I gasped. “No.”
“Yes. He comes on my tramp stamp. He’s mentally ill or something.”
“I’m sure he loves you, though, right?”
She continued, “Of course he does. He rubs my feet when I come home after a long day, and he made me a bacon omelet this morning, and I love the big, stupid idiot, so what-cha-gonna do?”
With a straight face, Mitchell said, “He sounds like a keeper.”
I pointed to the girl’s wedding band. “How long have you been married?”
“A year. It’s good, except for the tattoo thing.”
I nodded, because that was perfectly understandable.
An hour later, I looked like a Vegas showgirl crossed with a lion. My hair was bigger than a drag queen’s wig, having been teased mercilessly and augmented by another pound of blond, wavy hair.
They hadn’t gone so crazy on the hair for the still photos, and I was surprised by how powerful a lion’s mane made me feel.
The photographer, who had someone else on the camera as he was directing today, came by and frowned, then walked away.
I blinked up at Mitchell’s reflection in the makeup mirror, both of us lit up brightly by the flattering light bulbs. “He hates me,” I said.
“That was his good frown,” Mitchell said, patting my shoulder. “Trust me, I know. That frown was him acknowledging that you look fierce, and now the pressure is on him to not blow it.”
“I can’t believe you said I look fierce. People actually say that word around here, don’t they?”
A skinny guy came into the room with two dresses. “Hey, girl. You look fierce. So, we’re all loving both of these dresses, but I’ll let you pick which one you like.”
“I won’t be in my underwear?”
Mitchell took the dresses and shooed the guy away.
He explained, “The concept is… you’re riding a bicycle in the park and as you ride by a cute guy, he sees you in your underwear. We shoot you in the dress, and then in the underwear, and do a little computer magic to mirror his eyes undressing you.”
“Really?” My stomach flip-flopped. “Isn’t that creepy? How does this sell the underwear? It doesn’t seem very sexy or empowering to me.”
Mitchell laughed, then stopped. “Oh, you’re serious. You said empowering and I thought you were pulling my leg.”
I squirmed in my chair and reached for my bottle of water. “You’re right. I’m over-thinking again.”
“You’ll be smiling through the whole commercial, so it won’t feel like you’re being victimized.”
I spat out my water, dribbling down my chin. “Mitchell, you don’t know what it’s like to be a woman.”
“Sometimes I feel like I have a sassy big girl inside of me. Her name is LaShonda, and she makes me buy cupcakes.” He blinked, looking as innocent as a curly-haired little cherub.
“Okay, I’ll wear the ivory dress. Let’s do this.”
He made an unattractive expression. “There’s one more thing. Promise you won’t be mad.”
“I’m not eating in the commercial. I already put that in the contract, and it’s not negotiable.”
“The cute guy is Dalton Deangelo.”
“You mean someone who looks like him.”
“No, it’s really him. When you were in the washroom at the restaurant, he said he wished he could make it up to you, how he hurt your feelings, and I had a few ideas.”
I sighed. “I guess that’s fine. He’s the reason I got myself into this mess, so he may as well be part of it.”
“You still like him.”
I rolled my eyes. “Not as much as you, fanboy.”
Someone tapped on the door. My heart raced, anticipating Dalton, but the person who entered looked like a cross between a Vegas showgirl and a lion. WHAT? How could that be me? How could I be sitting in the makeup chair and also walking into the room?
“Can I get your autograph?” my look-alike asked, handing me a cotton T-shirt and a felt pen.
“This nice young lady here is your lighting stand-in,” Mitchell said.
“Wow, for a minute I thought you had me cloned.”
The girl’s face squished up. “That’s so nice of you to say. I love you SO MUCH. Like, I know this is weird because you don’t know me, but I love you and I think we could totally be best friends.”
Standing behind her, Mitchell grimaced and mouthed the words I’m sorry.
“Thanks,” I said, and I signed her Team Peaches T-shirt, because that seemed like the thing to do.
She immediately began crying, and ran from the room.
“Did I do that wrong?” I asked Mitchell. “She seemed decent, but honestly, that was more terrifying than the paparazzi.”
“Don’t post any exterior pics of your home online,” he said.
“I’m not Lady Gaga.”
“No, but some of your Team Peaches people are quite organized. Yesterday, they staged a rally at a dog rescue in San Diego, because the place wouldn’t let a woman adopt a Jack Russell terrier. The woman was… big enough to have some mobility issues, and she wanted a dog to help get her out of the house. They told her she was going to return the dog six months later, overfed and blown up like a sausage.”
“Tell me you’re joking, because I have to shoot a commercial right now, and I do not have time to fly to San Diego and slap the sense into those people.”
“Everything worked out. She adopted the dog, and the shelter issued an apology and has promised to change their screening process. The dog’s name is Barkles.”
He held up his phone and showed me a picture of the little guy, being cuddled by his new person, all thanks to this group of people on the internet whom I had nothing to do with, but were acting like my hit squad.
“I hope everything works out.” My stomach flip-flopped again, and I felt like I was back on the teacups ride at Disneyland.
“You do look fierce today,” Mitchell said.
I turned and looked in the mirror, where I saw a scared little girl playing dress-up.
Fierce.
I bared my teeth in a growl. If I got through the day without any major malfunction, I was definitely, absolutely, positively, no doubt about it, getting a cupcake.
For some reason, I thought I’d be on a stationary bike, not a real one, and not pedaling back and forth in front of a green screen. At least Dalton wasn’t there yet, so I got to practice my bike-riding in front of his stand-in guy, who looked nothing like Dalton, except for being the same height and skin color.