Chapter 6

Cupid's Wheel and a Total Run of Bad Luck 

Diana

And then Saturday finally arrived. First came a late morning that smelled of Mom's pancakes, then a nervous noon when absolutely nothing went right: the girls kept firing messages into the chat, Stan practiced belly breathing for me, Zodiac kept getting underfoot, and for the tenth time I tried to finish an article about the "perfect first date," decide what to wear, running shoes or canvas sneakers, and repeat the rescue lines I'd memorized.

At last the clock struck four, Mom got ready to go live online, and Dad settled me into his taxi and drove me downtown, to the building that housed several TV channels and filming studios.

The instructions in the email clearly said I had to arrive at the right studio two hours before filming started. No makeup, no hair styling, no accompanying people and... no security. Hm. Just sunglasses, a cap pulled low, and a tracksuit. I honestly put all of it on, tucked my ponytail into the hood, hung my dress in a garment bag, and brought it with me. Shoes, makeup bag, and another three kilos of necessary things that might come in handy went into my backpack and onto my shoulders. And it still felt lighter than the knot of nerves in my stomach.

"So, Diana, ready for your big moment?" Dad asked carefully, steering off the bridge onto the central avenue and glancing my way. "It's not too late to go home. I'm on your side, whatever happens."

"Too late, Dad. The contract is signed," I reminded him, with no joy at all. "And no, I'm not ready in the slightest, but I do have a new dress," I sighed hopefully, "so maybe it'll help me feel more confident?"

"It definitely will!"

It did not.

The first thing I heard after entering the studio through the door marked "Entrance for Female Contestants!" was a brisk:

"Phones, belongings, bags: leave them in wardrobe! Outfits you brought with you go to the costume supervisor for safekeeping! You won't need them!"

I froze in place.

"What do you mean... won't need them?" I whispered in disbelief. "I spent two evenings choosing that dress. It is perfect for me!"

Beside me, two unfamiliar girls protested even louder.

"What kind of rule is that?" The girl in the white hoodie got so worked up she threw back her hood. "I bought my dress in Monaco, specifically for my Maltese tan! I dragged a suitcase through the whole airport so it would be with me, and now you want me not to wear it at all? Are you kidding me?"

"Yes, you are kidding us!" the other one chimed in.

"Sorry, the rules of the show!" answered a sharp-nosed girl with short red curls and "assistant coordinator" written on her badge, without a shadow of doubt. Then she deftly confiscated all our clothes. "For the first date, all contestants go out in looks selected by the stylists," she announced solemnly. "It gives the show a unified style instead of turning it into a self-expression parade at a village fair!"

"Well, really..."

Left empty-handed, I felt my control over the situation scatter under the wind of circumstance like a house of cards under a fan. And nothing had even really started yet.

The girl with the red curls turned out to be the same Rita Ermine who had sent me the email. She explained that the contestants had been separated at the entrance for a reason. We were all competitors, and we needed to remember it. The guys had one dressing room with a costume area; the girls had another. And the sponsors on our project were very serious!

We girls were still wearing our sunglasses, and once we ended up in the spacious makeup room divided into zones by special screens, a big male makeup artist named Greg instantly snatched me for himself before I could even squeak.

Almost six foot three, broad-shouldered, with a perfectly shaved head and massive cuff earrings, black-painted nails, and a black signet ring, he looked impressive, like a dealer-slash-bartender out of a gangster thriller. A lily tattoo and the neat word "Shine" showed on his neck, a mesh T-shirt hugged his muscular body, and over all of it Greg wore a classic black bow tie.

No wonder I was struck dumb.

In one instant he pulled off my cap and sunglasses, stripped me down to my T-shirt, and inspected me from every side. After that I spent more than an hour in his company, listening to his declaration, delivered with a slight lisp, that my eyebrows were...

"...Perfect! That shape is a song! Now, sunshine, close your eyes. We need to lock in perfection!"

I obediently closed them, and something sweet immediately sprayed into my face, like caramel-and-cinnamon syrup. Generously sprayed.

"Pfft! What..."

"Sit still, don't move!" Greg growled, expertly wielding a wipe, and announced, "we're drawing wings!"

No coffee. No nervousness allowed.

I couldn't even move. And when I asked if I could run away, just leave the studio and pretend I'd never been here, Greg straightened his powerful shoulders, loomed over me like a mountain, and seriously threatened me with a brush. He spoke quietly, but with such conviction that I immediately wanted to obey:

"Stars don't run, baby. They shine! Even when they want to cry and their shoes have rubbed blisters, they go all the way. And so will you!"

I sank back against the chair and looked at him warily. A star, sure. Without coffee, without my dress, and apparently without any say in the matter. Somewhere in my backpack lay the new shoes I naturally hadn't had time to break in, so the makeup artist's words hit their mark: blisters were exactly what I did not need.

Reading my fear correctly, Greg leaned lower and whispered conspiratorially into my face, enveloping me in the scent of excellent men's cologne:

"Want me to tell you a secret?"

"N-not really."

But who was going to listen to me?

"We've got our own competition here, between the stylists, so I'm going to do everything I can to make you light up! You and I are a team now, from the first broadcast to the last. Bets have been placed on us, so don't let me down. If anyone shines brighter than you, I lose. And Greg never loses. Remember that!"

My eyes went round.

"Are you insane? I... I'm not sure. I'm almost here by accident, I swear!"

"No one lands in this chair by accident, sunshine. Take my word for it. Now close your eyes and don't twitch. I'm gluing on lashes. If you blink and even one cluster slips, you'll upset me. Do we need that?"

Picking a fight with that mountain of muscle was the last thing I wanted right now. I shook my head.

"N-no, we don't."

"Smart girl!" Greg straightened, adjusted his bow tie, and looked at me with deep emotion. "Remember, stars aren't born. They're made. And I'm here to make you!"

I don't know what the other girls' stylists were telling them at that moment, but I suspected it was something similar. They had surely signed contracts too and gone through their own briefing, so I fell silent, deciding not to test fate, and obediently squeezed my eyes shut. First I let myself be made up, then styled and dressed.

"What is your name, anyway, my precious?" Greg asked. "You were all in glasses and caps, but you were the only one who didn't shove her way forward. So who did I snatch out of the crowd?"