Diary of an Ugly Duckling by Langhorne, Karyn (general ebook reader .txt) 📕

into the circular drive of

the hotel, Audra understood the driver’s snarky at-

titude toward her rumpled clothing and battered

black satchel.

“Oh shit,” she muttered as the driver hopped out

DIARY OF AN UGLY DUCKLING

95

and hurried around the car to open her door with

a bow.

“Someone will pick you up promptly at nine a.m.

to take you to the studio, madam,” he said in a tone

that made it perfectly clear that that someone would

not be himself. “As you have no luggage, madam,

I’ll just say goodnight and trust the hotel staff to see

to your remaining needs.” And he nodded with a fi-

nality Audra could not misunderstand: Get out of

the car, you’re here.

Audra knew instantly where “here” was.

Most people would have recognized it: It was one

of the most famous hotels in Beverly Hills, pictured

on television shows and movies as frequently as the

Kodak Theatre or the famous Hollywood sign. It

was an imposing Spanish-style structure with or-

nate frescoes and a sense of palatial opulence. Audra

could almost see the ghosts of stars of ages past—

could almost hear the sounds of today’s hottest

young actors cavorting within its walls.

“Oh shit,” Audra whispered again, feeling like

she’d landed in another world—a world to which

she could never belong. “Oh shit.”

She stepped away from the vehicle, forcing her-

self to close her mouth so that she wouldn’t look

even more “bumpkin” than she felt. Good thing, be-

cause an instant later an elaborately uniformed

doorman stepped into the space between herself

and the entrance, a wide smile on his face as he

lifted the strap of Audra’s black satchel off her

shoulder as though he handled bags of its exquisite

quality all the time.

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Karyn Langhorne

“Welcome to Beverly Hills,” he said. “Checking

in?”

Audra turned back to the driver behind her, ready

to question the accuracy of his choice of destination.

But the man was already gone, the black car turning

in the cobbled driveway and disappearing back

down into the street. Automatically, Audra thought

of her credit-card balance, wondering if there was

enough on the thing for just one night in a hotel that

was probably as swank on the inside as it looked on

the outside. Hopefully, when Shamiyah said she’d

“take care of the arrangements,” she meant more

than the airfare.

The doorman was waiting.

“I’ll guess we’ll find out if I’m checking in in a sec-

ond,” she quipped to the valet.

He laughed like his tip depended on it and led her

inside.

Chapter 8

Friday, May 12

Dear Petra,

Had to log on quickly to tell you how fab this hotel is!

Girl, it’s beyond plush. It’s like living a moment out of

that VH1 show, The Fabulous Life of . . .

Still not entirely sure why I’m here, but I guess I’ll

find out in a few minutes. There’s a car on the way to

take me to meet with the Ugly Duckling people.

I’ll write more later.

Be careful out there,

Audra

“Audra! So nice to finally meet you! Though I

feel like I already know you, from all our

phone conversations and of course, that fabulous

tape of yours!”

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Karyn Langhorne

Shamiyah—for this was surely the woman; Audra

recognized the voice and the emphatic use of certain

words—grabbed her by the shoulders and pulled

her close, planting two quick butterfly kisses on

both her cheeks.

“Let’s get a look at you!” she said, pushing Audra

away as suddenly as she’d grabbed for her, her face

crunching with the effort of inspection, as though

they weren’t standing in the middle of a leafy side-

walk, outside an utterly unremarkable-looking Bev-

erly Hills office complex.

Audra stared back her, conducting an inspection

of her own. Shamiyah was older than she had

sounded on the phone, probably as kissing close to

thirty as Audra was herself. She was a petite, sepia-

toned person with a heart-shaped face framed by a

mass of unruly black springs of hair, held off her

face by a pair of designer sunglasses. She was a little

rounder in the behind than Audra expected—

carrying a little of Africa in her hips and thighs—

but her tight white tank T, her low-slung jeans and

high-heeled mules suited her figure perfectly.

“Girl,” she said in her Ivy-league ghetto voice,

“you weren’t kidding. How much have you lost?”

“Not sure,” Audra replied, her mind racing.

These people were expecting some quick-thinking,

comedienne version of herself and she had no inten-

tion of disappointing, even if it cost her every line in

her personal arsenal, plus a few from the old movies

as well. “Fat girls don’t weigh themselves, you

know. Axe-wielding mass murderers don’t scare fat

girls.” Audra rolled her eyes. “Hell, I’d probably just

ask to borrow his knife to carve my chicken dinner.

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99

But the scale?” And she made her voice like a Vin-

cent Price horror movie from back in the day.

“Scaaaarrrryyy . . .”

Shamiyah chuckled her appreciation for the per-

formance. “Well, we’ll get some numbers today,” she

said, taking Audra’s arm and guiding her toward

the lobby of the building. “What did you think of

the hotel?”

Audra rolled her eyes. “When that car rolled up in

front of it, I thought I was going to have to prostitute

myself just to pay the bill. Can you see me, hanging

out on the street corner in this neighborhood, flash-

ing passing cars with a little leg?” And she struck a

pose she knew looked utterly ridiculous—especially

for a woman of her size and build.

Shamiyah broke into another gale of laughter.

“That would be hilarious.”

“Probably wouldn’t make me enough money to

pay for the newspaper they left on the threshold.”

“You’d be surprised,” Shamiyah muttered, her

voice losing a bit of its bubbly edge. “Strange place,

L.A. People literally sell their very souls here and

consider it worth the bargain.” She shook her head.

“I’ve been here for almost eight years . . . and I some-

times wonder if I’m one of them.” Before Audra

could ask her any questions