Ok, so I managed to rein in my restless mind and forced it to forget about that cowboy and focus on Lainey and Palle. Thank goodness! This story needs to be finished. I need to finish it. It’s taken way too long, and I need to end this.
And I think that I might have.
Lainey has confronted Sal, I’ve added some more info regarding Palle’s ex, and generally padded and added details here and there. Now, I just need to go through the entire book, preferably in one sitting even though that might be difficult, and make sure that it flows evenly.
And then I need some no-nonsense betareaders who can tell me what I’ve missed.
I’m a bit petrified of that part, but I think that I might be desperate enough to be done with this book that I might dare to do it anyway.
I’ve also decided to begin posting excerpts here on the blog, to keep me from slacking off again. Starting right now, with the Prolog:
The limousine stopped rather abruptly, and Lainey scowled at the driver in the rear-view mirror. “I’m sorry, Miss Cartwright,” he mumbled. “Someone stepped out into the street right in front of …”
“So?” Lainey rearranged her stunning features in what had become her signature look, tilted her face in a flattering angle and snapped a selfie while she waited for someone to open the door. Then she uploaded the image to her Instagram account. There was no need for filters or adjustments. She looked great. #openingnight #copenhagen #CFW
Someone opened the door for her. Of course. Someone always did.
She exited the limousine slowly, preceded by one of her mile-long legs. As soon as one of her Manolo Blahniks hit the red carpet, all the camera flashes on the block went off. The only thing that would show up on all of those photographers’ proof sheets would be her right leg. Not much to bring to a photo editor, one would think. But what a leg it was.
Lainey sighed, pressed her eyes closed briefly and took a deep breath. Showtime.
She stood up outside of the limousine and was immediately grabbed by the arm by a big, burly man in a black suit. “This way, Miss Cartwright,” he said and tried to pull her towards the entrance of the building at the other end of the red carpet. Without batting one of those ridiculously long eyelashes, Lainey yanked herself free of his grip and turned towards the cordon separating the arrival area from the waiting photographers and fans.
“Do not touch me,” she muttered under her breath to the man who despite being almost six five and extremely muscular shied away from the steel in her voice.
“I apologize, miss Cart—”
She dismissed him with a flick of the wrist and took one step past him so that the photographers would have a clear shot. She didn’t smile at them. Smiles were for amateurs. Smiles gave one wrinkles. She just struck a pose that best showed off not only the astronomically expensive designer dress that she was wearing but also the body. Her body. The body.
She held the pose for only a short while, but the few seconds was enough. Hundreds of photos were taken and automatically uploaded to the editors standing by at the fashion magazines, the international news desks at the world’s largest newspapers and anyone on the Internet. Yeah, someone in that crowd was surely broadcasting this on Periscope.
Lainey released the pose, walked a few steps and then struck another one. Another angle of the dress was shown off, but the look on her face when she turned toward the photographers was the same. Her Lainey face.
It’s going to make you a million bucks, her first manager, Terence, had said. He had been right. It had also gotten her a better manager. Someone who had secured contracts that made her tens of millions of dollars instead. Terence had given her that first break, but the problem with him was that he thought small. He dreamed small. He was small.
She, on the other hand, was 5 feet and 10 inches tall. And the staggering heels on her Manolo Blahniks didn’t exactly do their best to minimize her height. On the contrary. Lainey took another few steps towards the entrance and struck yet another pose. From up here she could see that at least one of the bodyguards trying to protect her from the crowds was going bald. Try a comb-over, dude, a voice inside her head said.
Perhaps one of all the thousands of images that were taken at that exact moment managed to capture the confusion that flashed through her eyes when her inner calm was assailed by memories of someone she used to know. Someone she used to be. But only a very observant photo editor would have noticed that, and most of them were looking at the dress, anyway.
A few more steps, one last pose, and then Lainey disappeared in through the large open doors of the building where Copenhagen Fashion Week was held.