Before Carm could respond to him, though, Philip’s cell phone buzzed and he slipped it from his pocket. He glanced at the screen and looked apologetically at Cassandra. “I have to take this.”
“The music business is twenty-four/seven.” Cassandra rolled her eyes toward the ceiling and smiled.
“Well,” Carmen said when her dad had left the room, “so far so good.”
“You think?” her mother replied.
“I was being sarcastic.”
“Give him a chance,” Cassandra said gently. “Believe it or not, he does trust you.”
Drew reached out and moved the flowers to the antique credenza behind him. “There,” he said, “now I can see the future star of The Fame Game.”
“Seriously, you guys,” Carmen said. “You have to help me out on this one. Be, like, supportive.” Help me show the world I’m not Little CC anymore, she thought but didn’t say.
In a moment, Philip returned to the table. As he tucked his phone back into his pocket, Cassandra shot him a pointed look.
Philip smiled at his only daughter. “Carm? You were saying something about PopTV?”
Carmen took a deep breath and began. Again. “Trevor Lord is doing a show about people trying to make it in Hollywood. He said he needed a talented actress, and that I was his first and only choice. He said the network probably wouldn’t even pick up the show unless I agreed to do it.” She’d felt a rush of pride when her new manager (her dad made her get a manager after she got cast in The Long and Winding Road) told her that part. She knew it probably wasn’t true; she’d seen her father stretch the truth before, hadn’t she? That’s just how it went in Hollywood. You told people what they needed to hear so they’d do what you wanted them to do. “Daddy, I said I’d take the part and I really want you to be happy for me.”
“But why on earth do you want to do a reality show?” Philip looked genuinely perplexed. He exchanged another unreadable glance with Cassandra. “Those girls have no values. No talent! You’re not like them. You’re an actress.”
“I told you,” she said, feeling herself getting upset, “it’s not like that.” She hated when her father used his I’m disappointed in you tone. “It’s about people trying to become successful doing what they love. It’s a good opportunity.” Carmen twisted her watch around her wrist.
“For what? To go to clubs and get in fistfights?”
“That’s Jersey Shore,” Drew clarified helpfully. “This will be more like catfights—open-handed combat, drinks thrown. . . . It’s completely different.”
Carmen kicked him again. “Not helping!” She turned to her dad. “There aren’t going to be any fistfights or catfights. It’s going to be about the business and how hard it is to make it—in my case, even when your parents are, y’know, you guys.”
“Famous,” Drew added, as if that were necessary. Carmen contemplated kicking him again but decided against it. It didn’t seem to make a difference.
“Are ‘us guys’ going to have to be on this show?” her dad asked. “A Very Special Meet the Curtises episode?” He was joking, but Carmen could tell he wasn’t into the idea at all.
“If they need that, they can just splice in scenes from the brilliant, amazing Cassandra’s Back documentary,” her mom offered teasingly. (Every time she mentioned the title, she shrugged and turned her head over one shoulder, mimicking what she had decided was the hilarious poster for it, what with its nod to the title’s double entendre.)
Philip took a sip of wine and sighed. “Carm, I’m not going to forbid you to do what you want. I just want you to be sure you know what you’re getting yourself into. Eyes wide open, right?”
Carmen nodded. “Eyes wide open.”
Her dad looked at her—really looked at her—and Carmen, who could usually tell when her dad was about to soften, couldn’t read his expression. “Okay,” he said finally. “Well, I guess that’s settled then.”
Carmen let out a breath she didn’t even realize she was holding. She faced forward again and found Drew staring at her, his eyes . . . wide open.
“Shut up,” she said, and kicked him once more.
“Ouch! You were supposed to save the violence for dessert, remember?”
Cassandra laughed. “Next time,” she said, “on a Very Special Episode of Meet the Curtises: Violent dinners. Savage Salmon. Brutal Broccoli. And—”
“Killer Cake!” Philip yelled. He grinned boyishly. “Chocolate, perhaps?”
“We’re not having cake, Tubs,” Cassandra said fondly, using the nickname he loved and hated in equal measure. After all, Philip Curtis wasn’t at all fat; he just had a little . . . girth.
“Nice try, Mr. Curtis,” Drew said.
“Sadistic Sorbet?” he asked hopefully.
And then everyone cracked up. Carmen breathed a sigh of relief—the worst was over now. But she really, really hoped that Trevor Lord wouldn’t angle for a Curtis family episode. They were just way too weird.
Flashes—dozens of them—exploded in bursts of brilliant light, and Madison heard her name called out over and over. “Miss Parker!” “Madison, over here!” “Mad, honey, blow me a kiss!”
Madison paused midway on the red carpet, absorbing the attention being showered upon her. She never got tired of this moment: when every eye and (much more importantly) every camera was focused on her. She offered a small, knowing smile to the bank of photographers to her left, but she made sure to avoid glancing at the PopTV camera that followed her every move. That was the one camera she had to pretend not to see.
The last two weeks had been a whirlwind. Trevor wanted to start filming immediately—clearly Madison’s fans were clamoring for her return!—and so the minute the ink was dry on her contract, four beefy moving guys had showed up at her Beverly Hills doorstep, packed up her three hundred dresses and her two hundred pairs of shoes, and hauled them over to a sleek new apartment in Park Towers. There was a balcony, a chef’s kitchen, and three large bedrooms: one for Madison; one for her new roommate, Gaby; and one for all the PopTV equipment.
“Who are you wearing?” someone called out, but Madison didn’t answer. She liked to seem a little bit aloof at first. Keep ’em guessing, she thought.
Up ahead, a giant gold banner welcomed everyone to the second annual Togs for Tots benefit. Togs for Tots was a charity that provided new (not “gently used”—gross!) clothes to foster children, group-home residents, and homeless kids all over L.A. County. Madison didn’t particularly care about the charity itself, of course, but the evening was sponsored in part by Elie Saab, one of Madison’s favorite designers, and rumor had it that Anna Wintour of Vogue would be in attendance.
She took another few steps, then gave her best over-the-shoulder smirk. Shutters clicked furiously. The paparazzi that lined red carpets were always a step up from the ones who roamed the streets. A little more polished and respectful, although there was always an aggressive few screaming over the others from behind the velvet rope barrier. But Madison knew that she needed them all, just as much as they needed her. It was a symbiotic relationship (with escalating benefits): The more famous she got, the more they would want to take her picture; the