“You sound upset.”
“It’s just been a busy day for me, is all.”
“Would you tell me if something was wrong?”
“Nothing’s going on.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
I end my conversation with a few more of my everything-is-fine allegations. These past days, I’ve been making him believe I’m the kind of mature woman who speaks her mind with unerring conviction and is sure of herself in a way where she doesn’t have to go off course from any conversation.
Stacey grabs a handful of popcorn and shoves them into her mouth.
“I don’t see how the guy ended up being the macho of the century,” she says with her mouth full. “He sounds pretty harmless to me.”
“Lesson learned. Sleeping with a guy too soon is a dating death wish. I should’ve known better.”
“Stop. Please.” She puffs out smoke. “You are dragging me down. My sister Debbie went out with this guy once—”
I cut in. “You mean ‘Dirty Debbie’?”
“Hey, that’s my sister!”
“That’s what you call her all the time.”
“And with good reason. She’s a skank. Anyway, after a night of heavy drinking, she threw up all over this dude’s car. He gave her a bath, put her to bed, and called to see how she was doing the next day. Now, they’re married and crazy in love. Trust me, when a man wants you, there is nothing that will keep him away.”
“You always have the right answers, don’t you?”
“You got that right!” She raises her beer in the air. “Cheers! To Jonathan and me, to you and Oliver, who I can’t wait to meet!” We clink our beers together.
“Whom,” I mumble.
“What?”
“Never mind.”
***
THE DAYS PASS and I put my most pure-intentioned efforts into keeping myself stable and calm. But I’m about as stable and calm as a ship in a hurricane. Kim Price is her name. Kim Price has mutated into a hellcat celebrity producer. Kim Price has booked me at six television appearances in the shocking course of three days. I follow Kim’s script. I tell the TV hosts, the audience, and the world I’m happy and I do not fear for my life after the appalling threats I’ve been getting. I think the latter holds some extent of the truth.
Walking inside my bedroom after a tiring day, I shut the door and have a look around. I stand in the middle of the room and ask myself, what has my life turned into?
I keep talking to myself, then something becomes clear to me. My room is disturbing and I hate it. It looks like some weird, fancy décor store with everything in a clever sales display...with hints of someone having organized it earlier. Unquestionably, that someone is Jess.
It is so celestially white everywhere, except for a brown-gray patterned rug and a modern, black chrome chair in the corner. In the other bedroom next to mine, Jess’s dark-pink walls, olive green drapes, and floral rug liven-up her room.
After I’ve tilted some wall frames, scattered things over the floor, and thrown the decorative pillows across the room—I feel much better. I go to bed, curl up like a cooked shrimp, and sleep.
That night I dream about my mother. It is an unsettling dream. Trembling and sweat-soaked, I open my eyes and see Oliver sitting right beside me in bed. I stare at him, my heart pounding, pounding. He sweeps locks of hair away from my face. His voice is soothing, his characteristic composed.
“Oliver?”
“Yes, I’m here. It’s okay.”
“Oliver! Jesus!” My heart almost jumps out of my body. “What are you doing here?”
“Jess let me in. I hope that’s okay with you.”
“If you call diabetic shock okay. You scared me! What were you thinking?”
“I didn’t mean to scare you. I just walked in. You were having a nightmare.”
“I...thought...she...,” I reduce my voice to a whisper. “I had a very bad dream.”
“I know,” he says. “You don’t have to say anything. It wasn’t real.”
The terror was real. Never before this day had I dreamt about my mother wanting to take my life. Oliver looks at me with comforting eyes and I turn away, pretending like I don’t need him here, like I’m perfectly fine without him, but the truth is I’m really not.
***
FOR THE FIRST time, I’m able to have a good look at the man sleeping next to me. I look up at Oliver through tired eyes. In the bright daylight, he seems like the rest of us, simply human. He slowly shifts closer to me in bed and I don’t move a muscle; I want to evaluate his human form. A sigh escapes from within me as I trace my fingers on the little hairs of his chin.
