by Meg Cabot
Chapter 4
Tania Be Me
I ain’t Christina, wagging my thing
I ain’t Beyoncé, flashing my ring
Who am I? You want to know?
Who am I? Just watch the show
I ain’t no Katy, bouncing my bling
I ain’t no Fergie, flinging my fling
Who am I? You want to know?
Who am I? Just watch the show
Who am I? Just wait and see
Who am I?
Tania be me
“Tania Be Me”
Written by Larson/Sohn
Cartwright Records Television
Theme song to Jordan Loves Tania
“In order to ensure the safety and privacy of all residents,” I say, “filming is not permitted in any New York College residence hall without proper authorization.”
Surprisingly, this is a sentence I utter several times a week, most often to Gavin, who is an aspiring Quentin Tarantino. But the policy on not filming in the building has nothing to do with privacy issues. I’ve actually been called to more smoke-filled floors because of gel filters left on too long over onboard flashes (whatever those are) than I can count. And don’t even get me started on the number of students trying to pay their way through college making amateur pornography films.
“Well?” I ask when everyone simply stares at me. “Does anyone here have proper authorization? Because I didn’t see any paperwork about this . . . this . . . what is this exactly?”
Everyone begins speaking at once—everyone except Tania, who’s lowered her arm now that no more lights are glaring into her face and is looking at me as if she’s never seen me before . . . which is ironic, since I walked in on her once with her face in my ex-boyfriend’s crotch.
Hard as it was after that—having to move out, find a new place to live, and start over, not to mention the endless sleepless nights questioning how I could ever have been so stupid since, after all, I was with Jordan for ten years—Tania actually did me a big favor that day: she freed me to find my new life . . . and Cooper.
Of course, neither she nor Jordan knows this, because Cooper and I haven’t exactly announced to his family the fact that we’re dating, much less getting married.
Now doesn’t seem like the best time.
“Hold it,” Cooper shouts over the general din, glaring from his brother to Christopher and back again. “How do you two even know each other? Who’s the ambulance for? Who got shot?”
It’s the woman with the expensive gold wristwatch who answers, letting out an extremely colorful expletive as she comes striding toward us, her Louboutins clicking noisily on the parquet.
“Excuse me, but who are you?” she demands, her eyes shooting angry sparks at us. “I’ll have you know you’re interrupting a very important shoot for CRT—”
“Stephanie, it’s all right,” Christopher says, seeming resigned to the situation. “This is Jordan’s brother.”
The woman in the gold Rolex halts in her tracks. “His brother?” Her eyes widen as she stares at Cooper. “Wait . . . you can’t be Cooper Cartwright?”
“The one who wouldn’t join Easy Street,” Cooper says. He’s looking extremely annoyed. “Yes, I am. I don’t do pimple cure commercials or teen mass hysteria. So maybe now someone can explain to me how exactly my brother got someone else’s blood all over him? And what the hell is CRT?”
“Oh my God,” Stephanie says, her demeanor completely changing. Besides the wristwatch—which looks enormous because her wrist, like Tania’s, is so bony—and the Louboutins, she has on a sleeveless red sheath dress that is so tight in the skirt that she hobbles awkwardly over the cables strung across the floor to get to us. Still, she manages, every inch of her being the harried television exec, from the vein that’s begun suddenly to throb in the middle of her forehead (her chin-length bob has been swept back with a tortoiseshell barrette, so the vein’s easy to spot) to the BlackBerry she has clutched in her left hand.
“Stephanie Brewer,” she says, holding out her right hand to shake Cooper’s. “Executive producer, Cartwright Records Television. I can’t tell you what an honor this is. Cooper Cartwright, the one Cartwright I haven’t met! I’ve heard so much about you.”
“I can only imagine.” Cooper barely glances at Stephanie as she pumps his hand. “Dad bought a television network?” he asks Jordan.
“Cable,” Jordan says with a shrug. “We didn’t sign either Adele or Gaga, so Mom told him we needed to do something.”
