Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 81401 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 407(@200wpm)___ 326(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 81401 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 407(@200wpm)___ 326(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
“I know. C’mon.” Darian puts his arm around me and leads me to the sound stage door where Caleb Gilbert is standing and taking up most of the space with his hulking frame. Caleb is an executive from the record label who tells us what to do and when. His job is to make sure the label doesn’t suffer, and I have a feeling he’s none too happy with Van and me right now.
“Zara, it’s nice of you to show up.”
Mentally I’m flipping him off. Physically, I’m smiling as brightly as possible while my eyes are throwing daggers into his.
“Traffic was a bitch,” I tell him. I feel Darian tap me on my back. It’s his subtle way of telling me to be nice. I cock my eyebrow at Caleb and motion toward the inside of the studio. Obviously, if I’m late, you’d think he would want to get started.
When he finally does move, it isn’t without great effort and a dramatic sigh. His antics aren’t lost on me. He’s a diva. I’m a diva. It’s what makes us money. He’s also a huge fan of Van’s and probably feels like I’m overreacting.
As soon as Darian and I step in, there are gasps and murmurs from the galley of extras that will be in the video. Funnily enough, the song is very West Side Story with a girl falling for a guy from the wrong side of the tracks. The dancers are supposed to tell the story through their interpretation while Reverend Sister sings in the background. I tried to get the label to agree that we didn’t need to be on set for this to happen, that the dancers could perform to a recorded version, but the big wigs wanted live. Every production nowadays has to be live, and that can be exhausting for an artist.
The personal assistant on set intersects with us and pushes Darian and me toward the dressing room. The closer I get, the more stalled my steps become. Knowing Van is behind that door really does a number on my psyche and I’m not sure I can handle seeing him.
“It’s okay,” Darian whispers in my ear. “He’s not in there.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah. I asked Caleb to make sure you had your space before the shoot started. He’s here though, Zara, and he looks like shit.”
We stop right before the door marked “dressing room” and I turn to face Darian. Slowly I lift my sunglasses so he can see that I too look like shit. This past month hasn’t been all sunshine and rainbows for me.
Darian sighs and nods toward the door. “Let’s go get ready.”
I’m sure in the back of his mind he thinks that I’ll need extra time in the chair to eliminate the dark bags and puffy eyes. He’s right to think that. As much as I wish I could say my nights have been filled with sleep and I haven’t cried since the day I caught Van, I’d be lying.
I’m trying to remain strong, but it’s hard. Van is the only man I have ever been with. He was my first kiss, my first love. . . I gave him everything and only asked that he love me in return. Lately, I’ve been wondering what the triggers were or what they might have been. We didn’t fight, rarely argued over anything that would cause either of us to seek solace in another person, and genuinely loved spending our time together or at least I thought we did, but clearly I was mistaken.
The make-up artist and hair stylist get to work once I sit down. Oddly enough I find this very relaxing. Neither of them says anything about my disarrayed look. Probably fearing they’d get fired if they were to open their mouths and ask what the hell have I been not doing to myself. These women are professionals though and can handle anything that sits in their chair.
Some rank-smelling cream is put on my face, right under my eyes. The scent cleans out my nasal passage rather quickly. I don’t even have to ask her what it is. I’ve been a victim of bags under my eyes before and already know she’s put hemorrhoid cream on me to curb the swelling. I tell myself to suck it up. I knew this shoot was going to happen and I could’ve prepared better.
I’m poked, prodded, and painted to look somewhat human and more like the Zara Phillips that everyone knows. The one that showed up today is not how I usually leave the house and know I need to make a conscious effort to be better about that. I can’t let Van have this much control over me.
Looking at myself in the mirror, the girls stand beside me, marveling at the job they’ve done. In a matter of seconds, they turned me back into the person that I’m used to being. They brought life to face and hair with a few strokes of their personal magic.