Girl of My Dreams

  DEDICATION

  As always, I’d like to thank my husband, Good Paul, for his encouragement and support, as well as my good friend, Jeanne Rybarcyzk, who helped me discover Chicago-North RWA, the best critique group I could ever want.

  Special thanks also go to Chicago-North RWA, particularly members Deb Rittle, Margot Justes, June Sproat, Blythe Gifford, Christina Fixemer, Ruth Kaufman, Pat White and Jennifer Stevenson, for their help and encouragement.

  Also, thank you, Libby McKinmer, for being the first editor of this book.

  Lastly, thanks, Stephen Walker, for your cover art genius.

  © 2011 Mary A. Gruner as Morgan Mandel

  Cover art licensed through istock.com, and produced by Stephen Walker of SR Walker Designs.

  Published: November, 2011 (Second Edition)

  Originally published, 2008

  Choice One Publishing Co.

  P.O. Box 1993

  Arlington Heights, IL 60006-1993

  Email: admin@choiceonepublishing.com

  Website: http://choiceonepublishing.com

  Author website: http://www.morganmandel.com

  This is a work of fiction. All characters in this book have no existence outside the author’s imagination and have no relation to anyone bearing the same name or names. Places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  GIRL OF MY DREAMS

  By

  MORGAN MANDEL

  CHAPTER ONE

  “NOT THAT.”

  Groaning, Hollywood producer Blake Caldwell brushed a strand of black hair from his eyes. The latest news from his assistant, Jillian Baker, was grim. Scores of contestants from his premier television show had rushed from rehearsal and were crammed into the ladies room upchucking.

  “I’ve called an ambulance. Do you want me to go with them?” she asked.

  Her voice was muffled. He could hear toilets flushing in the background, along with other unmentionable sounds he didn’t care to identify.

  “Can you give me a head count? How many are left?”

  “Wait a minute. I’ll check.”

  Blake’s heart pounded. His shirt stuck to his back as he awaited the verdict. A few days ago, before the power outages, he’d had time to spare, but now he was up against the wall. It was two hours before the audience shoot. The stage and script were set for twenty-five contestants. Could he deliver them?

  “Twenty-six are gone between the originals and alternates,” was the answer.

  Fresh perspiration sprang to Blake’s forehead. “We’re one short. We’ve got to do something.”

  The ratings were down. Mecca was dying. It could not survive another season without a hit. Neither could he. He’d sunk time, money and effort into this project. The boys upstairs had given it a go, only if he’d produce and direct it. This was his chance to prove he could make it without the connections of his actress-mother Barbara Branton. A foul-up would turn him into a has-been at the age of thirty.

  “Blake, should I go with them?” Jillian asked again.

  Her voice was alert and in crisis mode.

  “You’re not a doctor. I need you here. We have a show to run.”

  Almost as soon as he’d hung up, he found Jillian standing before him. Through all the commotion, her hair was still pushed back from her face and her glasses perched firmly on her nose. He had to hand it to her for keeping her cool.

  “I’ve called food management and alerted them of the situation. They’ve closed the cafeteria,” she said.

  “Good. We don’t need anyone else sick. The coordinators were hit, too. What about the survivors?”

  “They’re already in Makeup.”

  Blake rubbed his chin. “Fine. Now, all we need is number twenty-five.”

  Thinking, he stared straight ahead. He had a feeling the answer was right in front of his nose, if he could only see it. His loyal assistant stood at attention, ready to spring into action. Hard-working, intuitive, creative, Jillian was a miracle worker. She always came through for him, but this time he couldn’t fault her if she failed.

  A gleam flashed in her eyes. “I’ll do it. I’ve read the routine. It’s only one episode. He won’t pick me. Then I’ll be through.”

