by Amy Jones
“You can’t stop her! She’s Avalon Hart. From that TV show about the Harts!”
It wasn’t until later—after the security guard had called in backup, and Ava and Mags had both been wrapped in towels and sent back to their room to sleep it off, the sun creeping in through the still-open curtains as they lay together on the bed, all wet hair and clammy skin and breath as heavy as smoke—that she thought: I’m not, though. I’m not from that television show. I’m not from anything.
Reality Check
Reality TV Writing for Reality TV Fans
LifeStyle Announces New Season of Absence Makes the Hart Grow Fonder
Lex Jackson, staff writer
02/20/15 8:34 am Filed to NEWS
Absence Makes the Hart Grow Fonder, the troubled spinoff of beloved reality classic Home Is Where the Hart Is, will begin filming its second season next week, Reality Check has confirmed.
The show, which had a rocky start this past fall, capturing a measly 0.23 share among adults 18–49, was reportedly on the brink of cancellation before this week’s news about Ava Hart’s alleged abortion. Now the world is asking, “Who is Ava Hart’s babydaddy?” and LifeStyle is banking on viewers tuning in to find out the answer.
But will the mystery be revealed?
LifeStyle CEO Bob Axelrod is playing his cards close to his chest. “Our aim is to document every aspect—both highs and lows—of the lives of these extraordinary young people,” he said. “Viewers can take that as they will.”
Season 2 of Absence Makes the Hart Grow Fonder will premiere Thursday, March 19 at 9 pm EST on LifeStyle. In the meantime, catch the AMTHGF Season 1 marathon this Saturday and Sunday from noon until 10 pm.
TMI Online
February 20 at 1:54 am
Looks like Ava Hart is in Toronto!
TMI.com
Ava Hart Spotted in Toronto Outside Concert Venue with Align Above’s Mags Kovach
Only a few short days after photos surfaced of Ava Hart outside an abortion clinic, Celebrity.com has received exclusive photos of the reality star in Toronto, intoxicated and…
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Amber Leigh Delacruz via TMI Online
February 20 at 2:12 am
I know I shouldn’t be doing this, y’all, but I can’t sit by and watch while this piece of trash runs around doing whatever she wants, giving the rest of us decent, hardworking reality television stars a bad name. She is a disgrace to reality television and someone needs to say something. Ava, go back to your family and get back to God.
TMI.com
Ava Hart Spotted in Toronto Outside Concert Venue with Align Above’s Mags Kovach
Only a few short days after photos surfaced of Ava Hart outside an abortion clinic, Celebrity.com has received exclusive photos of the reality star in Toronto, intoxicated and…
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TMI Online
February 20 at 3:22 am
Shots fired!
TMI.com
Librarians of Florida star Amber Leigh Delacruz Slams Ava Hart on Facebook
Amber Leigh Delacruz, one of the stars of HBG’s hit reality series Librarians of Florida, recently took to Facebook to put fellow reality television star Ava Hart on blast, calling her “a disgrace to the…
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Mags
Saturday, 10:56 a.m.
They could only have been asleep for a few hours before they woke to a pounding on the door. Mags surfaced through the heavy layers of unconsciousness and forced her eyes open. Across the room, the television was still on, tuned to a reality show about bakers.
Ava was still snoring, her pool-wet hair stiffened to little meringue-like peaks on her head. As the banging continued, Mags rummaged through what remained of the mini-fridge’s contents, looking for something to deal with her hangover. She would have killed for one of Sam’s favourite hangover cures—honey, lemon, hot water, ginger, and lots and lots of rum—but had to settle for beer, Clamato, and Red Bull, which she dumped all together in the container meant for ice before she opened the door.
“So, the good news is your first five shows in Europe are sold out,” Emiko said, bursting into the room, an impossibly large Starbucks cup in her hand. “But the bad news is they’re not charging you with public indecency.”
“That’s bad news?” Mags said. “Wait, how did you find me?”
“Public indecency is your high-speed train to rock stardom. Jim Morrison. Wendy O. Williams. Madonna. Mags Kovach. Not a bad list to be on. Next time you decide to take your clothes off onstage, remember to make some obscene gestures. And I had a GPS tracker implanted in your neck when you were passed out.” When Mags reached for the back of her neck, Emiko rolled her eyes. “You sent me a Snap from the pool at, like, one a.m.” She thrust the coffee at Mags. “Put down whatever swill you’re drinking and take this.”
Mags took the coffee, but instead of drinking it, she peeled the top off and put it down on the dresser. “Madonna was never actually arrested,” she said, poking through the minibar bottles again and picking out a bottle of Bacardi, which she emptied into the coffee. “They only threatened her with it.”
“And Jim Morrison was a narcissistic, misogynist creep,” Ava said from the bed, her eyes still closed. “Didn’t you see the movie?”
Emiko glanced over at Ava. “Oh, you’re still here.”
“No charges, then. Got it.” Mags took a sip of her drink and hoped she wouldn’t throw up while Emiko was there, but she would do what had to be done. After all, Emiko was the one who had convinced her to self-medicate. She shouldn’t be surprised when she had to deal with the consequences. “People are just going to have to live with my continued clean criminal record.”