“Mom’s idea,” Cooper says, with an eye roll. “Figures.”
“I want you to know how much I adore working with your father,” Stephanie Brewer is gushing. “He’s one of the reasons I chose Harvard for my MBA. I wanted to walk in the footsteps of the great Grant Cartwright.”
“I’ll try not to hold it against you,” Cooper says drily.
Stephanie’s smile wavers only slightly. “Thanks,” she says, blinking with confusion.
“So who got shot?” Cooper asks.
“Oh, of course,” Stephanie says, finally dropping his hand. “I’m so sorry. It was Tania’s bodyguard. He was taken to Beth Israel for stitches and X-rays after he was struck by a bullet earlier this evening—completely at random—as we were filming in front of Christopher’s club on Varick Street. He’s expected to make a full and complete recovery—”
“And the cops let all of you leave? They didn’t hold any of you for questioning?” Cooper is shocked.
“Of course they questioned us,” says the girl with the braids. I was guessing from her clipboard that she was the production assistant. “At the scene. What could we tell them? One minute Bear was standing next to us, and the next he was on the ground, and Jordan and Chris had his blood all over them.”
“Exactly. The thing about a random shooting is that it’s random,” Christopher says. “None of us saw anything. It wasn’t a drive-by. The shot seemed to come out of nowhere.”
“The police think it might have been teenagers,” Stephanie explains, “playing with a gun on a nearby rooftop. So far they haven’t found anyone.”
“It’s not like any of us shot him,” Jordan protests. “Bear’s our friend.”
“I can tell.” Cooper is scowling. “Such good friends that you stuck around the hospital to make sure he’s all right.”
“Jared, our field producer, stayed with him,” the camera operator says.
“Yeah,” grunts the guy with the boom. “With the assistant camera operator to get footage of them putting in the stitches.”
“Bear’s fine.” Stephanie cuts everyone else off. “His injury did create some unwanted attention from the press and has also put us way behind schedule, in addition to upsetting Tania, as you can see. So now that all this nonsense about not being allowed to film in the building is cleared up, could we please—”
I’m not listening to her anymore, though. Tania—who was named one of People magazine’s fifty most beautiful people—looks terrible. Her painfully thin shoulders are slumped inward, her hands limp in her lap, her bony knees knocked. Her normally cappuccino-colored skin tone is yellowed, though whether this is a reflection from the gold of her dress, the suddenly insufficient lighting, or what she’s been through, it’s hard to tell.
I do know jaundice is never a good look for a pop star. It’s especially worrisome for one who should be glowing. Tania’s going into her second trimester. The cover of Us Weekly recently crowed that she and Jordan are expecting a little girl.
The baby makes me feel especially protective of Tania, even if its mother has always treated me like crap.
“You still can’t film in here,” I say flatly. “In fact, I need everyone to leave in order to give Tania some privacy while the EMTs take a look at her.”
Stephanie narrows her eyes. “Excuse me?” she says.
“Someone called an ambulance,” I remind her. “I’m assuming that wasn’t done to add drama to your show, because it’s unlawful to place a call to emergen
cy services for any reason other than to report an actual emergency—”
The ambulance attendants have been watching our exchange like spectators at a tennis match. “That’s true,” the female EMT says. “What’s this show called anyway?”
The vein in the middle of Stephanie’s forehead has begun to throb again. “Jordan Loves Tania,” she says. “We’re hoping it’s going to be CRT’s first hit, and next season’s number-one-rated husband-and-wife-themed reality show. That’s why we certainly didn’t place any unlawful calls to emergency services. We can’t allow any scenes to roll off camera. Jordan’s and Tania’s fans are going to want to share this emotional moment—”
Jordan, still on the couch with his arm around Tania, looks uncomfortable.
“I know you wanted to film them examining her, Steph, but I think Tania would rather—”
Jordan is doing something I’ve never see him do before: putting another human being’s best interests before his own. It’s sort of sweet, especially the way Tania is looking up at him with her humongous brown eyes so weepy and trusting.
