Damaged In-Law (13 page)

I raise an eyebrow at Jack as he saunters over to us. “Word
sure does travel fast,” I remark, “I
’
m pretty sure I only
agreed to work on this project about three minutes ago.”

The grin fades away from Penelope
’
s
face in a heartbeat. She whips around, glaring up at Jack. “Is this true, Mr.
Cole?” she demands.

“
Define
‘true
’
...”
Jack smiles.

“I was under the impression that Miss Benson signed onto
this film
days
ago,” Penelope goes on, “As soon as we got the news
of...The studio has been on overhaul these past few days switching gears to
accommodate Callie. Are you telling me you weren
’
t even
sure she was going to say yes until this morning?!”

“She
’
s on board now,” Jack replies,
“What
’
s the problem?”

“Oh nothing,” Penelope says sarcastically, on the edge of
hyperventilating. “Just having a little heart attack over here. Don
’
t mind me.
”

“If it makes you feel any better, he blindsided me too,” I
tell her, laying a hand between her wing like shoulder blades. “It
’
s sort of a habit with him.”

“That
’
s very sweet of you to say,”
Penelope tells me between tiny gasps of air.

“So. When do we start?” I ask her, trying to keep the nerves
out of my voice.

“Oh, immediately,” she says brightly, coming to. “There
’
s a car waiting for us outside.”

“A car...? Where are we going?” I ask, looking between her
and Jack for answers.

“The salon, of course,” she tells me, “You
’
ll
be styled by the one and only Parker Bayard. He
’
s a living
legend. We
’
ll have to get your look taken care of before
we can go any further.”

“What
’
s the matter with my look?” I
ask, glancing down at myself.

Penelope stares at me blankly for a long moment, as if
waiting for the punchline. But when she realizes that I
’
m
actually asking, she replies, “Well, you obviously already look quite a bit
like your sister, but there are a few adjustments we still need to make.”

“Oh. Right,” I say faintly, a pang of guilt and grief
twisting my core. With all the excitement of accepting Jack
’
s
offer and starting out on this journey, I forgot for all of five minutes why it
is I
’
ve been asked to step in. This opportunity has
nothing to do with me as a person or an actress. I
’
m just
the closest thing to Avery that the studio could afford. It would do me well to
remember that.

“You
’
ll have to go blonder, obviously,”
Penelope goes on, appraising me. “We
’
d love to get you
into a tanning bed, if possible. There
’
s not much we can
do about muscle tone in the next few days, but the good news is that the film
is set in the ‘50s. Women were allowed to be a little plumper back then.”

“Oh. Neat,” I say flatly.

“We
’
ll let Parker and his team figure
out all the rest, don
’
t you worry,” Penelope says, opening
up her enormous handbag. “Ah! I almost forgot. Here you go...” she says,
dropping a massive stack of papers into my lap. On top is a title page that
reads “
City in Red
”.

“Is this...the script?” I ask, aghast.

“Sure is!” she replies.

“I thought we were shooting a gritty cop drama, not an
adaptation of the
Encyclopedia Britannica
,” I grumble,
straining to pick up the massive tome.

“We
’
re still making edits,” Jack
shrugs.

I flip open to the first page of the script and read over
the list of characters, searching for my own. Jack
’s
character
—Joel Brennan—is right there at the top, followed by
about twenty supporting characters, all of whom are male. I run my eyes down
the long list until finally, right at the end, I find a female name. The
only
female name.

“‘
Rosalie Danes,
’”
I
read aloud, “‘A classic beauty, very attractive, a neat figure with legs for
miles...
’
Are you frigging
’
kidding
me, Jack?”

“What
’
s the problem?” he asks.

“That
’
s not a character description.
That
’
s just three different ways of saying she
’
s hot,” I reply tersely.

“We
’
ll deal with the actual character
later,” Penelope cuts in, rising to her feet. “For now, let
’
s
just worry about getting you pretty.”

“Well, that
’
s all that matters anyway,
right?” I mumble.

“You heard her,” Jack grins, as Penelope marches away. “It
’
s out of my hands now.”

“Legs for miles...What a load of bull...” I mutter sullenly,
following my new assistant—or rather, taskmaster—to the door.

“That
’
s the spirit!” Jack smiles as I
pass. “Welcome to showbiz, kid.”

Chapter Ten

“
Well?
” Penelope prompts me, peering
over my shoulder in the salon mirror. I
’
ve just been spun
around to see my brand new look for the first time. “What do you think?”

I gape back at my reflection, at a loss. The person staring
back at me through those accentuated, smokey eyes is a complete stranger. There
’
s no denying that she looks damn good, rocking a face full of
‘50s-inspired makeup and platinum blonde locks. This is the sort of look that
belongs in magazines, the big screen, and the red carpet. I know this for a
fact, because this face has already graced those glamorous locales.

This is Avery
’
s face. Not mine.

“You hate it,” my stylist Parker pouts, his handsome face
collapsing into a worried scowl. He
’
s a stoic,
intimidating man, but I can tell that underneath it all he
’
s
sensitive about his work.

