The thing about red carpets is: they are chaos.
When I was younger, before all of this, I used to see the best-dressed red carpet rankings in entertainment magazines that lived in dentists’ waiting rooms. Sometimes, when watching the Oscars’ preshow, you could see a star emerging as if by magic onto the carpet, posing with a perfected arm-bend and leg-shift and thousand-watt smile, and sashaying on down the line. Pop pop pop, camera flashes going off, a gentle and fawnlike blink, and the starlet is sauntering off to talk to Joan Rivers.
We had been on a few other red carpets before this one, but they were for smaller parties. Nothing could have prepared me for this.
As we emerged from the limo, I felt, rather than heard, the screams, a noise that almost physically pushed me back into the car. I kept myself from staggering and gazed at the ruckus. Ropes and barriers, erected on the edges of the carpet, segregated frenzied fans from the music elite, their arms outstretched, a sea of open mouths. The wide strip of crushed burgundy velvet that was laid out before us was the only calm path between our glistening car and the throng of news service cameras ahead. Someone escorted the four of us plus Peter to the awards backdrop for photos.
Though we’d been coached on how to be photographed for this type of opportunity, my knees quivered as we carefully choreographed hands and poses, sweeping our gazes out along the 270 degrees of shutterbugs so that every one of them caught a straight-on look. The photographers shouted, and while they kept their distance, their voices were oppressive, pushing at us from all sides, wrapping us in noise. My face was outwardly calm, poised, even a little smirky, as if this entire moment was amusing or beneath me, but inside my heart beat wildly and I could feel dampness under my armpits.
“Sassy! Sassy! Look here!”
“Rosy, Rose, where’s your smile? Smile wider, Rosy!”
Merry was next to me, and between clenched teeth she throatily growled, “Holy fuck, this is like a nightmare.” But it was like we were blanketed in the photographers’ screams and the words didn’t reach past our small, shared space. Her indignation was heard only by me, and maybe Yumi, who was on her other side.
Camera crews and interviewers from the channel were up ahead; this red carpet was a minefield of tasks to complete before we could sit down in relief. Rebecca Hamm, the main interviewer for the past three years, set her sights on us and waved us over. She peppered us with questions about our clothes, who we were excited to see, and if we had predictions for who would win Best New Artist in a Video. Rose, as usual, spoke for the group. I tried to keep my eyes trained on Rose or Rebecca but darted a quick glance over my shoulder to check if Stephen St. James had arrived yet.
Of course, I didn’t see all of this when it happened. Being on the red carpet is a disembodying experience. An invisible hand is guiding you forward, plying your mouth to smile, to laugh, to form words that you think the world wants to hear. You are affable, you are charming. If you are me, you give just enough sass to live up to your moniker. But in your mind, the world is just a blur, sped up like videotape on fast-forward. There were small moments that jumped out in surprising clarity: tripping on a stair and looking down to see that a strap on a sandaled heel had come loose, a hand brush from someone next to you that was surprisingly warm and intimate compared to the hands-off voice-directed commands given by various members of the crew, the sudden urgent need to pee after you’ve sat down in your constricting, corseted dress.
I watched these scenes on a tape a few days later, safely back in L.A. Unlike in choreographed music videos, where every movement was anticipated and planned, I found my motions embarrassing. I never looked directly at anyone, except Merry when her mouth moved, cursing out the photographers, and I’d given her a sharp glance of what seemed to be admonishment. When looking for Stephen, I gave the impression of being lost.
Even the decor of the theater came to me in detail after watching the televised program, curled up on a couch at Lucy Bowen’s house with my socked feet tucked under me. It was as if everything had been inked black and red when I lived it, but as the TV washed its yellow and blue glow over me, the world took on more color. Presenters and their beautiful dresses and smart suits. Gleaming shoes on glistening floors. The tiered seats with plushy backs, and the gift bags containing jewelry, designer water, glass bottles of perfume. We performed our second single, “What Did U Say,” to much fanfare. The ceremony was set up with a main stage, where presenters gave awards, and an attached secondary stage, which was spotlighted when performers were singing. We glittered and smiled from our point on the secondary stage after our song, and the spotlight stayed bright on us so we weren’t sure when to exit.
There we stood while the nominees for the Breakthrough Video were announced. We smiled stupidly, looking toward the wings for someone—anyone—to motion us to leave, but without squinting obviously into the shadows, we saw nothing, and waited for a lighting cue. Later, I could only remember the presenter because I focused on a forty-foot-tall enlargement of her mouth, filled with Barbie-pink frosted lipstick, on the screen in front of us. With a flourish, she slid open the envelope.
“Stephen St. James, for ‘Rockabilly,’” she announced, and we clapped, still on the stage, as awards music played. Merry elbowed us to get us to move—finally, there was someone trying to usher us off, but in the playback I could see that my rigid dress did not yield to her touch, and so I continued to hobble in one place on my tall heels in ignorance. The other Gloss girls were moving away, inching into the shadowy recesses of the side stage, with their arms outstretched as if to pull me along by an invisible rope. But I wasn’t budging.
Stephen walked up the steps toward the presenter, but instead of accepting the trophy, he detoured to the secondary stage, like maybe he’d assumed I was still standing there to congratulate him.
“Watch this part,” Lucy giggled, chewing a fistful of popcorn noisily. She’d invited us all over for a movie night, but Merry was with Grant and the other girls chose not to come. After being attached at the hip to the rest of Gloss for the summer, I was excited to spend time with anyone else. “Here.” She jerked a finger at her television screen at the moment the idea seemed to come to Stephen. He opened his arms for an embrace. The girl greeting him on that stage—me—had a look of surprise on her face, but she didn’t resist when he put his arms around her.
“Did he stick his tongue in your mouth?” Lucy asked, and, giggling, flicked a kernel into my hair. “Did he slobber?” I wiped my mouth in memory.
Quick as a snake, he’d dipped her and gave her a giant kiss on the mouth in front of the entire live studio audience—and the ten million viewers at home.
“WELL” GRANT SAID, climbing over the back of a booth and sitting down on the edge, balancing two drinks, “here’s to the Gloss girls, who don’t know when to leave a stage.” He handed Merry a glass of some amber liquid and clinked his beer bottle against it in a cheers-ing motion. “And here’s to winning the big one next year.”
Illuminated Eyes came and went with passing head nods in our direction, but Grant stayed behind, smiling crookedly at all of us, then pulled Merry to him and met his lips with hers.
Yumi blew a strand of hair off her face. “I’m going to go mingle,” she said, getting up and brushing off her pants.
We were at a Manhattan nightclub after-party, shmoozing, though I was still ruminating over what had happened at the show.
I left my purse and Alex’s camera on the table with Merry while I grabbed a drink. I sidled up to the bar, which was long, glittered with black mica, and packed with svelte bodies, but there was only one bartender that I could see. “Excuse me,” I shouted over the noise, but he slid farther down the bar, hands flying over bottles, dipping and pouring and shaking. I waited a minute as he slowly made his way up the bar, chatting effusively with clients and handing out glasses. As he approached, another body slid past me and stood in front of me, effectively blocking the bartender’s view. “Hey!” I said, tapping the offender on his leather-clad shoulder.
The ear, at first, was a perfect seashell that slid into view. Then a stubbly cheek, that beautiful nose, and two piercing blue eyes. “Oh,” I squeaked.