by Kara Lennox
"How could I what?"
"Invite that she-devil mother of yours into our home, then throw her at my Bill! After I worked so hard to get him!"
"But my mother's only here for—" Phoebe saved her breath. Frannie ran from the room sobbing. Three cats trotted after her down the hall. A door slammed.
"Well, that didn't go too well," Wyatt said. "Sounds like the Jersey Blondes are breaking hearts all over the place. What happened to Jeff?"
Jersey Blondes? "He threw me over for someone younger."
"Lot of that going around."
"Oh, Wyatt. I am not interested in Jeff," she felt compelled to say. She wasn't into playing games, no matter what her mother advised.
"Could have fooled me."
So, he'd seen her performance, despite the fact that he'd never joined the party. "You were spying on me from your balcony," she concluded.
"You were cavorting in public for all the world to see. I could hardly help noticing your behavior—or your new swimsuit."
"I was humoring my mother. She bought it for me."
"That figures."
Phoebe instantly felt protective. "Don't say bad things about my mother. She's very sweet, just a little misguided."
"Sounds like she's a home-wrecker."
"Bill and Frannie aren't married. And let's not forget, Bill had a hand in this. He could have discouraged my mother, but he didn't."
"She looks like you, so who could blame him?"
Phoebe wasn't certain if she was being complimented or insulted. But the next moment she realized it was the latter.
"How do you and your mother manage to get your hair exactly the same shade? It's uncanny."
"I'll have you know, I'm a natural blonde!"
"How could I know that? You wouldn't let me turn the lights on."
"Ohh!" She was so startled by his rudeness that that was all she could manage for a few moments. Finally she summoned the wherewithal to leave. "I hope you and Frannie have a wonderful evening together!" She slammed the door behind her.
* * *
"Mama, don't scrunch up your face like that," Phoebe said. "You'll end up with white creases."
"I can't help it," Olga said, trying to relax her face as Phoebe applied foundation to it. "And I think you might have just accused me of having wrinkles."
They were in a guest dressing room on the "Heads Up" set. As if Phoebe weren't cranky enough, given how her life had been going lately, she had to make up a total of eight women this morning—and the first, Olga, had a ticklish face.
Everybody was mad at her. Neither Wyatt nor Frannie would talk to her. Elise and Daisy didn't exactly shun her, but they weren't behaving like the most loyal of friends. They blamed her for throwing away what she had with Wyatt, and every time either of them tried to talk to her about it, she ended up just changing the subject because she couldn't make them understand how deeply Wyatt's ridicule had cut her.
Her mother was talking to her, but barely. They'd had a huge fight the night after the pool party. Olga had painstakingly explained that she hadn't realized Bill's girlfriend was Frannie, that neither Frannie nor Bill had given her the slightest indication they were together, so she hadn't seen the harm. Bill had made her feel feminine and desirable, even if the flirtation hadn't gone anywhere.
Phoebe had responded by telling Olga she would be Jane Jasmine's most spectacular failure. She'd immediately apologized, but Olga's feelings had been hurt. They'd been walking on eggshells around each other ever since.
Even she and Richie had argued. She'd forgotten she was supposed to take notes yesterday for a class Richie had to miss, and she'd skipped it.
Frannie and Bill also weren't speaking to each other.
Even Kelly and Kurt weren't talking, which had nothing to do with Phoebe, except she was beginning to feel like her entire life was a minefield.
Olga giggled, causing Phoebe to smear her eyeliner. "Mama!"
"Sorry, sweetie. I can't help it. Remember when you were little and I used to make up your face for dress-up? You used to giggle and say it tickled."
"I was five years old." She blotted away the mistake and started over. "Those were fun times, though," she admitted, grasping the olive branch Olga had extended. Her mother had instilled in her a love for cosmetics, grooming and pretty clothes. She still loved all those things. But her attraction to such frivolities had caused people to assume her head was empty of anything weightier.
