She stayed like this for a good ten seconds, then turned for another pose. Then she saw Gaby Garcia, smiling and heading up the red carpet.
“Gaby, blow us a kiss!” one of the photographers shouted.
Gaby obliged, though Madison had told her a hundred times that no one looked good in that pose. Just then she spotted Madison.
“Mad!” Gaby rushed up to her breathlessly, as if they hadn’t seen each other for months, when in fact they had eaten breakfast together.
“Hey, Gaby.” Madison put her arm around Gaby’s shoulders (Madison and pal Gaby hit the red carpet!) and was surprised by its boniness. She took a step back and surveyed her roommate. What was she wearing? For one thing, she had donned an Elie Saab dress that she clearly hadn’t taken the time to tailor. And for another, she’d picked the one dress in the collection that looked like it came from the Goodwill sale rack. It was supposed to be an homage to 1970s Halston or something, but the rust color made Gaby look positively yellow, and the plunging back highlighted each protruding vertebrae. Madison had to force herself to smile. “Good to see you, sweetie,” she said. Gaby’s best feature was her cute little body—if she kept dieting, what would she have going for her at all?
Madison forced herself to put her arm back on Gaby’s shoulders. “Smile,” she said.
They posed for the cameras, keeping their faces mannequin-still. If they needed to talk, they’d do it only through the corners of their mouths so as not to disrupt their perfect, doll-like smiles.
“You look amazing,” Gaby said through her teeth.
“Thanks, hon,” Madison said. Of course she looked amazing. It was her job to look amazing, and she worked hard at it. She began her red-carpet regimen days beforehand—more cardio, a mini-cleanse, an oxygen facial, an airbrush tan, minimized water intake (dehydration could subtract several pounds)—and today, between hair, makeup, and wardrobe, she’d already devoted eight hours to this event.
Another small crowd of dedicated fans had gathered behind the barricade at the end of the red carpet.
“We love you, Madison!” a girl with pink hair screamed.
Madison’s smile grew wider. She hoped the photographers were capturing the total adoration her fans had for her—and her own reciprocating affection, of course. (Madison kisses fan’s new baby!) With Gaby in tow, she glided over to the pink-haired girl. The PopTV camera followed. Time for a quick autograph and photo op! But just as Madison raised the pen, she saw the photographers swing their cameras back toward the far end of the carpet. She froze. There wasn’t a bigger celebrity on the carpet. What were they—
“Is that—?” Gaby whispered, her eyes wide.
Madison maintained her smile as she tried to see who was causing this unwelcome disruption.
The pink-haired girl let out a piercing shriek. “Oh my God, it’s Carmen Curtis!” she cried, mere inches from Madison’s ear. The poster of Madison that she’d been clutching fell to the ground and was immediately replaced by a poster of Carmen’s Nylon magazine cover. How did that switcheroo happen so fast?
“Wow,” Gaby sighed, looking positively starstruck. “She’s so pretty.”
Madison clenched her fists in anger, though her face maintained its photo-ready placidity. Carmen Curtis: What had she ever done for the world? Her mother was the biggest singer since Madonna, and her father was the Quincy Jones of rap. Which meant that Carmen had that vaguely ethnic look that had no doubt helped her mother out, since her vocal range certainly hadn’t, and she had been spoon-fed money and fame from the moment she was born. She hadn’t had to work for a thing her whole life.
“I love her dress,” Gaby whispered.
Madison ignored her as she inspected Carmen. She’d obviously spent hours on her red-carpet look, too. She wore a cream bandage dress that hit just above her knee, and she was wearing a pair of YSL pumps that Madison would give a kidney for, but they were sold out everywhere. She smiled and waved like everyone she met was a potential friend. And that, Madison knew from experience, was a load of crap. They’d been introduced once at a party for the opening of sbe’s latest restaurant, and, okay, Madison hadn’t exactly oozed friendliness herself, but Carmen had simply shaken her hand, smiled briefly, and then vanished into the crowd.
“She’s a little big-boned, don’t you think?” Madison asked coolly. Then she turned away and began to walk toward the entrance to the event. Carmen had stolen her moment. It was a total injustice. The girl had accomplished practically nothing in her eighteen years of life besides bit parts on Law & Order and some indie-movie role her daddy bought her.
Madison took one final glance over her shoulder before entering the building. She’d give Carmen one thing: The girl had excellent cleavage. But then again, this was Hollywood, and anyone with a credit card could get that.
“My feet hurt,” Gaby said plaintively, shifting her weight from one leg to another. “I don’t know why ballet flats aren’t considered red-carpet worthy.”
Madison rolled her eyes. “Because you want height, Gab,” she said. “Every inch subtracts five pounds.”
“Really?” Gaby said. “How?”
But Madison didn’t have the energy to explain it to her. She was scanning the crowd, waiting for an event publicist to show them to their seats. She saw a couple of young stars from the latest HBO series and the members of The Royal We, Philip Curtis’s newest musical discovery, but so far it wasn’t exactly an A-list event. More like a B, Madison thought, or even a B minus. That was disappointing.
When, after another few moments, no publicist materialized, Madison grabbed Gaby’s hand. “Come on,” she said. “We’ll just find our own seats.” She was annoyed; this was hardly the star treatment she’d grown accustomed to.
They threaded their way through the crowd, moving toward the front row of folding chairs. At least they had front-row seats to the show, Madison thought. Maybe they’d be next to Anna Wintour.
But as they arrived at their designated spots, Madison was surprised—no, make that shocked—to see that they were taken.
By Carmen Curtis and some blonde with a botched nose job.
“Gaby,” she hissed, “go get the event coordinator!”
Gaby looked down at her ticket and then back toward their seats with a puzzled expression on her face. “I thought we were in the front row. Hey, isn’t that Carm—?”
“Gaby!” Madison whispered fiercely, while trying to maintain a smile. “Just go get the event coordinator!’
Gaby, like the good little doormat she was, did as she was told, and moments later the frazzled event coordinator appeared, a headset nestled in her updo and a clipboard clutched in her hand.
“Is there a problem?” Her tone was sharp.
Madison bristled but kept her voice low. She didn’t need the PopTV cameras, not to mention every person in the room, noting that Carmen had the nerve to steal her seat. “Yes, there is,” she said. “Those girls”—she nodded toward Carmen and her one-person entourage—“are in our seats.” Madison tilted her ticket toward the woman.
The event coordinator
