Part 13 (1/2)

”You could feed a small country for the price of that dress!”

”Babe. I give enough money away to feed some very large countries. Don't get all guilty on me. It's okay to spoil yourself every now and then. Just let me do this, okay?”

I pursed my lips and squinted at him, but didn't answer. He knew he was winning me over. Because honestly? I really freaking loved that dress.

”Besides, it's a big deal for Siobhan to see her stuff strutting down the red carpet. When you're asked who you're wearing, don't forget to add where you got it. Got it?”

Okay, I admit it. I was wrong. Fairytales do exist. I suddenly had a new appreciation for Pretty Woman, because all I could think at that moment was that I was Cinderf.u.c.kinrella. There he was like a kid on Christmas, so excited to unveil his surprise and I was yelling at him for it. What was I going to do for an encore? Kick him in the nards?

”Fine. Okay. Yes. Thank you, Trip. This is really an incredible thing to do. I'm blown away.”

He was smiling as bent his head to plant one on me, saying, ”You can show me how grateful you are later.”

Our lips met, and my fingers immediately went to the back of his still-damp hair. He slid his hands along my backside, pulled me tighter against his hips, and groaned against my mouth. I was feeling a little dizzy from his... enthusiasm, and wrapped my arms around his shoulders, raising up on my toes and pressing into him. Just as things started to get interesting, he tore his lips from mine with a grunt and said, ”s.h.i.+t, Lay-Lay. We'd better get dressed. The car will be here any minute.”

Trip was sitting in an armchair in a corner of the foyer when I met up with him. He looked positively drool-worthy, lounging out casually in his formalwear, his fingers against his temple, waiting for me.

I stood in front of his knees, gave him a twirl and asked, ”How do I look?”

He didn't break his pose, but appraised me with a scandalous perusal along my entire body. ”I don't know, babe. It hurts to look right at you. Gorgeous, in any case.”

Then he got up from his chair, wrapped an arm around my waist, and pulled me to him. ”Stop smiling at me like that. It makes me want to blow off this whole night and just take you back to bed.”

I almost let him.

I was a nervous wreck in the limo on the way to the Kodak Theatre. Trip kept his hand on my knee, and he must have been nervous, too, because his fingers never slipped any higher. The limo had a bar alcove with a few decanters of liquor, and I wondered how many times he'd taken advantage of such perks in the old days.

We made it to our destination in decent time, but had to idle in a queue of similar cars, waiting for our turn to pull up to the main entrance. That was the hardest part of the whole evening, I think. Just having to sit there and sweat it out, the raucous cheers of the crowd pouring through the closed windows in an oppressive deluge of sound. Despite the waning sun, the strobe-like flas.h.i.+ng of hundreds of cameras punctuated the sky. Up ahead, I could see the sentinel of monstrous Oscar statues, their heads glowing a fiery gold, lining the entrance to the red carpet.

Holy s.h.i.+t. I was really there. At the Academy Awards. Holy. Effing. s.h.i.+t.

Are you there, G.o.d? It's me, Layla. It's been a while, and I'm really sorry about that, but I would be eternally grateful and all that jazz if you could help me make it down this carpet without stumbling, sweating, or otherwise embarra.s.sing myself in any way, shape, or form. I'm guessing you've never given stilettos a shot, and let me tell you, you are one lucky dude. They are like spikey little torture devices designed solely to make your feet throb incessantly while mocking your lack of grace. And we both know grace has never been high on my list of positive attributes to begin with. So, yeah, any help you can give? Greatly appreciated. Oh. And please don't let me have a wardrobe malfunction and slip a nip. Muchas gracias. Amen.

My nerves were pretty well shot to begin with, but sitting there, crammed inside some claustrophobia-inducing limousine, waiting indefinitely for the night to get underway, was positively nail-biting. Plus, I was trying to forget that the last time I'd seen Trip emerge from a limo, my world fell apart.

But then I made myself remember that I had asked for this. I was the one who begged and pleaded with my boyfriend to bring me to this thing. And he was the one who actually had to get onstage and speak!

I took a few deep breaths, determined to lose my anxiety, and instead focused on making sure Trip was okay. ”How you doing over there, pal?”

Trip looked cool as a cuc.u.mber. So handsome in his tux. He gave me a calm smile, which would convince anyone else that a night like that was a common occurrence for him.

Finally, it was our turn.

