by Molly Harper, Stephanie Haefner, Liora Blake, Gabra Zackman, Andrea Laurence, Colette Auclair
The hotel they put me up in is hip and overpriced. Gray granite and brushed chrome cover the hotel lobby, along with floral arrangements with flowers in them that look so exotic they are possibly poisonous. A bellman clad in black wool slacks, polished shoes, and a gray cashmere sweater stiffly escorts me to a room, where he casually points out the espresso machine and the in-room sushi menu. Once he leaves, I strip off the casual wrap dress I wore on the plane and pull on sweatpants and a T-shirt. A basket of fancy snacks is on the side table, along with a letter from After Hours with Hal Abrahms, written on the softest stationary I’ve ever felt in my hands. Ripping open a bag of tamari-roasted soy nuts, I toss a few in my mouth while checking my cell. My voice mail notification vibrates with a message from Stephen.
“Kate, tomorrow be in the lobby at ten. I set up for a stylist to meet you and take you out shopping. Go ahead and drop some of that fat advance on a decent outfit. We can’t have you wearing a prairie skirt or flannel on Hal Abrahms.”
I roll my eyes, imagining a chic blonde bombshell in the lobby tomorrow, looking at me aghast and hoping for a miracle.
The next morning, following a rude awakening by the clock radio, a hotel gym workout, and a shower, I hunker down in one of the black leather lobby chairs to wait for the stylist. The hotel is clearly an upstart hot spot, the kind where young industry types hole up while working on big deals or recovering from their latest bender. Those young hipsters who worked deals late into the night at trendy bars are still asleep, so the lobby remains quiet. It’s strange: people in Crowell would already have drunk their coffee, eaten breakfast, and been at work for hours by the time some of these people roll themselves out of bed.
Blowing through the lobby doors, a tall man sweeps in, wearing retro sunglasses meant for James Dean, a pink suit jacket, dark eggplant slim trousers that appear a few inches too short, and a pair of shiny black loafers on his feet—with no socks. I can’t quite get past the no-socks thing, as if the bold color choices aren’t striking enough, but I know his feet must be sweaty and on the verge of blistering.
He stops in the center of the room, a place he is likely accustomed to being, and scans it swiftly before his gaze lands on me. Pulling his sunglasses down to peer in my direction over them, he squints before smiling in a way that makes me want to look over my shoulder for the real object of his attention.
Only a few quick strides and he lands gracefully in front of me before whipping off the shades.
“Dear Lord in heaven, please tell me your name is Kate Mosely.”
“Your prayers have been answered. I am Kate Mosely,” I deadpan.
He fists his hands into the air. “Yes! Sweet Jesus, I needed another pudgy, mousy, mole-covered makeover like a hole in the head! Stand up, girl, so I can see exactly how easy this is going to be.”
Dropping the newspaper I was reading on one of the side tables, I stand up in front of him as he makes a swirling gesture with his index finger over my head, prompting me to make a complete turn for his inspection. I pull and straighten my white tank top over my jeans before turning slowly around like an idiot. When I return to center, he whistles slowly and grins.
“Tight body, that shiny chocolate hair, perfect skin, and blue eyes that knock men to their knees. You’re like nine different fantasies all rolled into one.” He sizes me up again and then shakes his head before winking at me. “For a straight man, of course.”
Before I can utter a single protest or inquiry, he grabs my hand to pull us toward the doors. “I’m Kellan, by the way, your stylist, truth-teller, dream-maker, and local sexpert. Ask me anything.”
Within five minutes, I fall for all of Kellan’s audacious cheek and I wish I could take him home with me, both for my own amusement and for the pure shock value he would bring to Crowell. He is hilarious and forthright, as if he was born without a filter or fear.
