by Emily Bishop
Keep my hands off of Blake. Keep my eyes off of Blake. And vice versa.
I have a flashback to last night. I have a flashback to three hours ago.
Hands off.
Sounds easy enough.
“All right,” I grumble, slowly climbing from my bunk. Two hours of sex. Three hours of sleep. Perfect. Let’s fly to America.
***
The wave of paparazzi is constant, from the chateau to the hangar to the mansion in Los Angeles. I don’t go directly to the mansion, because we’re not filming anything today. I go home.
It might seem like I wouldn’t want to be away from Blake, because he’s dreamy, but I’m aching with relief when I finally turn my key in that lock and come trudging through those doors.
Home is a shabby, chic Hollywood loft apartment. Rent is astronomical, so we’re breaking the terms of our lease. It’s a two-bedroom, one bath. We have four upstanding women living in it. The four members of The Cabbage Splat Dolls: Iggy, green-haired and freckled, plays the drums, works at the zoo as a tour guide, and goes to UCLA. Pepper, with a pug-like upturned nose and straight auburn hair, plays bass, and is a pre-school teacher. Very straightedge. And Sam-o, pale with eerily white platinum hair, plays the accordion and sings back-up, got fired right before I left for England with the crew. She managed a shoe store in the mall, and took the nightly deposit to a party in her purse—which got stolen.
When I arrive home, we have a little jam session and make tacos. Even my roommates, who are not pop-culture divas by any means, are gushing about the scandalous ‘Easter egg’ in episode 3 and who owns the legs in that photo. I don’t say anything. I just smile and shrug.
No one texts me, which is fine.
I don’t think about Blake obsessively before I fall asleep in my old bed. I don’t have a silent orgasm against my hand, remembering how mercilessly he fucked me the other night.
I tingle with excitement, thinking about the possibility of sneaking off somewhere in the LA location, maybe even disabling some equipment for a few hours.
My phone vibrates in the morning, and I jolt excitedly, thinking that Blake is texting me now. Maybe the phones haven’t all been confiscated yet. Maybe we can have breakfast…
CANDACE: can u come in?
I roll my eyes, text back that I can, and go get dressed. I slip on frumpy, faded jeans that hang on my hips, a white tank top, and aviator shades. I don’t bother with makeup, and I head to the set, where Candace spends entirely too much time.
I don’t even bother with the face because I know that Candace is never going to let me within ten feet of Blake under her supervision again.
My phone vibrates again. I look down.
CANDACE: straight 2 office
I let myself in to Candace’s office, and she peers up at me from her desk, arms crossed on the wood. She looks different than usual. Her eyes aren’t hard and hawkish. She has her maternal luster back, somehow, and a jolt of worry strikes my system. Did something happen?
“You should sit.”
I gape at the chair in front of me. “I don’t want to sit,” I assert proudly. “If I don’t sit, you can’t tell me whatever the hell you’re about to say, because I might pass out, right?”
Candace nods. “Jared…” She lets the word just hang in mid-air while her eyes seem to be searching for the rest of the sentence. My heart squeezes, and my lungs deflate. I cling to the chair Candace offered me. “He’s been calling the studio and leaving some really… twisted voicemails. It’s like…” Candace’s face scrunches up like she’s tasting something rotten, and she hunts for the words.
“Like death threats and love poetry,” I breathe.
I fumble my way to the front of the chair and settle onto its cushion. My head pounds. I’m dizzy. And cold. It’s not possible. I came so far away. I never use the Internet. I did everything I could. In a world where you can find anyone on social media, I became a ghost.
It’s been five years, and that little girl is still inside me, trembling. Responding to him just the way he wants her to.
Wordlessly, Candace reaches forward and taps a white device, which appears to be just a speaker. It has a voice message queued, and Jared’s crackling, drawling baritone fills the room.
My blood slushes into ice water in my veins.
