Mayhem in High Heels (10 page)

"And since you're taking your honeymoon in Tahiti..." Marco said.

"... island paradise..." Dana added.

"...so romantic..." Marco, said, popping his head out of door number three.

"...we decided on a Romance in Paradise theme!"

"It's perfect, dahling."

"Tropical chic."

"Do we love, or do we love?"

I blinked at the two of them doing their disembodied heads version of Abbot and Costello.

"Tropical chic?" Suddenly visions of plastic grass skirts and coconut bras danced before my eyes. "Uh, I don't know..."

"Oh, it's going to be fab! We've already ordered the flower leis," Marco informed me.

"And hula dancers."

"And two giant tikki heads."

"Tikki heads?" I asked. Only it sounded more like, "Ti-ikki h-eads," as loud hiccups interrupted my speech.

"Uh huh," Dana nodded. "So, going with the new theme..."

"...we made a few changes to the bridesmaid outfits..." Marco said, fairly bursting as he danced on the tip toes of his loafers.

"You're going to love them," Dana clapped her hands together behind the door. "Ready, Molly?"

"One more zipper," Molly huffed behind her door. "Okay, got it."

As one, the three of them stepped out of their fitting rooms.

"Ta-da!" Marco said, striking a Madonna Vogue-worthy pose.

My eyes ping-ponged from one of my "simple, elegant, tasteful" dresses to another.

Someone had glued tiny sea shells all along the red trim at the hem and sleeves. Fake red hibiscus flowers had been sewn all up and down the skirts and the necklines were now trimmed with braided hemp rope.

And Marco's tuxedo was dyed red. Head to toe red. With a hula girl appliqued on the tie.

"Well, what do you think, Maddie?" Dana asked, rocking onto her toes.

Luckily, I didn't have to answer as a loud hiccup erupted from my mouth instead.

Connor giggled, grape-colored drool sliding down his chin.

"We made the changes ourselves. Total retro island girl, don't you think?" Dana did a twirl. Prompting the tiny clam shells at the hem to clink together like a wind chime. "So romantic." She sighed. "Just what I'd want at my wedding."

"I think a hibiscus is caught on my bra," Molly said, twisting in the mirror and tugging at an industrial strap.

"Well? Say something," Marco said. His eyebrows drew together and his Vogue started to fade.

I opened my mouth to speak.

But only a sort of strangled sound in the back of my throat came out.

Mom clapped her hands together with glee. "She's speechless. Oh, we knew you'd like them. See, you're not the only one with an eye for fashion." She winked at me.

I hiccupped again.

"Mads, have you got the hiccups again? Dana asked, pointing out the obvious.

"Here, try holding your breath," Marco said, pinching my nostrils together.

"Ow."

"No, no, she has to tip her head back," Molly instructed, elbowing her way toward me. She grabbed a generous handful of my hair and yanked backward.

I tried to protest, but only another hiccup came out.

"Someone get her a glass of water," Mom instructed.

"Here, I've got a sports drink," Dana said, reaching into her bag and pulling out a bottle of orange stuff with lots of lightning bolts on the label.

Mom shoved it under my nose while Molly held my head back.

"Hold your breath and drink as quickly as you can," Mom said, pouring the bottle down my throat.

It tasted like liquid vitamins and I coughed, sputtering orange junk down my chin.

Connor wailed with glee, clapping his hands until his lollipop stuck to the sofa.

"I'm fine. Really," I said, breaking free from the oh-so-helpful trio. "I'm f (hiccup) ine."

"Geeze, you really have them bad." Dana cocked her head to one side, studying me.

"No kidding." I pulled a tissue from my purse, wiping sticky stuff from my chin.

"Hello?" a voice called from beyond the door. "Everyone decently clothed?"

I looked at Marco's tie. That was debatable.

But before I could answer, Austin Scarlett came striding flamboyantly into the room, a black garment bag over one arm. "There's our blushing bride!" he cried, descending upon me with a pair of air kisses.

Take every fashion industry cliche you can think of, roll it into one divalicious package, and you'd have Austin Scarlett. From his blonde bouffant, to his faint uppercrust accent, to his flared waistcoat and heeled boots, he was fashion with a capital F-A-B.

