Dazzled (9 page)

Miles

“Hi! My name is Gayl Lemon and I’m here to show you how to do awesome interviews! Yay!”

Next to me, Clare stifled a laugh and suddenly I was glad she was here after all. The studio had sent three other actors on the course and there were some money types in suits. Altogether there were eight of us, including Clare.

Ms Lemon was pencil thin and wearing the kind of pale green power suit that I thought went out with Jackie Kennedy. Although apparently not. It looked a bit odd. Her face said forty, but her hands said sixty.

“You’ll learn the art of meeting the press: how to talk to reporters and to give them what they want, including sound bites; we’ll practice different kinds of interviews, including junkets with multiple questioners; on- and off-the-record comments; and for those of you in the moviemaking business, how to handle the Red Carpet.”

She said ‘red carpet’ in a way that clearly demanded Capital Letters.

“We’ll start with some basic principles: firstly, and most importantly – prepare, prepare, prepare. Don’t wing it, people, even if it’s a subject you know well – and don’t assume an audience will know the subject at all. Practice those sound bites. Now, you might get someone trying to provoke a reaction out of you: well, make sure
you
set the tone. Don’t vary your message because the questions are hostile or provocative. Decide what you want to communicate – and keep that in mind throughout an interview. If questions don’t lead you there immediately, take a detour in your answers – this is what we call ‘bridging’. And golden rule time, people: nothing is 100% off the record. Ever.”

By this time, Clare’s eyes were as round as billiard balls and I could see her glancing at me anxiously. I knew why – she thought I couldn’t hack it. That really pissed me off, especially because I knew she was right. How the hell was I going to learn all this corporate bullshit?

“Okay, lovely people: media training 101. When dealing with journalists – and this fact is true for the general public, too – try to use their names once in every sentence. It makes them feel special. Always remember to ask at least one question about them. For example, if they’re wearing a wedding ring, ask how long they’ve been married. If they mention they’re a mommy or a daddy, ask their child’s age or name. And never, ever underestimate the value of a compliment. Everyone loves a compliment, and if you’re the one handing it out… everyone’s going to love you. Make them feel good about you.”

This was so un-British. I knew if someone gave me a compliment I’d just try and turn it into a joke. But this was serious. Gayl was serious.

“We’ll start off easy and fun: practice that Red Carpet moment. The four key things you Must Remember about the Red Carpet are: answer every question as if you’ve never heard it before – even when you’re answering for the fiftieth time. No reporter wants to feel second rate and we sure don’t want a Bad Review because of that, do we, people!”

“No, ma’am!” they chorused, much to Clare’s continuing amusement. I stuffed my fist in my gob to try and stifle the hysteria that threatened to overtake the few senses that were still in working order.

“The second Red Carpet Key is to Enjoy Yourself! Smile, people! That’s the name of the game! Thirdly, speak slowly and clearly – and never, ever, EVER give ‘yes’ or ‘no’ answers! What do we Never Do?”

“Give ‘yes’ or ‘no’ answers,” we parroted back.

Gayl beamed.

“And fourthly, Eat Something! You sure don’t want to be Passing Out on the Red Carpet!”

She droned on. We learned how to ‘pitch it, promote it, tell it and sell it’, and she talked about the importance of not dissing the fans. This was one thing I could really relate to. I remembered when I was 13, waiting for hours outside Ronnie Scott’s jazz club just to get David Sanborn’s autograph – and the disappointment I’d felt when his chauffeur-driven car left by the by the back entrance.

“As the great Jack Nicholson says, people, ‘it’s easy to forget how meaningful these encounters are for fans’. And we don’t want to let them down. What don’t we want to do?”

“Let them down,” I muttered, avoiding Clare’s accusing gaze.

“Now, something else to remember: no matter what you think of your coworkers on a movie or at the office, when you’re asked you say, ‘What a great guy!’ Okay? Let’s practice those Red Carpet Keys in pairs. Miles, why don’t you practice with me?”

Oh, crap.

“Now then, you’re on the Red Carpet and I’m An Interviewer, okay?”

“Yep, got it.”

“Miles Stephens – can you tell us who dressed you tonight, Miles?”

“Er… myself. I was by myself… er…”

She sighed. “Miles, focus! I’m asking you about which designer provided your clothing. I talked about this – point three in the seminar introduction!”

Oh, great. Public humiliation
.

She huffed loudly and tried again.

“That’s a fabulous suit, Miles. Where’s it from?”

“I dunno. From a shop. Er…”

“No, Miles, no! You must know these things. And if you get brain freeze,” she sighed again, “just say, ‘Oh, they did a great job!’ and move on. Okay? Okay, let’s try again. So how did you get on with your costar, Lilia Purcell?”

“She’s a great guy… I mean, great girl. She’s great.”

Gayl’s Daz-white smile slipped entirely. I thought she was going to cry. Out of the corner of my eye I could see Clare, helpless with laughter.

The rest of the training was excruciating – mostly for Gayl, because I was so bad at it, and the studio had obviously told her that I had to pass this shit. I hoped it was like puppy training classes – no matter how badly behaved your pooch, everyone got a certificate at the end. I really fucking hoped so. At least I hadn’t pissed on the floor. Yet.

Clare was enjoying herself, quietly winding up the guy she was practicing with. She caught my eye and wrinkled her nose. I smiled back weakly. Yeah, big fucking joke.

After another gut-churning hour, Gayl released us. She looked slightly frazzled and when she smiled at me, I thought she was going to pull a muscle.

