“I don’t want to go, and if I don’t want to do something, I do not fucking do it, so they’re gonna have to find some loser to accept the damned award on my behalf because I will not be there to do it myself.”
“But Miss Val–”
“No buts! When I say no, I mean no. You there?! Get Johnny on the phone. You?! Cancel everything in my calendar for the next five days, then book me a flight to Paris because I want escargot and I want it now. And you?! Get me a latte, and do not dare make it skinny.”
From his chaise by the window, Harrison watched Valerie breeze around the room. She barked order after order, stalking from one flunky to the next, grabbing arms, shoving, snarling. Raising an eyebrow in disapproval, he pursed his lips as she hollered at some cowering kid, pointing accusingly from him to the splashes of dirty martini that were seeping into the feathered hem of her robe. Poor kid hadn’t been anywhere near her, she’d done that herself with all her ill-tempered gesticulating. Continue reading “C is for… Celebrity Skin”