“Well, you’ve got a couple of days before we leave. There’s still time.”
Mags put her coffee cup down with a shaking hand. Europe had been looming large in her mind since the tour began, a giant monster waiting for her in the dark. Going on a North American tour without Sam was one thing. They had been to all of those cities before, and she had memories of Sam wherever she went—there was their favourite pizza joint in Detroit, the beach in Ocean City where they had watched the sun rise, the bookstore in Chicago whose awning they had stood under, waiting for a thunderstorm to pass. She found having those memories somehow comforting, as though he were still there with her. But thinking about going to Europe without him—a place where she didn’t have any memories of Sam to keep her company, a place they had always talked about going together—she wasn’t ready for it. Deep down she knew she needed to take a break, that living this way was eventually going to kill her. But she also knew that staying here, drinking and thinking about Sam, that would kill her too. Either way, she was dead. She might as well die singing.
“Hurry up and finish that,” Emiko said. “You’re going to be late.”
Mags put the cup down. “Late for what?”
Emiko sighed. “Your interview. Come on. Where are your clothes?” She scanned the room, letting her eyes fall on a pile half shoved under the bed. “Are those the same clothes you performed in last night? Do you not have anything else?”
Mags shook her head. “What interview? With who?”
Emiko looked at her phone. “Jack Francis with the National Chronicle. You agreed to this interview weeks ago.”
“No.” She tried to comb out her hair with her fingers, but they got stuck in the chlorine-crisped tangles. “I’m not doing it.”
“You have to do it. Everybody does it.”
Mags began extracting her hand from the bird’s nest on top of her head. “If everybody jumped off a bridge, would you make me do that too?”
“If it was essential for your career, yes.”
Mags’s hand came free and dropped to her side. “Why can’t Paul and Zac do it?” Though even as she said the words, she already knew the an
swer. Paul and Zac were not the ones whose faces were on the covers of the albums. Paul and Zac were exempt from this kind of bullshit. Also, Paul and Zac hadn’t spoken to her offstage since she walked out of the radio interview in Cincinnati. So there was that.
Emiko stood up, her eyes fixed on her phone. “One afternoon. Then you can get back to partying with your D-list celebrity lover.”
“Hey!” said Ava, face muffled in the comforter. “I’m a solid C-list.”
Mags waved her off. “Look, I’ll do the interview, okay? But I don’t have to explain my social life to you.”
“You do when it’s costing me money.” She looked up from her phone. “There, I’ve emailed you some talking points, some nice, neutral things to say about Sam.”
“I’m not talking about Sam.”
“Of course you are. What else do you think he wants to talk about?” Emiko picked up Mags’s T-shirt off the floor and smelled it, then wrinkled her nose and dropped it again. “Go have a shower and I’ll try to find you some clothes.” She turned abruptly and walked out the door.
“I’m not talking about Sam!” Mags called after her, but she was already gone.
Mags sat down on the bed next to Ava, then flopped backward. Everything hurt, but she knew Emiko would have a pill for that. Or at least something strong enough to ease her hangover and make her coherent for this interview that she did not want to do. So much of being a rock star was exactly the way she had imagined it would be. What was surprising was how much of it she couldn’t stand.
“So, you’re going to Europe in two days,” Ava said, propping herself up in the bed.
“Yeah, apparently.”
Ava rubbed her eyes. “I have two days until I’m supposed to start filming again.”
Mags stared up at the ceiling, a blank, monochrome wash of white. How could there not be a stain there, a mark, a patch of peeling paint? How could anything be that flawless? “What did you want to be when you grew up?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” Ava felt around for her phone, which she located under a pile of pillows. “I think I was just always grown-up.”
“That is totally not true.”
“It is true.” She started fixing her hair in her selfie camera. “Haven’t you read the tabloids? I am completely self-obsessed. I can’t conceive of anything outside of myself.”
“Liar.” Mags paused. “Are you going to go back to your show?”
“I don’t know. Are you going to go to Europe?”
“I don’t know.” Mags traced her eyes along the ceiling from one side of the room to the other, searching for some kind of crack. But there was none.
* * *
Jack Francis folded his hands on the table in front of him. “So. Tell me about Sam.”
Mags felt her whole body tense up as she shrunk down in her seat. She had known this interview was a mistake from the moment she walked in and saw his smug, generically handsome face, his too-blue eyes, his hair stiff with styling products. She immediately disliked him, but she also knew she was too fuzzy and too worn down by pharmaceuticals to keep her guard up.
He had suggested this bar at the last minute, some try-hard hipster place that was just a nameless black room with bike parts and old mannequin pieces stuck up on the wall, a ceiling hung with industrial wire woven together to look like a giant nest. She had kept her body stiff as he hugged her, whispering in her ear that he had already ordered her a gin and tonic, that he had read somewhere it was her favourite drink. It wasn’t even remotely true, but she downed it anyway and ordered another before they’d even started.
