Matchmaker

by Lauren Landish

  Apparently, we’re headed to Beverly Hills, a place where I hear mansions are a dime a dozen and being rich is the natural way of life. After what seems like an eternity, we finally make it through traffic driving well outside the city into an area where the houses are appropriately called estates and the rolling hills are truly golden mini-kingdoms.

  My chest tightens with anxiety as we finally slow down, pulling up in front of a wrought-iron gate. After a moment, it slowly swings open and we move forward again. That’s when I see the mansion, the air fleeing from my lungs.

  A big circular drive surrounds an architectural marble fountain, tall windows cover the front facade, and there are unusual blocks of stucco popping out of the sections of design. The effect is one of sleek contemporary luxury like nothing I’ve ever seen.

  The driver jumps out and opens my door, helping me out of the opulent cabin. I’m not even on my feet long enough to admire the gorgeous estate before a harried looking guy dressed in black slacks, a white dress shirt, and square black glasses rushes up to me.

  “Emily?” he asks, giving me a cursory lookover and then offering his hand as I nod. “I’m Nate, Meredith’s assistant.”

  I take his hand, flashing a friendly but nervous smile. “Nice to meet you, Nate—”

  “Let’s get you inside. They’re waiting on you,” he says, cutting me off and turning away.

  My heart pounds in my chest as my anxiety rises. “Oh, sorry . . . am I late?”

  Nate turns and looks at me, smiling sarcastically. “Well aren’t you polite? No, you’re not late. We’re just on a timeline. Move it, toots.”

  Okaaaaay. Looks like I’m going to have to exercise my behavioral skills I reserve for misbehaving children. That is, if I don’t want to end up going off and ruining whatever this is.

  I know this is Hollywood and that things work and move differently here. But damn, have some manners.

  Don’t complain now. You always wanted to know what it was like to see how things were behind the scenes. Now you’ll get to find out.

  I keep my smile plastered on my face as Nate speed-walks into the house. I try to keep up through a twist and turn of hallways and two flights of stairs, but I find myself having to jog or risk getting left behind. By the time we make it to where we’re going, I’m nearly out of breath.

  Rapping on a huge frosted glass door once, Nate slides it open, inviting me in with a wave of his arms. Before I can say a word, he’s shut the door behind him with a whispered, “Good luck, toots.”

  Silence envelops me and my skin pricks as my eyes fall on the group of people seated at a large table in front of me. I look from face to face, my heart pounding like a battering ram. I recognize several from the Skype call, but there’s a few new faces too, and almost none of them look happy to see me.

  They’re staring at me. Hard. The silence is so thick, I swear they can hear my heart beating out of my chest. Finally, someone speaks. “Well, she isn’t just a photo-only star.”

  “That dress is horrendous, though. What is that, five years ago?”

  “I’d say seven. But Wardrobe can work that out.”

  The comments go on, leaving me feeling like a side of beef again before an impeccably dressed woman with a sharp grey side-bob rises to her feet and silence drops over everyone. I recognize her immediately. Meredith. She walks around the table, her heels clicking against the hardwood floor, and fixes a friendly smile on her face.

  “Emily, my dear,” she greets in a no-nonsense voice. She might be trying to sound friendly, but I suspect she eats baby seals for breakfast with the ice she’s got in her eyes. “So good to see you again. I trust your flight was excellent.” She pauses dramatically, as if waiting for my response.

  Not trusting myself to speak, I softly nod, trying to calm myself.

  Her smile grows wider and she gestures to a chair on the opposite side of the table. There’s a stack of papers in front of it. “Please, have a seat. We have a lot of ground to cover.” The tone of her voices makes it clear that I’m not to interrupt and any questions are simply rhetorical.

  I sit as commanded, looking at the stack of papers. It looks like I’m about to sign my entire life away. “Uh . . . what is all this?”

