Reuniting Reality

by Nikki LeClair

  Simon laughs. “I didn’t realize that bringing up Twitter would cause such a fuss. But then again, if you’re keeping a secret affair from your wife, you would be in a rage too if it was trending.”

  “So Diana knows?” I ask.

  Simon nods and laughs again. “And she was very snippy at the mention of the word ‘Twitter’ from me. Not as much as Adam, but that could be because I mentioned this tiny surprise, that will have everyone talking about you and me when the show airs. ‘Diana and Adam who?’ Everyone will say.”

  I feel my throat get dry. “What surprise?”

  Simon winks at me. “That’s my secret. But don’t worry, you’ll find out soon. Your director is going to kiss my feet when that happens.”

  “What are you talking about?” I frown annoyingly, “What are you planning?”

  “All in due time,” Simon answers missing my flustered mood as he links my arm with his. Declan calls out to us and Simon gives me another smile, “let’s go.”

  Filming our entrance into the carnival isn’t exactly the easiest thing with a slew of regular people attempting to buy tickets or watch us. After six retakes of the two of us just buying tickets and entering through the gates, Declan calls it. Six takes of pretending to lovingly clutch Simon’s arms as he romantically nuzzles his nose against my cheek, has me feeling stiffer than a board.

  Each little red and green tent houses a different vendor, and practically all of them were abuzz with shoppers. I spot booths with carnival games, including one involving snowballs and rubber, ugly, clown pop ups. One with row of guns, streams of water shooting out of them by the players, smacking into the mouths of plastic snowmen. From one large red tent, lined with nearly a hundred picnic tables, I hear someone call out “B8” and someone from a picnic table screech out “BINGO!”

  “Wow, they have everything here,” I say to Simon.

  “Including a slew of unsupervised children,” Simon adds as he weaves around a pack of unruly ten year old children.

  “It’s a carnival, it's basically for kids.”

  He points to a tent to his left, one of the larger ones with a sign that reads “Ice Sculpting Amateurs Tent.” Another sign below it reads “Must be 21+”.

  Through the tent’s entrance we can hear the buzzing of chainsaws. We’re ushered through with the cameras tight behind us. There are dozens of round tables covered in snow, huge ice blocks rest upon each about two feet high. Mini chainsaws are going off, against the ice, in the hands of willing participants. Swarms of ice shoot off the blocks as the blade runs against them smoothly.

  I spot Brooke and Reagan to our left. Reagan dons the safety goggles over her eyes as she runs the small chainsaw over her ice block. Next to her Brooke, lets out fits of giggles as pieces of ice fly off. We approach them together, and Brooke smiles at us. She looks like a Christmas tree in her dark green snow suit with matching snow pants and bright yellow hat. She holds a red mug in her hand, I can see the steam lift from inside.

  “Hey guys!” Brooke exclaims at seeing us. “Why so late?”

  “We wanted a few minutes alone this morning,” Simon gives her a wink as he squeezes me against him and Brooke lets out a high-pitched giggle.

  “A little bit of snuggling under the sheets, eh?” she laughs then takes a long drink of whatever is in her mug. Reagan glances up from the ice block she’s stopped slicing for a moment. I have to look away from her, mortified a bit by both Simon and Brooke.

  Simon lets out a laugh and touches her mug, “What exactly is in that Brooke, dear?”

  “Hot butter rum,” Brooke smiles. “You can get some in the next tent over!”

  “Shall we?” Simon looks down at me with a bright smile.

  Brooke grabs onto Simon’s arm quickly, “OH! Get me another too, Simon.”

  Reagan wipes some sweat off her forehead. “I think three is enough for you.”

  “I’ll be right back,” Simon tells us.

  After he’s disappeared through the crowd, I catch Reagan looking over her shoulder and I follow her gaze. Two tables behind her, with Oscar and the other film crew, are Adam and Diana. She’s in a white snow suit, a bunny hat over her blond hair and not bothering with the goggles as she slices their ice block squealing. I imagine she thinks she is cute. Adam stands behind her, his hands resting on her wrists, guiding her in her technique.