The first part of the interview was a blur as the gin picked up her heartbeat, which had been slowed by whatever pills Emiko had given her. She vaguely remembered him asking her about the band’s origins, about their songwriting process, about favourite shows they’d played. Now, Jack Francis was looking at her with what she could only assume was meant to be an expression of fatherly concern, and asking her about Sam, and she was immediately pulled back into the room. She supposed it was inevitable, although now the words she had practised on the way over—that she missed him, that the band would never be the same without him, that in the future they would be going in a different direction, that she hoped he would be happy with the album—were impossible to say.
Instead, she asked, “Can we talk about something else?”
“Absolutely,” Jack said, regarding her over the rim of his pint glass. He was drinking a draft stout, something dark and syrupy. All the older music guys did—as though the darker the beer, the more you could prove your masculinity. Sam had always laughed at that. Sam only ever drank Coors Light. “But tell me…I’m curious as to why you decided to release the album and tour so soon after his death. You had only been married a few weeks. Losing him must have been very difficult.”
A few weeks. Mags took a sip of her own drink, trying not to smash the glass on the table. As if they were newlyweds still working out which side of the bed to claim. As if the preceding six years didn’t mean a fucking thing. Which maybe they didn’t. Maybe, Mags thought, she had just made it all up in her head—all the first times and the trying out and the talking and talking and talking, late-night jam sessions and morning coffee, backyards and basements, scars and freckles, their bodies pressed together in bed, Sam’s fingers winding through her hair.
“It’s important to us to keep working,” she said.
On the other side of the room, over the top of Jack’s head, Mags could see Ava sitting on a barstool, legs crossed, back straight. She was wearing a Toronto Raptors toque and scarf, and a huge red hoodie with a maple leaf in the middle, all of which Emiko had bought in the gift shop at the hotel. “At least no one will recognize me,” Ava had said. “I look like a Swedish tourist. All I need is a fanny pack.”
Mags herself was wearing a Blue Jays T-shirt under her coat, which she had left zipped up, one last line of defence against Jack. But it didn’t seem to be working.
“How have fans responded to your husband’s death?” Jack asked.
“Oh,” said Mags, jabbing her straw into her drink, trying to break up a big piece of ice. “Everyone has been kind. Everyone’s been super positive. We love our fans.” The rote answers were coming back to her. In her former life, she had been great at interviews. “We have the greatest fans in the world.” Ava gave her a thumbs up.
“And what about Josh Falco? How have things been going with him?”
“Who?”
“Josh Falco. Your new bassist.”
“Oh, right. Yeah, he’s great. He’s super talented. He’s bringing such a fresh, new sound to the band. It’s really been great working with him.”
Jack sat back, crossing his arms. “It sounds like the future only holds good things for Align Above. You’ve been taking advantage of a difficult situation and making it work in your favour.” He held his pint glass to his lips and drained the rest of his beer, then set the glass back on the table gently.
Mags watched the beer suds slide down the side of his glass. Jack waited patiently to see how she was going to respond, but Mags just sat there, mesmerized by the slow trickle of liquid, until she couldn’t even really remember the question anymore. After what she realized must have been an eternity, she said, “Oh, yeah. It’s great. Really great.”
“Your performances throughout this tour have all been, well, pretty dramatic, to say the least. But I think it’s fair to say that with last night’s show you took things to a whole new level.” He raised his eyebrows questioningly. “Was that planned?”
The suds began to pool on the table as everything went quiet in Mags’s brain. “All part of the act,” she said.
“Of course. People are paying good money to see your…act.”
Mags felt her body go cold. “I’m just trying to do my job,” she said, finally tearing her gaze away from the glass and meeting his eyes. “I’m just trying to do what’s right for the band. I’m just trying to sing.”
“Tru
e. But surely you’re aware that your ticket sales are based on much more than your singing.” He raised an eyebrow, a slight smirk on his face that made her skin crawl.
“No, I was not aware. Please, enlighten me.” She clenched her fists beneath the table. “What else are they based on?”
Jack gazed at her levelly. “Nothing, of course, you’re right,” he said breezily. He reached for his tape recorder, tucking it into his satchel as he slid out of the booth. “I think that’s a great place to stop. Thanks so much for doing this. I know that some of this stuff must be hard to talk about.”
“Hard?” She dug her nails deeper into her palms. “Are you fucking serious? Hard?” But Jack didn’t respond, only squeezed her shoulder on the way out the door.
Mags slammed her fist on the underside of the table. “Of course he had to have the last word,” she said as Ava slid into the booth across from her. “Of course he’s going to piss me off then walk away like a fucking psychopath.”
“What a d-bag,” Ava said, pushing his glass away. “Condescending, self-important little prick.”
“I want to set his whole world on fire,” Mags said. “I mean it, Ava, I want to burn it all down.”
“We should,” Ava said, taking another sip of her drink, some tall pink thing in a glass rimmed with sugar. She took her phone out and stared at the screen, but kept it turned off. “All of them are vultures, picking at the bones of our various tragedies. Feeding on our fucking souls.”
A woman approached the side of their table. “Excuse me,” the woman said to Mags. “I’m sorry to bother you. I just wanted to tell you that I’m such a huge fan of your work. I’ve been listening to Align Above since your first EP came out.”
Mags smiled broadly even as her stomach knotted. “Great! Always nice to meet a fan.”