Vic was already moving in the opposite direction, but he called to me. “Charlie, they’re ready for you in Hair.”
A line of mirrors and black folding chairs flanked the back of the room, and I squinted to find Lolo. Making my way through the crowd, I greeted the faces that had become familiar to me throughout weeks of shooting. A smattering of line cooks, the hostess, a dishwasher, and Chet the sous chef nodded as I walked by. I sipped my champagne, gathering from the happy hum of the room that the rest of the gang already had a head start on the relaxed vibe.
Lolo’s voice lifted just a smidge from her characteristic monotone. “Thank the dear Lord the day has come,” she drawled. “I finally get the chance to do more than a slicked-back ponytail.”
“Really?” I said. “What’s the plan?”
She pulled my makeshift ponytail out of the elastic and felt my hair with practiced fingers. “The plan,” she said, “is volume.”
Lolo’s prediction, it turned out, applied to more than just my hair. By the time I was done in her chair, then with makeup and styling, I had to stare to recognize myself. Margot called me over to a white backdrop, lit up and luminous with the help of suspended professional lighting. A smattering of slow whistles moved through the crowd that parted as I walked.
I rolled my eyes. “Seriously, guys. This isn’t me.”
“Baby, I beg to differ,” someone said. “You look more you than you’ve ever looked.”
I scowled into the dark room but couldn’t pick out who was talking among all the laughs and catcalls.
Avery evaluated me as I walked into the light. He stood with both hands on his hips, his hair carefully styled and some kind of magical makeup enabling him to look fully awake for the first time that day. He smiled in a way that made me want to ask for a trench coat.
Margot looked me up and down, then up again. She nodded. “Nice work, Lolo, Sebastian. This is just what I wanted.”
“I look like a hooker,” I said, quietly, to discourage any more comments from the peanut gallery.
“You don’t,” Margot said, her eyes on a screen next to the photographer’s camera. “But I will tell you that hookers are great for ratings. We’ll have to work one in next season.”
I caught a reflection of myself from the back wall. “My hair is huge. And these jeans are so tight, I’m having difficulty taking a full breath.”
“Flat hair is for makeover shows, medical dramas, and any show involving a university.” Margot sounded bored. “Believe me, Charlie. I know publicity campaigns, and Thrill Me is definitely big hair.”
I shifted in my heels, feeling the beginnings of a blister. The group behind the camera conferred in whispered conversations but none too loud to divert attention from Margot. She consulted briefly with the photographer, a short, angular man with a Mohawk and a facial tattoo. He nodded and turned to his assistant, who handed him what looked like a chocolate macaron. Popping the entire cookie into his mouth, he chewed and waited for Margot to speak.
Margot’s voice filled the room. “All right, people. Since Charlie and Avery are already basking in the light, we’ll warm up with a few shots of them. And then we’ll move to the large group shots before tackling smaller ensembles like the line cooks, the pastry people, and the serving staff. Let’s get some great photos, everybody.”
“Did she say basking? I definitely don’t feel like I’m basking,” I muttered to Avery and his ridiculous smile.
“Picture your face and hot bod on the billboards right off I-5. Or in a full-color pull-out in next month’s InStyle. Or lining the checkout shelves at the grocery store.” Avery looked as if he wanted to make out with the huge lens trained on his face. “If that thought doesn’t make you work it, I don’t know what will.”
I tried to inflate my lungs with a calming, yoga-ish breath but the waistline of my pants was like a denim tourniquet.
“Charlie,” Margot said over her glasses. “You’re going to need to step closer to Avery.”
I teetered over in my heels and stood shoulder to shoulder with him.
She frowned. “Now you look like you’re taking National Honor Society photos for the yearbook.”
Avery chuckled. “I was never in the National Honor Society, I promise you.”
I’d been treasurer of the Edenton High School chapter, but I wasn’t about to point that out.
The Mohawk man, who claimed his mother had named him Dash, approached us with a solemn expression. He nodded to his assistant, who flipped the switch on an mp3 player and cranked the speakers. Stevie Nicks sang out with a tight vibrato.
“Charlie,” Dash said. “Trust me. You’re stunning. Avery, man, you are gorgeous.”
“Thanks,” Avery said, his grin somehow managing to expand.
Dash turned us to face each other. “I want you to take a moment and look into each other’s souls. Find the soul.”