“Good morning.” He looks down on me resting on his faultless chest. “How did you sleep?”
I can’t tell him about the dreams I keep having about my mother. They’re usually in horrifying detail. For a long time, white noise and loud clatters led each trance, except for last night, which turned out to be an almost live, far too real experience. I’m not afraid of what my mother can do to me in my dreams. It is the fear itself that haunts me—the most intense form of panic I have ever felt—and I can’t possibly imagine what it would take in real life to trigger this fear.
“Sophie.”
“I slept well,” I say, croaky, not quite awake yet. “How about you?”
My eyes almost pop out of their sockets as Oliver entombs my legs, arms, and torso. I find that even with all my strength, his body still tangles and overtakes mine, so I can’t move even if I really want to.
“I’m glad you asked,” he says. “You should consider investing in a wider bed, and some extra blankets too.”
“Why would—?”
He gets in the way of my attempt at a well-formed sentence. “Let me start by saying you hogged the covers.”
“What? No, I wouldn’t—”
“You also have terrible sleeping posture. I found myself almost falling off the bed.”
“Look, I don’t—”
He cuts me short for a shocking third time. “And you snore.”
“I do not snore.”
“It’s like this loud, possessed pig grunt. You even had a little drool coming out of your mouth.”
“That’s it!” I quickly mount on top of him and pin his hands down over his head.
Bursting in a loud laugh, he grabs my hands and stops me. “What are you doing?”
“I’m attacking you.”
His eyes widen as they meet mine, questioning my actions. “You’re cute.”
“I’m not cute. I’m vicious.” I keep struggling with him, but he doesn’t budge. “Come on, fight me.”
“Fight you? I don’t think so.” I know that he can easily wrestle me off, but he just lies there like a log, enjoying the feel of me on top of him, enjoying the moment.
Grumbling, I stop and put my hair up in a ponytail. “Why not? I thought you were a black belt in some martial art.”
“Yes, something like that.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m more interested in the technique rather than what belt I wear.”
I smirk as I put my hands on my hips, trying to look tough. “In any case, I’m not afraid of you. Come on, I dare you.”
He slaps my cheek gently.
“Is that supposed to hurt? You slap like a girl.”
In seconds, he deftly wraps his arms around me and flips me over so that I’m flat on my back, and he’s hovering over me. I don’t even understand what’s happening until it’s happened. By which time, he’s squeezing my hips with his legs, dropping his full weight on me, and locking my body into a helpless position.
I moan, trying to retaliate. “Oliver!”
“What? I’m not doing anything.”
“You weigh a ton. Get off me!”
“Only if you kiss me.”
“Oliver!” I wheeze between laughs.
“That’s the rule.”
“Fine!” I groan before giving him a quick peck on the lips.
�
�You call that a kiss?”
“Oliver...,” I strain, gasping for air, “I can’t breathe.”
His cell phone rings, and we untangle from each other as Oliver reaches for it. “Black.”
I take a deep breath, as I outstretch my arms and legs, feeling relieved. I turn my head and watch him, his face peaceful at first, then suddenly businesslike, and then his face drops.
“I’ll be right there,” he says before ending the call. “I have to go.”
I smile at him. “That’s okay. I’ll take a rain check.”
He throws on his clothes in a hurry. “Dinner tonight at my place.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
“You’re quick. Your offense is good, but your defense isn’t.” He runs his fingers through his hair, trying to style it. “If you want to learn a thing or two, training is every day at five thirty in the morning.”
I grab a pillow and send it flying like a missile straight in front of me. Grinning, Oliver swiftly dodges my attack and rushes out the door.
***
TINA TAKES THE concept of beauty to a terrifying level as I weigh down in the dressing room chair under an entire mane of extensions being meticulously woven into my hair. I’m almost certain I’ll be yanking out my own hair as I try to get these extensions out later.