  Their sculpture looks quite good. Smooth and shiny, while Reagan’s looks, jagged and foggy.

  “He’s a surgeon,” I say loudly to her as she looks back at her misshapen ice block, “It’s technically not fair.” Reagan merely shrugs before starting up her chainsaw again.

  Brooke shimmies closer to me as she finishes off her hot butter rum. “So, did you hear about what happened yesterday?”

  “Jill told me this morning, yeah,” I say. “Di and Adam want us off the show.”

  “Maybe Simon should leave,” Reagan shouts over her chainsaw, she doesn’t look up at me though and next to me Brooke gives her a bewildered frown. “I mean, better him than you, right?”

  “Simon shouldn’t have to leave because Adam gets defensive,” Brooke proclaims loudly. “Besides, Simon didn’t say anything that wasn’t true, anyway.”

  “You heard what he said?” I turn to face her. “Brooke, what did he say?”

  “Simon?” she asks and after I nod she sighs. “I didn’t hear everything but I did hear him say that he was a lousy husband to you and rumor is, to Diana too. He said he knew what was on Twitter. Adam had a few drinks by then so naturally, fists ended up flying.”

  I glance over at Adam and Diana who are still playing it up for the cameras. I can’t help but think back on the rumors.

  Is Adam really cheating on Diana? I don’t think he’d be that stupid to lose her, and her influence.

  Adam looks up and his eyes catch mine. I can see a small brown bruise beneath his right eye, I’m assuming from Simon’s fist. I look back at Reagan’s sculpture hoping our brief eye contact didn’t invite conversation.

  A minute later, Simon returns with three red mugs full of hot butter rum. He hands one to me and one to Brooke before taking a sip of his. He gestures at Reagan’s sculpture as she turns off her chainsaw. “What is it supposed to be?”

  “A bird,” she sighs.

  “It looks like a toilet brush,” Simon frowns. I smack my fake boyfriend in the chest, his hot butter rum spills over the side a bit.

  Reagan’s nose crinkles. “No, he’s right. It does look like a toilet brush.”

  The four of us tilt our heads, to get a better look at the sculpture which has a blocky icy body and a jagged hump shaped base. Reagan takes off her goggles and drops them next to the sculpture. “I give up.”

  Simon hands Reagan his hot butter rum and picks up the goggles she discarded. “Let me try.” We watch as he picks up the chainsaw after he places the goggles over his eyes. He starts the chainsaw and begins to skim the surface just as Jill joins us.

  She looks up at me, bundled in a shiny bubble coat that doesn’t look overly warm and motions me to follow her. I hold onto my hot butter rum as I follow her away from everyone. I can see Declan gesturing at us from behind the camera but I get the feeling Jill wants us off cameras. She drags me out of the tent, towards an empty space between the amateur sculpting tent and a card reader. As she turns to face me, her short dark hair escapes its ponytail and she swipes it from her face.

  “Turn your mic off,” she orders as she pushes her white headband further up her forehead. I can see beads of sweat trickle down her forehead, before I turn around so she can turn my mic off. A moment later I feel her hands reach up, into the back of my jacket. I can feel her flick off the microphone and when she turns back to me, she gives me a big smile. Then she hands me her cell phone. I’m staring at an email, and can only make out a handful of words like ‘selling information’ “trust-Fund’, ‘tabloids’, before she rips it away from me, excitingly.

>   “What did I just read?” I ask my excited friend.

  “Diana is broke!” Jill exclaims and then quickly throws a hand over her mouth.

  No way.

  “No, no way,” I shake my head at her.

  “Yes way. And Adam,” Jill’s voice goes back down to a whisper as she leans closer to me. “My PI discovered she blew through her trust fund and her mother cut her off. They’re literally surviving on nothing but Adam’s income.”

  It’s not nothing. I have a feeling Adam still racks in six figures a year.

  “She’s been selling stories to the tabloids for the last few months,” Jill goes on. She slips her phone into her pocket. “She’s sold out friends and her own mother with some botched plastic surgery story. I know she sold them the story about my company. This practically confirms it.”

  I mean, I don’t think this is beyond Diana.

