by Meghann Foye
From Cynthia: That could work, but I still want the diet tricks, too. If we don’t get them, I’ll pull the interview.
From Alix: I’m sure we can do it.
I call Alix, and she gives me the scoop. I’m terrified. I’ve never done a celeb cover story before and I’m not sure I can handle getting Marigold to reveal what exactly happened when she feigned exhaustion, and about life as a single mom. The stress of writing the story is one thing. But 50 percent of our magazine sales rely on our cover celeb: this means it’s up to me to sell this month’s magazine.
I pull off the bump and get into the shower to calm my nerves. The water pours over me, and as I’m looking up into the stars, I can only hear one voice in my head. Don’t screw this up, Liz.
* * *
The next morning, I head to the buffet breakfast bar early, armed with printouts from the business center of all of Marigold’s recent interviews, questions Alix has pulled together and notes from Cynthia for a cram session before Philip gets here at eleven. No amount of strong New England coffee is helping. The whole morning, I can barely see straight. I’m not only figuring out what to ask, but I also have to pretend what it’s like to be in my last trimester and make it seem real to a person who’s just had a baby herself. What if she finds out? What if Philip does?
Finally, Philip arrives, two hours late because of train delays. Then, in what seems like an hour, Marigold’s Crime Theory publicist shows up at the main restaurant area telling us she’s ready to be shot and interviewed in her private cottage directly overlooking the ocean. We truck over and even though I’ve seen Tamara go through it a hundred times, I’m still a little starstruck when I finally see TV’s biggest star.
She’s eating a cheeseburger.
“Hey! How are you? I’m Marigold! Good to meet you!” says the six-foot golden blonde as she wipes a bit of ketchup from the corner of her mouth.
I’m a little shocked by the totally casual greeting. Could this be? Is she actually really nice? Her publicist seems relieved and then I sense something.
“When are you due? It can only be a couple of months now, right?” she says cheerily. It’s my bump! She wants to talk pregnancy. Philip gives a resigned look since he’s done this a hundred times and directs his assistant to start helping him set up on the beach. The publicist gives me a look that tells me to sit down. “You’ve got forty-five minutes, Liz. I’ll be outside with the crew. Let me know if you need anything, Marigold.”
Marigold just smiles and nods at the publicist as I set my tote bag full of papers and printouts next to me, nervously taking a seat at Marigold’s table.
“It’s way past lunchtime. You must be starving! When I was pregnant, I was always craving milk shakes, macaroni and cheese, and lemonade.” Marigold passes me a menu to order something from room service. So much for diet tricks.
“I’m okay,” I say, pushing the menu aside on the table. She looks genuinely sweet, happy and friendly. “I was hoping to ask you a few questions about life as a new mom and what it was like working while pregnant.”
Marigold just nods and smiles, waiting for me to begin.
I turn on the tape recorder. “I’m going to record this.”
“Yes, ha, I know,” she says with a good-natured smile.
“So, are you enjoying motherhood so far?”
“Yes, very much!”
“How is Jacob doing?”
“He’s doing well, but I prefer not to discuss him in too much detail. I can talk about life as a mom, but I like to keep that part of my life private.” Okay.
“So, uh, are you breastfeeding?” What a lame question.
“Yes. But it wasn’t easy at first. I’d get a lactation consultant if you’re planning on it. Do you have a birth plan yet?”
“Uh, sort of.” Nerves are getting to me now, and I decide to just come out with it. “So, did you, uh, find it difficult to lose the baby weight?”
“Actually, no. It just kind of slid right off with the breastfeeding. I didn’t have to change my diet or do any special exercise.” Her lips reveal a smidgen of tightness. Right. Shit. Okay. Refocus.
“So, you were not only shooting Crime Theory this past spring, but were also working on an independent film from your own production company, and in the last stages of pregnancy. What was that like?”
“Oh, you know,” she says, waving at my bump like I should understand. “Not easy, but I managed.” This woman is going to give me nothing.