I was shocked when two of the women attending the media training asked for my autograph. I think it was because Gayl had dropped Lilia’s name a thousand fucking times. Clare looked royally stunned so it was worth it just for that.

When we finally got out of there, Clare was quiet.

“I’d better read that contract tonight,” was all she said.

I recognized the SUV that was waiting, relieved it was Earl who’d be driving us.

“Hi, Earl. This is my friend, Clare.”

“Good evening, miss,” he said, smiling at her.

“Oh, hiya. You’re the one who’s actually got some taste in music – Miles told me about you.”

Earl grinned at her and tipped his cap.

I was sort of jealous – Clare got on with everyone. She was so much better at all of this than me. Without even knowing it, she’d done just what Gayl had told her – started off talking to Earl with a compliment. Fuck. How was I ever going to learn that?

But if I’d thought that three hours with Gayl Lemon was hard going, her brand of humiliation was nothing compared to my first visit to a stylist.

Earl drove us to a discreet four-story building and a man sitting in the foyer directed us to the top floor.

A bombshell blonde who was a dead ringer for
Veronica Lake, met us as we got out of the elevator. I swear I was trying
not
to look at her tits. Honest.

Clare elbowed me in the ribs, and my head jerked up.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Stephens,” said the blonde. “I’m Wendy Deluth, Miss Da Silva’s personal assistant. And you are…?” she turned to Clare.

“Clare Milton,” said Clare, stretching out her hand. “Mr. Stephens’ personal assistant.”

Wendy looked disbelievingly at Clare, running her eyes over the jeans and t-shirt she was wearing. I glanced over – Clare looked fine to me. Her tits were nice, too.

“I see,” said Wendy, tightly. “I’ll inform Miss Da Silva that you’re here.”

She wore her air of disapproval like body armor.

Clare pulled a face behind her back. I couldn’t help sniggering, and I saw Wendy’s shoulders twitch with irritation.

She led us into a large, hotel-like room. I looked around, expecting to see racks of clothes, but there was nothing.
Weird.

Wendy brought us water, juice and bagels. Clare tucked in. I looked longingly at the bagels, but poured myself a glass of water and imagined taking my shirt off in front of the studio cameras. Yeah, they should patent that as a damn diet – Weight Watchers would be out of business.

Natalia Da Silva swept into the room. She was a well dressed woman in her sixties and her hair looked like it was made from steel wool. I stood up, nervously shifting from foot to foot. But instead of shaking hands, she cast an expert eye over my clothes and I felt my face getting hot.

“Good afternoon,” she said, a slight accent coloring her voice. “I am Da Silva.”

She said it just like that – like she was a brand of car, or Madonna or something.

“Avanti. We will begin,” she said, waving a skinny claw at Wendy.

Immediately, the double doors swung open and a procession of female helpers marched in, pushing waiting racks of clothes. I mean, like
thousands
of items. Holy shit! Then they did a sort of little curtsey to Da Silva, and sashayed out again.

I felt like such a yokel, with straw still stuck in my hair, dazed and confused in the big city.

I glanced over to Clare – she looked thunderstruck.

“First, I’ll have Wendy establish your measurements,” Da Silva said, with authority. “We’ll need to get some suits made, of course.”

“Er, okay.”

She waited. I waited. Clare raised her eyebrows, and Da Silva pulled a tape measure out of her bag, passing it to Wendy. Then we all waited.

“Is there a problem?” said Miss Da Silva, looking puzzled as she stared down her long nose at me.

“Oh, right.”

I held out my arms, thinking Wendy would want to measure me or something.

Miss Da Silva gave an amused smile.

“We need to measure you accurately, Mr. Stephens. If you could take off your clothes, please.”

Oh, hell, no!

Clare snorted, and managed to turn it into a strangled cough when everyone looked at her.

“Mr. Stephens?”

This was so fucking embarrassing!

“Er, um, I… I’m not… I’m not wearing any underwear,” I managed to choke out at last.

Clare had to turn away to hide her laugh as the two stylists stared at me disbelievingly.

“Sorry,” I mumbled. “I thought I’d just be, you know, looking at clothes.”

“Well,” said Miss Da Silva, attempting to retrieve the situation, “I was going to mention underwear anyway.”

Yeah. Imagine hearing that in a sentence.

Clare stuffed her fists in her mouth and appeared to be chewing on a knuckle, but it was clear to everyone that she was on the verge of hysterical collapse.

“Si,” continued Miss Da Silva, “we always recommend to our gentleman clients that they wear boxer briefs. It gives a much more flattering line than boxer shorts as those can bunch up most unattractively.” She looked me up and down appraisingly. “I’d say you’re a medium.”

And she nodded at Wendy, who passed me a pair of black boxer briefs.

“If you’d like to change behind the screen, we’ll wait here.”

Great. So now I was going to be standing in front of three women – two that I’d never met before – in my underwear. I took a deep breath. At least it was
new
underwear. And clean.

I walked behind the screen Wendy pointed toward, and undressed. Fuck, it felt weird.

Clare

I almost stopped breathing when Miles walked back out. He looked so amazing I wanted to just sit and drool, enjoying the view. But I felt really bad for him, too. He looked so embarrassed, his eyes flicking everywhere but at me or the two hags at my side.

But you know, wow! That boy had
nothing
to be embarrassed about. All the gym time had really honed and toned everything he had. I just wanted to sit there and look. Or maybe lick him all over, starting with that amazing chest.