Skinnydipping

by Bethenny Frankel

  But everybody in the audience wanted to know about our fight. When an audience member asked me if Shari and I were still friends, I paused, then said, “I wish Shari all the best. We’ve had an … interesting and sentimental journey together, and tonight will be the next step in that journey.”

  When someone stood up and asked, “Shari, you were so mean to turn on Faith like that, why did you do it?” Shari said something about the pressures of the final challenge and how the whole thing got blown out of proportion and about how the editing made it look worse than it really was. She ended with something about how she knew we’d be friends again someday. I hardly heard her. I tried to smile, but I felt dizzy and sick. I knew it wasn’t true that we would ever be friends again. I was surprised how invested the audience seemed to be in our friendship. I suppose it’s a timeless theme—the betrayal of a friend.

  Nobody asked me about Harris. It was clear from the questions that they had been screened. Sybil surely wouldn’t have allowed a question about her son. My fight with Shari was the perfect distraction.

  Finally, at the end of the segment, we all gathered on Sybil’s couches and she passed us each a glass of champagne. Even as it was happening, my mind was on tonight—on the finale.

  “I would like to propose a toast, to all of you, and especially to Shari and Faith, for making it all the way through the contest. May the best Domestic Goddess win!” Everyone raised their glasses, but I didn’t drink, I put my glass down.

  Sybil looked at me, then at my untouched glass. “Are you feeling all right, Faith?” she asked, coldly. “I’d hate to see you get sick right before the live finale.”

  “No, I’m fine, just a little … under the weather,” I said. Calm down, Faith. There’s no way she could know you’re pregnant. But then I thought: Doesn’t the devil know all?

  After Sybil’s morning show, I walked around the city with Chaz to clear my head and try to quell my nausea before the next piece. He was nice and didn’t ask too much about Harris. We spent the time trying to get into Sybil’s head. “It’s not about who’s the best,” Chaz said. “It’s about the numbers and the bottom line. Sybil will choose whomever Sybil wants to choose—with the approval of the network. But Faith,” he said, taking my hand, “seriously, you don’t want to win. You want to come in second. You don’t want to work for that bitch.”

  “I don’t like to come in second,” I said. “In horse racing, you can lose by a nose and it counts for nothing. Sybil and I don’t get along, but what else am I going to do? I can learn from her. She’s truly committed to perfection. I admire her.”

  “Still?” Chaz said. “Oh, honey, she’s a twenty-four-carat twat.”

  I couldn’t help laughing. “Maybe you’re right, but what else do I have? I need this.” I was tempted to tell him why, since my reasons had completely changed, but I held my tongue.

  Roxanne Howard came up to me while I was in the makeup chair and asked me how I was doing. I hardly knew what to say to her—she was the mastermind behind the whole torturous amazing experience, and I was intimidated. Did I despise her, or admire her? Maybe both. I couldn’t even focus on her words. All I could do was obsess. “I’m fine … I think,” I said.

  “You’ll be great, honey,” she said. “They love you out there.” I hoped she was right, but would it matter? Sybil’s verdict was the only verdict.

  And then I was waiting backstage, and it was surreal. I knew my friends were out there, and I even thought I heard Victoria cheering my name. I saw signs in the audience, “Team Faith” and “Team Shari” and “Faith + Harry,” people shaking them up and down. The lights were so bright, I couldn’t see anything very well—no faces, no Harris. Was he out there? I squinted toward the audience. I couldn’t see them all from where I was standing. My face felt stiff with the thick makeup, my hair perfectly arranged and sprayed. My outfit felt tight and I was beginning to sweat. Breathe, Faith. Breathe slowly. Calm down. Think about your answers, don’t just blurt out any shit that comes into your head. Everyone’s watching. It all hangs in the balance. Months of torture have all come down to this. Be smart. Think about what you say. Then Shari was standing next to me. We didn’t speak or look at each other. We just waited there together for the cue to come onstage.