What am I going to do? All of these answers are totally boring, and worst of all, I’m guessing they’re completely true. I look down at my questions, trying to find anything that could lead to a sound bite, smiling as I’m biting my pen. I don’t see anything. I’m screwed. All of a sudden, the papers get caught on my bump and all fall in a tumble toward the ground. As I’m awkwardly trying to pick them up with my bump blocking me, I look down at “Lucie Rose.” I realize I have to do it. I have to use her. I wipe a bead of sweat from the side of my forehead.
“I’m about ready to burst right now, and I’ve got about two months to go. Working all day, it’s so tiring. And the thought of being a single mom—I mean, it’s pretty scary.”
Marigold looks at me as if she’s deciding what to reveal and how. Could I have just made an inroad?
“The father isn’t going to be part of the baby’s life?” She asks me carefully, with a look of understanding.
“No.” This is it. I have to lie again to gain her sympathy. “We were just dating casually. When he found out, he didn’t take it well and I decided it would be better for my child to only have people around who wanted to be there.” Immediately a wave of extreme guilt overtakes me. I can’t even look at Marigold, but then I go for it. “How did you decide to have the baby on your own?”
Now it’s Marigold’s turn to look a little uncomfortable. “Well, it wasn’t easy, but you know, it’s a lot easier with help. Do you have a good support system?”
“Yes, well, my mother...” I respond, and then I redirect to an easier-to-answer question. “I’m really worried about how I’m going to fit everything in and not feel totally exhausted. How did you strike a balance between work life and home life?”
Marigold looks as if she’s happy to answer this one. “As any woman knows, it’s never easy to find a balance at work and in life. But my motto is Be Flexible. When people are too rigid about their perfect balance, setting parameters about how much they should be working each day, it’s putting another set of limitations on you that can cause even more stress. I think the best thing is to go where curiosity strikes—even if it means a little bit more work on some days, resting on others,” she says with a wink. Could she be referring to her “exhaustion episode”? I let her continue. “When you’re passionate about something and you’re living in the moment, oftentimes you’re happier, and the rest falls into place. And it’s my firm belief that happy moms equal happy babies.”
“Totally...”
“You can’t have it all if you try to do it on your own. For single moms, it’s all about developing a crucial constellation of love and support. If you have that, yes, you’ve got a shot at having it all.”
“That’s exactly what I was telling my coworkers. It’s all about weternity.”
“Yep, exactly...” She laughs.
It’s the perfect quote. I smile up toward Marigold while I take notes.
“Do you want to see a picture of Jacob?”
“Yes! I’d love to.” I exhale.
I’m relieved to find out I’ve somehow bonded with the star, and after looking at pictures for a few minutes, I finally get her to reveal something huge—why she decided to go ahead and become a single mom at age forty-one in the first place. She describes her feelings about her breakup with a popular Olympic triathlete a few years back, and how she realized her time was running out and th
at she didn’t want to wait for the perfect man to come along. Finally, I get a great nugget that I can picture as the pull quote.
“True strength comes when you stop trying to control everything and accept that it’s all happening exactly as it should.”
I’m so in the moment that I find myself telling her that I felt exactly the same way. I tell her that now that my pregnancy is happening, I’m happy about it. She even reveals that the secret to losing the baby weight was going vegan. “Seitan burger,” she says, nodding her head toward her plate. “Tastes totally real!” By the end of the forty-five minutes, we’re chatting like old friends, and as I’m wrapping up, she tells me to put down the recorder.
“I’m going to tell you this, Liz, because you seem like a woman who can keep a secret. You know the ‘exhaustion’ that was being reported in the news? Well, let’s just say it wasn’t exactly exhaustion. It was in fact one of those times I was talking about—I needed to take some time off to relax and recharge. There are some very helpful doctors out there who know how to keep you looking your best. Let’s just say hormone-therapy has come a long way. HGH is a miracle. I can give you their info, if you need it. Us ‘choice’ moms have to stick together.” She winks.
I can’t believe it. She’s basically revealed that she visited a “mummy tummy clinic”—it’s exactly what I needed. But it’s off the record. I can’t use it. Marigold winks at me, and the publicist comes in to let her know that Philip is ready.
