by Liz Fenton
But now I feel my anger resurfacing. How could Casey tell my daughter she could date? What gave her the idea that she could make that decision without consulting me? Or even John? She knows how critical that decision is, doesn’t she? The worst part is I had to sit idly by and watch, unable to stop it.
And in the end, my daughter is going on a date. My husband has a better relationship with the fake me than he has with the real me. And in forty-five minutes I’m going to be verbally assaulted by a woman with a mascara wand. And there’s not a damn thing I can do about any of it.
“You didn’t sleep again.” Destiny pushes a Starbucks coffee cup into my hand as I walk into my office.
“You sound like that horrid makeup woman.” I take a long drink, the coffee burning the back of my throat.
“Fuck her. She’s just pissed off at the world. I hope you didn’t take it personally.”
“Spoken by the twenty-nine-year-old without a single wrinkle.” I smile.
I think again about Casey and how she’s not only getting older, but she’s doing it in front of bitchy makeup artists and in front of America. And even parts of Mexico and Canada. I almost laugh out loud as I remember the meltdown I had a few months ago on my thirty-eighth birthday when I’d discovered more wrinkles on my neck. I’d been so depressed that I’d worn turtlenecks for a week straight. It makes me wonder yet again if I was ever cut out for this business in the first place. If I would’ve been able to handle the incredible scrutiny.
“You want some good news?”
“I’d kill for some.” I sigh.
“We beat Access L.A. in the ratings last night.”
I stare at her blankly.
“We beat Access L.A.! You know that show we’ve never beat? Our nemesis? It’s like Leno and Letterman. And we’re finally Leno. The execs are doing a happy dance. They’re saying your interview with Ryan McKnight was our Hugh Grant moment. They’re saying you’ve never been better.”
“Never?” I frown.
“Don’t look so happy there. You’d think I just told you someone died. But it’s the exact opposite. You’re the It Girl of the moment. Entertainment Weekly even called this morning.”
“Sorry, I’m just tired. That’s great news.” I force a smile, but am worried about what Casey will think of this.
“That’s better. Now let’s get you into that makeup chair before she comes looking for you.”
Later, after the show is taped, I’m dragging myself back to my office, thinking I’m so tired that I might have to crash on my couch, when I hear them talking. It’s Charlie and a few of the executives huddled around a computer. I stop before they see me.
“This is great. This is so great. It’s all over the Internet,” Charlie says excitedly. “Look, look here, ThePulse.com is predicting that we’re going to stay on top in the ratings. When was the last time The Pulse even cared what we did?”
“To think, just a few weeks ago, we were wondering if we needed to put someone else in her spot. Maybe even try it with just Dean. We weren’t bringing in that eighteen-to-twenty-five demo. But with last night’s numbers, with us beating Access L.A. It’s unbelievable. Casey’s it right now.” One of the execs high-fives the other.
I’m stunned. Casey was in danger of losing her job? Her worst fear might have been realized if we hadn’t switched bodies? This switch might have saved her career? I might have saved her career? I can’t believe that. These executives are getting ahead of themselves here. It’s one night’s ratings. We have to keep it up, don’t we? But if we don’t, then will they replace her? I close my eyes and try to breathe.
“The way she handled that interview with Ryan. Compassionate yet skeptical. She was on fire,” the other exec adds excitedly.
I can’t help but smile. I did nail it, I think as I remember the interview.
Even though the associate producer had given me a stack of research, I’d stayed up half the night doing my own prep work. And as I arrived at the studio hours before anyone else, reading and rereading my materials in my office, I’d felt more ready for the interview than I had about anything in my life. But a few minutes before the taping, when I’d gone to Ryan McKnight’s dressing room to meet him, I’d caught him looking at a picture of his five-year-old daughter, Penelope, his eyes filled with tears. I’d left the dressing room quietly, before he could see me. And during the interview I’d used what I’d seen. I’d thought about my own daughters and I’d asked him what he’d do if someone were unfaithful to Penelope. He was instantly in tears. Then I’d gone for it. I’d asked him what he’d say to his wife now if he could. I’d told him to look into the camera, to pretend he was talking to her. And he’d started sobbing again. And I knew I’d gotten the interview. No one else had Ryan McKnight crying.