  I was dizzy with the intensity of it. And then the little sign lit up: ON AIR. And the show began.

  The audience’s cheering was deafening as Sybil came onstage, followed by Alice and Ian and Rasputin, wagging his tail. He obviously wasn’t intimidated by the audience, but even Sybil looked overwhelmed. She smiled her chilly smile at the camera and the world, and even stumbled over her opening words, made nervous, perhaps, by the whole “primetime live” aspect of this show. None of us were used to that. It felt like a sports event. The audience thundered and the lights glared, so that I could hardly see. I was nervous, and excited, and terrified, all at once—because of the contest, and because he was out there in the audience, somewhere. I knew it. I could feel it.

  First, they brought out our teams—Andy, Monica, and Jodi Sue, and then Katie, Linda, and Nadine. The rest of the contestants sat in the front row of the audience, looking well rested and excited. Sybil asked them about their experiences with the final challenges, and what they thought of us. I couldn’t even listen to what they said, although I heard some bickering and shouting and the audience laughing. Andy was grinning, obviously the center of attention.

  Be careful how you act, Faith, I told myself. Be careful what you say. The cameras are relentless. They don’t care if you look good or bad, smart or idiotic, whether you win or lose. It’s all about the best shot, the most scandalous comment, the best possible entertainment. I felt like I was about to enter Rome’s Colosseum, where people were slaughtered by lions. Our slaughter would be metaphorical—cleaner—but just as devastating … and entertaining. I glanced at Shari. She looked as nervous as I felt. Then I heard Sybil asking each former contestant who should win. Predictably, all of Shari’s team said Shari. I heard Andy say “Faith!” and Monica say “Faith!” and then I heard Sybil ask Jodi Sue. She paused, then said, “Shari.” The audience made the “ooh” sound they make when someone says something scandalous.

  “Let’s bring them out!” Sybil said. Backstage, one of the wranglers pushed us forward and the cameras followed Shari and me as we walked onstage together, smiling for the cameras. It all matters, how you look, how you stand, how you sit, how you speak. Do it right! She could still change her mind at the last minute. Whatever she’s decided, she could still change her mind!

  The crowd went crazy, shrieking and screaming and applauding. I felt like I was in a dream. Shari and I waved and smiled with our perfect faces and perfect hair and perfect clothes, and then we each sat down on opposite ends of the long couches, next to our respective teams.

  Sybil introduced clips of the final challenges, and I watched with interest, eager to focus on something I knew, something other than this strange, alien experience of live television.

  I’d seen the challenges on the last episode, but these clips went into more detail, and it looked like Shari did well, but I was astounded at how much less she had to do than me. The baby shower was charming and the celebrity guests were polished and lovely … but I would have liked to see Shari try to pull off half of what I’d had to do. I couldn’t believe we’d had the same budget and the same amount of time. Could Sybil see how much harder I’d worked?

  I squinted toward the audience again. I saw Ruby Prasad, and then… I saw him, just as Sybil asked me a question.

  “Faith, how do you think you and your team did during this challenge?”

  Had he seen me looking at him? “I … well.” Don’t get distracted, Faith. You’ll never get another opportunity like this. I smiled at Sybil. Remember, Faith, this is live. Think before you speak. “I think we did a fantastic job pulling off an extremely complicated and difficult challenge,” I said carefully.

  “Faith, you lost one of your team members before your
event was over. Can you talk about why there was dissension on your team? What went wrong?”

  I thought about that for a moment. I had to answer in just the right way, because I didn’t want to look like I was trashing my teammates, and yet I had to stand up for myself so Sybil could be reassured that I wasn’t weak, that I was strong and capable and could handle anything. Suddenly I felt very calm and rational.

  “Doing a challenge on this show isn’t exactly like managing a team to produce an event,” I said. “I have a lot of event-planning experience, but I’ve never had to hire people who were already angry at me.”

  “That was your fault, wasn’t it?” Sybil said, slyly.

  “Oooh,” said the audience.