Too bad “Steph” has to ruin the moment by interrupting him, waspishly. “Jordan, that wasn’t the agreement you signed. Nothing off camera. That’s what we said. That’s what your father said.”
Jordan looks dejected. “Right,” he says. “No, of course, you’re right.”
I see Tania’s gaze drop to the floor in defeat. I’m not surprised that Jordan has failed to stand up for his wife’s rights. Unlike Cooper, Jordan has always done whatever his father told him to—including getting rid of me—and Stephanie has clearly figured this out. All she has to do, apparently, is say the words, “That’s what your father said,” and Jordan snaps to it. I glance at Cooper, and see that he looks as disgusted with his brother as I feel.
Before Cooper can say anything, however, I come to Tania’s rescue. I don’t really want to. I certainly don’t owe either her or Jordan anything. But I can’t help it. Fischer Hall is my island—of misfit toys, as Cooper pointed out—and I don’t like seeing people pushed around on my island.
“Well, once again, too bad,” I say, “because there’s no filming allowed in the building.”
Tania lifts her heavy layer of false eyelashes, and I’m reminded of why she’s such a popular performer. It’s not only because she has such a great voice—she does—or looks so great in her skimpy costumes—that’s true too. It’s because her face conveys such a wealth of emotion in a single glance . . . or seems to at least. Right now it’s conveying overwhelming gratitude toward me.
I’m a little confused. Tania Trace has sold more than 20 million albums, topped the charts in over thirty countries, won four Grammy Awards, and now she has a baby on the way with Jordan Cartwright, who’s produced a record number of hits of his own (with his dad’s help, of course). The two of them have their own TV show. She’s a diva. Why she can’t tell Stephanie Brewer no herself is beyond me.
“And we ain’t signing no waivers,” the male EMT says loudly as he and his partner cross the living room to Tania’s side.
Stephanie’s vein begins to throb so wildly, I’m scared it’s going to burst.
Cooper must have noticed the same thing, since he says, “Maybe we should go outside. Isn’t that a terrace out there? It might be a little cooler.”
Cooper’s being polite. He knows perfectly well that there is a terrace outside the Allingtons’ apartment. I was almost murdered on it once.
“Yes, great idea,” Christopher says quickly. He claps his hands. “Okay, hey, everyone, let’s take five and give our star some privacy while she gets checked out by these nice, er, ambulance people. Drinks in the fridge in the kitchen if anyone wants them—”
“Guarana?” asks the sound mixer in a hopeful voice as he drops the boom and strips off his earphones.
“Guarana for Marcos,” Christopher says. “Red Bull for everyone else. You guys want anything?” He looks at Cooper and me and without waiting for an answer says, “Hey, Lauren, grab us all some bottled waters—”
The film crew stampedes for the Allingtons’ kitchen as Christopher throws open the French doors that lead to the wraparound terrace off the dining and living area of his parents’ penthouse. Instantly a cool breeze hits us. The air this high up—we’re twenty floors from the street—seems fresher and cleaner than the air below. You can barely hear the traffic, but through some acoustical trick you can occasionally hear the sound of the fountain jets in Washington Square Park. The 360-degree views of Manhattan are stunning—the twinkling city lights and even, on a clear night like this one, the moon and a few stars.
It’s out on this terrace that the Allingtons do most of their entertaining when they’re in town, catered affairs with professional waitstaff in black-and-white uniforms. It’s out on this terrace that I also once almost lost my life. I try never to think about this, however. The professor of the class I’m taking this summer session (Psych 101) says that this is called disassociation and that it almost always comes back to haunt people.
I’m willing to take my chances.
“Who are you anyway?” Stephanie Brewer turns to ask me as we step toward a set of green-and-white-striped settees. “I think President Allington will be interested to hear how unhelpful you were during all of this. He and his wife are big fans of CRT, for your information.”