Long after they’d taken off my mic, removed my makeup, and fed the promos out to the stations, I sat alone on the set, staring up at the thousands of lights, letting it all sink in. Just weeks ago, the closest I ever came to a celebrity as huge as Ryan McKnight was by seeing him on the cover of a magazine while checking out at the grocery store. Now, not only had I interviewed him, I got the interview with him that no one else could.
The executives give each other another high-five and it snaps me out of my thoughts. “If Casey keeps this up, who knows what could happen. She could even be ready for her own show.”
Her own show. This is her dream. To be free of Dean. To be the star. My first instinct is to call her. But then I remember. She didn’t interview Ryan McKnight. I did. And I feel a pain deep inside. She’s not going to like this. She’s not going to like this at all. But then I can’t help it. I think of dinner last night and I smile. I smile for me. Because I did this. I made a choice in her life the same way she did in mine. And who knows? Maybe we’re both better for it. Suddenly I remember what the psychic said: Could this be the promotion she was talking about? She said she didn’t know the context, but couldn’t this be it?
“Wow. That will be an amazing opportunity for her,” Charlie says sincerely and I want to hug him. After everything, he’s still her biggest champion, her biggest fan. I wish she knew that.
“We’re already tossing around ideas. All preliminary of course. But if things continue, if Casey can keep this up, a show will happen for her. And she’s single. No kids. She’d jump at a chance to host her own show in the Big Apple, right?”
Charlie smiles, but his eyes look sad. “I don’t know, you’ll have to ask her. But you know Casey, she’d do just about anything for the next great thing.”
And I find myself wondering. What will she say? Or, if we haven’t been able to switch back and I’m still Casey Lee, what will I say?
CHAPTER 17
* * *
casey
“What do you think?” I twirl around and ask Charlotte, who giggles her approval.
Finding something suitable to wear to the GossipTV studios was, well, challenging to say the least. I finally discovered a black belted sundress hidden under a pile of bland sweaters and paired it with the boots I bought for Rachel at a sample sale a few years back. I can tell by their pristine condition that they’ve been sitting in the corner of her closet since the day she opened the box. I silently vow to make sure they don’t end up in the back of her closet again where all fashion-forward merchandise (not to mention gifts from me!) goes to die.
Although after being in Rachel’s life, I have to admit that I can’t really blame her for shoving the stuff back there. This life, her life, doesn’t have a lot of room for uncomfortable designer ankle boots and short sundresses. How ignorant I’d been, always on my high horse, mocking Rachel’s wardrobe choices, never once thinking about why she wouldn’t want to wear a two-hundred-dollar pair of leather booties. Even if I did risk my life for those boots—nearly knocking myself out as I collided with another woman, both of us grabbing for them, me winning, only to discover after paying for them that they weren’t even my size—I know now that Charlotte would probably spit up all
over them anyway. Or that Rachel may want to wear comfortable shoes because she never, and I mean never, gets to sit down. My legs had been aching more this past week than after hiking to the top of Runyon Canyon with my very hot, but merciless personal trainer.
I can handle the never-sitting-down part. I’m used to being on my feet in killer heels for hours, but just remembering that day at the studio just before we switched, when my boots were killing my toes, now seems like years ago.
It’s the time to myself that I’ve missed the most. As much as I adore Charlotte, I’m still shocked at how all-encompassing caring for her is. Between making sure she doesn’t fall down the stairs or saving her from electrocuting herself when she nearly stuck my car keys into the light socket (I’m still trying to remember not to leave my things in low places), I’m lucky if I’ve even run a brush through my hair by noon. I cringe now as I remember blowing off Rachel when she’d complained about never having a minute to herself. How deep down, I thought staying at home with a baby was the easy way out. That I secretly felt she had given up. I cringe, remembering my ignorant comments to her at the reunion. I always thought I was the one with the real pressure, fighting off every twenty-something bitch trying to knock me off my perch. Now I understand the truth. Caring for Charlotte was the hardest job I’d ever had, that I would ever have. And that includes that stint I had working with Tyra Banks a few years back.