At Kitson, he pulls a handful of dresses, which all look flawless. Even though we should stop there, because all I planned on buying was one outfit for Hal Abrahms’s show, Kellan insists we keep shopping. I try to explain that I live in a town of eight hundred in the middle of nowhere Montana, where fashion falls just below everything in our social hierarchy. Then he tosses eight pairs of jeans over the dressing room door at Fred Segal, and each pair makes my ass look so good I start checking myself out in the three-way mirror. After that, I get a little hooked. We even end up at Agent Provocateur, where he hands me lingerie that seems downright naughty, but everything fits like perfection. Almost a waste, since no one will see any of it except me.
By the time he finally leaves me at my hotel’s posh salon and day spa, I’m exhausted, but quickly understand why people love these places. Everyone speaks quietly and delicately, offering water flavored with orange slices and herbal teas with raw sugar. I don’t have to do a thing for myself, wandering around in a bathrobe waiting for someone to tell me what to do next. The staff massages, plucks, waxes, cleanses, moisturizes, and scrubs until I feel both raw and renewed. When they finish, the woman in the mirror looks a lot like a fantastical version of me. My hair is shinier yet still dark, my eyes are smoky, with ebony-colored shadow and dark eyeliner, and my lips are burgundy and glossy. Between that and the fancy clothes, not to mention the extravagant lingerie, I almost start to enjoy it. But only when I think of James, the pleased and ardent look he would have given me in this moment, can I embrace it.
3
When Gavin, that delicious eye candy of a driver, returns to pick me up on taping day, I’m quite sure he doesn’t recognize me at first. In his defense, I don’t look much like the woman he picked up at the airport. Strolling into the hotel lobby wearing an impossibly tight coffee-colored wool pencil skirt and a fitted ivory cashmere sweater, the only thing I’m vaguely regretting is the stilettos, since they are already starting to hurt my feet. This time, when Gavin opens the car door for me, he offers his hand and looks me over in the least subtle way possible. For a split second, it feels like the world is at my feet.
The Hal Abrahms staff sequesters me in a small dressing room with only an offhand muttering that someone will be back in thirty minutes to send me to makeup. Tossing my heels on the floor, I curl up on the couch to wait. The knock comes exactly a half hour later, a testament to the military precision of Hollywood’s attention to timing.
In the greenroom, I snag a bottle of water and a handful of boring pretzels, avoiding the trays of figs, artisanal honey, and funky-smelling fromages, then hunker down on another leather couch. Nearly half an hour remains until taping, which means I can kick off the shoes again and savor every second of my feet not aching.
When I first started doing publicity for the book, I usually had to steel myself against the anxiety and the way that my hands shook like a drying-out drunk. Now, my hands probably still shake more than I want them to, but that’s it. I’ve learned to be someone else, someone who watches from the corner of the room and admires the Kate Mosely, for all her right answers, smart smiles, and glimmering confidence.
Granted, this is different; before it had just been book signings and a few cable access shows or regional morning news shows. How I got precisely in this greenroom, where the snacks are more expensive and the bottled water seems European or something, that part is a bit baffling. But, like Stephen said, don’t overthink it.
The troops begin assembling, with more scurrying in the hallway and voices rising in pitch over the momentum. Grabbing a magazine off the table, I start to flip through it, scrutinizing the paparazzi pictures of reality starlets in tiny dresses and B-list actors outside nightclubs that litter the pages. Down the hall, the noise level ratchets up suddenly and then a mass of testosterone comes sauntering through the doorway.
There are six of them, guys in their mid to late twenties, looking like they stumbled into the wrong building, since this isn’t a tattoo shop or a dive bar. The first four cluster together, bellowing a bunch of nonsensical bullshit. They shove at each other a few times, in the playful and ter
ritorial way boys seem to do when desperate to display their full plumage.
Behind the first group, two other men follow. Perhaps it’s because they appear to be having an actual conversation with each other, sans the shoving and chest-puffing the others engaged in, but these two seem a bit older. The first man is tall, wide in a strong way, dressed in a sharp charcoal suit with a fitted pinstripe vest and an eggplant-colored tie that makes his dark skin somehow more vivid than it already is.
