Back in the kitchen, she sat in front of her laptop, magazine splayed open in front of her. Noelle had emailed her the photos to add to her growing portfolio. She found the email, scrutinizing one image then the other. Something was amiss. She zoomed in on the computer image and got her mom’s magnifying glass for the magazine. Inch by inch she scanned the image and adjusted the zoom. It took a full ten minutes of careful scrutiny. Was the model skinnier? Her nose smaller? Her neck longer? Yes!
Jenna knew about airbrushing, of course, and previously considered it one of her generation’s greatest achievements. But she’d thought it was about smoothing blemishes and removing unflattering shadows. Changing the features of an already stunning model was taking it far outside her comfort zone. She didn’t remember this happening when she was a model. Did they do it to me without my realizing?
Her head spun with questions and doubts. Her elation dissolved as she closed the magazine, getting up to pour herself a cup of coffee. She slid open the glass door to the deck, grasping the warm mug with two hands as she stepped into the cool morning air.
The railing was wet with dew as she leaned on it. The mixture of salty sea air and earthy coffee calmed her. Why couldn’t anything be simple? Or look the way she’d imagined? All she wanted was to feel purpose, be a good mother, have a happy marriage, and maybe lose those pesky five pounds that seemed to have taken permanent position on her once-flat belly (in a non-digital way, of course). Was that too much to ask?
“Yes!” an obnoxious voice in her head shouted. She pushed it away. Every woman wanted that. Surely it was achievable. Plenty of women had it all. Look at Oprah, for instance: sense of purpose, check; happy relationship, check; good mother, not applicable; pesky pounds? Okay, maybe even the woman who had it all had her battles too.
Ooh, what about Sandra Bullock? Sense of purpose, check; happy relationship, not so much; good mother, check; pesky weight, not a problem! Okay, so two women with nearly everything. There must be someone who had it all. Hmmmm. Julia Roberts: sense of purpose, check; happy relationship, check; good mother, check; pesky weight, not even when she was pregnant! See! If Julia can have it all, so can we all.
“Mornin’,” Shawn said, sliding the door closed behind him, joining Jenna on the deck.
“Good morning. I made coffee.”
“Ta.” He said, holding up his own cup in a one-sided cheers gesture.
They watched the morning rituals of the seagulls flying out over the ocean, searching for breakfast, dipping and diving across the cloudless horizon.
“How ya goin’?” he asked.
“Fine.”
“Why do you American Sheilas always say ‘fine’? If things aren’t shite, they’re great. It’s one or the other.”
“Shite,” she said, chuckling. Leave it to her dad to say something insightful while lumping women into a pejorative generality.
“What’s the matter?”
“Everything. Felicity. I feel so helpless … Alex … My life in general.” She sighed, not wanting to go into detail.
“Shite,” he said, nudging her shoulder with his. She smiled. “Sometimes you just have to let go,” he said, patting her on the back and heading inside.
Instinctively, she wanted to argue. She couldn’t let go of her marriage, child, and budding career! Absurd! The little devil on her shoulder said, “So what if you did? What then?”
Inside the house life continued as usual. Shawn prepared his world famous flapjacks while Anya squeezed fresh-picked oranges from the tree out front, humming along to a familiar tune by Doris Day. What’s that song? Jenna smiled when she remembered: “Que Sera, Sera.” Of course.
Jenna watched Felicity come down the stairs, into the kitchen, picking up a plate of pancakes. Anya handed her a glass of juice and Felicity smiled. Jenna’s heart warmed, her worries dissipating like the early morning marine layer.
Chapter 57
Jean-Pierre had been Anya’s personal stylist for as long as Jenna could remember. Once a regular fixture in the Jax household, now he only came by before a big event, like this Hall of Fame induction. Originally from Paris, he’d spent the last forty years in the States, which had done nothing to dampen his accent. Jenna used to think he put it on to seem more exotic. Maybe it was JP’s way of keeping his identity, she mused. She could appreciate that.
“Allo, mon amour!” he trilled, kissing Anya on both cheeks twice. She obliged, grinning.
“Ça va?” She asked.
