“I just got a kit of basic personal products from the hotel,” Fran tells me. “I’ll give Paige’s list to the concierge and hope for the best. Is Paige in bed yet?”
“She’s just getting out of the tub,” I say, feeling more like a mommy than a younger sister. “I’m loaning her a T-shirt from my carry-on to use to sleep in.”
“Well, give her one of those pills and tuck her in and kiss her good night, Erin. That girl really needs some beauty sleep. And she’ll be lucky to get four hours at this rate.”
So I show Paige the bottle of sleep-aid pills. “Fran thinks you should take one of these,” I tell her.
“Good idea.” She reaches for the bottle and I retrieve an Evian from the mini bar and hand it to her. And before I can repeat “just one pill,” Paige pops two into her mouth and washes them down. “What’s wrong?” she asks me.
I just shrug and hope that two pills aren’t too much. Not that there’s anything I can do about that now. “You better get to bed,” I say as I take back the pill bottle. “Just try to relax and don’t worry about the morning. Fran and I will wake you up and you’ll be fine.”
She nods and then smiles. “Thanks, Erin. I couldn’t do this without you.”
“Just rest, okay?” Then I turn out the light and grab a quick shower. By the time I’m done, Fran is back.
“They’re sending the boxes from the studio up. I asked if they could have someone press them in time for morning, but that’s not going to happen this late at night.” She glances over to a closet. “Do you suppose there’s an ironing board in here?”
I hunt around until I find one in the bedroom closet. I make a fair amount of noise pulling it out, but Paige seems to be sound asleep. Then I remember the sleeping pills. After I’m back out into the main part of the suite, I tell Fran about Paige taking two pills.
“You let her take two?”
“I didn’t let her. I told her one and then she took two.”
Fran frowns.
“Is this going to be a problem?” I ask, anxious.
“Let’s hope not. But just in case, make sure that coffee pot is in the kitchen ready to go in the morning. I’ll set my alarm for five thirty.”
As I’m setting up the coffee pot, the boxes from the studio arrive and, while Fran’s taking a shower, I unpack the boxes and just start in on the ironing. Does it strike me as odd that my first night in the Big Apple is spent waiting on my sister and ironing clothes at three in the morning? Maybe. Or maybe some people are just designed to be caretakers…and others are just designed to need caretaking. Anyway, it doesn’t really bother me. Much. Mostly I just want Paige to be ready to pull off the morning show without any more unnecessary stress to her or to me.
It’s nearly four when I finish ironing. I pressed more clothes than needed, but I wasn’t sure what Paige would want to wear and I was trying to cover my bases. I already told Fran to get some rest, and I’m just thinking about grabbing a nap too when I hear a quiet knock at the door. I look out the peephole to see it’s a bellboy holding a large Walgreens bag.
“Thanks,” I tell him as I take the bag. But he just stands there and I realize he wants a tip. “Just a sec.” I close the door and run for my purse, digging until I find a couple of rumpled ones and wonder if that’s enough. But I’m not about to give him a ten.
“Sorry, this is all I can spare right now,” I tell him. He just nods and mumbles “thanks” in a way that suggests he’s as uncomfortable with this little setup as I am. And I wish I’d had a five—or perhaps been generous enough to give him the ten. Maybe next time.
I open the bag and am surprised to see that he’s managed to get a number of the items on Paige’s list. I’m thinking she should be relatively pleased. Of course, some of the products are obviously substitutions and I’m sure she’ll consider them substandard. But you never know. Even in the area of beauty, I suppose that desperate times might call for desperate measures.
I arrange these things in the bathroom. Finally, I’m ready to get a little sleep, but I am not sleepy. After tossing and turning for half an hour, I get out of bed and go to the living room to watch TV. In less than an hour it’ll be time to get up anyway.
I’m just finishing up M*A*S*H when I hear an alarm ringing in Fran’s room. And just when I was getting sleepy too. But I get up and turn on the coffee pot, then go to wake up Paige.
“Time to get up, Sleeping Beauty,” I tell her.
