by Simmons, NC
Beads of angered sweat formed around the interviewer’s upper lip, his Anglo face turning bright red. Lenore successfully turned the audience’s attention to Trainor’s inadequacies, and away from her alleged easy skate.
“No, that won’t be necessary, Lenore…”
“Are you certain, Terry?” Lenore winked. “It would be no trouble at all. Ne pensez-vous pas que votre auditoire l'apprécierais?”
“No, Lenore… I’d rather…”
Lenore charged ahead. She overplayed her counter-attack of the backpedaling talking head. Over Trainor’s shoulder, Armand slashed his throat with his hand, shout-mouthing the words…
“BASTA! LENORE! ALTO! ALTO!”
“Well, perhaps you would like me to quote some Shakespeare? Or I could speak with you about macroeconomic theory if you wish. My father made it a point to tutor me in economics. Oh, I am such a fan of The Economist! Do you read The Economist, Terry? Or the Financial Times?”
“BAIL OUT, Terry! Cut her off!” urged the Producer.
With the “gotcha” racked and ready to roll, Trainor gently shook off the Producer’s suggestion. In her humiliating counterattack, Lenore played directly into Trainor’s hands, revealing herself to be a catty, elitist snob. The more untouchable Lenore felt, the more vulnerable she became.
“No, Lenore… I think…”
“I know! As a journalist, I am certain you are familiar with the work the World Health Organization is sponsoring in malaria research in sub-Saharan Africa. Perhaps if we talked about that…”
The interviewer raised his hand and halted the teen’s barrage.
“NO! Thank you, Lenore. That was… Truly wonderful. I’m quite certain our audience can tell you are qualified for Paulson.”
Trainor touched his index finger to his cheek, as if preparing to make a point, his silent signal to the Director to be ready with the pyrotechnics. The former barrister smiled. In the booth, the Director prepared a devastating salvo.
“Right! That’s the signal… Stand by the photos… Stand by 2…”
“Yes… That was all quite fascinating, Lenore. But none of what you just shared addressed what happened to you when you were 16. I believe it was in Paris. I’m certain you remember that time. I’m certain you heard the rumors. Do you remember the incident?”
Lenore’s eyes widened in shock. She swallow noticeably. Armand’s PR team didn’t think Trainor would have the guts to go after the popular teen idol about the Paris incident. Certainly not so soon into the interview. Certainly not so aggressively.
Squinting over Trainor’s shoulder, Lenore craved a quick glimpse of her father’s reassuring face. The cameraman had shifted, blocking her sight line. The lights blinded her. What did her coach tell her? What was the appropriate response?
“Yes, Terry, but… There… There really is not much to say about those days. I… Overworked. I was too young… Too inexperienced… And… I overworked myself. That is all.”
“Well… Yes, Lenore… That is the ‘official’ story. But… There are other things we have heard… Unofficial things. Rumors of a relationship. With an older man…”
Battling to maintain composure, Lenore’s emotional age dipped from an elegant, articulate mid-20-something, back to the 14-year-old child who begged her father to let her pursue a career in modeling. She fidgeted with her hands and unconsciously bit her lower lip. Lenore responded too quickly –– robotically –– with vacuous, rote phrases Armand’s assistants poured into her sponge-like mind.
“Rumors… Rumors, Terry… They are just that. Unfounded… Rumors. As I explained, Terry… There were rumors about my admission to Paulson… They could not be more… More unfounded.”
Lenore lifted a trembling hand to brush a few hairs from her eyes.
“What I remember… Terry… I was exhausted… From overwork. I needed time to recover.”
Trainor signaled the booth with a downward flick of his index finger.
“Right! Photos up NOW! 2… Stand by for her reaction…”
Trainor leaned forward. The body blow came swiftly, a sequence of four photos of Lenore intimately flanked by an anonymous older man – a handsome, graying man appearing to be in his young 40’s –– standing just to the side of the child model. In one photo, they held interwoven hands.
