Jane Mills smiled into the sea of flashing lights. Her famously plump lips pulled back to reveal gleaming teeth that shone with blinding whiteness. The breeze stirred as she glided down the red carpet, and she turned at just the right moment to toss her chestnut hair into a rippling wave as she looked over her shoulder at the barking photographers all praying that they got the best shot. She could hear the voices of the TV reporters, and she tried to play her part by providing a charming backdrop for their commentary.

“And of course it’s Jane Mills, who is no stranger to the red carpet,” gushed a commentator standing at the edge of the velvet rope. “She’s third generation Hollywood royalty — fourth if you believe the rumors about Clark Gable and her great-grandmother, socialite and hotel heiress Eleanor Drake. She’s here tonight in hopes of bringing home her first Best Actress award. Despite a long career notable for acclaimed performances, she has yet to take home the coveted prize. But an Oscar may be within reach thanks to her work in Echoing Clues, in which she played a schizophrenic police officer who used information from the voices in her head to help her solve a murder. She is wearing a spectacular champagne-colored gown this evening, which we hear she designed herself in collaboration with Vera Wang. Jane looks absolutely regal tonight, a fitting image for the Queen of Hollywood.”

You ain’t just whistlin’ Dixie, thought Jane, sucking in her stomach just a bit further. She broadened her smile as she relaxed her eyes to avoid looking over enthusiastic, just like she’d practiced in the mirror. She flirted one last time with the rippling wall of lights, knowing that her every move showed off the sparkling crystals sewn into the swirling mermaid-tailed gown. Chiffon and tulle rustled. Shutters snapped. Fans cried her name, begging for autographs from beyond the barricade that separated the mere mortals from the red carpet walked by gods. She turned to glide into the Kodak Theater.

An ocean of famous, smiling faces awaited her inside. Her feet seemed to hover an inch over the carpet as she moved slowly toward the stage, waving at her friends and colleagues. There it was, waiting for her. A golden statuette of a featureless man holding a sword stood on the podium, glittering in the stage lights. The crowd rose to its feet and burst into applause as she raised her arms toward the statuette.

And tripped and fell. She tumbled, snapping her ankle as her six-inch heels failed to support her. Satin split with a horrible low ripping sound, and Jane fell with a spectacular face plant to the red carpet. Swarovski crystals scattered on the ground like raindrops. The reporters swarmed in, and security made no move to rescue her. As she rolled onto her back, blood spurting from her nose and her cellulite and corset fully exposed by the torn dress, she choked out a cry for help. But it was drowned in the rising din of camera shutters and laughter.

Jane sat up in bed with a low cry. Her heart was pounding, and cold sweat dripped down her back, making her silk pajamas cling to her skin. In her dark bedroom, all she could hear were the pulsing song of crickets outside, her heavy breathing, and the faint, distant yelp of a coyote calling down from Griffith Observatory. She breathed in and out, and a racking sob shook her. She fumbled toward the bedside table for her mobile. It wasn’t there. Her hands grasped wildly until she knocked her lamp from the bedside stand. It smashed against the wall, scattering broken glass across the carpet.

“Great,” she hissed. Jane crawled to the foot of the bed and reached down to the floor for her satin dressing gown. She reached for the smashed lamp’s twin on the other side of the bed and flicked it on. Fluffy pink slippers waited for her on the safe side of the bed, and she cut a wide path away from the broken glass as she circled around to her bathroom.

She undressed quickly, tossing her pajamas to the floor, and searched for a towel before remembering that she’d sent them all to be washed again because they hadn’t smelled like lavender. With a huffy sigh she snatched a 500 count Egyptian cotton hand towel that was really only meant to be used for decorative purposes and soaked it with warm water. Jane wiped away every bead of sweat as if it were infected with plague. She shivered from the rush of cold that crept over her skin, but washing the sweat off was critical to prevent the shame of back zits at the awards tomorrow.