But she’s totally out, flopped over on one side and snoring. I gently shake her shoulder, but it’s no use. “Paige,” I urge, “you need to wake up for Good Morning America. Remember?”
“She’s not up yet?” Fran asks sleepily as she walks in the room.
“Those two sleeping pills must’ve worked.”
“They can’t have worked this well. You pour her some coffee and I’ll get a cold washcloth.”
By the time I get back with the coffee, Paige is sitting on the edge of her bed with a frown. My T-shirt is all rumpled and twisted and her face has the creases of sleep marks on it, probably wrinkles from the pillowcase. To make matters worse, her swollen cheek is now starting to darken with a bruise. Lovely. I control the urge to run and cover the mirrors with sheets. “Here, Paige,” I tell her as I hand her the coffee. “Careful, it’s hot.”
She nods and takes the cup but doesn’t drink.
“Come on,” Fran urges her, “just drink a little.”
Paige sleepily lifts the cup to her mouth, but she’s not very focused and before it gets to her lips, she tips it and the next thing I know scalding hot coffee is pouring down her neck and chin and she jumps up screaming and swearing and tearing off the wet T-shirt.
“That’s one way to wake her up,” Fran tells me with a hint of a smile.
I grab up the wet washcloth and hand it to Paige. “Here, put this on your chin and then jump into the shower.”
I run ahead and turn the shower on, adjusting it to a cool (not cold) temperature, and I practically shove Paige in. Again she screams and I wonder if hotel security is on its way up to see if we’re murdering someone.
“It’s freezing,” she cries.
“That’s okay,” I yell back. “It’ll help the burn. Just run it cool for a bit and then you can wash your hair.”
“I’m going to put together an outfit for her,” Fran calls out.
I run to get the shampoo and conditioner—Paige’s favorite brand—and run back and hand them to her. “Look,” I say triumphantly. “The bellboy brought these up last night. I think he raided the hotel’s salon.”
She grumbles thank you and I hang a couple of towels as well as her bathrobe within easy reach. Then I rush out and grab up the telephone and call for room service. “Can we get yogurt and pastries and some orange juice and maybe some kind of fresh berries up here…really fast?” I ask the woman. “It’s kind of an emergency.”
“Emergency?” the woman questions.
“Yes,” I say urgently. “Low blood sugar.” Okay, this isn’t completely true.
“Oh, yes, yes, of course,” she says quickly. “We’ll get that to you right away.”
I thank her and hang up.
“Paige has low blood sugar?” Fran asks with concern.
I make a sheepish smile. “Not exactly. But Mom and I have this theory about her. Ever since she was a little girl, we noticed that she can be seriously cantankerous when she’s hungry. Unfortunately, she doesn’t always realize it until it’s too late. And sometimes she skips meals because she gets the crazy idea that she’s fat. Anyway, I figured I’d better plan ahead. Just in case.”
“Smart thinking.” Fran winks at me. “I can see more and more why Helen had the foresight to put you on the team.”
I want to say something snarky like “you must mean the B string.” And yet, I’m not sure I really care so much anymore. I used to care. It used to hurt that Paige was in the limelight while I was stuck in the back, making sure the generator was still running. Now I’m not so sure.
It seems that being the front-runner comes with its own set of pressures and stress. I feel thankful not to have to deal with that.
Chapter 9
I’m just returning from the bathroom where I encouraged Paige to drink (not absorb) a cup of coffee that I set in front of her. She had been just standing there like a zombie, staring blankly at the mirror. I wonder if she needs something stronger than caffeine to shake the effect of those sleeping pills.
Fran is still sorting through the clothes that I ironed and hung last night. She holds up a pale blue jacket and skirt. (Chanel, as I recall, which I think is supposed to be pretty impressive.) “What do you think?”
I frown slightly. “It’s really nice. But it just doesn’t quite scream Paige Forrester to me. I think it’s too serious for her.”
“I meant for you, silly.”
I just shrug. “Yeah, sure.” I want to tell her that I’d rather be wearing my camera girl outfit and hanging back behind the scenes, but I suspect that she, like me, is fed up with drama this morning.