Mr. Fashion's eyes flickered to the horror that was my bridal court, but, like a true professional, he didn't even roll his eyes, instead looking away before any snarky comments could slip out.

"Sweetie, you look divine today," he said, draping his bag on the seat beside me. "We're ready to try your dress, yes?"

I nodded, praying he hadn't let the Theme Squad get their hands on it.

And, as he unzipped with the flourish of a true artist unveiling his latest masterpiece, I let out a sigh of relief that God was on my side today.

It was flawless.

I felt my breath catch. Yeah, I know that's what all brides say. But I seriously couldn't breathe for a full two seconds. It was that beautiful. I reached one hand out and reverently stroked its silky smooth surface, all my childhood fantasies of Cinderella princess dresses suddenly realized in front of me.

In a magical whirlwind moment I will treasure for the rest of my life, my own clothes came off and the dress slipped over my head. I stared at my reflection in the three-way mirror and couldn't help grinning like an idiot. All those session at the gym with Dana had paid off. The bodice fit perfectly, and I didn't even have to suck in. (Much.) The skirt draped like a dream, the train flowed stunningly, the tiny accents of crystal beads shimmered in the light like diamonds.

"Oh, Maddie, it's lovely," Mom said, tears backing up behind her eyes.

Okay, so maybe I was getting married in a cheap version of the Disneyland Tikki room. Maybe my bridesmaids would look like they'd been attacked by a Tahitian craft fair. Maybe letting Dana and Marco plan the wedding wasn't on the list of Maddie's finest moments.

But one thing was for sure.

The bride would look fabulous.

* * *

By the time we completed all the last-minute tucking and pinning, I was starving. Dana suggested this smoothie bar she knew down the street. While my stomach was crying for a Big Mac and a large fries, the memory of how snugly the corset waist had fit prompted me to follow her lead and order a strawberry banana shake instead. Honestly it wasn't all that bad. Could have used a generous helping of whipped cream on top, but not bad.

"So," Dana said, leaning back in her white plastic chair outside the smoothie bar, "get anything out of Ramirez last night?"

"Not much." Other than a gut full of worry. But I quickly filled her in on my interview that morning with Allie.

"I wondered if you've heard of the band. The Symmetric Zebras?"

"Sure." Dana sucked the last of her shake so that her straw made loud slurping sounds against the bottom of her plastic cup. "I went to a show of theirs a couple months ago at the House of Blues. Pretty cool, a little on the heavy side, but not bad melodies."

"Know how I could get a hold of them? One of them may be our mystery boyfriend."

Dana puckered up her brow. "I got the tickets from an ex-roommate who roadies for them."

I perked up. For once Dana's endless stream of roommates paid off.

Dana lived in a tiny place in Studio City I'd come to think of as the Actor's Duplex,because it was home to a bevy of actors. Or, more precisely, actor-slash-waiters, actor- slash-valets, actor-slash-security guards... you get the picture. And since actors aren't exactly known for their steady income, the place usually smelled of cheap Top Ramen and there was a constant turnover of roommates. Over the last couple of years Dana had lived with No Neck Guy, Sick Figure Girl, and, my personal favorite, Overweight Guy Who Lives on Subway Sandwiches. Lemme tell you, that guy ate enough of those suckers and he started sweating out pastrami.

"Which one was this?" I asked. "Bandanna Guy?"

Dana shook her strawberry blonde head. "Nope. That was the biker. This one was Smokes Dope All Day Guy."

"Ah." I didn't remember much about him except the thick pungent cloud that wafted down the hall every time his bedroom door opened.

"Anyway, I'll give him a call and see if he can put me in touch with the band. Cool?"

"Very."

In the meantime, I shared with her my plan to visit Mitsy's father and have a chat with bridezilla.

"Do you have a pass?" Dana asked, tossing her cup into one of the nearby recycling bins.

"Pass?"

"You know, to get on the studio lot."

Oh. I hadn't thought of that. "No."

Dana grinned. "Good thing you have me, then."

I raised one eyebrow at her, begging explanation

"Ricky shoots
Magnolia Lane
there, remember? He's got me permanently on the guest list."

"Dana, I love you."

She grinned, showing off a tiny strawberry seed stuck between her front teeth. "What's not to love?"