“There were photos, Lenore…”
Lenore’s composed facade crumbled, an audible gasp escaping her lips. She saw the photos on the monitor and froze, aghast. Succumbing to nervous, childish habits, Lenore uncrossed her calves, bouncing and jittering her right leg. In her lap, she dug at the cuticle of her left index finger with her right thumb.
“These photos show you with an older man, Lenore. He has his arm around you. And not just in one photo, Lenore. Several. Nobody has yet explained who he is or why he suddenly disappeared. Would you care...?”
An emergency note of coaching replayed in Lenore’s ears. It was her father’s voice with counsel for crisis moments, for when talking points eluded her. “Never let the attacker remain on the attack. Even if you have nothing to throw at him, deflect his thrust. Buy time. Regroup. Breathe. Refocus.”
Lenore parried wildly, flashing quickly through all options in her arsenal of canned responses. A vague memory of a strategy teased her. In the fog of terror, she remembered just one word. Paparazzi.
“The paparazzi! The paparazzi, Terry! They photographed me… Many times…”
There was a number! What was the number? She was supposed to say a number! Her aid gave her a number! What was the number?
Lenore’s voice wavered, her shoulders slipping forward into a guarded hunch, she lifted her fussing hands from her lap. Armand heard the tone and saw the slump. Lenore had lost sight of her security blanket. Maneuvering quickly, Armand found a second sight line over Trainor’s other shoulder. With Lenore’s eyes darting frantically, yearning for a reassuring glimpse of her father, Armand finally recaptured her attention. He mouthed…
“Respirar, mi linda. Respirar… Relajarse!” gesturing in slow, looping motions with his hands.
As the 18-year-old received urgent coaching, Trainor pressed onward. “Yes… We all know about the paparazzi, Lenore. They are indeed everywhere. But the paparazzi had nothing to do with the man standing next to you in those photos. The paparazzi didn’t…”
“Recuerde, Lenore. Ciento cuarenta y seis…”
Lenore remembered! Confidence returned to her stiffening spine. She leaned forward and lunged verbally at her attacker, slashing the air with her right hand. Startled, Trainor recoiled.
“Mr. Trainor! I am offended by all this disgusting innuendo! This personal attack is appalling behavior coming from a respected journalist! Did you know that I am photographed more than 100 times every day by paparazzi and photographers from around the world?” For emphasis, Lenore slapped the back of her right hand into the palm of her left. “More than 100 times every day, Mr. Trainor! Over the past four years that would total over…”
Acting her part like an Oscar nominee, Lenore pretended to calculate a number in real time, a number that was etched into her memory. Raising one hand she tapped fingertips to fingertips as if calculating the total.
“…Well… That would be over 146,000 photos! And I do not always know when such photos are taken! They are often shot with telephoto lenses or by people who jump up in front of me without warning.”
“But Lenore…”
“And I am often surrounded and touched by people I do not know. As a public figure, Mr. Trainor, I am certain you can appreciate that I rarely know who stands near me. I heard that someone once took an embarrassing photo of you, Mr. Trainor, a photo you never fully explained. Would you like to share your humiliating photo with your viewers tonight? If I asked your Director to put your embarrassing photo on the screen, would you be prepared to explain it to your viewers?”
The interviewer squirmed. “Lenore… This isn’t about…”
Too little, too late. The teenage girl was on a man
-handling roll. “My guides and chaperones have done their best to protect me from people who wish to do me harm. And I believe they have done an exceptional job. But it is impossible for them to protect me from every one of those people I do not know and each of those 146,000 photos. So if there are photos somewhere that portray me in some negative light, all I can say is…”
“Lenore… You cannot deny that one of these photos shows you holding hands with an older man…”
“I do not remember that moment, Terry…” Off camera, a tell hinted at Lenore’s duplicity. Though her leg lost its spastic jitter, Lenore once again picked at her left index finger. Not quite a lie. Not quite the truth.
“You’re telling us you don’t remember holding hands with that man?”