“Oui, ça va bien, now I see you again! You look beautiful, as always.”
“You remember Jenna … and my granddaughter, Felicity?” Anya said, waving an arm toward them.
For the most part, Anya and Shawn lived a modest existence, but this—the 15 by 20 foot spare room turned closet—was Anya’s big splurge. The walls were lined in neat rectangles and cubes, separating evening wear from day wear, heels from flats, and a myriad of accessories. Off to one side, the closet opened up into a large bathroom complete with a vanity and salon chair, water closet, and a fully stocked wine fridge. Jenna spent countless hours in this closet as a child, playing out every little girl’s dress-up fantasies.
“Voilà, zhese are straight from Bryant Park, as you requested. You will be ze first to wear zem,” he said, pointing to a chrome rack of garments, all in Anya’s size, all age appropriate. He waved a hand over two more racks, eyes raised in glee. “Zhese … are for you!” He said to Jenna with the flourish of a magician, his gaze quickly falling on Felicity.
She looked thinner, slightly gaunt. It had been two weeks since Trey died, and grief had taken its toll on her daughter. Jean-Pierre seemed to think otherwise, visibly thrilled to be dressing a tall, thin, beautiful young woman.
“Zhis is for you,” he said to Felicity. He reached for a pale aquamarine dress, with charcoal ruching that looked perfect for her. As soon as he pulled it off the rack, Felicity burst into tears and fled.
Jenna followed her down the hall to her room. “What’s the matter, Sweetie?”
“I was supposed to go with Trey. He was going to be my date to the ceremony. I picked it out because it matched his eyes.” Felicity sniffed. Jenna’s throat choked up as she listened, wishing she’d known. Felicity lay on the bed, staring at the wall.
“Oh, Sweetheart, I’m sorry. I had no idea,” she rubbed Felicity’s back.
“’S okay,” Felicity murmured.
“You know, if you don’t want to go, we don’t have to. I’ll stay with you; take you to a museum or anywhere you want. Just say the word.”
“No. I want to go.” Felicity forced a smile. “But thanks for offering.”
“Okay, but you wear anything you want. Sweats, even.” Jenna kissed the top of her head and stood up. She paused in the doorway, then made her way back down the hall to the closet.
“Everything okay?” Anya asked.
“I think it was just too much too soon,” Jenna said. Anya nodded.
“Zis one will look fabulous on you!” Jean-Pierre said.
Jenna welcomed the distraction. He held out a delicate 1920’s inspired sheath dress, mid-thigh length, feathers lining the hem, exactly what she would have picked out for herself. She reached for it, but out of the corner of her eye, another dress caught her attention.
Bold, she thought, but I like it. The black and white striped print crissed and crossed, bending and swirling at impossible angles, creating beauty from chaos.
The dress was short. Tight. Simple. It struck a perfect balance between strong and feminine. She tried it on. There would be no lingering in the shadows in a dress like this.
“Perfect! Ooooh, try zhese too!” Jean-Pierre said, shoving an exquisite pair of shocking red open-toe booties at her. She slid them on, twirling in front of the mirror like a five-year old playing dress up. Jean-Pierre clapped. Jenna looked to Anya, whose brows furrowed in a noncommittal look.
“It’s different … ” Anya said. Uh-oh, here we go. “But also kind of … perfect.”
&nb
sp; “Really?” Jenna beamed.
Jean-Pierre and Anya nodded as she swirled back around, admiring herself in the mirror. Suddenly, inspiration struck. She knew how to help Felicity.
“Mom, do you still have that dress you wore to Dad’s first Grammy’s?” She asked, rummaging the evening wear section of the closet. Anya reached to Jenna’s left, and produced a black jumpsuit with sheer gold mesh across the bust, leaving the impression of metallic skin.
“I thought you liked the one you have on.”
“I do. It’s not for me. Can Felicity wear this?”
“Yes, of course. If she wants,” Anya said. “Do you really think she’d wear this awful thing?”
“I’m not sure. We’ll find out.” Jenna said, eyes twinkling.