We head outside, and my mind is abuzz. Even though I had to sell part of my soul, I just nailed the interview. Even without the last bit, I’ll be totally fine. I revel in the sun while watching the shoot. Flaxen and cream-white couture caftans have been called in from Paris ateliers, and with the piles of chunky crystal quartz jewels amid the sparse, natural seascape, the effect is mesmerizing. The simplicity of the pale neutrals with the complexity of the lighting scape creates a never-been-done lunar eclipse effect that will look brilliant in the pages. Alix’s visual asthetic is singular. This is why I work at a magazine, I think. Marigold looks amazing in her strappy silver bikini, almost like a Bond Girl, and I can see on Philip’s laptop that the shots are stunning. After they’ve been shooting for a few hours, Marigold’s publicist says, “It’s a wrap.” But before we leave, Philip calls me over.
“So, did we get everything we need?” I spot her. Alix is here. HERE!
“Yes, uh, I think you’re going to be very happy. But you didn’t have to come up—I had it all under control,” I say, tittering.
“I wouldn’t have, but we hadn’t heard from you, and then it was too late to cancel. But that’s okay, I needed a little break anyway.” The moment of complicity isn’t lost on me. I smile back, nervous. “So, I’ll leave you two to finish up—find me at the pool bar.” She starts taking off in the other direction, toward the main area.
“Liz, get in the water. We’re going to take your photo now, so you can be listed in the contributing editor page,” Philip says.
“Uh, no. Ha. That’s okay.” I giggle nervously.
“Get in the water.”
“No.”
“Liz, just do it,” says Philip, resigned.
“NO!”
“Don’t make me text Alix...”
“Fine.” I edge in. “Just waist up, okay? I feel fat.”
“You’re glowing,” Philip says with false enthusiasm as a dig. “But you’re going to have to take off the caftan.”
I nervously take it off. I have to do this or else he’ll know. I get in the water up to my legs as Philip begins shooting, directing me to turn to the left and turn to the right.
After a few shots, I ask to check out what the photos look like, and there staring back is something I’m not expecting: Liz, completely, one hundred percent happy. I do look good. Beautiful even.
A little giddy, I return to the water and let a wave of emotion wash over me. Relief. Then freedom. I turn to face the shore head-on. “Okay, fine, Philip. Take your best shot.”
Then, all of a sudden, a huge wave hits my back and knocks me over with a ferocious force. And Philip is still clicking away, capturing it all.
As I’m submerging, I feel the odd sensation of my bump filling up like a big, wet, bloated sponge. It’s as if it’s absorbed fifty pounds of water in the span of a second. Shit! I forgot the underside is not made of latex! I’m beneath the waves and can’t get up. If I do, Philip will see it all leak out of my suit. What do I do? Philip’s just standing there twenty feet away, camera in hand, looking perplexed and waiting for me to stand.
“What are you doing in there? If you’re going to the bathroom, I don’t want to know.”
Then I get a thought. If I turn around, he won’t see. I start to stand up, hoping with all my might that my trick works. But then, something really bad happens. As the water comes flooding back out down my legs, the bump starts to shrivel up like an oversize, strange, craggy raisin. I try maniacally to smooth it out, but to my horror, Philip’s moved a bit to the right, and is in full view of my wringing-it-out trick, mouth agape. Luckily he’s alone.
“Uh, Liz, what just happened?”
I let my shoulders unscrunch as I walk out of the water to him, and then launch into my story. He takes it all in, and then says the one thing I am scared to hear.
“Listen, Liz. I like you. I really do. You’re cool. But I can’t help you lie to cover this up. I’ll stay silent, but if anything happens and I need to come clean about it, I’m gonna. This is too good a gig and I don’t want to lose it.”
I know I can’t ask him to lie for me. “I understand, Philip. Do what you have to do.”
He looks down, scrolling through his phone. “Alix just texted me asking me to email her the photos. I have to.”