“No, no,” I tell him quickly, struggling to keep my eyes
open under the weight of my false eyelashes. “It
’s just...
different
,
is all. Not what I
’
m used to.”

“You
’
ll be used to it soon enough,”
Penelope says, “Starting tomorrow, you
’
ll be on set. That
means hair and makeup every morning.”

“Oh. Great,” I say flatly, tentatively touching my crown of
retro platinum curls. My hair has never been any other color than its natural dirty
blonde. Except for that one month when I experimented with purple streaks, of
course. Oh, college.

“Mr. Cole has just arrived,” Penelope tells me, consulting
her phone, “He
’
s waiting for you in the car outside.”

“He
’
s not going to whisk me off to a
plastic surgeon or anything, is he?” I ask, only halfway kidding.

“Of course not,” Penelope laughs lightly, “Our legal team
would never OK that. You look enough like your sister as it is. Thank god you
’
re identical twins, rather than fraternal. Otherwise who knows
what measures we would have had to take?”

“Ha. Right,” I mutter dazedly, pulling myself gingerly to
standing. My feet are strapped into a pair of sky-high stilettos, and my petite
frame is wrapped up in a tight red bodycon dress. Parker and his team of
stylists wanted to see the whole picture, from hair and makeup to wardrobe. It
’
s been a particularly harrowing game of dress up so far. And I
have a feeling that we
’
re only just getting started.

Turning toward the door, a flash of blonde catches my eye
across the salon. It takes me a long moment to recognize the figure in the
full-length mirror as myself. I
’
m paralyzed all over again
by the sight of my transformed appearance, the uncanny resemblance to Avery I
now bear. I know that these changes are all superficial, but I can
’
t help feeling like I
’
ve signed away a
piece of my true identity. Growing up as twins, Avery and I were careful to
make sure the world knew we were two separate people. I don
’
t
think I realized until this moment how disorienting it will be, pretending to
be her.

But it
’
s too late to turn back now. I
can
’
t put this dye job to waste, now can I?

“I guess I
’
ll see you guys later,” I
say to Parker, Penelope, and the rest of the crew.

“
Wait!
” Parker cries, as I move toward
the door of the salon. His dancer
’
s body leaps across the
room to me with enviable grace. “Here,” he breathes, slipping a pair of
gigantic sunglasses onto my surprised face. “Now you can leave.”

“Are these really necessary?” I laugh, “It
’
s
not like I
’
m famous or anything.”

“Two hours ago, that may have been true,” Parker replies,
planting his manicured hands on tapered hips, “But thanks to us, you
’
re a movie star now.”

“Oh...” I say, flicking a stray blonde curl away from my
eyes. “I guess you
’
re right. That
’
ll
take some getting used to.”

“You have all of 24 hours to get accustomed to it before the
camera starts to roll,” Penelope says brightly, “Now go on! Mr. Cole is
waiting.”

And sure enough, I spot a sleek black town car idling at the
curb. Car service—yet another thing I
’
ll have to get used
to. With my Jackie O sunglasses fixed in place, I step out onto the SoHo
streets. In the three paces it takes to reach the car, something strange begins
to happen all around me. People are turning to look at me. Staring, as a matter
of fact. And I don
’
t think it
’
s
because I look like Avery, necessarily. I think it
’
s just
because I look...
hot
.

A glance back at the windows of the salon confirms it.
Standing on the bustling NYC street, I look like I
’
ve just
stepped out of a glossy magazine. That
’
s going to take
some getting used to. Don
’
t get me wrong, I
’
ve
always been more or less happy with the way I look. But my typical uniform of
chunky sweaters, boyfriend jeans, and tousled up-dos didn
’
t
exactly draw that much attention. Skin tight dresses and platinum tresses, on
the other hand? It
’
s a sea of lascivious gazes out here,
and I
’
m just wading through it.

Sliding into the cool, dark interior of the town car is
quite the relief. I close the door behind me and actually manage to take a
breath. Or as much of a breath as is possible in this dress. That is, until I
swing my gaze around to the person beside me. Jackson Cole sits back against
the brown leather backseat, his eyes boring into me. The heat of his gaze is
palpable against my skin as it rakes along my body.

And I have to say, I
’
m eyeing him up
right back. He
’
s rocking a warm gray suit, just casual
enough to pass for everyday, but sharp enough to stand out. The jacket and slacks
are perfectly cut to his body, and his rich brown hair is artfully swept away
from his handsome face. His attire has the same vintage feel as mine, and I
suddenly feel as though we
’
re headed off to some chic
masquerade ball together. There
’
s no denying it—we make a
pretty sexy couple.

“Whoa,” he murmurs, that lopsided grin drawing me in even
further, “Callie, you look—”

“Just like Avery, I know,” I cut him off, staring down at my
newly manicured hands.

“I was going to say ‘incredible
’
,” he
corrects me, “You look incredible.”

“Oh,” I reply lamely, feeling a blush rise in my cheeks.
“Well. You know. A team of professional stylists will do that to a girl. You
don
’
t look too shabby yourself.”