Cooper, who has overheard this, looks angry. “I’m sorry,” he says to Stephanie, though he doesn’t appear sorry at all. “Did I forget to introduce—”
“Heather,” I interrupt. I can see what Cooper’s about to do. He doesn’t like the way Stephanie is treating me—as if I’m some kind of underling—and he wants to let her know that I’m someone special.
But I get sneered at and spoken down to by people like Stephanie every single day. Like millions of administrators and service industry workers, I’ve gotten used to it, though I don’t think I’ll ever understand it. It might make sense if I wasn’t good at my job, like Simon, but I am. Stephanie shouldn’t treat anyone the way she’s been treating me, though . . .
Which is why I don’t want Cooper pointing out to her that I used to be famous. And he definitely shouldn’t give away the secret we’ve been guarding so closely for so many months—that I’m dating her boss’s son—just to teach her an etiquette lesson.
“I’m the Fischer Hall assistant director,” I say to her. “When you complain to President Allington about me, be sure to get the name right. My last name is Wells.” I spell it for her.
“Tell my dad too,” Cooper says as he pulls one of the green-and-white-striped lounge chairs out for me to sit on. “I’m sure Grant will get a kick out of hearing how you met Heather, Stephanie.”
I shoot him a dirty look since he’s spoiled my plan, but he only frowns at me. Cooper doesn’t like it when I “diminish my extraordinary accomplishments,” as he puts it, by not introducing myself as the Heather Wells, youngest artist ever to top the Billboard charts with a debut album, and the first female to have both an album and a single simultaneously at number one (Sugar Rush).
Honestly, though, what person who is practically thirty goes around reminding people of something they did when they were fifteen? That’s like using a picture of yourself as your high school’s quarterback or homecoming queen as your Facebook photo.
I can see in the glow of the terrace’s fairy lights, however, that it’s too late. Stephanie’s already figured it out, thanks to Cooper’s hint. I can tell the exact moment I go from being the shrewish college administrator in Stephanie’s eyes to Heather Wells, former pop teen sensation, and one of her boss’s biggest success stories . . . until I gained a few pounds, insisted on writing my own songs, and suddenly wasn’t so successful anymore.
I can’t hold it against Cooper, though, because Stephanie realizes she’s put her size 7 foot in it, and it’s amusing to watch her backpedal.
“Oh, that’s why you look so familiar,” Stephanie says, graciously holding her perfectly manicured hand out
to me across the glass table between our two chairs. “ ‘Don’t tell me stay on my diet, you have simply got to try it,’ ” she sings, perfectly on pitch. “God, I can’t tell you how many times I must have listened to ‘Sugar Rush’ when I was younger. It was my favorite song. You know, before we all moved away from pop and on to real music?”
I keep my own smile frozen on my face. Real music? I hate that so much. Some people seem to forget that “pop” is short for “popular.” The Beatles were considered pop musicians. So were the Rolling Stones. Stephanie seems to be forgetting pop music pays her salary, and the salaries of everyone working for Cartwright Records. Give me a break.
“Right,” I say as Stephanie crushes my fingers in her own. She must do Pilates. Or press diamonds out of coal with her bare hands.
“I can’t believe I didn’t recognize you right away,” Stephanie gushes. “It’s been a while, hasn’t it? Still, you look great. So healthy. Your skin is glowing.”
When skinny girls say that you look healthy and your skin is glowing, what they mean is that they think you look fat and you’re sweating. Cooper and Christopher are sitting there, completely oblivious to the fact that Stephanie has insulted me to my face.
I know it, but I’m going to let it go, because I’m the bigger person. Not just literally but metaphorically as well. I believe what you put out into the universe comes back to you times three, which is why I try only to say good things, except of course when it comes to Simon.
“Wow, thanks,” I say in the kindest voice I can muster.
Some of the members of the film crew are drifting out onto the terrace. All of them are holding cold drinks from the Allingtons’ refrigerator. Most of them are clutching cell phones to their ears, using their break to call friends or significant others to make plans for later, from the snatches of conversation I can hear floating toward us. The production assistant, Lauren, brings us each a bottle of cold mineral water, though neither Cooper nor I asked for one.