
“No,” I said.
I might have been.
“You’ll probably be home by ten,” she said. “I’ll wait up.”
I didn’t say anything, just sat there, wallowing in my own foolish feelings. Of course, I wasn’t going to walk the red carpet. Of course, Gabe wasn’t going to spend the evening of his friend’s premiere hanging out with me.
“What are you wearing?” Jo asked, using a wide, fluffy brush to apply bronzer.
“The polka dot dress that I wore to Greg’s wedding last year,” I said.
Jo gagged.
“That thing?” she asked. “Please don’t. It’s hideous. They won’t let you on the red carpet wearing it.”
That “thing” was one of my favorite dresses, but now I knew I wouldn’t be able to wear it without thinking of Jo hacking dramatically into her palm.
And apparently, I would be allowed on the red carpet?
“People will be wearing gowns, Chani.” Jo tapped my forehead with the handle of her brush. “You can’t wear some Forever 21 sack.”
I wanted to push her hand away but she wasn’t done with my lips. Instead I sat there, listening to her list all the dresses in my closet that she hated.
As much as I disliked her messaging, she was right about the dress code. People would be wearing gowns. I read Go Fug Yourself. I knew how actresses dressed to attend events like this—especially when the event was centered around a lush, romantic period film. The looks would be dramatic, to say the least.
I had a blue dress. A vintage dress that could be from the 1940s or the 1980s, with wide, theatrical shoulders and a slim skirt that flared just a little at the knee. The fabric was velvet, dotted with tiny crystal beads that glittered under the light.
It wouldn’t compare to the designer gowns that most of the actresses would be wearing, but it was dramatic and eye-catching. I could brush my hair to the side à la Veronica Lake, and wear the silver pumps that pinched my toes but looked amazing.
But when I put the dress on, just as I was zipping it up, thinking that it looked pretty good, I heard a damning ripping sound.
“Fuck.” I turned to the side and found the source.
A tear right along the zipper, exposing my bra.
I stood there for a moment, wondering if I could just shove my purse under my arm and not breathe too deeply for the rest of the night.
No. That wouldn’t do.
But neither would any of the other dresses in my closet.
I was supposed to meet Gabe in forty minutes. I had to leave in ten.