The guy next to him is just a few inches shorter, blond haired and fair skinned, dressed in Dickies pants, a white T-shirt, a worn-out black hoodie, and a knit skullcap. Within a few seconds, I’m sure I should know who he is, which forces my stare longer than I planned on. Feeling my eyes narrow and my brow furrow, I try to place his name, drawing nothing but a blank.
Famous, that’s for sure. Musician, I’m almost positive. Hot, without question. He catches my stare for a quick moment, just before I feel the couch cushions next to me move.
“Well, well, well. What kind of sweetness do we have here?”
One of the original four Neanderthals has sniffed me out. He is sitting far too close, draping his arm over the back of the couch so near to me that if I move an inch, his hand might brush the skin on my neck or—blech—my cheek. Between the obscene amount of cheap cologne he is drenched in and the way he wets his lips before smiling at me, I can’t think of another man I wish would leave me alone more than this one. While he’s equally as hot as the famous one, albeit in a more aren’t my juvenile charms and impish eyes adorable sort of way, the problem is his efforts ooze insincerity. The whole charade is about him looking like he is the one who can make me giggle and blush right out of my clothes.
Instead of responding to his little question, mostly because I can’t think of anything witty or biting enough to say, I just raise my eyebrows and smirk from the corner of my mouth.
“Cat got your tongue, baby? I won’t bite.” In my head, I count the three beats I know he needs before delivering the final corny line. “Not hard anyway.” He grins again, this time with all his teeth, and I decide to end his misery. Or, what will be misery, if I let him keep going merely for my own amusement.
“This is adorable and all, but . . .” I give my best it’s me, not you smile and prepare to make up something about my wonderful (yet imaginary) husband, our nine adorable children, and the picket fence of a life we have together.
“Simon. She ain’t interested. Take a hint and get your dumb ass over here.”
The words come from across the room, where the famous one stands with the rest of the group huddled around him. He looks unfazed, if mildly annoyed, and when his eyes meet mine, they soften in some kind of silent apology. Somehow, it seems he might have done this before, corralling the misdirected hormones of his entourage, and offering a merciful out to those women in the line of fire. Admittedly, there are probably very few who don’t fall willingly and nakedly into Simon’s coal-colored eyes, tattooed arms, and skinny jeans.
Simon leaps from the couch in an almost Pavlovian response, waving at me and grinning goofily as if he thinks I might come to my senses if just given the chance. I return to the gossip magazine in my hand and try not to listen as the famous one, speaking like a general preparing them for whatever their next tactical war might entail, begins issuing directives that everyone occasionally grunts their understanding at.
Standing, I let my limbs unfurl from under me, legs tingling a bit as I slip into the stilettos again. Without enough time to walk around and shake out my legs sufficiently, I settle for walking across the room to the snack spread and grabbing another handful of pretzels.
“Hey.” The famous one sidles up right next to me, so close I can smell him. Unlike Simon, he seems to understand the concept of less is more when it comes to cologne or aftershave, so the experience of him this close is nothing but unexpectedly enjoyable. Pulling his knit skullcap off, he holds it awkwardly. “Sorry about Simon. He’s kind of a jackass sometimes.”
“No worries.” I shake my head and smile, hoping Simon is watching us, seeing how I’m not a frigid bitch to everyone. “He’s young, and I’m sure he’s used to having all that AXE body spray work for him. But if you’re not eighteen and you can buy your own wine coolers, his shtick isn’t all that charming.”
He lets out a sputtering laugh, rocking back on his heels a bit, and then starts to act like he has something else to say. Dear me, this one is handsome. Those shiny hazel eyes make it hard not to stare at him and smile like a daft adolescent girl. The eyes, the smile, and a quiet mischief in his body language make for a disarming package.
“Ms. Mosely? We’ve got about five minutes until we’re ready for you; can you do a final mirror check and come with me?”
The producer waves to me from the stage door at the other end of the room, holding a clipboard close to his body like it is surgically attached to his arm. When that man gets home at night, he probably has phantom limb experiences tied to that clipboard.
The famous one looks at the producer and then back at me.