As I’m being theatrically made up, I dig into a scone smothered in jam and cream and sip a green tea on the side.
She sprays my head with something that smells like insecticide. My lungs tremble as they struggle to bring in and push out air. I sputter a few coughs as I gasp for air.
Kim approaches my chair and leans on the vanity in front of me. “I’m not sure about your ensemble.”
I inspect my frocks. Rag & Bone white legging jeans, a light yellow tuxedo jacket over a cream tank, and nude designer pumps. “What are you not sure about?”
“I don’t know. I just don’t love it. You should’ve worn a dress. People love a dress.”
Sometimes I feel like saying I just don’t care anymore.
“Whatever, it’s fine.” She waves her manicured hand in the air. “Anyway, did you go over the bank of possible questions?”
“Yes.”
“Do you have any questions?”
“Do I have any questions about my questions? No. I don’t think so.” I push to my feet from the chair. “I think I can handle a talk show host.”
“Just remain in character. And for the love of God, get on Twitter and act like you give a damn about your career.”
“Aren’t you taking care of that already?”
“I have enough work as it is, Cavall. Just tweet about your day. What kind of coffee you drank. The bagel you just ate. The photo-shoot you just did. The weather, animals—people love animals. Your favorite color. Use your imagination.”
Two bulky men peek their heads into the dressing room. They’re carrying a large round vase filled with the most beautiful long-stemmed scarlet roses. “We have a delivery for Sophie Cavall.” Kim tells them to come inside as I stand with my mouth covered in awe. One of the two points toward his clipboard, hands me a pen, and asks me to sign above the line.
“Who are they from?” Kim closes in on the flowers. “They are just gorgeous.”
“God,” I say in the lowest voice, smelling the roses, taking their softness into my hand.
On the plastic fork in the vase, there is a sand-beige, medium-sized envelope. I pluck it out, and slowly open it.
Join me for cocktails and Hors d’oeuvres on a
Sunset Cruise
Aboard the Princess of Wales
Saturday, October 19
Meet Pier 81 at 5:00 PM
At the bottom of the letter is a handwritten postscript.
I promise you won’t need Valium. Love, B.
I press my forefinger over the letter B and do several imaginary B’s over it. When I’m done smiling like a crazy person, I return the letter to the plastic fork and sit for a few minutes, tormenting myself over the invitation.
When I awaken from my romantic haze, Kim tells me this is the last TV appearance she has scheduled for me and that I should stick to my script instead of voicing my own opinions. I’m also warned that Donna Kelly likes throwing people off their game.
ELEVEN
“THIS STRIKING WOMAN gave up tiaras, worked her way up to the big leagues, and built herself a successful career in the fashion world! Please give it up for fashion icon and model, Sophie Cavall!”
I stroll onto the set waving at the audience. Clapping resounds all around. I can hardly hear Donna as she says hello to me.
I embrace her curvy hourglass figure. “Hello,” I say too proper for my age.
The clapping dies down. “First of all, let me tell you, you look fantastic!” She twirls me around like a ballerina. “Thank you for being here!”
“Thank you for having me.”
Donna and I take our seats and I observe the small assembly of an audience relocate themselves in theirs, waiting for what will be said next.
“I appreciate you being here, Sophie.” She takes a sip from her cup. “So, congratulations on being the new face of Calvin Klein!”
The audience cheers.
“How was that for you? Are you excited? Tell everyone about it.”
“Yes. It’s an honor to be a part of such an iconic American brand. I did the Calvin Klein Collection catwalk in 2009 and I walked again in 2010. I recently did a shoot for the spring ad campaign. It was fun.”
“Fun might be considered an understatement! I heard you were paired up with Canadian model, Caesar Girard.”
“Oh, yeah. Caesar. Lovely. We had the opportunity to work together.”