  “I don’t think so,” I said, smiling. I wanted to add the word bitch, but edited myself. “Everyone in this contest who got eliminated is likely to be angry about it. We’re all very ‘type A,’ very sure of ourselves, sure we all should have won. So by choosing three people who had made it pretty far in the competition, I was giving them a chance to prove to the world that they should have won, and I knew they would jump at that. I was counting on that motivation, their competitive spirit, even their egos, so that even if they didn’t like me, they would do their best to pull off the challenge.”

  “Interesting strategy,” Sybil said. “What about you, Shari? Did you feel your team was angry at you?”

  “Not at all,” she said loudly. I could tell by her voice that she’d been back in Brooklyn for a while. “I appreciated every single member of my team for their unique skills, and they know exactly how much I appreciate them because I know how to show it.” She gave me a sidelong glance.

  “I may be straightforward and not the best at small talk and false praise,” I said, “but I know how to get a job done right.”

  “Let’s talk to our judges. Alice, what do you think?”

  “I think”—Alice looked at both of us—“I think that Shari has a distinct personality that might not necessarily translate well to the network. While she might bring in a different segment, I’m not sure it’s the most relevant segment. I think Faith is more tapped into the audience your network is seeking. She’s passionate and creative, even if she’s not always the most sensible person. I think she’d be a great host of her own show. I would vote for Faith.”

  The audience applauded. I gave Alice a grateful look and she smiled at me. Shari looked offended.

  “And Ian? What about you?” Sybil said. “We all know you knew Faith from before this show, but who do you think is best suited to win Domestic Goddess?”

  Ian shifted in his chair, his white hair gleaming in the bright light. His red nose could lead a sleigh. “Well, well, let me see,” he said. “I do think Faith is a very nice woman. But a Domestic Goddess? Maybe not. I see Shari in that role, more than I see Faith. I think Shari has a lot of spunk and she seems more like a housewife to me. She’s clearly skilled in the domestic arts. Yes, I think I’d have to go with Shari. No offense, my dear,” he said, gesturing to me.

  I nodded and smiled—none taken. The audience applauded again. Somebody yelled, “Team Shari!”

  “Well,” Sybil said, clapping her hands together. “It’s time to make a decision, and here we go.” She looked around at Alice and Ian. Alice looked hopeful. Ian looked bored. I held my breath. Sybil cast her eyes out over the audience. She seemed to be looking at Harris. Then she looked at me.

  “Faith,” she said, “you are ambitious, driven, and passionate about what you do. You are creative, but I also feel that your sense of humor is sometimes inappropriate, in ways that don’t really fit in with the Sybil Hunter brand. You seem compelled to call attention to yourself, to dress and act in ways that demand people notice you, but then, as soon as you get noticed, you can be offensive. That’s really not the Sybil Hunter way. Also, your team members aren’t loyal to you. I know you appreciate what my company represents, and you are, I must admit, a competent cook, but I’m not sure you’re Domestic Goddess material. I believe you may be too much of a show-off.”

  I heard a few people in the audience gasp. My stomach flip-flopped and I felt myself breaking out in a cold sweat. Inappropriate? Compelled to call attention to myself? Offensive? A show-off? I went from pale to flushed with embarrassment and anger. How could she say those things to me on live television? Smile, Faith. Don’t make a scene. Smile. I wanted to drop dead right there on the stage, just to escape the humiliation.

  After all I’d given up, the months of torture and effort, the sacrifice of my business, putting my whole life on hold, not being able to speak to my friends, being away from my dog, and I don’t get so much as a thank-you, just a dig, just a humiliating insult? Come on, Faith. Suck it up. You are inappropriate sometimes, and you know it. It doesn’t mean you’re a bad person. It doesn’t mean she won’t hire you. Maybe she’ll be even worse to Shari. I took a deep, shaky breath, gave the camera my best modest, appropriate, non-show-off smile, and waited.