“Oh, shit. Sorry, I didn’t realize you were a guest. I thought you worked here. That makes Simon’s bullshit even worse.” He knits his brows together and watches as I toss the last few pretzels in my mouth and shrug my shoulders. “No offense, but who are you?”
“None taken. Evidently, I’m just the boring filler guest booked to make the viewers wait out the show for you.”
Walking backward toward the stage door while answering him, I offer up a small wink and a smile. A grin covers the famous one’s face, before he pulls his knit cap back over his head and then proceeds to bite his lip a little sheepishly. The move is utterly distracting, so much that I hope I don’t trip over my feet accidentally.
The producer escorts me down a short hallway and around to the stage entrance area. As we wait for my entrance, I lower my voice and ask him what the famous one’s name is. The producer gawks for a second, then answers as if I just asked him who the current president happens to be.
“That’s Trax.”
I let out a pent-up breath and toss my head back. “Trax! Yes. I can’t believe I couldn’t remember that! Thank you, that was going to drive me crazy.”
Even I fall victim to reading a gossip rag now and then. Whether it’s because the dentist’s office only has that or Sports Illustrated to choose from, or because I’m stuck waiting for Lacey to finish curling her hair and she doesn’t have anything but trashy magazines in her living room, I’ve read just enough about Trax to know he’s a golden goose in the entertainment world. His brand of overplayed rap-rock-punk music makes him both a publicist’s dream and nightmare. Because if he isn’t selling a gazillion copies of a new record, he’s mixing it up in a bar fight or trashing the requisite hotel room.
The producer continues to look at me as if I just emerged from a decades-long nap in a hyperbaric chamber. While Hal Abrahms begins my intro, I offer something that sounds like an apology.
“I’m from Montana.”
With that, I wander out onstage to an audience filled with people who have absolutely no idea who I am, and probably don’t care. My best hope is to look good on camera and come off as clever and charming. I shake hands with Hal, nodding at the politely clapping audience, which appears to be disproportionately comprised of women, and try to sit down gracefully while keeping my knees together.
“Kate, it’s a pleasure to have you here. Your book, The Last Rancher, has torn up bestseller lists, and yet it isn’t about vampires or zombies, so how did you manage to build such major buzz?”
“Well, I don’t know if it has torn up the bestseller lists, but I’m sure my publisher is giddy that a little book about Montana is actually selling.” There is a small ripple of laughter. I can only assume it’s a pity laugh, but at least they’re giving me that. “As for the buzz, I got lucky. Plain and simple. How my ass got here, I still don’t know.”
Using the word “ass” suddenly seems all sorts of wro
ng. When the crowd chuckles almost awkwardly, I realize exactly how out of my depth I am here. All I can do is silently resolve to clean up my act for the rest of the show.
“Tell us about the book. My wife read it and she wanted to tell me all about it, but all I heard was a droning noise in my ears.”
The crowd laughs at this, not in that pity way, but in the way that means all those women in the audience are in on a stupid old joke about men who don’t listen when you talk. I smile with all my teeth, reconsidering my previous resolution, but let a restrained fake laugh emerge instead.
“It’s the story of a Montana ranching family in the 1960s, narrated by three generations of matriarchs. The struggles each woman goes through, the roles they play, the decisions about the future of the land, the question of whether a woman can be a true rancher in a man’s world.”
“I think we can safely say you have been the first to use the word ‘matriarch’ on our show. You know, we don’t normally have . . . how can I say this . . .”
Hal searches for a word that won’t offend a slew of previous guests—or the one currently sitting opposite him.
“Obscure literary geeks?” I offer, one side of my mouth curling up just a bit. The crowd laughs again, waiting for Hal’s response. He mumbles something about my large vocabulary and moves on to other idle questions, mostly about life in Montana.
Then finally, it’s over. When Hal extends an arm across his fake desk to shake my hand, a hiss of relief seeps into every space in my lungs. From this space in time, I can envision the finish line, the moment when I will walk offstage, head out the studio door, and hole up in my hotel room with something sugar-laden as a reward for surviving it all.