“You go use my bathroom,” she says as she hands me the suit and some shoes and things. “Get dressed and ready and I’ll deal with Paige. And put on some makeup too, Erin. You look really washed out. Some blush and lip color, okay?”
“Okay.”
It feels kind of surreal as I’m getting ready. Maybe it’s lack of sleep, or jet lag, or being a strange place, or whatever. But I go through the paces, doing as Fran told me, putting on makeup the way that Paige has shown me. I’m just finishing up and thinking I didn’t do too badly when I hear someone at the door. Thankfully, it’s room service.
“Oh, good,” Fran says as she emerges from the bathroom, where I can hear Paige complaining loudly about something. “We could desperately use that food right now.”
Fran takes care of the bill and I go to check on Paige. But as soon as I see her, I can tell all is not well. Her hair, though dry, looks strangely limp and stringy and slightly greasy. Her left cheek is swollen and the bruise is somewhat camouflaged by makeup, but the total effect isn’t exactly right. Like maybe she has jaundice or something.
“Look at my hair,” she cries. “It’s ruined.”
“What happened?”
“That stupid shampoo and conditioner!” She glares at me as she picks up her lip liner and attempts to line her lips, although she seems to be coloring outside of the lines today.
“But it’s your brand, Paige, and it was—”
“The wrong formula. In case you haven’t noticed. I don’t need extra conditioning to tame my natural curl. Anyone can see that I need the sleek, shiny, bouncy formula.”
“Oh…” And the truth is, I can see. She needs it and she needs it now.
She points to her face. “And this foundation is so wrong.”
“Maybe you can change it at the ABC studio,” I suggest.
“That’s what Fran promised.”
“And Fran wants you to drink this.” Fran says as she hands Paige a glass of orange juice.
So, in between shoving food at her and trying to improve her appearance, which is a challenge, Fran and I take turns at keeping Paige (who is still sluggish) moving in the right direction.
“Do you think we should just cancel?” I ask Fran quietly as we wait for Paige to finish her mascara, which is looking kind of smudgy and scary.
Fran just shakes her head. “You know what they say about publicity.”
“Any publicity is good publicity,” I repeat without conviction.
“And besides,” Fran brightens, “we still have you. If all else fails, you better be ready to jump in and take over for Zombie Girl.”
I feel myself getting ready to argue and balk, but then I remind myself I’m here in New York not as a tourist, which sounds like fun, but as an employee. It’s not like I can refuse to work.
“Fortunately we’re less than a mile from the studio,” Fran says as she’s ushering Paige from the bathroom. “And there should be a car down there waiting for us.”
As we’re getting ready to leave, Paige picks up a piece of pastry from the room service tray. She begins munching on it and is totally oblivious to the fact that it’s crumbling down the front of her black-and-white Michael Kors dress. But I figure this is something we can straighten up later—when we’re straightening up everything else (like her hair and makeup, which even I can see look pretty bad). As Fran gathers her bag and things, Paige leans against the doorway with drooping eyelids and I’m tempted to grab another cup of coffee, thinking she can drink as we ride, but images of Paige wearing coffee stains on top of her Danish crumbs stops me.
“I’m going to meet Diane Sawyer,” Paige says in a dreamy voice as she crosses her legs and leans back in the town car.
“Well, I’m not sure who’ll be interviewing,” Fran admits as she checks her BlackBerry.
As our car slowly inches down the jammed avenue, Paige closes her eyes and I suspect she’s actually sleeping. Honestly, I think we could probably walk faster. But about twenty minutes later than planned, we are finally at the studio.
After waiting several more minutes, we’re met by a girl named Cleo. She has us sign some release forms, gives us a short tour, and finally takes us to the greenroom.
“But what about makeup and hair?” I quietly ask Cleo as Paige sits down in what looks like a far-too-comfortable overstuffed chair.
“Oh, there’s no time for that,” she informs me, glancing at her clipboard. “You girls are going on in exactly nineteen minutes.”