After careful scrutinization of her skin to be sure the threat of blemishes was gone, she tied her robe around her and returned to look for the phone. Her mobile wasn’t anywhere. She tossed her sheets and threw half a dozen pillows on the floor. She tiptoed around the shards of broken glass, finding a safe place to kneel beside the bed. Her fingers ran gingerly across the plush carpeting underneath her mattress until her hand snarled into an enormous clump of dust and lint. “Eew! Gross!” she cried aloud, recoiling from the bed. She pulled the dark snarls from her fingers and tossed them on the floor.

And then she remembered. With dignified calm, she rose, strolled to the opposite wall and retrieved her mobile from the floor. It didn’t appear to be damaged, despite the fact that she’d thrown it as hard as she could after ending her last telephone conversation. At least the salesman wasn’t lying about the “rugged yet sleek” construction, she thought with bitter satisfaction. Tapping the speed dial, Jane fidgeted impatiently as she was made to wait. The phone rang six times. It went to voice mail. She dialed again, and this time it only rang twice before being answered with unacceptable gruffness.

“Hruh.”

“I need an appointment with Dr. Floyd tomorrow morning, and a facial, mud bath, and massage at the spa tomorrow afternoon.”

Her assistant, Barb, made a sound that could have been a sigh of exasperation, but if it was she managed to disguise it as clearing her throat.

“By tomorrow, did you mean later on today, Wednesday, or do you mean tomorrow as in Thursday?” Barb asked in a raspy monotone.

“What time is it?”

“Four thirty-seven.”

“Well, I want in to see Dr. Floyd as early as possible. If he’s booked up have him come in early. I won’t be going back to sleep, so you can work that out right away,” Jane insisted. She put on her slippers and flicked on the lights. “I’m going to need my breakfast in forty-five minutes, and no coffee today. Instead I’d like a lemon balm tisane.”

“High protein breakfast, or carb up?”

“Oatmeal with raisins, no brown sugar — agave syrup instead.”

“Ok, so I have oatmeal—”

“With raisins and agave syrup.”

“With raisins and agave syrup and a lemon balm tea—”

“Tisane.”

“Tisane,” Barb continued without pause, “at five twenty-two, and Dr. Floyd’s scheduling service will be available beginning at 6:00 a.m. — I’ll try to get you an appointment as early as possible, but it’s Saturday.”

“So?”

“Dr. Floyd is only in the office from Monday through Friday, from 9:00 a.m. to — ,” Barb explained, but Jane cut her off.

“He’ll see me if he knows it’s me calling.”

“I’ll be sure to clarify.”

Jane paused for a moment. “Do you,” she inquired in the most casual tone she could muster, “know what Ed’s schedule is for today?”

“I believe he’s still awake working on the script,” Barb said, in a tone that betrayed neither truth nor lies. “And he’s cleared the day tomorrow to try to finish the pages they need for shooting on Monday.”

Jane rose and went to the window. The light in the guest house was on, faintly streaming toward the house through palm fronds and ferns. She could detect no movement inside the house, although her attention was caught for a moment when one of the bushes near the guest house shook with sudden violence, and was still. It wasn’t unusual for the Santa Ana winds to be strongest just before dawn, but it was the wrong time of the year for the hot, fierce winds to blow.

“That’s great,” she said, her voice landing on a flat tone. “I’m going to start working out so I will need breakfast in forty-five minutes.”

“Forty-five minutes. In your room or downstairs?”

“Downstairs. Because there is broken glass, and there are dust bunnies under my bed,” Jane whined as her voice rose a few notches in volume and pitch.

“I’m sorry?”

“Dust bunnies. Giant ones. And broken glass,” Jane huffed, irritated that Barb failed to understand her the first time.

“I’ll wake the staff as soon as we’re off the phone,” Barb responded, far too calmly for Jane’s taste. Jane hung up and put her face in her hands. No matter how much you pay, she thought, you can’t pay them to care.

© 2009 Stella Quinn