and sighed. “Carm, I’m not going to forbid you to do what you want. I just want you to be sure you know what you’re getting yourself into. Eyes wide open, right?”
Carmen nodded. “Eyes wide open.”
Her dad looked at her—really looked at her—and Carmen, who could usually tell when her dad was about to soften, couldn’t read his expression. “Okay,” he said finally. “Well, I guess that’s settled then.”
Carmen let out a breath she didn’t even realize she was holding. She faced forward again and found Drew staring at her, his eyes . . . wide open.
“Shut up,” she said, and kicked him once more.
“Ouch! You were supposed to save the violence for dessert, remember?”
Cassandra laughed. “Next time,” she said, “on a Very Special Episode of Meet the Curtises: Violent dinners. Savage Salmon. Brutal Broccoli. And—”
“Killer Cake!” Philip yelled. He grinned boyishly. “Chocolate, perhaps?”
“We’re not having cake, Tubs,” Cassandra said fondly, using the nickname he loved and hated in equal measure. After all, Philip Curtis wasn’t at all fat; he just had a little . . . girth.
“Nice try, Mr. Curtis,” Drew said.
“Sadistic Sorbet?” he asked hopefully.
And then everyone cracked up. Carmen breathed a sigh of relief—the worst was over now. But she really, really hoped that Trevor Lord wouldn’t angle for a Curtis family episode. They were just way too weird.
Flashes—dozens of them—exploded in bursts of brilliant light, and Madison heard her name called out over and over. “Miss Parker!” “Madison, over here!” “Mad, honey, blow me a kiss!”
Madison paused midway on the red carpet, absorbing the attention being showered upon her. She never got tired of this moment: when every eye and (much more importantly) every camera was focused on her. She offered a small, knowing smile to the bank of photographers to her left, but she made sure to avoid glancing at the PopTV camera that followed her every move. That was the one camera she had to pretend not to see.
The last two weeks had been a whirlwind. Trevor wanted to start filming immediately—clearly Madison’s fans were clamoring for her return!—and so the minute the ink was dry on her contract, four beefy moving guys had showed up at her Beverly Hills doorstep, packed up her three hundred dresses and her two hundred pairs of shoes, and hauled them over to a sleek new apartment in Park Towers. There was a balcony, a chef’s kitchen, and three large bedrooms: one for Madison; one for her new roommate, Gaby; and one for all the PopTV equipment.
“Who are you wearing?” someone called out, but Madison didn’t answer. She liked to seem a little bit aloof at first. Keep ’em guessing, she thought.
Up ahead, a giant gold banner welcomed everyone to the second annual Togs for Tots benefit. Togs for Tots was a charity that provided new (not “gently used”—gross!) clothes to foster children, group-home residents, and homeless kids all over L.A. County. Madison didn’t particularly care about the charity itself, of course, but the evening was sponsored in part by Elie Saab, one of Madison’s favorite designers, and rumor had it that Anna Wintour of Vogue would be in attendance.
She took another few steps, then gave her best over-the-shoulder smirk. Shutters clicked furiously. The paparazzi that lined red carpets were always a step up from the ones who roamed the streets. A little more polished and respectful, although there was always an aggressive few screaming over the others from behind the velvet rope barrier. But Madison knew that she needed them all, just as much as they needed her. It was a symbiotic relationship (with escalating benefits): The more famous she got, the more they would want to take her picture; the more pictures they took and published of her, the more famous she’d be . . . and onward and upward to, as Trevor put it, the “next level.”
She held her head high, pivoted her toe in her Louboutins, and smiled her picture-perfect smile.
“Madison!”
“Over here!”
“This way!”
“Beautiful, Madison!”
She locked eyes with each individual lens. Every camera contained the potential for a “Who wore it best?” (she did, always), a post on glamour.com (Madison stuns in red!), or a spot on tomorrow’s Fashion Police (being praised, not critiqued of course). Madison hadn’t quite made it out of the weeklies yet (though Life & Style, to its credit, loved her like no other), but Sasha, her publicist, swore she’d land a cover of a monthly once The Fame Game started airing. Madison was already planning her Glamour cover look. She was thinking a sort of Marlene Dietrich pose, or perhaps a Marilyn Monroe homage. . . .
She had to hand it to Trevor. He was filming The Fame Game and getting advance press for his “mysterious new project” at the same time. Already the buzz was building; she could feel it. No doubt some blogger had just uploaded a shot of her to his website (Madison Parker steps out for kids!) and mentioned the PopTV cameras capturing her every move. By tomorrow, the word would be all over town that Madison and the PopTV cameras were spotted again. Spin-off!
It was so much different from the last time around. Madison was nobody when she started filming L.A. Candy. Correction: She was somebody, all right, just not a somebody that the world knew about yet. If people noticed back then that the cameras were filming, the question on their minds was more of the Who the hell is that? variety. Now everyone was wondering what the new show was about, what it was called, and who else was on it. (Madison was still in the dark about that part.) Back when L.A. Candy had exploded and she (and Gaby and Scarlett and that annoying little Goody Two-shoes, Jane) had gotten famous, Trevor had struggled to make them seem like the regular girls they were still supposed to be. How many times had he had to reshoot because a paparazzo wandered into frame? He hated to count. But this time around, the paparazzi and the tabloids and the blogs (and the monthlies!) would play a crucial part in the show.
Madison offered a little coronation wave to a knot of starstruck fans.
“Luke!” she heard a girl cry, and Madison turned to see Luke Kelly, looking gorgeous but underdressed in a faded button-down and jeans, striding up the red carpet with that girl from that stupid show about a family who lives in a Winnebago.
“Doctor Rose,” someone else yelled, and Luke flashed a megawatt smile. He played Sebastian Rose, a young resident on Boston General, and while he wasn’t a lead, rumor had it he was on the short list to play the main character in The End of Love, a dystopian Romeo and Juliet story based on a bestselling young-adult novel.
Madison watched him and the girl, whatever her name was. They were holding hands, but Madison could see how loosely their fingers interlocked. And this told Madison, who was something of an expert in body language, that these two were either a) only pretending to be a couple, or b) five minutes away from breaking up. Which meant that Luke was, or would be, available. She gave him another once-over. He could use a shave, too, she thought, in addition to a new outfit. But he had those green eyes and that strong, broad chest, not to mention that Australian accent. Yes, she thought, she should ask Sasha to hook up a date with “Dr. Rose.” Maybe they could head to the next level
