Though his teeth are capped and bleached, his face is lined, and he still looks like a well-kept version of his sixty-something self instead of the stretched, filled, and polished version of most women in the industry. While I don’t agree with the double standard, I try not to push the idea of aging naturally on any of my clients, and I never shame them for their pursuit of eternal youth, impossible as it may be.
“Hey, Mac.” I take his outstretched hand and meet his smile with one of my own.
“Great to meet you finally, Elise. You’re as lovely as you look in your pictures, I must say.”
I’m immune to false flattery, but I know how to take it as well as dole it out.
“You’re even better in real life, Mac. My mother filled me in on all your best qualities. Can’t wait to get to know you better.” We continue to give compliments back and forth for a moment or two. I’ve witnessed this sort of feather fluffing my whole life and may have fallen victim to it if not for my father, who always kept me grounded. He left the realm of fame to live on his ranch in Montana after he and my mother divorced when I was a little girl. He’s busy with his ranch and refuses to learn how to use the internet or a cell phone, and when I finally connected with him last week, his advice came too late.
“Don’t do it, punkin,” he said in his adopted western drawl. “Nothing grows well under those stage lights, especially new relationships. I should know.”
That’s the most I can get out of my dad about his relationship with my mother—a quip or two, maybe a sage musing while staring at the horizon. Being raised by actors gets existential sometimes.
He’s the more stable parent, but I didn’t spend nearly as much time as I would’ve liked with him on the ranch. During my teen years, when my mom was away at her ashram cult in Brazil, I learned what it was like to be a country girl, or at least my father’s version. I think that’s why I’m the only one of my siblings who didn’t end up going to Julliard and using my mother’s name to make it in Hollywood. I came to respect hard work and a touch of solitude.
I can’t say that I never took advantage of my family’s dynasty. I worked hard for my degrees, but when I started my PR firm, Toffee Co., I had an advantage as Vivian Snow’s granddaughter and Gracelyn Branson’s daughter. If I were a purist, I’d have kept my father’s last name, McFadden, instead of using my mother’s.
“I’ve got us a five-thirty appointment at Holy Trinity Church, right around the corner. You’ll get a tour, and then you’ll have your first sit-down with the priest, a ‘get to know you’ kind of thing. I’d love to get your first reactions to the building.”
This is not a casual invite, though Mac makes it sound that way. It’s on the shot list Conrad sent in his most recent email.
“Uh, I’m not really camera ready.” I gesture to my rumpled traveling clothes and makeup-less face. “I’m all for being myself on camera, but this isn’t a good look.”
“No problem. I have Lisa here for hair and makeup. She can touch you up in the car. Do you have a top in a solid color, not black? Something more bridal like a pink or a purple? Oh. Or off-white, even. I don’t think that would push the envelope too much, would it, Marty?”
Mac looks to the man standing behind him whose existence I had barely registered. He’s short with a dark cap and carrying a camera case.
“Actually, the interior is pretty light, so I think a richer palette would give some contrast. No red or black.”
“Sound good?” Mac asks, and I already hate my position in this project, more of a prop than a person.
“I have tops in all those colors, but I don’t know that I’m ready for anything in front of the camera today,” I say again, but he’s not listening.
“You’ll be great.” He squeezes my upper arm in a slightly patronizing way, clearly unaware that I’ve spent years giving advice to clients about on-camera styling when needed.
Mac addresses me again, a low, dramatic tenor to his voice. “I’m beyond eager to start working together, Elise.”
“Same,” I say, matching his tone.
Nothing like jumping right in, I guess. And the only way to get myself into a pool of cold water is to dive in headfirst before I can think better of it.
After six minutes of sprint-dressing in the bathroom of the local diner, I exit through the glass door, satisfied with the deep plum-colored blouse I’ve tossed on with a tailored leather jacket, a pair of dark trousers, and heeled booties. No one can see my outfit under my puffy plum coat, but Conrad gave it a thumbs-up, and I’m guessing that means Mac approves too.
I climb into the back seat of the idling black Escalade to find a forty-something woman wearing all black with dyed red hair pinned up in a bun waiting for me.
“Hey there, hun. I’m Lisa. Just a quick little touch-up for you, okay?”
Mac jumps in, and we make the short drive to the church as Lisa applies my makeup and tidies my hair.
“The church is Holy Trinity Catholic Church, and we’ll be meeting Father Ignatius. It’s just an intro prior to the Pre-Cana class required for the wedding prep.”
“They’re all right starting without Hunter?”
“Yeah. It’s just the basics, and we’ll get you together for the next one, even if he’s virtual.”
Lisa has me open my eyes and applies mascara with a disposable wand. My nerves are starting to simmer under the surface. I can hold meetings with high-powered famous people. I can face PR disasters, Twitter gaffes, and celebrity feuds, but stepping in front of the camera to talk about myself and my family is suffocating. I feel like I did when Dean was filming in Maui and there was pineapple in my daiquiri, which I’m deathly allergic to. My throat closed up so fast I could feel the sides meeting in the middle, shutting off my airway.
Dean reacted immediately. Called for help. Gave me CPR. Obtained an epi pen from someone at one of the tables next to us. He saved my life. I wish Dean were here.
Lisa puts on a final coat of gloss, and I rub my lips together, chastising myself. Not Dean. Hunter. I wish Hunter were here.
Lisa produces a handheld mirror as the car slows. I barely look but say thank you, and when the car comes to a complete stop, Mac jumps out like he’s escaping a kidnapper.
“By the way,” Lisa adds once Mac is gone, “I’m a big Vivian Snow fan. I need to know: Was she really as sweet in real life as she seemed on camera?”
I’m usually uncomfortable when strangers ask about my famous family. But lately when I talk about my grandmother, it doesn’t feel like an intrusion. Most tell me about how Vivian Snow made a difference in their life, and it’s like she’s resurrected for a moment.
“Absolutely,” I say, and Lisa swoons. She’s about to ask another question when the Escalade’s door opens, and a sound engineer taps her out. He hands me a mic. I remove my outer coat, snake the mic through the back of my shirt, and clip it to my collar. After a few sound checks, he gives me a thumbs-up and dips out of the car, the same way he came in.
I hear a slate clap outside and Mac say action. The door swings open again, but this time Marty stands outside with a camera on his shoulder and Mac right next to him.