Phoebe finished with Olga and sent her to the Green Room to wait. A seemingly endless stream of women followed. Phoebe found herself trying to guess which ones were the ones who'd succeeded in finding Mr. Right, and which ones were still looking. By her sixth makeup job, she'd figured it out. The ones who'd found mates weren't the prettiest or the thinnest or the youngest. They were the ones who carried themselves with a quiet confidence. Their smiles were genuine, and they didn't express concern about whether the TV camera would add ten pounds.
They liked themselves, and they didn't give a rat's ears what anybody else thought of them. One of them mentioned she worked in nuclear medicine. She was no dummy, and she didn't hide the fact. In fact, she wore horn-rimmed glasses that made her look like a librarian. Yet she was quite attractive in her own way. It was her smile, and the twinkle in her eye.
"Oh, my, you've made me look like a movie star!" the woman exclaimed when she regarded the final results in the mirror.
"The studio lights will tone it down some."
"I wasn't complaining. My fiancé will be in the audience, and I can't wait for him to see me like this!"
Phoebe's final pre-on-air task was to do Jane Jasmine's makeup. She looked much as she did in the publicity picture printed on the back cover of 2001 Ways to Wed. She was about forty-five, Phoebe guessed, and she wore her dark hair in a no-nonsense, short and curly style. Her skin was flawless but her features were too sharp for her to be considered a classic beauty. She even had a few gray hairs, which she didn't bother to color.
"I'm not sure whether I should shake your hand or punch you out," Phoebe joked as she settled Jane into the chair and tied a smock over her.
"Oh?"
"One of my best friends is engaged because of your book. My other best friend is alone and completely miserable, despite having dutifully followed your advice."
Jane was immediately sympathetic. "Results sometimes take a while. Do you want me to talk to her?"
Phoebe shook her head. "I tried to get her on the show, but she wouldn't do it."
"So how about you?" Jane asked. "Did you read the book?"
"Cover to cover. Just for my friend, though."
Jane nodded wisely. "Not looking for a husband yourself, huh?"
"No. But then this man came along—"
"—when you least expected one. I'll bet you were quietly going about your business, engrossed in your own highly interesting, well-directed life, and there he was."
"Well, yes."
"That is precisely my primary message. Men flock around when you work on yourself as a person, when you focus on your own goals and dreams." Jane smiled. "Although, I'm guessing you've never had a problem with men not flocking."
"Don't smile, please… Oh, I manage to scare them off one way or another, but usually it's intentional."
"Not this time?"
Phoebe shook her head, fighting back the sting of tears. "First off, he saw your book on my shelf and assumed I was husband-hunting."
"Uh-oh."
"We got over that, finally, but then I got up the nerve to open up to him and share my dreams and goals, and, well, it was just awful. He laughed."
"What kind of dreams and goals?" Jane asked.
Phoebe was still nervous when it came to honesty about her career aspirations. But she forced herself to say it. "I'm going to become a biochemist and start my own cosmetics company."
"Oh, that's marvelous! But I know why the guy laughed."
"Because he thinks I'm dumb?"
"Because you surpris
ed him, that's all. You'd better get used to the fact that no one thinks of a beautiful, blond TV star when you say 'biochemist.' You also made him nervous, honey. Your looks are intimidating enough. Combine that with brains, and you're one scary package. The man would have to have quite a strong sense of self-esteem to stand up to that."
"Wyatt doesn't lack self-esteem," Phoebe murmured.
"You mean Wyatt Madison? The producer?"
Phoebe wanted to sew her lips shut. "Yes."
"You're in love with him?" Jane asked gently.
Phoebe nodded. She did love Wyatt, and she had for a long time. She just hadn't wanted to admit it to herself.
"So what did you do when he laughed?" Jane seemed fascinated with the whole thing—like an avid biologist dissecting a frog. And Phoebe found herself wanting to spill her guts. She supposed that was what made Jane a good therapist.
"I got mad. And I left. And I… It sounds so stupid now. I put on a blue lamé swimsuit and flirted with a twenty-two-year-old."
To her credit, Jane didn't criticize.