  He stared at Jillian. She wasn’t as striking as his hand-picked contestants or their twin-like alternates, but certainly she was no dog. Sure, her suit was circa 1980 and her shoes looked like they could stick out of the bottom of a nun’s habit, if nuns wore habits any more. Okay, so Jillian wasn’t the world’s greatest dresser. Wardrobe could fix that. She had a certain charm, was over twenty-one and legal. Ditch the Coke-bottle glasses, pat on some makeup and she’d pass. But…

  “It won’t work. For one thing, there’s the employment clause. Mecca employees can’t enter.” Blake stood up. “I don’t have time to round up another contestant. Can you handle it? Just grab a good-looking, legal-aged girl from the lot. Give her the quick sell. Play up the part about hooking a billionaire. We’ll dummy down the routine, stick her last in line and let her take her cue from the others. Can I count on you?”

  “You’ll have your contestant,” she said.

  Something a bit off kilter flickered behind her glasses, then disappeared. Blake didn’t have time to analyze it. He had a show to run.

  CHAPTER TWO

  ENTRY FORM IN hand, Jillian swung out of the revolving door of Mecca Studios, then right back in. She couldn’t do it. She couldn’t grab just anyone off the streets to be a contestant, not on such short notice.

  Mecca was counting on Girl of My Dreams to avert bankruptcy. If the series failed, not only would Blake lose his credibility, but the remaining employees would lose their jobs. He might not realize it, but at this point, Blake needed a contestant more than an assistant.

  Her part in the show’s preparation was done. She’d gone over the script, knew the routine and was best qualified to fill in. In all the commotion, Blake must have forgotten she wasn’t really an employee of Mecca. The temporary agency paid her, not the studio.

  She’d hoped to be hired permanently when the assignment was over. Now that would never happen, nor would she see Blake again. That would hurt.

  The phone on her waistband rang, and she reached for the ear bud.

  “Any luck?” Blake asked.

  He sounded worried. She didn’t blame him, but soon his troubles would be over.

  “I’ve got someone. As we speak, she’s on her way to Hair and Makeup,” Jillian said, forcing a note of cheer to her voice.

  “You’re a lifesaver. See you after the show. Oh, and what’s her name?”

  “Veronica, uh…Baker, same last name as mine.”

  Jillian clicked the phone off before he could ask if the girl was any relation to her. With any luck, he wouldn’t call back. To be sure, she’d better switch off the phone.

  When he discovered she’d defied him, he’d not be happy. A shiver of apprehension ran through her at the thought.

  It was the right thing to do. Blake would realize it later and be eternally grateful.

  Squaring her shoulders, she grabbed the pen nestled in her hair. One of the lobby chairs was empty and she headed toward it. With barely a glance at what she was filling in, she completed the application and signed all the papers with her full legal name, including the contract, release and addendums Blake had specified to make sure the studio was protected against contestants who got cold feet.

  Biting her lip to keep it from trembling, she took a last look at the signature that would change her life. She’d done it and there was no turning back.

  No more behind-the-scenes madness of pulling a television show together. No more walking into the studio to find Blake’s brilliant blu
e eyes red-rimmed from lack of sleep and his begging-to-be touched raven hair rumpled because he’d pulled his hands through it. No more staying late Fridays while he used her as a sounding board to brainstorm over pizza.

  She’d miss his wit and his glances of appreciation when she offered a suggestion, along with so many other things she’d grown to love about him in the last six months. She dare not think of them all, or she’d cry.

  Whether or not the gamble paid off, she’d never lay eyes on Blake again. That in itself would almost kill her, but it wouldn’t be half as bad as knowing she’d failed him in his time of need if she didn’t do this.

  Blake must get his golden opportunity. The studio must be saved, even if it meant sacrifice on her part.

  “I wish there were some other way,” she said, as she pressed the down button for Hair and Makeup.

  She disliked calling attention to herself, yet soon she’d let strangers examine every pore and treat her like a lab specimen. And that was just the beginning. The worst was yet to come when she faced the cameras. Jillian shuddered, but her feet did not falter as she stepped off the elevator.