Chapter 58
“Knock, knock. Can I come in?” Jenna danced from foot to foot in the open doorway, unable to stand still. Felicity didn’t respond, but her eyes flit over to Jenna’s general direction. Jenna held the jumpsuit behind her back, crinkling in its plastic shell.
“What’s that?” Felicity said, sitting up on the bed.
“I’ve been thinking,” Jenna said. Felicity made a face that said “uh-oh,” but held her tongue. “And I realized something.” Jenna sat down on the edge of the bed. “You were right.” Now she had Felicity’s attention. “You have an incredible opportunity, and even though I’m afraid of letting you go and letting you get hurt, I realize I need to step back and trust you. I can’t stop you from experiencing pain.” They both stiffened and Jenna took a moment to recover. “I don’t want to stop you from becoming the fullest version of yourself. So,” she said, holding the jumpsuit in front of her with a Vanna White flourish, “This is for you!”
“What is it?” Felicity asked, scrunching her nose.
“It’s the outfit your grandmother wore to the Grammys the first year Grandpa was nominated, in 1970.”
“Really? She wore that?” Awe and disgust intermingled on her face.
“Yep. And I thought maybe you’d like to wear it when you announce your acting debut.”
“Really? I can do the movie?” Felicity bounced up to her knees, throwing her arms around her mom’s neck. Jenna nodded into Felicity’s shoulder.
“Thank you!”
“I’m proud of you,” Jenna said, holding her at arm’s length so she could look her in the eye.
“Thank you.” A tear glistened in the corner of Felicity’s eye. “Erm, do I have to wear this hideous outfit?” She asked.
Jenna let the suspense linger as long as she could. “What, the golden granny disco look is so hot right now.”
They broke into a fit of laughter, collapsing on the bed, delirious giggles overtaking them.
When their manic burst was over, they lay on the bed, cheeks aching, chestnut and caramel hair splayed everywhere.
“Mom?”
“Mmm?”
“I’m glad you’re back.”
“Me too.”
Jenna sat up and scooted to the edge of the bed, carefully putting her feet over the trunk at the foot of the bed. Something caught her eye, poking out of Felicity’s messenger bag.
“What’s this?”
“Wha-? Oh, that? Nothing.”
“It’s not ‘nothing’, it’s a magazine.” Jenna slid it out, unrolling it, and saw her husband’s (slightly) airbrushed face looking back at her. Why don’t men have to meet the same standards of beauty as women? She shook her head and redirected her attention to the article. Felicity squirmed beside her. Jenna read, her mouth tightening.
“Where did you get this? And when?”
“A girl at school gave it to me a couple weeks ago.” Felicity said, not looking up.
“Who?” Jenna demanded.
“Sadie.”
“Did you read it?” Jenna asked, more worried than upset.
“No.” Felicity responded, somewhat truthfully.
“Good. Don’t.” Jenna said, holding the offending thing in a death grip.
Jealousy and rage flooded her system like a drug. It was one thing for Airika and Alex to have caused her pain, but this? Burdening Felicity with this added pain and worry pushed her over the edge. There was no excuse not to have this situation under control.
Fuming, she stormed out to her car, still parked in the driveway. She slammed the door shut and dialed Alex’s number.
Chapter 59
No way, no how. Alex couldn’t believe his ears. Jackson Jones, his not-so-anonymous backer, and Simon Walker, his long-time manager, sat together, calm as could be. He sat opposite them in the white leather love seat in his hotel room, hands on his knees, unsure if he should storm out, laugh, or cackle demonically. They’re not serious, he decided. He kept a neutral face while they stared him down. Minutes passed. Oh God, they’re waiting for a response. Alex was a fox in a trap. They knew it and he knew it.
He saw his worst fears realized. The fine print he so pointedly ignored while signing the too-good-to-be-true contract, magnified and highlighted his stupidity in bold.
He recalled mention of something about starring in a motion picture, produced by his label’s parent company. He didn’t think anything of it. Cross-promotion. Nothing wrong with that, he’d thought. In fact, he’d harbored a secret fantasy of trying his hand at acting. But not this way. How did they phrase it? Behind-the-scenes art film with unrestricted access? Translation: glorified porn.
