Member-only story
The Actress and the Pop Star
Stolen moments become our calling cards.
The first time Cheri Mayflower and I found ourselves alone in a room together, it was backstage at an awards show where we’d be presenting for the best screenwriting category. I eyed her up and down, taking in her slinky gold dress that barely skimmed the tops of her thighs, and wondered how someone who seemed like such an airhead had secured a nomination last year for co-writing a song for a blockbuster sci-fi movie. The only thing I liked about her was her legs — and even that appreciation was curbed by an envy that my own weren’t quite as toned.
“Like what you see?” Cheri asked, and my eyes snapped up to find her smirking at me, her maroon lips curved as if she were a content cat ready to swat at its toy. I frowned on reflex even though I knew I’d regret it later, always with the worry that I’d permanently etch my face with the beginnings of wrinkles that couldn’t be magically zapped away as easily in my later years.
You wish, I wanted to spit at her, but I decided to take the high road. I smoothed back my dark hair and glanced in a nearby mirror to check that I still looked camera ready — just the way I always needed to be. Thankfully, I didn’t need to ask for another touch-up on my make-up.