"And what did Wyatt do?"
"He got mad, too."
"Uh-huh."
"And he thought I bleached my hair."
Jane gasped. "The wretch. Forget him. I'm sure there are lots of men out there who would assume, without you telling them, that you're a natural blond."
Phoebe had to laugh at herself. "It was the way he said it, but never mind."
"Honey, if he laughed at you, it was because you've been hiding your intellect from him, so your announcement surprised him, that's all. You're the one who didn't make him understand. Sit him down and calmly make him understand who you really are. If he can't love that person, then fine, you gave it your best shot. But don't throw a good thing out the window just because he reacted badly the first time you let him see what was behind those pretty blue eyes."
Phoebe was silent after that, digesting what Jane had said. Maybe she'd overreacted to Wyatt's less-than-perfect behavior. Maybe, she thought, she'd deliberately let the budding relationship self-destruct. Because maybe, deep down, she didn't feel worthy of a man like Wyatt.
* * *
Wyatt watched his show unfold like an orchid—or maybe a Venus flytrap, he amended. This was certainly the most sensational show he'd ever done—leaning toward Jerry Springer. He'd vowed he would never resort to melodrama or faked fistfights to attract viewers, but the conflict evolving on the set was all too real. Riveting, but it made him uncomfortable.
Uncomfortable especially because he could see Phoebe on the opposite side of the stage, watching intently. She was concerned about her mother, he realized, as well she should be. Jane Jasmine did not pull her punches.
"You're afraid of something, Olga," Jane said. "I can tell by the colors you wear, the way you hold yourself, even the way you smile. You're hiding the real Olga Phelps. You are so afraid of someone seeing the real you that you have to hide behind this glamorous persona. You have no trouble getting a first date, I bet."
"No, none at all," Olga said with a brittle smile. "But after one or two dates the guys disappear into the woodwork."
Olga's smile faded. "After they get to know me, I guess."
"No, that's not it. They can't get to know you because you don't let them. They try to crack through your veneer, and you probably turn the conversation right back to the man."
"You say in your book to show an interest in the man's work," Olga said defensively.
"I said cultivate an interest. Learn about it so you can have meaningful conversations. That doesn't mean constantly stroking his ego and treating your own goals and interests as insignificant."
Olga suddenly burst into tears. "But I don't have any goals and interests. Except to get married. That's all I've ever wanted."
Jane reached out and squeezed Olga's hand. "We're going to work on that."
Wyatt kept his gaze on Phoebe. She had one hand over her mouth and the other tightly wrapped around herself, as if she had to physically restrain herself from coming to her mother's rescue.
"What do you like to do," Jane asked, "that has nothing to do with men?"
"Well," Olga said in a halting voice, "I make wreaths. I brought one with me today, but the producer wouldn't let me bring it on."
Kelly interrupted. "Let's have a look at this wreath!"
"After this commercial break," Kurt put in. He and Kelly had started holding hands during one of Jane's mini-counseling sessions. Wyatt suspected something she'd said had resonated with them.
They cut to commercial, and Kelly immediately let him have it. "Wyatt! Why didn't you let Phoebe's nice mother bring her wreath onto the show?"
Wyatt threw up his hands. "Fine. Never mind that it has nothing to do with anything we're talking about. Bring on the wreath."
He turned away and bumped right into Phoebe.
"Sorry," they said together. Then they just looked at each other for a long, searing moment.
"Phoebe!" Phyllis called. "We need touch-ups." With a nod to Wyatt, she scurried onto the set, powder and brush in hand. He thought she'd been about to say something to him, and he wondered what that was.
Wyatt fetched the wreath, giving it a closer look on the way back to the set. Olga had made it for Phoebe, he realized. It held a dozen or more tiny mementos of Phoebe's life—all related to her TV career. Apparently Wyatt wasn't the only one to have pigeonholed Phoebe.
"Fifteen seconds," the director announced. The set buzzed with frenetic activity, then the cameras rolled again.
