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It’s show time, babe,” Ricky said, grabbing her hand as the guys with headsets opened the back doors for us.
    Of course, as soon as we were out of the limo, I was ushered around the back side of the red carpet, where publicist, agents, personal assistants, writers, producers, and anyone else not on the A list stood. In this crowd the Spanx were a little looser and the jewelry a little smaller. But I didn’t care. I was at a red carpet event, and I was loving it.
    I watched as Dana glided down the walkway, her arm through Ricky’s, a huge smile pasted on her face. She really was a good actress. You’d never know she was seconds from passing out a moment earlier.
    Ricky leaned in as they posed for photos near a potted palm tree, whispering in her ear as flashbulbs assaulted them. I could see any lingering tension drain from her face as she leaned into his touch. For all her complaining about celebrity, I could tell that there was nowhere else in the world Dana would want to be more than right there.
    Ditto for me.
    I soaked it all up, enjoying my red carpet experience to the fullest. I saw Sandra Bullock in a beautiful ivory gown, Helen Mirren in a gorgeous emerald dress, and Julia Roberts sparkling in a short sequined outfit with a long chiffon skirt. Very daring, and sure to hit the Best Dressed radar later. I was in fashion heaven, not to mention just the teeniest bit star struck as I gawked in awe at all the star power surrounding me.
    Which is probably why I didn’t see her until I felt my backside bump up against hers on the other side of the red carpet.
    “Oh, I’m so sorry,” I said, turning around to apologize. Unfortunately, I didn’t realize that my stiletto heel was on her train, and when I turned, I pulled her backward with me.
    I heard a gasp, a strangled cry, and then she tipped backward, stumbling on her pumps. Her right heel broke underneath her, sending her toppling over, right into my arms. Which, unfortunately, were not as gym pumped up as Dana’s were, and collapsed under her weight, sending us both falling to the ground.
    “Help! She’s trying to kill me!” the woman shouted.
    I blinked as I looked down at her face. Holy hell, I’d knocked over Betty White! “Ohmigod, I’m so sorry.”
    “Help!” she screamed again to the guys in headsets swarming around us.
    “I’m so, so sorry. Here, let me help you,” I said, trying to crawl out from under her. Only, instead of lifting her, I only managed to roll her onto her side.
    “Help!” she cried again, though it was kind muffle by the red carpet as she was now face down, butt in the air.
    Finally one of the guys must have heard her over the noise, as he reached down and, in one swoop, had both Betty and I on our feet. I had a feeling we were not the first red-carpet-plus-high-heels casualties he’d rescued.
    “She’s trying to kill me!” Betty yelled, pointing a finger at me.
    The guy in the headset took a menacing step forward.
    “No!” I said, shaking my head. “I just tripped and fell. It was a accident. I’m so, so sorry, Mrs. White.”
    “Look at my shoe,” she said, lifting her right foot. “You broke my heel! How am I supposed to present the award for best comedy actress with a broken heel?” She scowled at me, narrowing her eyes.
    Was it wrong that a little part of me was giggling inside at the thought that Betty White scowled at me ?
    I am so sorry,” I repeated again. “Here, let me see if I can fix it,” I offered, getting down on my hands and knees as I inspected Betty’s foot. “I’m a professional.”
    “A professional what?” Betty scoffed.
    “Shoe designer.” I stood up. “And, unfortunately, my professional opinion is that this shoe is toast.”
    “Well, I could have told you that,” she said, crossing her arms over her chest.
    “What size are you?” I asked.
    “What size shoe? Seven,” Betty said. “Why?”
    I took a deep breath and made the ultimate sacrifice for my comedy idol. “Take my