I’ve been anxious about my trip to the GossipTV offices all morning, part excited, part nervous to step foot in the place that I had given most of my life to for the past three years. And I think again about the interview with Ryan McKnight. How Rachel had stepped in just two weeks ago and seemed to be playing me better than I’d been playing myself. It was more than a little disconcerting. Sure, I was relieved she hadn’t gotten me fired the first day as I’d been stupidly worried she might. But did she have to be so good? With each episode I watch—rushing to the bedroom the minute after I lay Charlotte down for her nap—I start to feel more and more replaceable. And the scariest part? With each day, I care a little bit less that I may be.
I pick up Charlotte and the Gucci diaper bag I had FedExed here earlier this week (bought with the real Casey’s credit card, of course) and head out the door with her on my hip.
I walk into the offices twenty minutes later with mixed emotions. I have to stop myself from greeting the crew members by name as they walk past, oblivious. I can’t help giving Fiona the evil eye as she passes me in the hall, looking me up and down before sneering at my outfit and glaring at Charlotte like she’s an alien. We don’t get many babies visiting our set.
I pop my head into my dressing room and Destiny looks up from her iPad. “Rachel? What are you doing here?” she asks, looking tired. More tired than I remember. And I wonder if she’s always this exhausted, but I choose not to see it because then I’d have to acknowledge that she practically has to live here to get all of her work done. Is she another person in my life whom I’ve failed to really see?
It’s so good to see her that I run up and give her a tight hug, smashing poor Charlotte in the process, who lets out a squeal in protest. “It’s really good to see you.”
“Whoa,” she says as she detangles herself from us and straightens her dress, one that we bought to celebrate the time I made Entertainment Weekly’s bull’s-eye after I put Spencer Pratt in his place during an interview after Heidi’s plastic surgery overdose. My successes—big and small—were always Destiny’s too: if I was ever canned she’d be out on her ass also.
“Hey, Rachel!” she calls warmly. “You here about the party?” she says as she reaches over to grab a large manila folder with “John’s party” written on it.
“Actually, I’m here to see Casey.”
“Hmmm . . .” she murmurs. She glances down at the iPad and taps the calendar. “Does she know you’re coming?”
“Yes, she does. Or I thought she did?” I say, my face warming as I realize that Rachel may be blowing me off. “She just texted me this morning,” I add.
“Okay, okay,” she says and speaks into her headset. “We’ve got someone here for Casey. What’s her ETA?” She listens for the response and nods. “Thanks,” she replies, before turning back to me. “She’s over at the craft service table. That’s—”
“I know what it is,” I say, cutting her off.
“Oh, okay,” she says, confused. “Allow me to walk you over. This way please.” She waves her arms toward the hallway.
“Thanks,” I respond, slightly embarrassed that Rachel had clearly forgotten I was coming and that Destiny was covering for her. She was just doing her job, protecting me—or rather Rachel—from distractions. Is that how I had painted Rachel to Destiny? Had I made her think my oldest and most loyal friend was nothing more than a distraction at work that I couldn’t afford?
“How’s the party planning coming?” Destiny inquires as we make our way toward craft services.
“Great,” I respond, before adding sincerely, “Thanks for all your help.”
“It was nothing,” she responds lightly. “Casey thought you could use some.” Then she chuckles. “Between you and me, I think she was surprised how under control you already had things.”
“Really? She didn’t think I could handle planning a simple party?”
“No, I don’t think that was it,” Destiny backtracks. “I think she was trying to be nice.”
“Yes, I’m sure that’s what it was,” I say quietly. Destiny glances over at me, worried she’s thrown her boss under the bus. “It’s fine,” I say to put her mind at ease.