  Jillian’s duties as Blake’s administrative assistant had kept her removed from the other departments. Blake had made the contacts, while she typed his observations and directions, formatted the scripts, fielded telephone calls and did whatever she could do to lighten his load. Now she’d witness the world she’d read about.

  As she stepped into the Hair and Makeup Department, she glanced with interest at the mass of hairpieces, brushes, lipsticks, blushes and other beautification paraphernalia. The studio certainly didn’t skimp. Should the array be found wanting, she’d heard of a warehouse crammed with additional miracle aids at the back of the lot.

  Jillian stepped up to the spiked hair receptionist. “I’m Veronica Baker, the fill-in for Girl of My Dreams.”

  “Right this way, Ms. Baker. Blake Caldwell himself called. We know all about you.”

  That was debatable, but Jillian would not belabor the point.

  Immediately, a tall man with a high pompadour introduced himself as Larry and pointed to a vinyl seat facing a bright mirror. “Sit.”

  Jillian sat.

  “These must go.”

  In one fell swoop he lifted off Jillian’s glasses and thrust them onto the counter. A helpless feeling washed over her. She’d suffered from rotten vision since high school and never took off her specs, not even for a glass of water in the middle of the night.

  Everything looked fuzzy. She opened her mouth to protest, but then shut it. The purpose was to pass inspection, so she’d comply.

  In a blind fog, she felt the stylist’s deft hands unwind her carefully constructed French braid. She kind of made out the kinky strands of her long, brown hair before a rubbery gown was thrust over her navy blue suit.

  She was whisked to a sink. Spray splashed onto her head. If she weren’t so wound up, the movement of his hands caressing her scalp would feel soothing.

  Back at the mirror, Larry attacked the strands, pushing them here and there, peering at Jillian’s hairline. She didn’t envy him his task. After numerous attempts to gain control over her tangled masses, she’d given up and confined them to braids and barrettes.

  To his credit, the hair stylist didn’t seem daunted. He even hummed as he went along, clipping and examining.

  All of a sudden the humming stopped. Larry stared at Jillian’s hair. He must have hit a roadblock. She could console him, but he had the easy part. She was the sacrificial lamb who would step in front of the cameras.

  “You’re done,” he said, as if she were some sort of roast.

  Jillian didn’t have time to step closer to the mirror to see. She raced down the hall to the next station, where a tiny, pixie-haired woman named Tina ordered her to remove her shoes and nylons. Trying not to allow passers-by a show, Jillian wriggled out of her pantyhose.

  “Sit,” the woman said.

  Jillian stifled a nervous giggle at hearing the same order as before. This had to be how a dog felt.

  The pixie grabbed Jillian’s feet, thrust them onto a wooden stool and sawed at her toenails with a file. Another woman marched into the room with a bowl of liquid and dunked Jillian’s fingernails. A balding makeup man named Tony plucked and powdered Jillian’s face.

  This was more attention than she’d received in her life. Spending a lot of time on her appearance had not been a priority. For the past year, she’d been too busy anticipating Blake’s needs to bother with how she looked. Before that, she’d served as caretaker for her invalid mother. During that bittersweet time, appearance had not been important.

  “You must notta frown. That will ruina the effect,” Tony said.

  Jillian smoothed over her face and stared ahead, as lip liner and gloss were applied. After a year she’d become adept at hiding the loneliness she felt whenever she thought of the loss of her mother.

  The phone rang next to Tony. He grabbed it, then hung up. “Fifteen minutes to show time. Getta over to Wardrobe,” he said in a high voice.

  Jillian sped around the corner and down the hall. At Wardrobe, she watched, bemused, as workers scurried about, grabbing and sliding garments back and forth on the metal racks. “We’re running out of time. Take off your clothes,” a gargantuan black woman named Selena said.

  “Not here. Don’t you have a room for that?”

  “Dearie, you ain’t got nothing I haven’t seen.”

  “Not on me you haven’t,” Jillian said, not budging.

  Selena heaved a gigantic sigh. “If you want, you can use the dressing room. I’ll measure you in your underwear.”

