My Life in Black and White Read Free

of hip action here, a bit of hair tossing there, except as I began to approach, he turned his back to me to speak to another guest. Instead of a swagger, I began to stagger on my four-inch heels, from nerves at first, then a loss of balance. It wasn’t good. I needed to sit down. I told myself I would connect with Dean soon enough. After all, we had a lifetime of connecting ahead of us. I knew this because Dean was my husband. This was his wrap party.
    My husband’s a reality television producer who, like most men in Hollywood in his position, would rather be directing films. But he got his big break, if you could call it that, as a producer’s assistant on a show that pitted dwarfs against giants in a race to find a pot of gold out in the desert. I wish I were making that up.
    Disappointed my unexpected appearance at the party didn’t get better results, I headed to the food. The craft table was stacked with the expected variety of snacks from the humble carrot stick to classier fare like beef sliders topped with foie gras. If no one bothered to talk to me, at least I wouldn’t go home hungry. I normally avoided wrap parties. If you didn’t work on the production, then you were seen as an outsider at best, or at worst, a groupie. Dean preferred me to stay home on nights like this, too. He said he had to focus on the guests, particularly if there were television network honchos in the mix, or if he was really lucky, a movie studio executive or two whom Dean would want to schmooze in the hope he could at last escape the reality television racket. But tonight was different. It had the whiff of a going-away party attached to it, and I had taken a risk that he would be happy to see me.
    “Are you Clara?”
    I was midway through a beef slider when I heard my name. I turned around and found myself face to face with Kiki, the “breakout star” of Dean’s latest hit. Her looks were what tabloid reporters referred to as “plastic fantastic.” Her skin was plump from strategically placed filler, and if I wasn’t mistaken, she had cheek and breast implants. I wondered if she got a two-for-one special. Her eyes were large, almost Kewpie-like, and she had a sweep of platinum hair that Gwen Stefani would envy. Kiki was the poster girl for reality TV: a standard-issue blonde with big assets and a mouth willing to say and do anything.
    “Yes, I’m Clara.”
    Kiki giggled but her face barely moved. Botox
and
filler, then. I bit into the slider.
    “Clara Bishop who writes for
Hollywood Hush?
”
    I swallowed. I had no idea how she recognized me, but I didn’t have to wait long for an answer.
    “They ran your photo a few times when you were doing Emmy picks,” she explained. I nodded but said nothing, because her interest in me meant one thing. I was a celebrity journalist at a top weekly glossy that could make or break a star, or at least extend the run after a series finale, and it wasn’t unusual for D-list celebrities to ask for my help. Some even tried bribing me. I never took bribes; never slept with a source either, but I was happily married. That didn’t stop reality contestants. Even the girls. Oh Lord, maybe Kiki was a lesbian. It wouldn’t be the first. Clearly Kiki wanted me to write about her.
    “I want to ask you a favour,” Kiki purred, flashing her Chiclet teeth in the process. Here it comes.
    “Sure,” I said cautiously. It took chutzpah to ask someone you just met for a favour.
    “I’d like to buy you a coffee,” she began and paused nervously.Cripes, maybe this was a come-on. “I’d like to pick your brain because I’ve always wanted to be a writer like you.”
    This floored me enough that I stopped myself snatching a second slider off the tray. I took a closer look at her. She was busting out of her dress like an escaped convict. Her platform pumps were ridiculously high, but given my own shaky gams I gave her points for balance. Her expression said fun-loving party girl, no serious thought