“I’m looking for a little kitten. She’s sweet. Her love is only for me. She’s sweet… and weak. Her love is on TV. She’s sickly sweet. She licks up the cream.” His voice chokes with tears. I remember his crying fits vividly. “I’d rather drown you than see this circus continue, Roxanne Epstein. They’re making a mockery of our sacred vows. Just like you did in front of the whole goddamn—”
I spring forward, shaking, and tap the device incessantly, trying to shut it off. The speakers go silent, thankfully.
“You know that’s him,” I whisper. “You didn’t need to play it for me.”
“Oh, I think I did,” Candace replies. “He says he won’t stop until he finds your address or a phone number. He said he wouldn’t stop until you are either dead or safely under his roof ag—”
“I’m not his wife!” I snap. My voice doesn’t even sound like my own. “I had a representative in court finalize everything between us.” I swallow. “This is harassment. We can file a restraining order.”
Candace’s mouth is open, but she doesn’t speak. It’s a weird thing to see. Normally, she has more words than her mouth can carry. “You know this isn’t the first time he’s had a restraining order on him,” Candace says. “I think it might be safest to move you to another studio.”
My jaw hits the floor.
“I really am sorry, Roxanne.”
This can’t be happening. How is it possible that he’s still ruining my life?
“I don’t get it,” I breathe. “I was in one episode. One stupid little show. I know he would never watch anything like this. My hair doesn’t even look the same!” I shake a fistful at Candace, as if to prove it. “How did he find me?”
“It looks like there are some theories that the girl from episode #4 is the girl from the random shot in episode #3. Pictures circulate that compare you to her—well, to you, actually. Similar skin tone. They can get a good look at the shape of your legs. He must’ve seen something and known.” She wobbles her head from side to side, seeming like a crazy snake lady. “The public saw the sparks in that episode—which I told you not to do.”
“Annette was sick!”
“Yeah, well, you’re very recognizable right now… if you’re standing next to Blake, anyway. We’ve got to get you out of here. Jared just brings the liability up a notch. Too much risk, not enough reward. Not for me, kid.”
“You got me this job,” I remind her. “You know how hard I work.”
Candace nods and sighs. “I put in a good word for you with this producer I know. They’re building a crew now, and I recommended you.”
“For what type of show?”
“I dunno. It’s a sitcom. Directed by Dominic Montana. They all work in a toy store or something. It’s cute. You’ll be fine. They shoot every week, just like we do. Regular check.” I grimace, thinking of Blake. I love my job, but… “Stop with the face. God,” Candace grumbles. “You can see him again after the show’s over if you want to. It’s just a new job. Come back on board with me next season.”
***
I file all my paperwork to get started with Mr. Montana’s studio as soon as possible, then return to my apartment drained and depressed. As I trudge through the door, three girls twist and peer at me. “You’re just in time,” Iggy says. “We’re having a house meeting.”
“Greeeat,” I say sarcastically. These only function to complain about dishes or laundry. I’ve been gone for almost a month, so it’s probably me getting yelled at. I warily eye the pack as I settle onto our lime green couch.
“So, rent is coming up,” Iggy broaches awkwardly. “Couldn’t help but notice that Sam-o still doesn’t have a job. Been almost two months.”
Sam-o’s mouth flies open. “You see me filling out applications,” she whines. “I fill out applications all day!”
“Online!” Iggy counters. Pepper makes a face and shrinks up a little. For a bassist in a punk girl band, she doesn’t really like confrontation. But Sam-o and Iggy live for it. “You have to actually go in there and introduce yourself if you want to stand out! They get thousands of online applications every day!”
“Well, I’ll start doing that,” Sam-o sniffs. “It just looks really bad that I kind of lost the night deposit at my last job.”
“Well, I think it looks bad that you’re taking the couch in the living room when you don’t even pay rent,” Iggy snaps. “At least Pepper pays rent! She teaches pre-school, for Christ’s—”
“Assists,” Pepper corrects lightly.
“Assists pre-school, for Christ’s sake, but she’s on the ground in a sleeping bag!”