  Still, I bite my bottom lip apprehensively. “Are you going to tell Oscar?”

  “I don’t know. Part of me wants to air out her dirty laundry for the cameras as karma,” Jill admits. “Another part of me wants to contact the media and throw her under the bus and have everyone come after her. I mean because of that rumor her mother was dropped as the spokesmodel of that skincare line, remember? And that rumor about that popstar she’s friends with, the one that dresses up like hybrids of animals and humans in her music videos—”

  “Taboo Tina, yeah.”

  “I bet it was Diana who sold that story about her stealing her ex-girlfriend’s music! Remember that? Her latest music didn’t even make the charts,” Jill informs me. “Tina denied it but damage done.” Suddenly Jill’s eyes flash at me. “Damn, you better be careful, Jules.”

  “Why?”

  Jill grabs my arm. “She’s flirty around Simon. Yesterday at the bar, Brooke said that Diana was trying to get chummy with him. I thought it was because she just wanted to make you jealous, or Adam because of the affair thing, but I don’t think so. I think she’s fishing for information.”

  Damn it.

  I run a hand through my hair and try to settle my jumpy anxious heart. “What do I do?”

  “Don’t leave Simon alone with her. And tell him to keep his mouth shut around her and Adam.”

  Something tells me Simon won’t play ball for the last part.

  Jill lets go of my arm and removes a pair of gloves from her pockets. She begins to slip them on. “I mean, if anything you could always tell Declan what’s going on and he could help cover for you.”

  That reminds me...

  “You said that Reagan said something about Declan? What was it?”

  “Oh,” Jill laughs a little, “that. She said that he—”

  “Hey, what the hell are you guys doing?”

  Declan appears between the tents, hands on his hips, an intense scowl taking over his face. He looks from me to Jill, back to me. “You’re supposed to be in that tent on camera.”

  “We’re coming,” Jill huffs as she treks away from me. She slips her hands into her coat pocket. “I just had a personal, female anatomy problem and needed Jule’s advice.”

  Declan makes a face and ushers her back towards the tent entrance, “I don’t want to know. Just next time, save it for when were done filming.”

  “Aye aye, captain,” Jill calls back.

  I step up to Declan and mutter an apology but he just motions for me to head back into the tent. I offer him some hot butter rum but he shakes his head. So I take a drink myself as he ushers me into the tent. “I need you and Simon to break away from the others.”

  “Why?” I ask after I swallow the strong, creamy beverage. My throat immediately warms up.

  “Oscar wants some romance,” Declan states as he makes his way around me. I halt in my tracks as I watch the back of his head disappear from my view.

  Oh God.

  I don’t even have time for the panic to fully set in before I hear someone let out a piercing shriek. “You did that on purpose!”

  A crowd has started to gather before me, and I no longer can see Declan or the cast and crew. I have to shimmy my way between people, apologizing as my rum spills from the mug onto their sleeves or hands. When I get to the front of the crowd, I’m not exactly surprised to see that it’s Diana shrieking her head off.

  She’s standing over a piece of shattered ice, her face beat red and her hands on her tiny hips. Adam stands behind her, but he throws down the mini chainsaw on the now empty snowy table near them.

  “You’re the ones who set it on an angle right near the edge of the table,” Simon shouts, standing not more than six feet away from the both of them. His goggles rest on his forehead, pushing strands of his blond hair up. Next to him, Brooke laughs into the sleeve of her coat, hiding her drunken amusement from Diana and Adam.

  “Oh, and you just ‘accidentally’ tripped into our table,” Diana shoots back sarcastically.

  “I did trip!” Simon points to the ground.

  “Give me a break. You were jealous that our sculpture looked so good!” Diana cries, gesturing at Reagan’s ice block. “Yours looks like a, a—”

  “Toilet brush,” Adam interjects.

  “I know what I was going to say!” Diana elbows him angrily in the chest. Then she looks from Simon to me and her frown intensifies. “You told him to wreck it didn’t you?”

  I jab a finger into my own chest. “Me?”