I hear Destiny exhale a sigh of relief as we turn the corner and almost run into Dean who tries to brush past us, but Destiny stops him. “Dean, this is Casey’s best friend, Rachel.”
Dean looks at me. “Casey has friends?” He laughs. “Shocking.”
I can sense that Destiny is about to jump in but I cut her off. “Nice suit,” I say, using my free hand to finger the sleeve. Then I look down at his shoes. “You seem taller than you do on TV. Wait, are those heels on your shoes?”
His face turns crimson.
I pat his shoulder and continue. “It’s okay. I hear Tom Cruise needs them too.”
Destiny snorts and Dean walks off in a huff. She shakes her head. “I didn’t know you had it in you, Rachel.”
I smile. “There’s a lot of things you don’t know about me.”
“I bet,” she says, still smiling. “Hey, did you hear the good news?”
“What?” I ask, even though I know full well what she’s about to say.
“Casey’s interview with Ryan McKnight killed. We beat Access L.A. for the first time!”
I feel dizzy and grab on to the railing as we walk down the stairs toward the craft service table. It was one thing reading about it online in Rachel’s bathroom after everyone went to bed, where I was still somewhat removed from it and could talk myself out of feeling jealous, nervous, helpless, or all of the above. But now, standing here in the studio, the lights hanging from the rafters above us, the set looking smaller than I remember it, my assistant’s eyes lighting up and her voice raising several octaves in excitement, I feel the impact in a way I hadn’t before. This was huge for me. The only problem was that I hadn’t actually done it. My best friend, who hadn’t been in front of a camera since boxy T-shirts and brown-braided belts were in style, had done it. “Congrats,” I say weakly. “That’s great.”
“The executives are flipping out over it, and of course Dean is totally pissed. We’re leaving Tuesday to go to New York for the follow-up.”
“What?” I stammer. New York? Follow-up interview?
“Yep, I can’t wait to hit the Big Apple!” she says as we spot Rachel. “There she is!” She points over to the table in the corner, where Rachel is sitting close with Charlie, sharing a huge plate of pasta with him.
What was she doing feeding my body refined carbs? And why was she sitting with Charlie and sharing those carbs with him?
; I walk up to the table gripping Charlotte a little too tightly. “Hey there,” I say through clenched teeth. Taking them in, a plate of greasy pasta between them, their knees touching, Rachel talking a mile a minute about some typo in the Prompter, Charlie’s eyes fixed on her.
They look up in unison. “Oh, hey,” Rachel says slowly, acting surprised to see me. She immediately pulls Charlotte from my arms and coats her cheeks with kisses. Charlotte squeals in delight and nestles her head into Rachel’s shoulder. I catch Destiny and Charlie sharing a look and I suppress a smile. The Casey they know would never have picked up a drooling baby after undergoing two hours of hair and makeup. Or ever, for that matter.
“Watch the drool,” Destiny reminds Rachel.
“It’s fine,” Rachel says firmly and Destiny looks over at Charlie again. He shakes his head. I think he stopped trying to figure me out a long time ago.
“Want to hold her?” Rachel asks Destiny. “Isn’t she adorable?”
“Um, thanks but no thanks,” she says as she takes a step back, clearly not wanting to catch whatever baby-loving bug is going around.
“Nice lunch,” I say pointedly, nodding my head at the offensive fettuccini Alfredo Rachel had been shoveling into my body when I walked up.
“Carbs provide energy,” she says unapologetically. “Who wants a life without bread and butter?”
Destiny laughs and touches Rachel’s forehead. “Are you feeling okay?”
“Casey,” I say, thinking about all the times I’d gone without, the desserts I’d skipped, the baskets of warm bread and butter I’d sent away. Realizing now how silly it all was. How I shouldn’t have obsessed. Wanting to tell her, it’s okay, eat what you want. But I can’t. It’s still my body, which is my livelihood. “You know what happens when you don’t watch what you eat. You wouldn’t want to ruin all the hard work you’ve put into your body, now, would you?”