“Even if I leave and just walk from store to store, begging for an interview, I’m not going to have rent money ready in time,” Sam-o reminds us. “There’s no way. It’s, like, five hundred dollars.”
“Your parents do live in Santa Monica,” I mention. “It’d be easy to crash there until you find work.”
“Oh, come on!”
“She is coming on,” Iggy jumps back into the conversation, invigorated by my contribution. “You’re here all day, watching tv, surfing the web, driving our electric bill through the roof, with nothing to give us back! You’ve been eating for free for a goddamn month and a half!”
It would be nice to have a little more space here. And she does have her parents’ place as an option. And she does watch a lot of tv. And she is unemployed. I don’t have the extra money to contribute to her food budget.
“Fuck it,” I say. “I’m with Iggy.”
“Oh, come on,” Sam-o sneers. “Pepper?”
Pepper hesitates and shyly shakes her head.
Sam-o clenches her jaw and nods. “Fine,” she spits. “I’ll be out by the end of the month.” She stands suddenly and marches to the door, throws it open, and strides out. “Thanks a lot, guys.”
***
Two weeks come and go, and I try to forget about everything that happened in Newbury. I apply makeup to actors for a show called Stuffed. I become a vegetarian; not because I want to, but because meat starts making me hurl. I help Sam-o pack her things, but she keeps looking for work, like a dreamer. She gets angrier every day that Iggy turned on her like that, but I remind her that none of us have any extra money right now. At all. She unpacks her things again and says that she’s not going anywhere; she’s going to get the money.
I count the days until My Billionaire Bachelor is over. They run an episode at a charity event for children, and I know that must be hard for Blake. The show must be having some kind of internal issue, because they run a retrospective episode instead of a real episode the following week.
I get to see a few flashes of my date with Blake on the screen. He smiles down at me. My eyes gleam up at him. We bolt from our yurt all over again, and now I’m really living through the television screen.
You can’t go near the LA Billionaire mansion, I tell myself.
I don’t talk to Candace… not because I don’t want to. Things ended on a weird note between us, and I know we’ll work together next year.
I cut my hair short and turtle up in a little hole in my apartment.
I thought I was so strong until I heard Jared’s voice again.
I forget myself as a person, just like I used to, when I was being abused. Afraid to go outside. To tell anyone what is happening to me.
I just watch TV and tell myself that everything is fine.
Iggy sits down with me while I’m watching a re-run of the retrospective episode on TiVo. I’ve got a tofu sausage patty biscuit in my lap and nowhere to go. No pants on. No shame.
“Hey girl,” I greet. “How was work?”
“Bananas,” Iggy jokes. “How about you?”
“It’s a living. You feel me.”
The scene on the television flashes to Blake in his equestrian gear with Shannon. My shoulders round, and I think about what happened in the bushes that day. I sigh and take a deep, hearty bite of my vegan sausage patty biscuit. That eases the pain.
“Eating meat again?” Iggy wonders, nodding toward the sandwich.
“No. Tofu,” I explain. “Still can’t eat meat without serious nausea. I don’t know. Maybe being your roommate has finally rubbed off on me.”
“Mm, no, you’re really hard-headed,” Iggy replies. “I don’t think I’m the thing making you barf beef.” She scrutinizes me a moment longer and wonders, “When was your last period?”
“Uh…” I do some math and realize it was early in the England trip. I should have finished another cycle by now. “I don’t know,” I finish lamely.
“I still have a leftover pregnancy test from that scare with Rufus,” Iggy offers. “You want half of my two-pack?”
“No,” I grumble, shoving off the sofa and striding to the trashcan. I dump my tofu sausage patty biscuit into the garbage and head for the door. “I’m going to get a fresh one. You can’t trust pee sticks from the back of the medicine drawer, Ig.”
An hour later, after walking to the pharmacy and walking back, I drink a ton of water and squat over this stupid thing, infusing it with my psychic will to not be pregnant. And I unleash.