Our door was opened, and the dull roar that I could hear from inside the car became a deafening cacophony of screeching and whistles and screams outside of it. Trip held his hand out to me, a smirk on his face, and I'm quite sure he was thinking about the last time I'd watched him escort someone out of a limousine. But he seemed much happier that this time, it was me. So was I. I made sure to exit the car while pressing my knees together, like Betty had warned me to do, and I utilized her tip so the cameras couldn't catch my hoo-hah in a Britney Spears shot.

It was still daylight outside, but that didn't stop my eyes from blinding from the flash of the million or so cameras aimed in our direction. All I wanted to do was get down the mile-long length of red carpet as quickly as possible, preferably without tripping and falling flat on my face. But every few steps, a photographer would call, ”Trip! Over here!” and I'd feel Trip's hand at the small of my back, nudging me in the direction of a camera. We'd been there for almost ten minutes, and I don't think we made it further than ten feet down the carpet.

Trip had prepared me for that on the ride over. He'd explained that he always let the paparazzi take all the shots they wanted when he was at a work-related event like this. He did it in the hopes that they'd leave him alone when he was just out and about, living his life.

Not that they did.

But Trip was holding up his end of the bargain, turning toward each and every camera down that runway, smiling and waving to each and every person that called his name.

He leaned his head into my ear and said, ”You're doing great. Only nine thousand more pictures to go.”

I looked at him and he gave me a quick wink, which made me laugh and helped me to relax. There I was, a panicky mess, and my boyfriend was just eating it up. He flashed that megawatt grin, the full-force smile that always knocked me out. Me, and everyone else on the planet.

About midway down the carpet, I gave his hand a quick squeeze before releasing him out into the wild. At my insistence, we'd made the plan ahead of time for me to fade into the background for a few moments, in order to let Trip be him for a while, soak up some of that spotlight on his own. After all, this was his world. I was simply along for the ride.

He was almost immediately intercepted by a certain up-and-coming starlet, and I recognized her from the tabloids as one of the many young women Trip had been linked with over the years. She was pencil-thin and beautiful, but had a big, poofy mop of hair that reminded me of Tina Yothers. The flirty way she talked with him confirmed that there was some history there. Thankfully, he kept the conversation to a minimum, and made his escape before she could tear off her Vera w.a.n.g and jump him right there on the red carpet.

He paused at the grandstand, listened to the screams from the women in the bleachers, and stopped for a few quick interviews with hosts from various entertainment shows.

At the end of the run, he reclaimed my hand again and we chatted with some of his industry friends who were gathered near the entrance. Introduction after introduction, I watched people's faces go from Who's this chick cras.h.i.+ng our party? to Apletely tongue-tied while being introduced to a particular silver-screen hottie who shall forever go nameless, in order to protect my cool. But I had the hugest crush on this actor growing up, and I kinda lost my s.h.i.+t to find myself standing there actually talking to him. Well, I guess talking is a relative term. I don't even know if I was speaking English to the poor guy as I babbled my h.e.l.los.

Finally, finally, we made our way inside the building, and I went to give Trip a look of relief. But his mouth was set in a firm line, a muscle twitching in his jaw, his eyes narrowed at me in a scathing glare.

”What?” I asked.

”Clooney? Really, Layla?”

His jealousy made me giggle as I answered, ”Sorry. I used to crush on him pretty hard when he was on Facts of Life. Did you ever notice that he had the same mullet as Jo Polnachek?” Trip didn't find that amusing, so I leaned up to whisper, ”But I'm kinda partial to blonds these days, anyway.”

That thawed him out. ”Good thing. Because he seems to be partial to anything with a pulse these days.”

I sat there with sweaty palms all night. It's not like I was the one waiting there, listening for my name to be called. But that s.a.d.i.s.tic camera shot when they showed every nominee as the envelope was being opened... Christ. I didn't know how they could stand it. And then to have to sit there with a smile still plastered to their faces when their name wasn't called? Ouch.

Presenter after presenter, envelope after envelope. All night, I was a nervous wreck.

I was even worse when it was Trip's turn to get up there. Someone had come down to our seats to escort Trip backstage, and I found myself sitting next to some hot young tuxedoed stud. I wondered how someone went about obtaining a job as seat-filler and debated asking him about it. But before I knew it, Trip was being announced.

”Ladies and gentlemen... Three-time Academy Award nominee and Oscar winner for Best Actor in a Leading Role... Please welcome... Trip Wiley...”

And there he was, amidst the applause, strutting out onto the stage and taking his place at the microphone, preparing to address his peers. The thing of it was, though, is that no one was among his peers. Trip Wiley had no peers.