“Wait twenty minutes,” I plead, in a panic, then immediately head to the ladies’ room, dry out my bump under the hand dryer as best I can, then hightail it to the bar, where thankfully, Alix is already perched, drink in hand.
“Oh, there you are. How did it go? I asked Philip to send me the film.” She’s upending the contents of her makeshift skinny gin and tonic into her mouth.
“Yes, he’s just doing an edit, then he’ll send you the best.”
“Oh, no need. I’ll pick which one to go with,” she says haughtily. “Don’t worry, I won’t pick anything that makes you look too fat.”
“Bartender,” I say, signaling, unsure what to do. “Could I please have a soda water, splash of cran.”
Alix eyes me with a look of boredom. “Oh, Liz, that’s hardly necessary.”
“You can have one or two drinks at least when you’re nearing the end of your pregnancy.” There’s a tone in her voice that sounds off. Like she’s already had a few.
“Oh, ha, I shouldn’t,” I say nervously. Then, I get an idea. “Okay, maybe just one of their craft pilsners. It is pretty hot. I’m sure I’ll sweat it all right out.”
“Exactly,” she affirms conspiratorially. “I drank pretty much all the way through with Tyler. He turned out fine.” She sneers. “Though he is sort of a prissy mama’s boy.” She starts tapping her glass on the table. “Where is this film? Philip’s usually quicker than this.”
“Don’t you need another G & T? I’m sure you do,” I say, trying to distract her.
“Well, yes, always, but I shouldn’t before we finish these selects...” She gives me a sideways glance, then eyes my re-plumped bump, then seems to make some sort of inner concession. “Oh, whatever... Bartender!” she says, motioning him over to our area of the sea-glass-tiled outdoor bar. “What in the way of special reserve Islays do you have?” Whoa, she knows her stuff, I think.
The bartender smiles, murmurs, “Of course, Miss Stephenson,” and takes out a special key that seems to unlock a cabinet to the side of the main well. He proffers three separate crystal decanters. Alix
takes one look, then says, “Oh, who cares. A finger of each.”
And I have to do nothing else. Two hours later, she’s slurring. Thankfully, Philip’s held off. The Scotch has opened up a wellspring and pretty soon, we’ve bonded over all the signs, symptoms and annoyances of pregnancy...it’s like, she trusts me.
“Have some. Come on. Just do it.”
I pretend to take a sip to appease her. “Pretty bird. Pretty bird,” she says at a wayward bird. I wave the seagull away. Now I’m feeling worried, but in the other direction. How am I going to make sure she gets back to her room? “Do you think you should slow down?”
“You’ll see when you have a kid. You’ll be guzzling the stuff.” I start getting nervous that now I’m going to have to drag Alix to her room. “Having kids isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. Trust me. The iPad will be your best friend. Do yourself a favor and download ‘Minecraft’ now.”
“Oh, I’m sure you’re just kidding,” I say, trying to stop this whole line of talk. “I’m excited to be a mom, actual—”
“You’ll see,” she interjects. “You’ll be clamoring to come to work, too, after dealing with a needy, impatient, little being who only acts nice when he wants a tit. Not to mention your husband, or partner, who will have stopped caring about them entirely... Oh, sorry, Liz. I forgot. There’s no partner in the picture, is there. I didn’t mean to be rude about it. What was it? One-time thing? You can tell me...”
I feel like I have nothing to lose at this point, so I make up another lie that has been on my mind for a while. “Yes, Alix. It was. Well, a few-times thing. But nothing serious. I decided I couldn’t not go through with it, though. Maybe I’ll tell him...when the time is right.” I strangely, offhandedly, think of Ryan. Alix, out of nowhere, puts a hand on my arm.
“Honestly, right before I met Trevor, I had a situation myself...ended in miscarriage early on, actually...but maybe I would have kept it, just like you’re doing...” Alix, looks down, takes another sip. This is a different side to her. “I think it’s admirable, actually...you’re owning the untidy consequences of your actions. That’s real life. Hard things happen. You’ve got to just live with them. Not taking the easy way out like all these candy-assed millennials.” She throws a hand up in the air to underscore her point.