“Don’t watch it,” Iggy calls to me through the closed bathroom door. “You’ll start seeing shit, seriously.”
I abandon the pregnancy test and walk around the living room, doing about five laps before I bolt back to the bathroom, flip the toilet lid up, throw myself down, and puke my brains out.
“Those aren’t pregnancy hurls,” I yell to Iggy. “That’s just regular terror puke.”
There’s a pause. “Whatever you say, Roxanne.” There’s another pause. “It’s been about five minutes now.”
I look up at the bathroom sink from where I am, staring at the yellowed tip of that stick like it’s the barrel of a gun. I stand and slowly approach. I swallow.
There it is…
I snatch it up and hold it closer, squinting. Why are these things always so dim, whether they’re positive or they’re negative? It’s never fast enough, and it’s never immediately clear… and it’s a plus sign. It’s definitely a plus sign.
I’m pregnant.
With the heir to seventeen billion pounds.
With the child of the sixth bachelor.
Holy shit.
***
I want to text him, but I know for a fact that Candace takes all the contestants’ cell phones at the door of the LA mansion. When the set was Blake’s property, of course, he could keep his phone. But this isn’t his property. She says it’s a security issue and that it’s mandatory, but Candace thinks everything is mandatory.
She told me not to come to the set for a while.
And I can’t call anyone with this message for him.
I’ll just have to wait and pray that he gets in touch with me first, then. Or I’ll snap and go to the studio. Because fuck Jared.
Even as I think it, I feel sick.
I comfort myself with endlessly searching for Blake Berringer and rifling through every blog, every picture, and every cheesy, virus-riddled article I find.
I learn from my efforts that Blake Berringer went to college at Oxford for anthropology. Just because, apparently.
He lived in Japan throughout his early-thirties, harnessing a temper problem that these articles seem to relish. He learned forms of martial arts which rely on harnessing chi and mimicking the flow of water. I get wet reading about it, imagining him as water between my thighs, spraying down on me. So soothing and strong. So Blake.
Then I find one called The Truth about Blake Berringer: Pregnancy Shocker, and I have to click it.
“Nina Klasky is no household name. But after dating billionaire heir Blake Berringer in 1998, she claimed to be pregnant a
nd created a small blip in the media—because she immediately detracted the statement, which was disclosed to paparazzi outside of a nightclub in London. Klasky immediately—the next day—held a press conference, clarifying that she was not pregnant with the party boy Englishman’s child.
“When reached for comment, Blake Berringer replied, according to the UK Star, with: ‘What do I care if she’s pregnant? What does she want from me? I’m just over here, living.’ When followed by the question, ‘Do you want children?’ Berringer replied, ‘You mean, do I want some fat, crying sack bouncing on my lap? If I wanted that, I would’ve stayed with Nina.’”
I scoff and lightly shove the keyboard away from me.
I cannot believe him.
Calling children fat, crying sacks. Hell, calling his supermodel ex-girlfriend a fat, crying sack.
I mean, it was 1998, so he was all of eighteen years old. Every bit of the temperamental bad boy of Britain, the one who went off to Japan for reformation, he was so bad.
Then he came back and started building houses.
And pummeling paparazzi.
And fucking me.
What’s he going to do when I tell him I’m pregnant?
What will I do now that I’m pregnant?
***
I call the studio and ask if I can speak directly to Blake. When they laugh and ask me for my name before transferring me—followed by more laughter—I panic and hang up. I don’t want Candace to find out how desperate I am, and that’s all that would happen. They’d never let an outsider talk to a member of the cast. All the calls go through Candace. That’s the whole reason they confiscate phones.
She’d just end up calling me back personally and haranguing me, pestering me for being desperate and dick drunk. God forbid I actually tell her the reason I’m calling him.
I hang up the phone and stare down at it remorsefully.
Shouldn’t have called the studio.
Should’ve known better.
It lights up and vibrates in my hand. I scowl down at it.