Fortunately, Paige now seems oblivious (thanks to her sleepiness) about her appearance. And equally fortunately, there isn’t a mirror in this room. So I’m hoping maybe we can get through this without too much ado. Besides, I tell myself, the interview will probably take all of three minutes, five minutes tops. TV always changes the way you look anyway. And Paige is a very photogenic girl. Usually, anyway. I glance uncomfortably at Fran now. She’s frowning at Paige, who has her head leaning back and looks as if she’s about to start snoring again.
“What exactly were in those pills anyway?” I hiss at Fran.
“Never mind that,” she hisses back. “We need to fix her up more.”
So Fran and I use what little we can find in Fran’s bag, doing our best to make Paige look like Paige. But it seems a losing battle. Sure, we fix her smudged mascara and sloppy lip lines, but she just doesn’t look like herself. Perhaps more worrisome is that she’s not acting like herself. Even as the sound guy is helping us to get wired, I feel like I need to explain to him that, really, Paige has not been drinking.
“Time to head out,” Cleo comes in to tell us. She peers curiously at Paige, who still looks barely awake. “Is she okay?”
“Yesterday was pretty stressful for her,” I tell Cleo as we head down the hallway.
“That’s right.” Paige nods sleepily. “I’m not over it.”
“Robin Roberts will be doing your interview,” Cleo says as she reaches for the door. “Time to be quiet now.”
Paige frowns. “Not Diane?”
“I really like Robin Roberts,” I whisper quickly. “She’s cool.”
With her hand still on the door, Cleo looks questionably at Paige. “Now they’re getting ready to break. You girls know how to do this, right?”
“Absolutely,” I assure her.
“Three, two, one,” she whispers as she opens the door.
And suddenly we’re being escorted out to the chairs where Robin is standing off to one side talking to a producer and going over her notes. Paige is set up in the chair which I assume will be opposite Robin’s and I sit next to Paige. As the break continues, I silently pray. It seems like an unusually long break—or else it’s just nerves—but suddenly they’re doing a countdown and just like that, Robin slips into her chair with a bright smile directed at the camera. She focuses on the teleprompter and launches into a monologue about airport security and the need for it.
“But sometimes security goes too far. And when a young
lady is knocked to the floor and arrested for carrying perfume, you have to ask yourself, how far is too far?” Robin turns to Paige now—and so do I…and my sister is fast asleep.
Robin laughs. “Paige? Paige Forrester?”
I elbow Paige and her head snaps to attention. “Wh—what?”
“I must say this is a first.” Robin chuckles. “I don’t think I ever had a guest fall asleep on me before. I guess I need to watch out for that boredom factor.”
Paige literally looks like a deer in the headlights now. And I know I need to jump in. “My sister is still recovering from yesterday’s incident,” I say quickly. “It was very traumatic. Then, as a result of our interrogation, we missed our flight and our luggage was lost. And Paige was so stressed that she couldn’t sleep well last night and—”
“And this is Erin Forrester,” Robin says warmly, “Paige Forrester’s sister and costar of their new reality show On the Runway. Erin, how about if you tell us what happened yesterday.”
So, thankful for Robin’s diversion away from Sleeping Beauty, I go into a fairly detailed description of the airport security incident, about the less-than-three-ounce rule and how the Prada was barely over that. “And I couldn’t believe how it went down,” I continue. “Out of nowhere these two burly guys jumped Paige from behind. I mean, they actually tackled her and knocked her to the ground. See that bruise on her cheek—it’s where her face hit the floor. They could’ve broken something. Even her neck. Or her back when this one guy pinned her down with his knee like she was going to hurt someone.”
“They actually pinned her to the ground?”
“Yes. I’m sure it’s all on their surveillance cams. And she was screaming in pain and they wouldn’t even stop holding her down.” Then I hold up my wrists, which still have the red marks from the handcuffs, and explain about that.
“All this for spritzing perfume?” Robin looks stunned.
“Unbelievably, yes. And Paige even admitted that she shouldn’t have sprayed it. But for them to assume it was something toxic seemed ridiculous, considering she’d sprayed it on herself. Who would spray themselves with hazardous materials?”
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