  Sybil looked at Shari. “Shari, you have consistently proven yourself competent and tasteful. Although I believe you could stretch yourself a little beyond your comfort zone, and you can be pushy, I believe your personal style and method are more in line with the Sybil Hunter brand. You are in touch with the women who embrace my lifestyle, and you are not just our target audience here at SHE, but you have a lot to offer us in terms of your perspective and your ideas.”

  That’s it? All she gets is a “stretch yourself a bit more, dear”? I began to get a sinking feeling, one I hadn’t let myself really indulge in until this moment, right there on live television. I began to suspect that maybe I wasn’t going to win this thing.

  “Faith, Shari,” Sybil said, her eyes glittering with what looked to me like malice, “you’ve both done very well, but only one of you can be the next Domestic Goddess.” Silence. The long pause. The torturous pause. My eyes met Shari’s, and she smiled nervously at me. I tried to smile back, but I couldn’t. And then Sybil turned to Shari.

  “Shari, congratulations. You are the next Domestic Goddess.”

  Everything began to move in slow motion. Sybil stood up, then Shari stood up, beaming for the cameras, and Sybil shook Shari’s hand, and then Alice stood up and walked right off the stage without acknowledging anyone, and then Ian stood up, gave me a sympathetic look, and went over to congratulate Shari.

  I turned, the lights and crowd a moving blur, and walked over to Shari and shook her hand and hugged her and said “Congratulations,” and my voice sounded hollow and the crowd noises echoed around me and Shari beamed at me and said, in a voice that sounded strange and slow, “I’m sorry for everything, I hope we can still be friends.” I couldn’t answer, I just turned away, and then I saw Harris, right there in the front row, standing up, his face red with anger. He looked at his mother, and then he looked at me, and then his whole face changed, flooded with an emotion I couldn’t read, and then he turned and stormed out of the studio.

  I stood there onstage, the cameras closing in to catch the emotions of the loser, trying to smile, as people patted my back and shook my hand and offered their condolences and whispered that I should have won. I tried to keep a smile on my face, but my whole body had gone cold. Chaz hugged me. “You’ll see someday soon how lucky you are,” he whispered, and then he was gone.

  The only thing I knew how to do was go home, but as I turned toward the green room, I almost collided with the woman from Bacchus Global. “I’m so sorry!” she said. “I didn’t mean to run into you like that.”

  “That’s all right,” I said, trying to pull myself together. “What are you doing here?”

  “The board wanted me to come and see how you did. And to bring you some news… not good news, I’m afraid. You see, I haven’t been able to convince them to invest in your pink lemonade mojito. I tried, I really did, and if you had won the show, well, maybe it would have been different, but … well, I’m sorry,” she said. “But it was very nice to meet you.” She held out her h
and. I looked down at it, then turned and walked away.

  I found my coat and purse, and then I went outside, and without looking back, I began the long, long walk home.

  It took me almost an hour to walk back to my apartment from the studio, but I needed the cold night air to clear my head. I’d crashed and burned. I’d been so high for so long, going through it all, and then so anxious and obsessed waiting, waiting for that moment, and now I felt a crushing emptiness. I was going back to my old life of scraping by, being broke. I was so disappointed in myself. I needed to forget I’d ever heard of a woman named Sybil Hunter. I considered the best ways to burn those cookbooks. Finally, I saw my apartment building in the distance.

  And then I saw him in front of it.

  I stopped. He hadn’t seen me yet. He was pacing, his hands in his pockets, his cheeks red from the January cold. His breath came out in clouds of frost and his brow was furrowed. I couldn’t believe he was here. What did he want? Was he angry at me? Was he coming to say good-bye? Or …

  I walked quickly toward him, trying not to run, and then he saw me. He looked so relieved, and I felt like I was coming home to something I’d desperately missed, that I’d been without for too long. I walked up to him and stopped.

  “Hi,” he said.

  “Hi.” I paused. “I lost,” I said, not knowing what else to say.

  “I know,” he said. He looked miserable. “I … need to explain.”