  Meredith glances at the group of men and women, a silent exchange passing through them. Then she turns around and claps her hands. “Ah, yes. First . . . contracts. We’ll need you to sign stating that you are, in fact, who you say you are and the information you provided in all interviews and paperwork is true and complete. We don’t want any surprises.” Her voice drops low on the last sentence. A part of me feels slightly disappointed. I’m a woman of my word and I told them I had no secrets. But I have to remind myself that she doesn’t really know me. Who knows how many people have said the same thing but then turned out to be anything but?

  I stare at the contract for a moment, my heart still pounding. I was sent mock copies to go over before I came, but now that the real deal is right in front of me, it feels surreal.

  Sweat beads my brow as I feel the weight of eyes on me, and I quickly scribble my signature on the dotted lines on each page that requires my name.

  When I’m done, Meredith gestures and someone takes the papers and slides some more in front of me. “Next is the NDA. What we’re sharing today and what will occur throughout filming is all hush-hush until after the season airs and promotions are complete.” She taps the table. “Sign.”

  I gulp as I look down at the dotted line. But there is no use fretting. I came all this way. No way I can leave without finding out the details.

  I quickly sign the next few pages, and for the next fifteen minutes, it seems to go on and on. Waivers and contracts, agreements for media usage, licensing of my image—I have an image? On and on and on until I feel like I’m on autopilot.

  When I get to the one agreeing to be on the show, I pause, something occurring to me. “Before I sign this last one,” I say, a moment of clarity striking in the whirlwind of papers, “can you finally tell me what this is going to be about?”

  I swear I’m going to wilt under Meredith’s stern gaze, but I hold steady. She had to expect it. Who’d sign everything without even knowing what they’re committing to?

  Meredith exchanges glances with the producers. They each silently look at each other, long, dramatic pauses that draw out the moment long enough to make me want to pull out my hair and scream.

  Finally, they come to a silent consensus. Meredith gives me a warm smile, proudly announcing, “The show will be the hottest new reality show. We’re honored for you to become our first matcher.”

  I frown in confusion. “A matcher?”

  Meredith’s smile grows wider. “Yes. The show will be a romance format. You know, like The Bachelorette? Similar, but our version is going to be called Matchmaker.”

  Chapter 2

  Hayden

  “Move your arm down just a little,” the photographer orders as several blinding shots go off in my face. Frances is a skinny French guy with a bald head and hawk eyes. He pauses once, motioning at me with a hurried gesture.

  Moving my hand down my stomach, I do as he says, all while trying to keep my pose. I’m wearing a towel balanced precariously around my waist, so there’s not much to it, but I’m careful not to let it fall. Something tells me Frances would like that a little too much.

  “Yesss, yesss,” he hisses admirably in his French accent, moving around me like a snake and snapping multiple shots. “Perfect . . . pretty boy.”

  I ignore him and zone out the sound of his voice, keeping my facial expression frozen and hard. He talks too much for my taste and seems to dig my physique in a way that makes me slightly uncomfortable. But it’s nothing I haven’t dealt with before. I just want to hurry up and get this over with.

  For the second time today, I wonder how I ended up here, doing modeling jobs for second-rate labels. I had everything going for me in high school. I was practically destined for the big leagues. Everyone w
as convinced that I’d be the next big thing, the next baseball legend. Then the unexpected happened. A long fly ball, an outfield fence that was a little too low, a bad landing . . . and I was sidelined by an injury that wiped away my dreams of a sports scholarship to play ball. But a chance encounter with a scout a few years ago got me out of my small town, which was the real goal anyway, so I guess posing for some pictures isn’t all that bad. It’s damn sure not baseball though.

  I swallow, clenching my jaw and forcing away the memory. I hate thinking about it. It just pisses me off and sets me off my game.

  For my photoshoot, we’re using an abandoned building that looks like it went through World War II with stripped walls and dilapidated architecture.

  There’s dust and debris strewn across the floor here and there throughout the large room, leftover remnants of a wall that was torn out, and gang graffiti was spray-painted on the wall behind me. But the worst part about it is the smell. It smells dank and musty, like the local bums come here to piss their drunkenness away. I’m having a hard time keeping a straight face through it all.