“Why thanks
pal
,” he laughs, signaling for the driver
to take us to our next location...wherever that may be.

“What
’
s with the vintage thing though?”
I ask, as we take off toward Midtown, “I thought you were more of jeans and tee
shirt kind of guy?”

“I know, I know,” he groans, rolling his eyes at his
impeccable getup, “I look like I just strolled out of a menswear blog or
something. But the team thought Miriam would want to see us styled with a nod
to our characters. You know, just a touch of the ‘50s thing.”

“
Miriam?
” I echo, “Are we meeting with
Miriam Blake today?!”

“We
’
re meeting with Miriam Blake right
now
,”
Jack tells me, “Didn
’
t Penelope prep you for this?”

“No!” I exclaim, “Or...Maybe? I was kind of distracted by
the whole extreme makeover bit, you know?”

Jack lets out a deep sigh, rubbing his scruffy jaw. “Well.
Surprise, then. We
’
re headed over to Apollo
’
s
New York offices to pay Ms. Blake a visit. She wanted a taste of the fresh
blood before we start shooting.”

“Thanks for phrasing that so delicately,” I grumble, sinking
back in my seat.

“Hey, I
’
m just preparing you,” Jack
shoots back, “
Miriam Blake doesn
’
t
have a delicate bone in her body. You need to walk in there with your head held
high. She
’
ll smell the fear on you otherwise. That woman
’
s like a great white shark in a Chanel pantsuit.”

“Sounds like a charming broad,” I reply, watching the mayhem
of New York fly by through the window.

“Come on,” Jack says, slipping an assuring arm over my bare
shoulders, “You know how to deal with hard-asses like her. I know. I
’
ve met your mother.”

“Good point,” I laugh, relishing the feel of his comforting
embrace. “If I can survive eighteen years of Sylvia Benson, I
’
m
sure I can get through a single meeting with Miriam Blake. I hope.”

“That
’
s my girl,” Jack says, as we
glide on through the bustling chaos of Manhattan.

His girl
...I think, leaning into his embrace,
I
kind of like the sound of that.

My confidence fights to stay one step ahead of my nerves as
our town car pulls to a stop just off Times Square. Jack opens the door for me
and offers his hand to help me out of the car, encumbered as I am by
three-and-a-half inch heels. As I step out onto the sidewalk beside him, I feel
the breath rush out of my lungs in a baffled gust. A gleaming, mirrored
skyscraper rises up before us like a giant chrome beanstalk. Even craning my
neck I can
’
t see the top of it.

“This is where our meeting is?” I ask breathlessly.

“Sure is,”
Jack grins at me,
“Don
’
t be scared.”

“I
’
m not
scared
,” I shoot back,
“I was on the NYC audition circuit for a spell after college. Now
that
was scary. This is just...kind of on a different level.”

“Relax. All you have to do is look pretty and prove to
Miriam that you know how to put one word in front of another,” Jack says,
leading me toward the bank of doors.

“My, what high standards you have for your costars,” I
reply, rolling my eyes behind the huge sunglasses.

Jack and I are swept into the behemoth of a building, and
immediately shepherded through the cavernous lobby into a waiting elevator car.
Security personnel hover all around us, as if we were actually important or
something. I can
’
t help but think there are probably
better uses of their time than babysitting movie actors. But then, what do I
know?

We step out of the elevator and onto the 86th floor. A
gleaming corridor stretches on ahead of us, lined with mysterious unmarked
doors. The glass panels at the end of the hallway are emblazoned with the
world-famous Apollo Pictures logo: a chariot wheel ringed by the rays of a sun.

Jack looks right at home as he leads me down the hall and
into the Apollo offices. A gorgeous woman stands waiting for us there, smiling
at us as we approach. She could easily be a super model, with her sleek black
hair and perfect tan. Or a movie star, for that matter. It suddenly strikes me
as totally absurd that I should be the one stepping into Avery
’
s
film role when there are women like her in the world. 

“
Hello Mr. Cole,
” the woman purrs,
giving Jack a warm, familiar look. 

“Diana,” Jack replies, shooting her a million dollar smile.
“It
’
s good to see you again. Callie, this is Diana Crane,
Miriam Blake
’
s assistant. Diana, this is Callie Benson.
Our new Rosalie Danes.”

“Miss Benson, it
’
s so wonderful to meet
you,” Diana says, swinging her hazel eyes my way. “I
’
m
terribly sorry for your loss. I
’
m sure you must be
absolutely gutted by what happened to your sister.”

“Um. Thank you. Yeah,” I stammer, unsure of how to respond.
Avery
’
s death is still so new that I
’
ve
yet to learn what the protocol is for accepting peoples
’
sympathies.

“Ms. Blake is waiting in her office,” Diana says to Jack,
already bored with me. “You two can go right on in.”

“Thanks Di,” Jack replies, lightly touching her arm as we
go. “See you around, OK?”

“I
’
ll hold you to that,” the woman
winks back.

“You two go way back or something?” I mutter to Jack as we
walk on. That was a pretty intimate little exchange between Jack and Diana, and
I can
’
t help but be a little jealous.