Time slowed as Jackson Jones explained that Alex had been filmed in his hotel rooms, backstage at shows, during meetings, etc. And although the final climax scene (pun intended) wasn’t what they’d hoped for (with Airika) their female audience may prefer him ending up with his wife, anyway.
“Wait. What? The behind-the-scenes DVD footage? They’ve been filming me in my room? Having sex with my wife?” Alex hadn’t asked all the right questions, but surely his contract couldn’t justify filming with hidden cameras. And they couldn’t use footage of him having sex without his permission. Right? He could only imagine what (apparently legal) hidden cameras had captured of his band mates’ escapades. Or, more horrifying, was what their footage of he and Jenna, and he and Airika might be edited to look like.
“Listen, mate … ” Simon started, an unusual feeling taking hold of his innards, forcing him to explain himself.
Jackson Jones went into damage control mode. He’d known Simon’s weakness for Alex all along, and how to exploit it. Convenient to his endgame, guilt was not an emotion with which he bothered.
“Alex. I understand your hesitance,” Jackson Jones said, sounding the part of the Russian porn mogul who watched too many American gangster movies. “I understand your fears. I think, however, if you’ll let me, I can allay those fears. You’re a reasonable man, no? I am a reasonable man too. Let us two reasonable men come to a compromise.”
“What kind of compromise?”
“The film has been in production for six months on four continents. It follows the lives of six people, shot docudrama style. Their love lives intertwine with their careers, friends, and various activities. Think of it as a romantic comedy, with a little more truth.”
“By truth, you mean sex,” Alex said, memories of cameras following him throughout the tour, on meet and greets, photo shoots, and onstage surfacing in his mind. He couldn’t shake the images. That couldn’t have been what they were filming. Someone would have told him. Simon would have told him.
Despite their recent antagonism, Simon had always looked out for his best interests. Beneath the gruff exterior, he was a good guy. Sure, they’d had their share of fights, but they’d been together for so long. They were like family.
Alex’s denial halted as soon as he looked over at his manager—hunched and tiny, as though the chair were swallowing him whole. He looked … guilty. Simon’s bravado vaporized in the wake of this bomb dropping.
It was a sham. The whole damn thing. Alex had been betrayed. The weight of the lie bore down on him, rendering him immobile.
“You have a u
nique opportunity right now,” Jackson Jones continued, unfazed, “to join the ranks of many of your musical peers, to appeal to a female base in a new way. Most women prefer adult films with plot and character development. They love reality television. We can give that to them. A combination of reality TV, celebrity, and sex. Your sales will be through the roof, as they say. Just think of your idols. How many were controversial figures? Think about it. The Beatles had long hair, Elvis swiveled his hips, Madonna groped herself in lingerie in front of burning crosses. Alex Anders can show women what it’s like to have sex with a rock star! And if it’s not with you, it will be with the next up-and-coming rock star because the world is ready. People are hungry for it. You have a chance to be great, Alex.”
Alex didn’t speak. He didn’t think. The lines of reality bulged and bubbled, twisted and morphed until all that was left was a single palette, mixing colors and sound into a brown blob. Indistinguishable.
He paused outside the door processing everything he’d heard. Simon came out, putting a hand on Alex’s shoulder. He opened his mouth, but before he could say anything, Alex cut him off: “You’re an asshole.” He walked away without a backward glance.
Chapter 60
“I can’t believe I’m leaving you another message. Pick up your damn phone! Call me back.” Jenna demanded, hanging up and chucking the phone at the passenger seat as though Alex would feel the pain. Jenna ran her fingers across her temples, grabbing handfuls of hair in tight fists. The pain felt good. She’d never understood people who physically hurt themselves in order to relieve their emotional pain, but in this moment, she felt a sudden insight.
She read the article. Start to finish. She read all about how Alex had “suspected her feelings” but that the “timing hadn’t been right” to do anything about it. That they were “in love” (Airika’s words) and “enjoying each other’s company and emotional support on tour.” How “things at home had been rough for a while” and that it was “just a matter of time before the truth came out.”
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