“Madison!”
“Over here!”
“This way!”
“Beautiful, Madison!”
She locked eyes with each individual lens. Every camera contained the potential for a “Who wore it best?” (she did, always), a post on glamour.com (Madison stuns in red!), or a spot on tomorrow’s Fashion Police (being praised, not critiqued of course). Madison hadn’t quite made it out of the weeklies yet (though Life & Style, to its credit, loved her like no other), but Sasha, her publicist, swore she’d land a cover of a monthly once The Fame Game started airing. Madison was already planning her Glamour cover look. She was thinking a sort of Marlene Dietrich pose, or perhaps a Marilyn Monroe homage. . . .
She had to hand it to Trevor. He was filming The Fame Game and getting advance press for his “mysterious new project” at the same time. Already the buzz was building; she could feel it. No doubt some blogger had just uploaded a shot of her to his website (Madison Parker steps out for kids!) and mentioned the PopTV cameras capturing her every move. By tomorrow, the word would be all over town that Madison and the PopTV cameras were spotted again. Spin-off!
It was so much different from the last time around. Madison was nobody when she started filming L.A. Candy. Correction: She was somebody, all right, just not a somebody that the world knew about yet. If people noticed back then that the cameras were filming, the question on their minds was more of the Who the hell is that? variety. Now everyone was wondering what the new show was about, what it was called, and who else was on it. (Madison was still in the dark about that part.) Back when L.A. Candy had exploded and she (and Gaby and Scarlett and that annoying little Goody Two-shoes, Jane) had gotten famous, Trevor had struggled to make them seem like the regular girls they were still supposed to be. How many times had he had to reshoot because a paparazzo wandered into frame? He hated to count. But this time around, the paparazzi and the tabloids and the blogs (and the monthlies!) would play a crucial part in the show.
Madison offered a little coronation wave to a knot of starstruck fans.
“Luke!” she heard a girl cry, and Madison turned to see Luke Kelly, looking gorgeous but underdressed in a faded button-down and jeans, striding up the red carpet with that girl from that stupid show about a family who lives in a Winnebago.
“Doctor Rose,” someone else yelled, and Luke flashed a megawatt smile. He played Sebastian Rose, a young resident on Boston General, and while he wasn’t a lead, rumor had it he was on the short list to play the main character in The End of Love, a dystopian Romeo and Juliet story based on a bestselling young-adult novel.
Madison watched him and the girl, whatever her name was. They were holding hands, but Madison could see how loosely their fingers interlocked. And this told Madison, who was something of an expert in body language, that these two were either a) only pretending to be a couple, or b) five minutes away from breaking up. Which meant that Luke was, or would be, available. She gave him another once-over. He could use a shave, too, she thought, in addition to a new outfit. But he had those green eyes and that strong, broad chest, not to mention that Australian accent. Yes, she thought, she should ask Sasha to hook up a date with “Dr. Rose.” Maybe they could head to the next level together.
But it was time to turn her attention back to posing. She cocked a hip and flashed a little bit more thigh through the slit in her dress. She stayed like this for a good ten seconds, then turned for another pose. Then she saw Gaby Garcia, smiling and heading up the red carpet.
“Gaby, blow us a kiss!” one of the photographers shouted.
Gaby obliged, though Madison had told her a hundred times that no one looked good in that pose. Just then she spotted Madison.
“Mad!” Gaby rushed up to her breathlessly, as if they hadn’t seen each other for months, when in fact they had eaten breakfast together.
“Hey, Gaby.” Madison put her arm around Gaby’s shoulders (Madison and pal Gaby hit the red carpet!) and was surprised by its boniness. She took a step back and surveyed her roommate. What was she wearing? For one thing, she had donned an Elie Saab dress that she clearly hadn’t taken the time to tailor. And for another, she’d picked the one dress in the collection that looked like it came from the Goodwill sale rack. It was supposed to be an homage to 1970s Halston or something, but the rust color made Gaby look positively yellow, and the plunging back highlighted each protruding vertebrae. Madison had to force herself to smile. “Good to see you, sweetie,” she said. Gaby’s best feature was her cute little body—if she kept dieting, what would she have going for her at all?
Madison forced herself to put her arm back on Gaby’s shoulders. “Smile,” she said.
They posed for the cameras, keeping their faces mannequin-still. If they needed to talk, they’d do it only through the corners of their mouths so as not to disrupt their perfect, doll-like smiles.
“You look amazing,” Gaby said through her teeth.
“Thanks, hon,” Madison said. Of course she looked amazing. It was her job to look amazing, and she worked hard at it. She began her red-carpet regimen days beforehand—more cardio, a mini-cleanse, an oxygen facial, an airbrush tan, minimized water intake (dehydration could subtract several pounds)—and today, between hair, makeup, and wardrobe, she’d already devoted eight hours to this event.
Another small crowd of dedicated fans had gathered behind the barricade at the end of the red carpet.
“We love you, Madison!” a girl with pink hair screamed.
Madison’s smile grew wider. She hoped the photographers were capturing the total adoration her fans had for her—and her own reciprocating affection, of course. (Madison kisses fan’s new baby!) With Gaby in tow, she glided over to the pink-haired girl. The PopTV camera followed. Time for a quick autograph and photo op! But just as Madison raised the pen, she saw the photographers swing their cameras back toward the far end of the carpet. She froze. There wasn’t a bigger celebrity on the carpet. What were they—
“Is that—?” Gaby whispered, her eyes wide.
Madison maintained her smile as she tried to see who was causing this unwelcome disruption.
The pink-haired girl let out a piercing shriek. “Oh my God, it’s Carmen Curtis!” she cried, mere inches from Madison’s ear. The poster of Madison that she’d been clutching fell to the ground and was immediately replaced by a poster of Carmen’s Nylon magazine cover. How did that switcheroo happen so fast?
“Wow,” Gaby sighed, looking positively starstruck. “She’s so pretty.”
Madison clenched her fists in anger, though her face maintained its photo-ready placidity. Carmen Curtis: What had she ever done for the world? Her mother was the biggest singer since Madonna, and her father was the Quincy Jones of rap. Which meant that Carmen had that vaguely ethnic look that had no doubt helped her mother out, since her vocal range certainly hadn’t, and she had been spoon-fed money and fame from the moment she was born. She hadn’t had to work for a thing her whole life.
“I love her dress,” Gaby whispered.
Madison ignored her as she inspected Carmen. She’d obviously spent hours on her red-carpet look, too. She wore a cream bandage dress that hit just above her knee, and she was wearing a pair of YSL pumps that Madison would give a kidney for, but they were sold out everywhere. She smiled and waved like everyone she met was a potential friend. And that, Madison knew from experience, was a load of crap. They’d been introduced once at a party for the opening of sbe’s latest restaurant, and, okay, Madison hadn’t exactly oozed friendliness herself, but Carmen had simply shaken her hand, smiled briefly, and then vanished into the crowd.
“She’s a little big-boned, don’t you think?” Madison asked coolly. Then she turned away and began to walk toward the entrance to the event. Carmen had stolen her moment. It was a total injustice. The girl had accomplished practically nothing