That bothered me. I knew I was being silly, but why had they gotten a stand-in girl who looked so very much like me that my own mother might have been tricked, but couldn’t have found anyone Dalton-like for the other one? Were girls like me a dime a dozen? I felt cheap and used.
I pulled Mitchell aside and told him as much, leaving the bicycle leaning up against a wall.
He said, “I’m not quite following what you’re saying. Are you angry that your stand-in looks like you, or that Dalton’s doesn’t?”
I could tell he was humoring me.
“Whatever. I need some corn starch or baby powder, because my inner thighs are chafing already. Can I get some bike shorts to wear under the dress at least? And is that a men’s saddle on that thing? It’s too narrow for my pelvis, never mind my ass. Is the director trying to break me down?”
“I’ll get you some shorts, and I’ll get another seat for the bike.” He looked me straight in the eyes. “Those are reasonable requests, and thank you for talking to me. It’s my job to take care of you, so you can do your job.”
“Oh, honey, you’re good. You must deal with a lot of crazy.” I took a few breaths. “I don’t know what came over me, but I feel the demon spirits of crazy leaving my body right now. Honestly, the seat of the bike isn’t bad. A little adjustment to the angle and I’ll be fine.”
“You’re being a good sport,” he said, which made me feel ridiculous for all the emotions I was having.
Around us, the people with clipboards and headsets suddenly got big-eyed and quiet. Dalton Deangelo had just come out of hair and makeup.
He waved my way. “Hey, Peaches. Surprise!”
I walked across the studio toward him, caught his hand in mine, and kissed his cheek graciously. “Thank you for doing this,” I breathed, acting like it had been my idea all along.
He seemed caught off guard. Good. Let him wonder, for a change.
CHAPTER 23
The male stand-in disappeared to go let light reflect off his surface elsewhere, and Dalton took his position near a lamp post with minimal instruction. I watched as he looked around at the lights and the camera, then made some tiny adjustments to his posture.
I thought we’d do a couple practice runs, but one of the crew snapped the black and white marker board to coordinate video and sound, and we began shooting. I chose to wear the ivory dress, which was sheer enough to offer more than the suggestion I was also wearing a pair of hot pink bra and panties. I don’t know what kind of moron would leave the house looking like that, but my artistic input was of little interest to anyone, so I pulled the wide neck of the dress to one side to show the strap, and rocked the look.
I had a microphone pack strapped to my back, and we had exactly one line of dialog each. Dalton was to say, “Hey,” and I was to bicycle by and say, “Hey, yourself.”
Yes, the people creating the script for this commercial must have stayed up all night working on that gem. I know from watching Mad Men that there’s an award in advertising called a Clio, and these writers were clearly in the running for one of those golden boys. (Please note: sarcasm.)
I shouldn’t be so hard on the script people, but, “Hey, yourself,” seemed like a shocking waste of my natural talent.
So, when the time came, I decided to improvise.
Dalton, standing by a lamp post: “Hey.”
Me, trying not to run into him with the bicycle: “Hey, Mr. Sexy Pants.”
The director, looking like he was about to poop in his hand and chuck it at me: “That’s fine, but loop around and we’ll try the line as written. Just to lock it down.”
As instructed, I steered the bicycle in a circle, around all the equipment and people, and over several cords taped down with gaffer tape.
I came up on Dalton so quickly, his line sounded more startled than sexy.
Dalton: “Hey!”
Me: “Wanna see my new tattoo?”
The director, actually pulling down his pants to poop in his hand (okay, not really): “Try again!”
I looped around, enjoying the sensation of riding a bicycle. It had been too long. I definitely had to get the old bike back on the road back in Beaverdale.
Dalton: “Hello, beautiful.”
Me: “You wish.”
This made everyone in the warm studio laugh, which, as you might imagine, only encouraged me.
The director threw his hands up, like he was asking God to grant him the serenity to not choke the shit out of everyone present.
We kept going, take after take.
Dalton: “What’s up, dream girl?”
Me: “Boy, I’m your worst nightmare.”
More laughter.
Another loop.
Dalton: “Excuse me, miss. Which way to the Eiffel Tower?”
Me: Laughing too hard to respond, then asking Mitchell, “Are we in Paris?”
Mitchell: “With the green screen, we can be anywhere.”
Another loop.
Dalton: “Hey.”
Me: “Hey, yourself.” (Coy smile and eyelash batting.) Okay, so the scripted lines weren’t that bad after all.
Dalton: “Peaches Monroe?”
Me: “Sorry, no autographs today.”
(Big laugh from the crew.)
And so it went for the next hour. I must have burned at least one cupcake pedaling in all those circles, so I increased my promised reward to a total of two cupcakes.
We switched to me in my underwear, and Mitchell discreetly powdered my inner thighs with something that smelled like peppermint.
The bright lights were battling with the air conditioner and winning, so being in nothing but my underwear was refreshing. After a quick hair and makeup touch-up, while the stand-ins did their job for a set change, I was back pedaling in circles and flirting with Dalton.
I’d had the opportunity to see him acting plenty, on my TV at home, but seeing him bring that intensity and energy out in person was impressive. I felt punchy toward the end of the session, but he was tireless.
We broke for lunch, and I caught the director smiling, which scared me. I found Mitchell and asked, “If frowning is good, what does smiling mean?”
“It means we’ll all go home an hour early. You were great, by the way.”
“Dalton was great.” I peered around as we nudged in amongst the crew along the craft services table. They had big stacks of Ritz crackers, and I’d never wanted a Ritz cracker more, but I also wanted to talk to Dalton about how magnificent he was.
“Where’s Dalton?” I asked.
“He’s gone for the day,” Mitchell said. “That was a wrap on his part.”