  It definitely isn’t a spot that I would’ve chosen for the shoot, but it’s not like I really have a say in the matter. I shoot where they want me to shoot most of the time. Besides, posing in front of graffiti in a rundown warehouse is supposedly edgy and plays into the sexy bad boy image that I usually get booked for. Guess that’s what happens when you’re jacked, inked, and wear an aura of cockiness like a favorite leather jacket.

  “Perfect!” Frances exclaims, smiling at me and then gesturing again. “Now turn around just a little and show me some of your butt.” I don’t like his tone, but I’m professional. Besides, a little top of the ass was agreed upon before the shoot. I start to do as he says, but then he adds, “And hook your thumbs in the front of the towel to lower it. Show a smidge of hair and the base of your cock.”

  I freeze. That wasn’t part of the agreement. “No. Dick pics aren’t in the contract and you damn well know it.”

  Frances’s eyebrows lift up and he seems surprised I’m not just doing what he says without a second thought, probably accustomed to people jumping anytime he demands. But I just stare back at him as he blows up, ranting about how he knows what sells better than some asshole model who thinks he’s hot shit.

  What the fuck am I doing? I’m not a damn porn star. Fuck this.

  I walk over and grab my jeans and t-shirt, not saying a word. I pull my jeans up while Frances gawks at me and I think he’s still looking at my ass. As he realizes I’m actually leaving, his tirade continues. I’m pretty sure he even tells me to fuck myself in French as I slip my t-shirt over my head, but I can’t be sure.

  His voice only gets louder as I walk off. “You know what I can’t stand about models like you?” Frances demands. “You think because you’re good-looking that you’re owed the world. Well, news flash. Hot men like you are a dime a dozen. You’re nothing special. Hell, the last model I shot was far cuter than you.” He pauses for a moment, then adds, “Maybe you can book a Dad Bod gig next time.”

  I stop in my tracks, my back to him, and I smile. Now I know he’s full of shit, but it’s not worth making this situation worse.

  I wait till I’m on the street before calling my agent, Jay Coleman.

  “Yo?” Jay answers in his customary greeting.

  “What the fuck, Jay?” I growl. Jay’s been my agent for the past few years when he discovered me after my injury. We’ve gotten pretty close, and we’re never formal when we speak. “You sending me on soft porn shoots now or something?”

  “What the hell are you talking about?” Jay asks in confusion.

  “He wanted to see my dick!” I hiss. Right as I say ‘dick’, an old lady walks by and shoots me a dirty look, forcing me to lower my voice. I wait till she passes before I continue. “He was already giving me weird vibes even before that. I walked out on him.”

  Jay laughs. “Dude, I’m sure he didn’t want to see your Full Monty. It was for the chicks.”

  “I don’t know about that man,” I say, remembering the way Frances looked at me. “Not what I signed up for either way.”

  Jay lets out a sigh. “I really wish you wouldn’t have walked off set like that . . .” his voice trails off, but I get the point. Maybe he’s right. Maybe it was just a little tease for the ladies. But my mom buys every single ad I do and shows it to all of her book club friends. Talk about fucking awkward. Fuck it. It’s over now.

  “It’s too late now. It’s over and done with. You got anything else for me?” I ask.

  Jay pauses as if he’s going to scold me further for my fallout with Frances, but then his tune changes. “Yeah, I do, actually, but it’s a stretch. Some new TV show is doing auditions. Could be a good opportunity for some screen time if you make it.”

  I grunt scornfully. “Seriously? Jay, you know I can’t act for shit. What the hell would I do on a TV show?”

  “No, not just any TV show,” Jay says with growing excitement in his voice that makes me nervous. “Reality TV.”

  “Oh, fuck that, that’s even worse.” I hate reality TV. The most I’ve ever watched was a couple of seasons of Survivor when it first started. Anything else I’ve seen in passing made me want to gouge my fucking eyeballs out. Bunch of grade-A douchebags if you ask me. And the chicks weren’t much better.