Armand caught Lenore’s gaze and poured strength into his beleaguered daughter. “Te quiero, Lenore…”
“Terry… I am telling you… I do not remember that moment…”
“But surely, Lenore, you don’t expect us to believe…”
“Mr. Trainor, I live every day knowing that the honor of the De La Fuente family name is on my shoulders. How I behave does not affect only me. It also affects my mother and father, whom I love deeply. I attempt to conduct myself properly every day of my life. When my fans think of that challenge, I would like them to remember that number… 146,000…”
In the remote truck just outside, the Producer watched the interviewer seethe, red-faced and thirsting for blood. Lenore staggered Trainor with mention of his career-rocking photo. Trainor wanted payback.
“Terry… Don’t do it, mate! She knows it’s coming! Go soft!”
The interviewer refused to retreat. Terry Trainor – “Award Winning Journalist” - was not about to let a wicked little girl – no matter how well prepped or sympathetic - get the best of him.
“Then how do you explain your disappearance from the runway, Lenore? You vanished for more than two weeks. You were the most photographed woman in the world and then you vanished without a trace. You disappeared at precisely the time those photos circulated. Can you explain that coincidence to your fans?”
As the interviewer spoke, Armand mouthed additional instructions. They were unnecessary. With a subtle side-to-side shake of her head, Lenore waved off her father. When the red light atop Camera #2 lit, Lenore glared unflinchingly at the interviewer, Golden Globe nomination secured for Best Performance by an Actress in a Real-Life Cat Fight. She spoke measured, commanding words.
“Mr. Trainor… I am shocked that you would attempt to link my time away from the runway with your cruel rumors and heartless innuendo…”
Trainor parried wildly. “Lenore, it is not a ‘rumor’ that you disappeared. That is a fact…”
Lenore counter-attacked with a heart-piercing thrust. “…And since it does not appear that you will respect my privacy in this matter, you have left me no choice but to confess the details of a humiliating illness. It appears that reliving a frightening experience I would rather forget is the only way you will move onward from this malicious and deliberately hurtful line of questioning.
“I do not know if you have daughters of your own, Mr. Trainor, but I am certain you can appreciate why I, as a teenage girl, have never spoken publicly about this. It was a deeply personal, embarrassing time in my life.”
“This isn’t necessary, Lenore…”
“Oh, but Mr. Trainor, I regret you have made it so by raising such filthy innuendo…”
The host opened the can of worms with the accusation. The reinvigorated diva crushed every, last, squirming earth-eater with her sexy stilettos. For proper, humiliated effect, Lenore bowed her head and labored onward, speaking in hushed, mortified tones.
“The truth, Mr. Trainor… The truth is that I disappeared from the public eye for three weeks, not just two. I… I succumbed to exhaustion due to my work schedule and my studies. When I first began modeling, I believed I was invincible, able to do everything. I modeled every week. I competed in equestrian trials every weekend. I studied until late into the evening. I worked non-stop. But I could not have been more… Wrong. I was not invincible. I was… naive. No… I was stupid. I was…
“…A child.”
Lenore looked up, her eyes red and damp. She sniffed, striking an award-winning balance between composure and brokenness. “One night I collapsed in my Paris hotel room. By the time my chaperone found me, I was in a poor state. He immediately took me to hospital for treatment. The doctor who saw me diagnosed two weeks of bed rest and urged my father to make me give up modeling. He believed my health was at risk if I did not cut back.
“But quitting was never an option for me, Mr. Trainor. I… I love what I do. I love modeling. I love equestrian competition. I love my studies. I simply needed to learn how to balance my loves and take better care of myself. So to recuperate away from the pressures of the paparazzi, my father took me directly from Paris to a private facility in Switzerland. That was where I found balance again. I learned how to take better care of my health and draw better boundaries about my activities. For the first time in my life I learned… I learned how to say, ‘No’.”
Lenore pointed firmly at the interrogator, a trembling note of righteous indignation driving home her frustration. “That, Mr. Trainor… That is where I ‘disappeared’ to! A health ranch!”
Lenore softened and concluded her scripted monologue. “After that horrible experience, Mr. Trainor, I reduced my work schedule, I learned new relaxation techniques to help me better manage my stress levels, and I changed my diet.”
