A Canadian Werewolf in New York

Chapter Twenty-Nine

When we arrived at the Ed Sullivan Theater it was a veritable whirlwind of activity. Bruce had barely opened the back door of the limo to let us out when an intern from Worldwide Pants greeted us on the sidewalk, confirmed our names, produced two different colored ID badges for us then escorted us inside.

The intern walked us through various rules and regulations we had to follow, made us both sign different forms in triplicate, then split us up when a second intern appeared seemingly from out of nowhere.

It all happened so fast, like this was some sort of well-oiled machine, and, a bit overwhelmed just being here at this historic building and part of this amazing show, we just rolled with it without saying anything.

I was able to detect the special flutter in Gail’s heart and the scent that revealed just how excited she was to be a part of this. It made me feel good to know it was properly distracting her from the unsettling news about her finance.

Gail was then led off to a special backstage screening area where she would be able to watch the show with other guests of guests and I was ushered down the hall, through a set of security doors and into a make-up room.

The intern directed me to a chair in front of a mirror with a bank of bright bulbous lights around it without saying anything, and at that point things slowed down for a few minutes so I was able to properly catch my breath.

The intern then left, off to take care of some other time-critical task that would keep things on track. Perhaps it was to meet and guide another guest inside.

“I’m Nora,” the short, perky make-up artist said, offering her hand. She had the most beautifully natural smile and a big head of curly billowing Farah Fawcett hair – of course, I guessed her age to be somewhere in her early twenties so she couldn’t have been a first-hand fan of the actress when that hair-style was originally made popular.

“I’m Michael,” I said, offering my hand.

She took my hand and her heart skipped a beat. The scent oozing from Nora was familiarity and a touch of desire.

“I know,” she said, squeezing my fingers tightly and slowly caressing the back of my hand with her thumb. “I’m a huge fan.”

Fortunately I rarely heard that often enough and still wasn’t used to it. Though there were times when people said they were a fan and I could tell they were bullshitting and likely hadn’t read a single thing I wrote, but were merely playing the “kiss up to celebrity” game that people often play.

Nora, of course, was genuine in her statement, and obviously a little off her game. She kept hold of my hand for a few seconds longer, continuing to rub my hand. Then, finally seeming to realize what she was doing, she quickly let go and took a step back, an air of embarrassment exuding from her.

“Very pleased to meet you, Nora.” I said, wanting to do my best to make her feel more at ease, more comfortable. “So, do you think you’re up to the challenging task of making me look pretty?  Or if not pretty, then at least presentable?”

She laughed. “Oh, Mr. Andrews, you look amazing as you are. I’m just going to add some pancake and highlight certain features that will look more natural under the harsh lights and cameras.”

 “Sounds like you know what you’re doing, Nora. And please, call me Michael.”

“Sure thing . . . Michael,” she said, moving around the chair to gather up some white tissues that she started stuffing in my collar. “I’ve read all your books and am a huge fan of Maxwell Bronte.”

“Thank you,” I said.

“Where did you come up with the idea for him? I mean, if you don’t mind me being so forward.”