Dazzled

  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.

  The black boxer briefs clung to him, showcasing his gorgeous arse, and bugger me if the front view wasn’t even more… impressive.

  The Da Silva woman raised a tweezered eyebrow as she glanced at Wendy, who seemed to be having trouble breathing. Yeah, I knew how that felt, but then again, she must have seen a load of naked or half naked men in her job.

  “If you could just stand in front of the mirror, Mr. Stephens,” said Da Silva.

  He did as she instructed but I knew he wouldn’t be looking at himself – Miles wasn’t like that.

  He was shifting from foot to foot as Wendy wielded her tape measure, starting with the length of his arms, his height from neck to waist and neck to hip, the width of his chest.

  “Allow an extra three-quarters of an inch there,” instructed Da Silva. “He’s still working with his personal trainer.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” said Wendy. Then she knelt down so her head was about level with Miles’ crotch. Lucky cow.

  He jumped as she tried to measure his inside leg.

  “Miles! Stand still,” I barked at him.

  His eyes looked at me piteously.

  “Her hands are cold,” he whispered.

  Wendy looked embarrassed and rubbed her fingers to try and warm them up. At least she wasn’t rubbing them on him to warm them up, although I wouldn’t have been surprised if she wanted to. I wouldn’t blame her – but I’d rip her arms off if she tried.

  Miles took a deep breath and stood stock still, but he jumped again when her hand brushed against his balls.

  That was no accident, bitch!

  My eyes narrowed as his widened, and I saw his familiar blush start to creep up his neck. And there was no doubt it wasn’t just a rush of blood to the head. I definitely saw his dick twitch.

  He stepped away quickly, utterly mortified, and his hands automatically swept down to cover himself up.

  “Sorry,” he muttered again. “Sorry.”

  Da Silva coughed. “It happens all the time.”

  I looked up at her. “It does?”

  She smiled at me, a surprisingly naughty expression on her face. “Yes.” Then she turned back toward Miles who looked as if he wanted to be buried on the spot where he stood, mostly naked and semi-erect. I mean, that’s how he stood – not how he wanted to be buried.

  “Do you dress left or right?” she said.

  “What?” said Miles.

  “What?” I said, at the same time.

  Da Silva tried to hide another smile. “Your suits will be bespoke, as I said, Mr. Stephens. When the trousers are tailored, we allow a little extra room on one side. It gives a better hang.”

  “Left,” he choked out, then almost ran behind the screen.

  I couldn’t blame him. It was what you’d call a pretty damn personal question.

  Brief Encounters

  Clare

  To be honest I was expecting the media training to be a bit of a joke, but it was actually quite useful – especially for someone like Miles, who seemed geneti
cally unable to edit what came out of his mouth.

  Of course, I teased him about it because he really needed to lighten up. I was worried about how stressed he seemed. The incident at the stylist hadn’t helped and he refused point-blank to discuss it. Yeah, well, I was thankful that I had my bits all tucked inside so that the only person who knew I was having a fantasy moment was myself.

  I really hoped Miles would be able to relax once filming started, or at least to be able to focus on the job he wanted to do instead of all the peripheral bullshit. But, I spoke too soon, because, like rock opera, it got worse after the interval.

  Miles’ cell phone rang while we were having breakfast the next morning: a bacon sandwich for me; fruit with yoghurt for him. Honestly! He was going to fade away.

  “Hi, Rhonda!”

  His eyes widened and his expression became ghostly. What had happened? I was on edge, waiting anxiously.

  Miles ended the call, but continued to sit at the table, staring with horror at something I couldn’t see.

  I counted to 15… well, almost five. I couldn’t bear it any longer.

  “Say something!”

  He shook his head, as if trying to wake from a bad dream.

  “The Press have got hold of the news that I’m going to play Nuriel and…”

  His voice was soft and halting.

  “And what?”

  “It’s all been pretty negative stuff. Apparently the message boards for fans of the book are all campaigning to get rid of me – there’s even a petition. Sixty thousand people have signed it already.”

