Holy shit. I was really there. At the Academy Awards. Holy. Effing. Shit.
Are you there, God? It’s me, Layla. It’s been a while, and I’m really sorry about that, but I would be eternally grateful and all that jazz if you could help me make it down this carpet without stumbling, sweating, or otherwise embarrassing myself in any way, shape, or form. I’m guessing you’ve never given stilettos a shot, and let me tell you, you are one lucky dude. They are like spikey little torture devices designed solely to make your feet throb incessantly while mocking your lack of grace. And we both know grace has never been high on my list of positive attributes to begin with. So, yeah, any help you can give? Greatly appreciated. Oh. And please don’t let me have a wardrobe malfunction and slip a nip. Muchas gracias. Amen.
My nerves were pretty well shot to begin with, but sitting there, crammed inside some claustrophobia-inducing limousine, waiting indefinitely for the night to get underway, was positively nail-biting. Plus, I was trying to forget that the last time I’d seen Trip emerge from a limo, my world fell apart.
But then I made myself remember that I had asked for this. I was the one who begged and pleaded with my boyfriend to bring me to this thing. And he was the one who actually had to get onstage and speak!
I took a few deep breaths, determined to lose my anxiety, and instead focused on making sure Trip was okay. “How you doing over there, pal?”
Trip looked cool as a cucumber. So handsome in his tux. He gave me a calm smile, which would convince anyone else that a night like that was a common occurrence for him.
Finally, it was our turn.
Our door was opened, and the dull roar that I could hear from inside the car became a deafening cacophony of screeching and whistles and screams outside of it. Trip held his hand out to me, a smirk on his face, and I’m quite sure he was thinking about the last time I’d watched him escort someone out of a limousine. But he seemed much happier that this time, it was me. So was I. I made sure to exit the car while pressing my knees together, like Betty had warned me to do, and I utilized her tip so the cameras couldn’t catch my hoo-hah in a Britney Spears shot.
It was still daylight outside, but that didn’t stop my eyes from blinding from the flash of the million or so cameras aimed in our direction. All I wanted to do was get down the mile-long length of red carpet as quickly as possible, preferably without tripping and falling flat on my face. But every few steps, a photographer would call, “Trip! Over here!” and I’d feel Trip’s hand at the small of my back, nudging me in the direction of a camera. We’d been there for almost ten minutes, and I don’t think we made it further than ten feet down the carpet.
Trip had prepared me for that on the ride over. He’d explained that he always let the paparazzi take all the shots they wanted when he was at a work-related event like this. He did it in the hopes that they’d leave him alone when he was just out and about, living his life.
Not that they did.
But Trip was holding up his end of the bargain, turning toward each and every camera down that runway, smiling and waving to each and every person that called his name.
He leaned his head into my ear and said, “You’re doing great. Only nine thousand more pictures to go.”
I looked at him and he gave me a quick wink, which made me laugh and helped me to relax. There I was, a panicky mess, and my boyfriend was just eating it up. He flashed that megawatt grin, the full-force smile that always knocked me out. Me, and everyone else on the planet.
About midway down the carpet, I gave his hand a quick squeeze before releasing him out into the wild. At my insistence, we’d made the plan ahead of time for me to fade into the background for a few moments, in order to let Trip be him for a while, soak up some of that spotlight on his own. After all, this was his world. I was simply along for the ride.
He was almost immediately intercepted by a certain up-and-coming starlet, and I recognized her from the tabloids as one of the many young women Trip had been linked with over the years. She was pencil-thin and beautiful, but had a big, poofy mop of hair that reminded me of Tina Yothers. The flirty way she talked with him confirmed that there was some history there. Thankfully, he kept the conversation to a minimum, and made his escape before she could tear off her Vera Wang and jump him right there on the red carpet.
He paused at the grandstand, listened to the screams from the women in the bleachers, and stopped for a few quick interviews with hosts from various entertainment shows.