Lenore pointed at the host with a supplicant, open-palmed gesture, making his very presence in her house a repudiation of his accusations. “And as you can personally confirm for your viewers, Terry, I am once again a whole, healthy girl. Since I came back from my illness, I have not missed a shoot, a show, a class, or a competition. I believe these past two years have proved that I am fully recovered and I am prepared to begin a new phase of life at Paulson.”
What was good for the sucker-puncher was good for the sucker-punchee. Lenore leaned toward the host. “I trust, Terry, that revealing such a humiliating, deeply personal experience on your show… On live TV… Should sufficiently address any lingering concerns you or your viewers may have about my wellbeing.”
The Producer raged in Trainor’s ear-piece. “Bloody hell! This interview is OVER! Get us out of this segment! Cut to the bloody India / Pakistan test match, for Christ’s sake! Just soften it up, dammit!”
Lenore sat back, dabbed away errant tears, straightened her dress, pushed a few loose strands of hair from her eyes, and resumed her elegant, cross-calved pose. The Director’s calm voice defused the Producer’s fury. “Terry… 2 minutes… Time to wrap, mate.”
The interviewer glared at his prey. Lenore boxed him in. Everything Lenore volleyed his way deflected attention from the central issue; for several weeks a 40-something mystery man was seen intimately engaged with the then-16-year-old supermodel. Upon publication of the photos, the mystery man vanished from the face of the planet, never to be seen again. Then Lenore disappeared for more than two weeks.
Something happened in Paris, of that Trainor was certain. If he pursued Lenore with just two minutes to go, he would appear desperate. Lenore was too popular, too polished, and too composed for Trainor to continue the chase. Despite her near breakdown, she appeared convincing on camera; a sympathetic teenage girl who simply went through a health scare.
“No, Lenore… Thank you for clearing up that situation. Now… Since we are running short on time, I have just one more question…”
A muscle flex on Lenore’s chin caught Armand’s attention. The daughter maintained her aura of serenity, but the father sensed a collapse in progress. Lenore’s spot-on retorts worked, but the experience left her drained. Powerless to intervene, Armand prayed for Lenore to remain strong for one last battle.
“Yes… Terry…”
“How much are you worth as of today? I’ve heard rumors that you are alread
y worth several million pounds, is that true?”
Lenore relaxed. Trainor tossed her fluff. Back to the talking points. “Oh, Terry… I prefer not to talk about money. Money does not buy one happiness. I do not model for the money. I model because I love the work, I love Raquel, and because it has helped me achieve so many of my dreams. I have been blessed to travel the world and meet thousands of wonderful people. Money alone cannot make up for such experiences.”
“Yes, but… You are indeed a multi-millionaire, are you not?”
Near the bookshelf, a fatherly head nodded.
“Yes. I am. I suppose there is no harm in saying how much I am worth. When I checked this morning, my portfolio was valued at $4.5million U.S. dollars. It would be more, but I have chosen to give a significant portion to charity. As you may know, I believe very strongly in children’s aid causes and I give regularly.”
The interviewer’s eyes widened. “$4.5million U.S.? That’s quite a tidy sum for someone so young, Lenore. Does any of that include proceeds from your father’s fortune?”
In the shadows, Armand stuck out his tongue. Lenore smiled demurely. “No, Terry… Those are entirely my personal earnings.”
Sensing that the end of the interview was near, Armand folded his arms and nodded approval to his battle-tested daughter. She handled most of the interrogation like a professional, often working without a net. The toughest interview of her young career proved Lenore was ready to live life on her own in the harshest media town in the world.
Together, father and daughter dodged a career-ending crisis. “The Paris Incident” remained a neatly packaged family secret.
“Well that does it for our time together, Lenore. I want to thank you for your willingness to talk with us and connect with our viewers.”
The interviewer reached across to shake the girl’s hand.
“You are most welcome, Terry. It was my pleasure,” she lied convincingly.
Trainor looked directly into the camera. “The ’Eyes On’ team would like to express our deepest thanks to Señor Armand and Señora Alessandra De La Fuente for graciously opening their home for this interview. I only wish we had more time so we could take you on a tour of this magnificent estate and hear more about their stable of prize-winning horses. But perhaps, another time.”