“Let me tell you, ladies and gentlemen, according to my personal confidant, the photographs are, and I quote, ‘wet, steamy, slippery, and ultra-sexy!’”
I must look blue in the face, or purple. “Yeah...I guess they are.”
Donna begins to tell a funny story of when she first met Caesar at a party for Versace in Milan and thought him to be the most attractive man she’d ever met. Allegedly, it made her go into respiratory failure. She says she has him as her phone’s wallpaper. At this point, Donna has her audience right where she wants them—stirred and elated. But she’s unable to get to me. Her sentences simply dissolve in the air.
A picture of Caesar without his shirt on pops up on a screen behind us. The audience joins in with oohs and ahhs and some more hand clapping.
Donna has her eyes on the screen. “He has to be the sweetest guy I’ve ever met. Tell me, how was it working with Caesar?”
The camera faces me now. “Well, he’s cute, his sweet, he has a better body than I do, and he definitely has a better tan.” I fondle my hair back. “I had a blast.”
“So, I have to ask, how are you feeling about your recent kidnapping attempt? Are you scared? Do you fear something like this could happened again?”
I inhale, hoping the air will carry some patience and calm with it because I know I have to answer this question. “I don’t know. I hope it doesn’t.”
“And you have a bodyguard now, is that right?”
“Yes.”
“How’s that working out for you?”
“It’s still taking some adjusting. He’s very loyal and he’s usually with me at all times.”
“At all times?” She smirks, mockery filling her voice.
“Yes.”
“So...when you go shopping, to the hair salon, the tanning salon, all those wonderful places women love to go—myself included—he goes there too?”
“That’s right.” I nod. “Frankly, I’m amazed he’s still straight.”
As soon as my sentence ends, the studio goes alarmingly quiet. I think nothing of it at first, but then wonder if I said something wrong. I’m sure I’ll find out on social media when the interview is over.
“What about the threats you’ve been getting on Twitter? Let’s take a look at some of them.” And so it begins. “It appears these a
re all from someone going by the username, ‘thebadman00.’” She says it like she’s a news reporter, releasing a spurt of anticipation into the air.
I look down at my skeletal fingers. They feel cold and they look like long icicles.
“This one says, ‘I hate you more than anything.’” Her voice is low and steady as she reads the next ones.
“I’m always watching you.”
“I will punish you for all the bad you’ve done.”
“I promise you this. You are going to die and I will be the one to kill you.”
She sighs in disgust. “The rest, I am not even going to read. I don’t think it’s healthy, simply too much hate. Do you read these messages?”
The audience remains alert to what I have to say and I hang on to my saneness by the barest threads. But it’s a burden too heavy. The cameras hold on to my frightened expression.
I can’t summon up the courage to face this, so I merely lie. “No. I don’t read them.”
“You don’t?” Donna pushes for a true statement.
“No. I don’t.”
“I’ve just read some of them out loud. How do you feel about what you just heard?”
I look away as I scratch below my earlobe. As for the room, it feels like everybody is holding his or her breath. “Death threats on Twitter aren’t a new thing. It’s not a shocking event, really. And unfortunately, you can’t stop it, just ignore it.”
“You know, it pains me to know how people can say things out of lack of caring and in pure spite. They should learn some respect. At the end of the day, the fame, the modeling, the money—you are a human being! Come on, folks! Stop with the death threats on Twitter! I’ve had it with people threatening people they don’t like. Whatever happened to ‘if you don’t have something nice to say, keep your mouth shut’? That’s what I was taught.”
The audience claps wildly. I nod my head, but whether it’s to comfort Donna or myself, I’m not so sure.
“I’m glad you’re easy enough to talk about this publicly, Sophie.” I’m not. “Let’s throw an even more interesting chili into the pot and talk about your love life. The audience wants me to ask if you’re dating anyone?”
I try to question my existing relationship in a matter of nanoseconds and remember Alana advising me to careful. “No,” I say, very sure of myself.
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