Page 47 of Reel Love

“I love the dress you’re going to wear to the premier!” She lets out a low, appreciative whistle from her spot on one of my wicker porch chairs where we’ve been relaxing with homemade smoothies I whipped up for us. “Can’t wait to see it on you with your hair and makeup done. You are going to rock that thing like …” Brigitte raises both hands in the air and shimmies while she says “Come on … wobble wit it … Uh. Uh. Uh.”

I crack up. “You’re crazy. You know that.”

“That’s what my date said.”

“In a good way, I hope.”

“Jury’s out. He literally said some version of, ‘You’re crazy,’ like five or six times during our date. I started out agreeing with him, like he was complimenting me for my unique brand of personality. But by the end of the night I thought I might need to look over my shoulder to make sure he hadn’t called in the guys in white coats.”

I chuckle. “If he did, his loss. You are a catch and a half.”

“Right? Plus. I work for this awesome movie star.”

“That’s not your appeal. Trust me. You don’t want a guy that would want you because you’re close to me.”

“Which is why I tell people I’m a personal assistant. I don’t say to whom, and I definitely don’t divulge how actually I’m such a bad mammah jamma for keeping your life in order.” She curlsher fingers into her palm, brushes her fist just below her shoulder and pulls her hand back to blow across her nails.

“You are the baddest mammah jamma,” I agree. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“As you should wonder. It would be a flaming hot mess. I even take calls from Mother Gothel all week long for you. That alone deserves a raise.”

I shake my head at the thought of my mother hounding Brigitte. “Do you want a raise?”

“Shut up. Just hush. If I wanted a raise, you’d know it. I’d say, ‘Alana, give me a raise.’”

She rolls her eyes like I’m ridiculous for not knowing better. I love her unapologetic presence. She’s so unaffected by people.

As always, Brigitte shifts subjects like a roulette wheel, “I’d literally die to go a white party.”

“Well, I’d love it if you were at this party.”

“To see you with Rex?”

“Ugh. Don’t remind me. He’s great, and I’m thankful that he’s the one I’m shackled to. We could have done way, way worse. But … I hate that we’re back in this dance of faking it for the press.”

“I hear you. Really. But stop and see things from the point of view of one of the people who does their own dishes.”

“I do my own dishes,” I protest.

Brigitte rolls her eyes. “And laundry?”

I have no answer.

“That’s what I thought. And you do your dishes after you eat a meal curated and prepared for you by someone else.” She pauses. “I’m not berating you for that. You earn all of it. If you had round the clock servants, which you could obviously afford, and one of them had the sole job of filing your nails and picking your nose for you, it would be justified.”

“Ewww. And, no thank you. I’ll pick my own nose, thank you very much.”

We bothlaugh.

A breeze blows through the treetops—the kind that only blows in off the ocean, just to remind you how close the water is to wherever you are on this island. I breathe it in, closing my eyes for a moment to let Marbella work its magic on me.

“Anyway, from my POV,” Brigitte says. “Here you are, getting to dress up in this gorgeous gown, have your hair and makeup done by other people, and walk into an exclusive premier and then a rooftop party on the arm of one of the hottest bachelors on the planet. I’m not crying for you. Not even a drop.”

“Well, when you put it that way.”

“Right?! Suck it up, buttercup. Have some fun being the princess, even if you are locked in a tower by the evil mother. Just keep a frying pan with you at all times.”

“A frying pan?”

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