  Holy shit! Sixty thousand?!

  “The studio chiefs are tripping out. They’re sending a car for me.” He paused. “Rhonda’s meeting me there. I think they’re going to fire me.”

  “Can they do that?”

  He shrugged. “Yeah.”

  Oh no, that was so unfair! I couldn’t say the words out loud because they wouldn’t help.

  “I’m coming with you. Don’t argue, Miles.”

  And when he didn’t, I knew he was really worried.

  As we waited on the front porch for a studio car, Miles’ anxiety was contagious. I was chewing my way through a third nail when Earl pulled up at the curb. I was grateful it was him – he had this really calm quality. It helped Miles. A bit.

  “Hey, Earl.”

  “Morning, Miles, Miss Clare. Something soothing to listen to?”

  He nodded and soon I recognized the sad, soulful notes of Miles Davis playing ‘I Fall in Love Too Easily’, drifting through the speakers. I wasn’t sure it was music designed to lift the spirits, but Miles leaned back on the seat and closed his eyes. I said nothing.

  Earl didn’t speak either, just nodded in time to the music.

  When we arrived, a pretty assistant hustled us up to see the studio head – some guy called Hyde. I mean, she was practically running and looked almost terrified. Whatever was cooking, they were taking it seriously.

  As we stepped out of the lift, angry voices echoed along the corridor.

  “This is a complete fuck up! How in the name of all that’s holy did the Press get hold of…”

  A woman’s voice: “It was your genius idea to have him on the red carpet with Lilia. What did you think was going to happen? You wanted this to happen – test the water, see how the fans would react… Well, now you know!”

  The man: “That’s irrelevant.”

  The woman: “The hell it is! I’m not riding the studio’s shit list because of you. We have to manage the situation.”

  The man: “Fuck that! Manage it how?”

  The woman: “Get the Press onside. Look, I can get him on Ellen tonight.”

  The man: “He’s not ready for that! Have you read the feedback from Gayl Lemon? He’s a fucking disaster. We’ll have to recast.”

  The woman: “Give me 24 hours to turn this around.”

  The man: “I know you think you can walk on water but…”

  The woman: “Twenty-four hours. At this point you’ve got nothing to lose.”

  The man: “So help me…”

  The woman: “Ah, just grow a pair, wouldja?!”

  Miles’ face was grim. The assistant tapped on the door nervously and the voices paused.

  “What?” yelled the man, stress dripping from the single syllable.

  The assistant opened the door warily as if afraid she might need to duck quickly.

  “Mr. Stephens and his friend are here, sir.”

  “Friend? Who the fuck?!”

  Miles surprised me by striding in purposefully. I trailed behind, wondering if I should wait in the corridor. But no: Miles needed me.

  He surprised me again, his voice was cool and steady. “Mr. Hyde, Rhonda: you wanted to see me.”

  “Who’s your friend, Miles?” said Rhonda, icily.

  Instead he turned to me.

  “Clare, this is Rhonda Weitz, my agent, and Donald Hyde, the head of Dark Moon Productions: my friend and assistant, Clare Milton.”

  You could have knocked me down with a feather – he sounded so calm!

  “I see,” said Rhonda, her eyes measuring me. I was sure I was glaring at her. “Well, we have something of a situation here, Miles. The Press have gotten a hold of the news that you’re playing Nuriel – and they want your balls on a plate.”

  “But why?” I couldn’t help butting in.

  She spoke slowly, as if to a particularly dim child, while her glacial eyes remained fixed on Miles. “Because he’s a Brit and the role is American; because fans have a preconceived idea of how Nuriel should look – and the photos that the papers have gotten hold of are less than flattering.”

  For the first time I caught sight of the newspapers scattered across Hyde’s desk. Miles blanched when he read the headlines:

  ‘Back off, Brit!’

  ‘Miles Behind!’

  ‘He’s No Angel!’