  “Of course you did,” Diana lets out a haughty laugh as she adjusts her pink bunny hat. “You’re so desperate to win back Reagan’s affections, you probably told him to destroy ours so her’s wouldn’t look so hideous.”

  “Don’t be crazy,” I state. A laugh ripples through my mouth which in hindsight, is the wrong reaction with this kind of woman.

  “Oh please,” Diana spits back, she kicks her broken sculpture and points to me. “Everybody can see you sucking up to Reagan, embarrassing yourself. It’s pathetic, even Reagan thinks so.”

  Everybody around us falls silent and for some reason, I look over at Reagan. She avoids my eyes, just as I can feel my face get red. Behind Reagan, Jill mouths something to me which I can’t comprehend at the moment. Adam takes hold of Diana’s arm and she wrenches from his grasp, muttering under her breathe something none of us can hear.

  Simon breaks the silence by clearing his throat and removing the goggles from his head.

  “Well,” he says looking over at Diana, “you are a very unhappy woman.”

  “That’s not the word I’d use,” Jill announces loudly.

  I’m mortified.

  My entire body feels as if it’s glue and I have to look away from the cast.

  “Excuse me,” I finally manage to say as I grip the mug in my hands. I manage to turn away from everyone and make my way through the crowd again. This time they let me through easily.

  I reach the entrance of the tent and let out a sigh of relief once I’m outside.

  I can’t believe Reagan—I’m so stupid.

  So incredibly stupid.

  There’s nothing to break through with Reagan.

  Tilting my head back, I finish my hot butter rum quickly. It burns down my throat but my cares are all gone. I’ve been humiliated, and no doubt, Oscar will share it with the rest of the world in a few months.

  Someone calls my name behind me and I finish my drink, glancing over my shoulder to see Simon leaving the tent. Declan and the crew aren’t far behind.

  I don’t bother to hide my groan as I turn away from all of them. “Just, great.”

  I feel Simon’s hands clamp down on my shoulders, as he pulls me into his chest. The urge to shove him away from me and disappear into the crowds of people is overwhelming but I resist.

  I feel his lips brush against my ear a moment later, “Let’s go paint the snow.”

  What?

  A few minutes later, were clear across the amateur sculpting tent, towards the back of the carnival.
We’ve been given a patch of fresh snow, ten by fifteen feet, and a snowbank about three feet tall. I have two squeeze bottles in my hands, one with red dye and the other with blue. Simon has green and yellow.

  I stare at our canvas. “So, what are we supposed to do?”

  “I guess we just squeeze,” Simon tells me. I watch him hold out the bottle of yellow dye and point it at the snowbank. He squeezes it but nothing happens. He tries with both hands after handing me the green dye bottle.

  “Maybe it's broken?” I suggest.

  “I don’t know,” he mumbles, examining the top of the bottle. “It’s open…”

  I take the bottle as I hand him the three I hold and shake it, before squeezing it. Nothing comes out. I give it another shake and squeeze, this time it shoots out. A surge of yellow dye flies through the air and hits Simon in the forehead. I gasp as I let go and he stumbles back with his eyes shut. I can hear the crew chuckle a few feet away.

  Stifling a laugh myself, I watch as Simon stands up, a streak of yellow dye across his forehead and dripping from his hair. “I’m so, so sorry.”

  I suppose it would sound more sincere if I hadn’t failed at letting a giggle or two through.

  “You think this is funny?” Simon asks me wiping more dye off his forehead with the back of his hand. I can’t tell if he’s serious or annoyed. He bends over to pick up one of the squeeze bottles. I watch him give it a sharp shake before he points the blue dye my way.

  I take a step back. “What are you doing?”

  “It wasn’t funny,” Simon says approaching me slowly, his tone suddenly playful and his eyebrows raised high. “This dye stains.”

  “No it doesn’t,” I claim taking another step back.

  “Says so on the bottles,” Simon tells me.

  I glance down on the bottle I hold, “Where does it say—”

  Something cold slams onto my temples and I draw in a startled gasp as I stumble backwards. It runs down the front of my nose and I quickly wipe with my arm, catching sight of bright blue dye along my black sleeve. He hit me!