  Jay presses. “Oh, come on, dude, it could actually be perfect for you. No real acting. Flash those dimples, flex your biceps, flip your hair, and I bet you’re a shoe-in.” When I don’t reply, Jay adds, “Just think, it’ll be great exposure!”

  I scratch at the fresh stubble on my jaw. I still don’t like the idea, but I don’t really have many options right now. Fuck my life. “I . . . I’ll think about it.”

  There’s a long pause on Jay’s end, a pause I recognize almost instantly. “Jay,” I say slowly, feeling a sense of dread, “what did you do?”

  Jay coughs. “So yeah, I kind of already submitted your headshots along with a video profile from the agency.”

  “What the fuck—” I begin to yell but stop when a woman with her kid walks by. She speeds up as she passes, bending over to whisper something in her son’s ear.

  “And they called this morning to invite you for an audition,” Jay says, stunning me into silence. “Congratulations?”

  It takes me a moment to recover my voice. “Dude, are you serious? You just pimp me out without even running it by me?”

  “Yeah, I did,” Jay says, a firm note entering his voice. “I’m your agent. That’s my goddamn job. And with you just walking out on this gig, a little thanks could be in order.”

  “I hate when you do this,” I growl.

  “Stop whining and get your shit together,” Jay says. “I’ll text you the info now. And by the way, you’re welcome.”

  Click.

  I stare at my phone for a moment as the sounds of bustling traffic fill my ears. A part of me wants to call Jay back and chew him out, but the other part of me realizes he’s right. He’s just doing his job.

  With no jobs on the horizon, this new gig might be mandatory. Maybe I just need to give it a try and make the most of it. What do I have to lose? And maybe I can get some face time, get something out of it.

  “Guess I’m auditioning for a reality TV show.”

  Chapter 3

  Emily

  “You’ll have to remember, a lot of these guys are here for their own personal reasons,” Meredith says as I sit before her in a room that looks like it might be used for filming in one way or another with all the props. The flow of the room is somewhat ruined by the millions of wires running across the floor, hooked up to several different cameras. “Chances are slim that any will have actual real feelings for you, but they’ll pretend that you’re the greatest thing since Nutella on celery. Most of them are just here in hopes of becoming famous.”

  I fidget in my seat as Meredith drones on with advice, warnings, and the basics of the game, still trying to wrap my head
around becoming the first girl on Matchmaker. It sounds like a rehash of a thousand other ‘relationship’ shows, but they’ve got some cool twists that make it seem a bit game-show, like a spinning wheel of potential dates and pressing the button to choose a guy. There’s something about cards with pictures of the guys and me on them, but I’m too nervous to listen to Meredith go over the details. I’m still so much in culture shock that I guess I’ll just have to roll with it as it happens.

  I still can’t believe they chose me. I know there were thousands of women who sent in videos that were probably far sexier than mine. But Meredith told me it was my personality and girl next door beauty that so endeared me with the producers. Apparently, when they saw me talking and just being myself, they decided that they had to have me.

  It’s been an ego boost that they chose me, but while I feel a sense of pride, I can’t help but feel the pressure. As the first Matchmaker, I feel like I’m going to have to be extraordinary. And I’m just . . . ordinary.

  Just the thought of the pressure is making it difficult for me not to hurl my breakfast all over Meredith’s Louboutin heels.

  And then there’s the tagline for the show. “Matchmaker . . . where you’ll find your match and your happily ever after.”

  To me, it’s almost eyeroll-worthy, but who knows? Maybe it’ll catch on.

  “You just said the guys are here for their own reasons,” I interrupt as Meredith plays the credits music for me. “Am I supposed to become a great actor and fake it?”

  Meredith makes a face, sort of like she wonders how I got through high school being this stupid. “Not necessarily. There might be a couple of genuine men here looking for love. It’s your job to weed out the real from the douchebags, something I don’t think you’ll have a problem with. And if you do, that’s what I’m here for—to help you choose and go down the right path. It might be a flawed process, but people do occasionally find real love on these shows. I’ve seen it with my own eyes.” She pauses, looking reflective, and I wonder what her past is on this kind of show. “Now listen . . .”