“We finished editing the season finale of Kurt Kussler last night. As you know, Conquest is screening it at MIP. I want you to attend the gala premiere with me.”
I can’t get my brain to communicate with my larynx. Brandon Taylor has just given me the best invitation of my life. Every ounce of my being is doing a happy dance. Then, an invasive thought brings me crashing down from my high.
“Isn’t Katrina going with you?”
He playfully flicks the tip of my nose. “She can’t. It’s her father’s sixtieth birthday. She’s going up north to visit him in prison.”
I almost like her for a minute. Then, on my next breath, I love her so much I’m giddy.
“When are we leaving?” I ask with unbridled excitement.
“In two days. You’ll be flying with our executive producer, the cast, and me on the Conquest corporate jet. Blake Burns and his wife Jennifer will also be flying with us.”
Holy cow! Visions of walking down the red carpet with him dance in my head. I’ll be like a movie star. Paparazzi abounding. But there’s only one problem. Gah!
“Brandon, I don’t have anything appropriate to wear.”
He tips up my chin with a thumb and shoots me that panty-melting smile. “Don’t worry about it. Right after I shower and dress, we’re going shopping.”
“B-but, I have a million things to do.”
“You have nothing to do. Just get ready. Barneys opens at ten. End of discussion.” Taking his coffee with him, he strides to the back entrance of his house, leaving me a hot, wet, excited mess. As soon as he’s no longer in sight, I leap to my feet and actually do one crazy happy dance. Whoo hoo! I’m going to Cannes with Brandon!!
Barneys in Beverly Hills is bustling with chic, affluent-looking men and women, who obviously have nothing better to do than shop for clothes, shoes, and makeup at ten o’clock in the morning. The stunning women all look like they wear size zero. Clad in chic all-black ensembles or tight-ass designer jeans, they fit in perfectly with the store’s glistening black and white marble décor. All eyes are on gorgeous Brandon, who looks like he belongs here, and on me, who looks like something the cat brought in, my hair a Medusa-like mess from driving here in his vintage Jag convertible. I feel out of my element. Target or T.J. Maxx is where I belong.
Brandon eschews the winding stairs for the elevator off the perfume department. It’s packed. Several pencil-thin, stylish women, who look like they could be supermodels, say hello to Brandon, and stare at him seductively. They’re probably former hook-ups—just his type. A few suspicious eyeballs stay riveted on me. I can read their minds like a magazine: What is she doing with him? I face forward to avoid eye contact and eagerly await the elevator doors to part. Brandon allows the other passengers to exit first when we hit the second floor.
“Are we getting out here too?” I ask as they file out.
“Yup. This is the Designer Floor.”
Tingly goosebumps sprinkle over me like fairy dust when he takes my hand. His grip is warm and firm.
“C’mon, Zo. I’ve got a personal shopper lined up who’ll get you everything you need for Cannes.”
Holy shit! A personal shopper. My excitement comes to a screeching halt as I step out of the elevator.
“Why darling, fancy meeting you here!”
It’s Katrina, dressed to the nines in a sleeveless black mini dress that’s complemented by matching stilettos and a monstrous designer bag. Her perfectly coiffed platinum hair cascades over her shoulders as if she’s just come straight from a high-end salon. Behind her, are two weary sales associates. One is clutching all-in-pink Gucci, who wags his tail at the sight of us. The other is wheeling a rack of extraordinary designer dresses. Sparkles abound.
Brandon lets go of my hand before she notices. Katrina flings her toned arms around him, completely ignoring me. Smiling, she turns her head toward the overflowing rack of clothes. Dozens of glittering jewel-toned gowns hang from it, packed like shimmering sardines.
“These are all the dresses I’ve selected to wear on my show over the next coming weeks and on our honeymoon.”
At the word honeymoon, my stomach bunches. I anxiously watch as she yanks one of the dresses off the rack. A strapless persimmon Armani. I glimpse the price tag—twelve hundred dollars.
She holds it up against her. “Darling, this is the dress I’m going to wear when I visit Daddy. I’ll show the world that orange is the new black my way.”
“That’s great.” Two monotone syllables.
Katrina bats her feline green eyes. “Brandy-Poo, since you’re here, would you like me to give you a fashion show? Mommy’s going to be here, too, any minute.”
“Can’t. I have something important to do.”
Spoiled brat Katrina looks miffed. “And what might that be?”
She still hasn’t said a word to me. It’s like I don’t exist. I wonder—does she know I’m going to Cannes with Brandon?