Ten minutes later we were in her tan Saturn, cruising down Sunset Boulevard until we hit the impressive iron gates that enclosed the Sunset Studios. We made a right and pulled into the drive at the main gate where the five hundred-year-old guy with a clipboard checked Dana's ID against his list, then pushed a button allowing us entry onto the lot.

The best way I could describe Sunset Studios was like a giant playhouse. You were never quite sure if things were real or just made to show well on camera. Beyond the front gate, the lot opened up into a huge roundabout with a park in the center with tall oak trees (real) and large decorative rocks (fake). Off the roundabout were different roads that served as the main studio arteries leading to the stately executive offices (real), the filming studios (mostly real), and the famous Sunset Studios backlot (totally fake), a virtual city of hollowed out buildings made to look like New York, Boston, San Francisco, and, of course, a generic middle American suburb.

Dana pulled off to the left where a large parking lot for actors, crew, and guests sat, then grabbed a golf cart (the preferred mode of lot transportation) and headed toward the rows of squat warehouses with the names of hit shows painted on the outside.
Magnolia Lane
shot in 6G, nestled between that new crime drama and the latest celebrity game show. A group of guys in headsets smoking cigarettes stood in front next to a guy in a chicken suit (I hoped he was with the game show and not the crime drama), while Wardrobe and Makeup filtered in and out of the side entrance.

Dana parked next to a craft services truck and motioned me to follow her inside.

The last time I'd been on the
Magnolia Lane
set, I was being chased by the Sunset Studios Strangler and running for dear life. Not exactly a memory lane I was dying to stroll down. But, as we walked onto set, I noticed not much had changed since then. A few of the actors had been changed out for new ones, most notably the show's star Mia Carletto who'd been replaced by a newcomer with the hots for Ricky's character. But, for the most part the sets (fake) and crew (real--well, as real as people got in L.A.) and general air of crazed creativity in the air was still the same.

"Ricky!" Dana called, hailing a shirtless guy by the camera.

He turned, giving her a lopsided smile that would make any woman with a pulse melt. As much as I was a one-Ramirez kind of woman, I had to admit, Ricky was hot. Sizzling. He had to be, because his ratings banked on it. He played the hunky gardener, trimming the hedges of
Magnolia's Lane
's most desperate housewives as he preened and smiled his way into the hearts of middle America every Tuesday evening. With his heartthrob looks and boyish charm, he was hard to resist.

And shirtless, well... let's just say some of us didn't resist.

Dana flung herself at him, wrapping her arms around his neck as he picked her up in a full bodied hug.

I tried not to be jealous, shoving down the memory of my very empty bed that morning.

"Hey, babe, what's up?" Ricky said, setting Dana back down on the ground.

"Oh, I just missed you." Dana twirled her hair around one finger. I wasn't sure if it was cute or pathetic the way she instantly turned into a sixth-grader with a crush around Ricky.

"We've got a few more shots to get today," he said. "But I'll meet you at your place later?"

"Perfect!" Dana bit her lip and giggled.

Ah, young love.

"But, in the meantime," she said, "I was wondering if you know which studio Al Kleinburg is shooting in today?"

Ricky puckered his forehead. "Hey, Jay," he yelled to a grip in a backwards ball cap. "You know where Kleinburg is today?"

"New York."

"Thanks." Ricky nodded at the guy, then turned his attention back to us. "He's on the backlot. Why? You girls want his autograph?"

"Something like that," I mumbled.

"Cool, well I'll catch up with you later then," he said, planting a kiss on Dana. That quickly turned from a peck into something you'd see on pay per view.

I turned away, blushing.

Once Dana had untangled her tongue from Ricky's, we hopped back in the golf cart and sped through the maze of warehouses until it opened up onto the studio backlot. We parked behind a foam replica of a taxi cab in the New York section. (Conveniently located between Boston and
Leave it to Beaver
suburbia.)

A large crane (real) was set up at one end of the street (fake) while a group of extras dressed in 1920s outfits mingled below, sipping bottled water and talking on their cell phones. Countless grips and production assistants ran back and forth, checking the lighting, the sound, and every other detail of the shot, their tool belts stuffed with duct tape and walkie-talkies jangling against their hips.

Off to the side stood a bank of black monitors and fancy computer equipment. Behind it three guys in suits squinted at the playback. Beside them stood the director, Al Klienburg.