  There was an old publicity still from one of Miles’ minor theatrical roles – oh, they would pick the one where he played a drug addict.

  “So the sitrep is this, Miles…” Rhonda’s tone was businesslike and unemotional, as if she was a vet talking to the owner of a dog she was about to put down. “We have to manage the negative output. First, we’re going to get the author of Dazzled to throw her support behind you; and secondly, I’ve been able to get you a slot on Ellen. Charm her, which you will, and half the battle is won.”

  “Does the author really support me?” Miles said, quietly.

  “I have no idea,” Rhonda replied, bluntly, “but she will. Don’t worry about that – I’ll take care of her. Right now you have to prepare for Ellen.”

  “Who’s she?”

  “Jeez, Miles! Are you really that clueless?” she snapped, her calm mask falling away. “Ellen de Generes’ talk show is one of the most watched in the continental US of A. We’re talking 2.74 million viewers with more on the internet later.” She took a breath and spoke in a more measured tone. “Filming will be at Burbank this evening. And Miles, it goes out live, so don’t fuck up.”

  My stomach lurched unpleasantly. How the hell was Miles going to cope with that? How would anyone? His face looked blank with shock. I thought I was going to be sick on his behalf. What were friends for, right?

  He looked at Rhonda. “What do you want me to do?”

  A small smile chipped her concrete expression. “Suited and booted, Miles. I’ll have Bradley send over another outfit. Now, we need to run through the probable questions.”

  Miles

  In less than ten minutes, I was going to be going out on national television – American national television. I was so far beyond stunned that it seemed incredible my lungs continued to fill with air and blood still circulated in my veins.

  I’d spent the day being prepped by Rhonda and the studio’s PR team. Clare had been holding my hand, metaphorically speaking, but even she looked dazed and had little to say other than repeating the words, “You’ll be great.” I wished she was a better ac
tress.

  A suit and tie had been delivered in record time and a new white shirt still had razor-edged packing creases in it. Some poor gofer had shined my shoes and the hair and makeup artists had been summoned to ‘gloss him up’, as Rhonda so frankly put it.

  I even met the author of Dazzled. Laura Dorien was kind. Rhonda introduced us.

  “So, Laura, I’d like you to meet your Nuriel, Miles Stephens. Miles, this is the fabulous bestselling author, Laura Dorien.”

  We shook hands and Rhonda left us alone ‘to talk’.

  Laura smiled pleasantly, although her eyes swept over me first. Jeez, I couldn’t get used to women doing that so blatantly. It was embarrassing. But I guessed that in her case at least, it was to see if I measured up to the character she’d created. Eventually, she nodded so I supposed I passed the test, whatever it was.

  “So, Miles, have you read Dazzled?”

  That was even more embarrassing.

  “Um, no, sorry. I’ve read the script though.” Mostly.

  She inclined her head to one side, looking neither upset nor surprised.

  “And did you like it?”

  “Um… yeah… it was… great. Really great.”

  She smiled.

  “It’s okay, it’s not really written for your demographic,” she said kindly, patting my knee. “Well, here’s the outline: Nuriel is an angel who believes that he can easily influence people to do good. God is offended by his arrogance and to punish him for his presumption, God sends him to Earth to do exactly what he said – influence people to do good. Of course, Nuriel finds it much harder than he thought he would. He finds people fickle, complicated, hard to understand – especially coming from a being who has never suffered hunger, pain or loss. And then…” her eyes crinkled in a smile, “you fall in love with a girl – and that’s where the trouble really starts.”

  She talked me through the rest of the main points of the plot and my character. She understood how I felt, I think, because she said her own sudden fame had felt like a physical assault – her words – and she’d had negative press, too.

  “I’m really sorry the book’s fans have given you a hard time, Miles. I won’t kid you – you’ll have a lot of expectations to live up to. And, after all, it’s not going to be easy to play the perfect being, is it? But if it makes you feel any better, I saw what you did in the audition and now, having met you in person – I think you’ll be perfect.”