"I made it for my daughter," Olga explained, when Jane asked about the wreath. "She played Vanessa Vance on 'Skin Deep,' if you remember that show."
"And she's backstage," Kelly said, practically bubbling over. "Can we bring her on?"
The audience clapped. A few of the men whistled and made catcalls.
Wyatt died a thousand horrible deaths. His show was veering off course like a sailboat in a hurricane. He was going to throttle Kelly—she knew better than to stray from the script. And Phoebe… Where was Phoebe, anyway?
She had disappeared.
* * *
Chapter 14
« ^ »
Phoebe made a beeline for the dressing rooms. There was no way she was going on camera, not with braided hair and a shiny nose. Hell, not even if she'd just walked out of a salon. She wasn't going in front of a TV camera unless it was to announce the launch of Bio-Techniques.
Someone called her name, and she walked faster, pretending not to hear—until she realized the voice didn't belong to anyone on the crew. She skidded to a stop and turned around to find the last person she expected to see backstage.
"Elise?"
Elise caught up with her. She wore a visitor's badge and carried a rolled-up paper sack. "Where are you running off to?"
"Anywhere but in front of those cameras. They were trying to put me on the show. What are you doing here?" She took Elise's elbow and steered her into Kelly's dressing room. No one would think to look for her here. She tried not to look at the white fur rug.
"Wow, this is kind of a weird room," Elise said, gazing around at the red walls imprinted with huge, purple lips.
"It belongs to Kelly, our hostess. She's a bit of an eccentric, but very sweet. Have a seat. Oh, unless you want to watch the show from backstage."
"I can do that some other time," Elise said, settling onto the white sofa. "What's up with you? Why are you so freaked out about the idea of going on camera? I would think you'd be immune to stage fright by now."
"It's not stage fright. But that part of my life is over—the Vanessa Vance part. I just wish everyone would forget it."
"Are you ashamed of the work you did on that show?"
"Yes," she answered without hesitation.
"I don't know why. Lots of great actors got their start on soap operas and TV commercials."
"But I don't want to be an actor."
Elise gave her a sage look. "Kiddo, I think you're taking this much too seriously
. You are not the only person in the world to make a career misstep. For my first summer job I answered the phone at an illegal escort service."
"No way."
"It's true. I didn't have a clue what was going on until the vice squad raided the place. I had to call my parents from jail."
"That's so sordid!"
"It is, but I can laugh about it now. Stop taking yourself so seriously. Life is pretty hysterical most of the time, and if you can't laugh about the twists and turns you might as well join a cloistered convent in Tibet and give it all up."
Phoebe did crack a smile. Elise was so wise. "What's in the bag?"
"Oh. Something really important." She opened the sack and pulled out several fabric swatches. "I really came by to show you these and get your advice. I thought maybe we could grab lunch on our way to campus. You have a twelve-thirty class, right?"
"Yes, but I have to take Mama home first, so I won't have time for lunch. Sorry." She examined the lush fabrics—satins, brocades, lace; some in white, some in ivory. Elise had settled on a traditional design with a fitted bodice, puff sleeves and a gently flounced skirt with a train.
"This plain ivory satin is gorgeous," Phoebe said, unable to disguise the longing in her voice. "The brocade and the lace are too busy—they would compete with the beautiful details of the gown. This satin will move beautifully with you and give a softer look to the dress."
"You don't think plain satin is too, well, plain?"
"Maybe some scalloped lace at the hem and neckline. Well, I'm sure your dressmaker can handle those details."
"I knew you would have the answer," Elise said. "I can't wait to see what sort of wedding dress you choose for yourself."
"Hah! At the rate I'm going, I'll get married about the same time I draw Social Security. You'll be pushing me down the aisle in a wheelchair."
"So you haven't patched things up with Wyatt, huh?"
"No."
"Are you going to try?"
Phoebe sighed. "I don't know that I'm ready for a relationship with a man like Wyatt."
"Maybe not, but what if, when you finally do feel ready, no guys are available? Think about Daisy's predicament."