  “Thank you.”

  After the measuring process was completed, the woman disappeared, then instantly reappeared. “Thirty-six C pushup bra, size six bikini briefs, size six standard issue silk dress. Get to it,” the woman said.

  “Five minutes until show time. Where’s the contestant?” a voice asked on the other side of the door.

  “Get a move on. Do you want me to help you?” Selena said.

  “No, I can manage,” Jillian said, standing in the bikini briefs and fumbling with the snaps of the pushup bra.

  “I’m coming in. Time’s short.”

  Jillian had just managed to arrange her breasts in cups that barely contained them, when Selena barged into the dressing room and slipped the teal silk dress over Jillian’s head from behind.

  It was tight quarters, but Jillian was close enough to the mirror to notice an awful lot of bosom bulging out. There had to be a button missing.

  A shriek interrupted her inspection. “Shoes. Quick, what size?”

  “Seven-and-a-half, AA.”

  “AA? No, it can’t be. Not now. It’s too late. You’ll have to wear mediums with straps. Sit on the bench outside. I’ll be right back.”

  While Selena lumbered off, Jillian plunked herself down. The respite felt good, but was short-lived. Soon the wardrobe mistress reappeared, holding a pair of three-inch high gilded sandals. As soon as they were strapped onto Jillian’s feet, Selena said, “You’re wanted backstage now.”

  She wobbled through the maze of corridors and arrived backstage out of breath. The area was a mass of confusion, with cameramen, light men, grips, all volleying for position. It was a wonder any room was left for the contestants.

  The preparations had been so frenetic Jillian hadn’t had time to become frightened. Now the enormity of what she was about to do hit her. She wobbled and almost tripped on a nearby cord.

  You can do this. It’s for Blake, she told herself. Yes, but he doesn’t want you here.

  A shiver of apprehension raced up and down her spine. Blake could be ruthless when crossed. She always followed his orders, yet this time she’d deliberately disobeyed him.

  The die was cast. The contestants were lining up for the grand entrance. Turning back would destroy the show.

  Jillian stepped into the last position. As she did so, the girl in front of her turned and
stared.

  “Do I know you?” she asked.

  “I don’t believe so,” Jillian said. She couldn’t quite place the girl, but it was hard to tell for sure without her glasses.

  She should be safe. Her only contact with the contestants had been in the bathroom when she’d counted the victims. In the nauseating commotion, it seemed unlikely anyone had made a connection between her and the producer. Even if they did, it shouldn’t matter. She’d never been an actual Mecca employee in the first place.

  Frowning, the girl turned back.

  “Heads up, girls. Is number twenty-five back there somewhere?”

  Jillian’s heart skittered as she heard Blake’s voice from up front. With the coordinators down, he must have come here first, before slipping over to the control room. That meant he’d be in direct contact with her any minute.

  “Yes, I’m here,” she answered gruffly, trying to disguise her voice.

  “Listen. Don’t be nervous. Just do whatever the contestants in front of you do and you’ll be fine. Okay?”

  “No problem,” she said.

  “Damn, what’s wrong with those lights? I ordered pink,” he shouted.

  A whirring sound signaled the parting of the curtains. It was too soon. She needed time. Her heart fluttered and her nerves screamed as adrenaline rushed through her. She dug her heels into the floor to keep from bolting.

  If only she were like the contestants in front of her. They were alive with expectancy, primed and eager to snag the handsome billionaire.

  She couldn’t adopt their attitude when, at any moment, the wrath of Blake might be upon her. Better not dwell on that. It was no time for regrets. She had to calm down and concentrate on more important things, like not falling or making some other faux pas during the taping. Suddenly, everything Jillian had ever learned about the show fled from her mind to be replaced by terror. One by one, the hopefuls inched forward, until she was the only one left.

  “Veronica Baker. Your turn. Smile pretty,” Blake said, with his head bent over the clipboard, as he gestured her forward.