by Lois Winston
“Looks like Mama was right,” I said.
“About what?” asked Cloris. “Your mother said we were all going to make money on this gig, remember?”
An awkward silence fell between us. I bowed my head and contemplated the press release. Each month the producers would choose one lucky person for a total makeover of herself and her home with the various editors taking charge of their areas of expertise. Jeanie and I would do a trash-to-treasures transformation of her home.
“Queen for a Day meets Extreme Makeover,” said Sheila.
“What’s Queen for a Day?” asked Tessa.
Sheila sighed. “Showing my age again, huh?” In her early sixties, Sheila was the oldest among us. “A TV show from my childhood. One lucky contestant each show was granted her fondest dream.”
“Like a mansion with live-in help or a first-class trip around the world?” asked travel editor Serena Brower.
“More like a washing machine or new refrigerator,” said Sheila.
Tessa snorted. “That’s what people dreamed about back then? Appliances?”
“I suppose they pre-selected contestants whose dreams corresponded with the show’s sponsors,” said Sheila. “After all, this was back in the days of rigged game shows.”
“Stop prattling,” said Jeanie, waving her press release. “Did any of you really read this? A total transformation of her home?” Her voice rose several octaves. “We don’t do this much work for each issue.”
“What happened to fifteen minutes once a week, taped ahead of time?” asked Cloris.
“It’s obvious,” said Tessa. “The boys upstairs lied to Naomi.” She paused for a moment, eyeing us one at a time. “Or Naomi lied to us.”
“Naomi wouldn’t lie to us,” said Sheila. “This show means lots of extra work without additional pay for her, too.”
“Does it?” asked Tessa.
“What are you implying?” asked Cloris.
Tessa shrugged. “I think it’s obvious. After all, we don’t really know whether or not Naomi negotiated a hefty raise for herself at our expense, do we?”
“Naomi wouldn’t screw us,” I said. “If you weren’t so new, you’d know that.”
“Why do you keep defending her?” asked Tessa. “Look at her hobnobbing over there with the kingpins. It’s every woman for herself in this world. She wouldn’t agree to hosting the show without adequate compensation. I say she took care of herself at our expense.”
I glanced at Cloris. She nodded. “It certainly looks like Naomi’s sold us out.”
I had always admired and respected Naomi. I didn’t want to believe that I was such a bad judge of character. But then again, I had married Karl, hadn’t I?
“We should go on strike,” said Tessa.
“Easy for you to say.” Tessa had mentioned on more than one occasion that she came from money. Old money. And lots of it. “The rest of us have financial obligations.”
“They can’t run the magazine and TV show without us,” she said. “That gives us leverage.”
Cloris laughed. “Trimedia could replace all of us within a day.”
“More like an hour,” said Janice. “Look how quickly they filled our dead fashion editor’s chair.”
An involuntary shudder skittered up my spine. To force the image of Marlys’s dead body from my mind, I gestured toward Vince and Monica. “I don’t know what they’re so annoyed about. We’ll be doing all the work for bupkis while they continue to collect their weekly paychecks for doing nothing more than showing up and smiling.”
“Nice work if you can get it,” said Jeanie.
Cloris waved the press release. “According to this, they’re supposed to assist us. Along with guest celebrities.”
“Right.” I said. “Can you see Monica Rivers and Jack Nicholson donning smocks to faux finish a second-hand chest of drawers?”
“Let alone trolling suburban garage sales to find that chest of drawers?” added Jeanie.
Considering Mama’s role in precipitating our current situation, I wondered if my coworkers would eventually blame me for our new status as indentured servants. I had to hope they never found out.
At that moment the culprit in question, still arm-in-arm with her newest catch, joined us, and I was finally formally introduced to my stepfather-to-be.
“Isn’t this exciting, Anastasia?” asked Mama, her charm bracelet and an assortment of gold bangles tinkling as she stroked Lou’s forearm. “We’re all going to be famous.”
“We?” I asked.
“Well, after all, it was my idea,” said Mama, puffing out her chest. “I’m even going to have my name in the credits.” She raised her chin and batted her eyes at Lou. “Isn’t that so, dear?”
He smiled down at her. “Of course, my sweet. It’s the least I can do to honor your creative genius.”
Mama turned to me. “It’s going to say …” She glanced back up at Lou. “How exactly did you word it, dear?”
“Based on an original idea by Flora Sudberry Periwinkle.”
She nodded as she beamed a megawatt Pepsodent smile at all of us. “Yes, that’s right.”
Cat out of the bag. My fellow editors glared at me. “Sheri claimed she came up with the idea,” I said, hoping to keep seven murderous editors from drawing and quartering me on the spot.
When I had told Mama I wouldn’t get paid extra for the television show, she assured me that everything would work out for the best. So in typical Mama fashion she had moved on, fixating on what was important to her.
“Sheri who?” she asked.
“An assistant,” said Lou with a pat to Mama’s arm. “No one important.”
“Just another one of the overworked, underpaid Trimedia minions?” I asked.
Lou’s balding pate under the comb-over grew crimson. “I heard about your contract situation,” he said. “I’m sorry. I have no control over that.”
The editorial gaggle raised a collective eyebrow at each other.
“Why would this Sheri person take credit for my idea?”
Lou stooped to kiss Mama’s cheek. “She’s not, my sweet. Don’t worry. The credit goes to you.”
“I should think so,” said Mama with a jut of her chin. “People have no right stealing other people’s ideas. Is she here? Someone needs to set her straight.”
At that moment the lights blinked, signaling that it was time to move into the other room for the start of the press conference. I now understood the earlier malevolent look Sheri had cast toward Lou. Or maybe her glare had been aimed at Mama. Somewhere between Fort Lauderdale and Antigua, Mama had mesmerized Lou Beaumont. As he regaled her about his show, Mama had stolen claim to Sheri’s ideas. Sheri may have originated the reformatted show, but apparently Lou hadn’t considered it worth pursuing until Mama pushed it.
If Lou knew what was good for him, he’d keep two oceans and a continent between the show’s staff and his fiancée. If Sheri, Vince, or Monica didn’t kill Mama, my fellow editors surely would.
_____
Two hours later I had crammed myself full of enough mini quiches, potato puffs, and crab balls to qualify as a tummy tuck candidate. Too bad Trimedia’s munificence stopped with free carbs and didn’t extend to offering a week at a fat farm before sticking us in front of blubber-enhancing cameras.
Since liposuction was out of the question, I headed for the nearest ladies’ room, only to find a queue of women stretching out the door and halfway across the lobby. Leave it to Trimedia to book a reception on the same floor as the Marquis Theatre and schedule a press conference that ended right before an eight o’clock curtain.
I decided to hop the escalator and find an empty facility one flight up. Apparently, Monica Rivers had the same idea. As I stepped onto the escalator at the bottom, I noticed her stepping off at the top.
As the moving stairs ascended, a man sprinted past me, taking the steps two and three at a time. His shiny blue-black ponytail bounced between shoulder blades broad enough to threaten the
integrity of his jacket seams. By the time I reached the top, he’d nearly caught up with Monica. I ducked behind a column and watched as he grabbed her by the arm and spun her around.
What can I say? I have a dominant nosey gene. Anyone else in my position would have done the same.
“What are you doing here?” she demanded.
“I think that’s obvious,” he said.
“Stop following me, you suspicious bastard.”
“I know what you’re doing,” he said.
“What I’m doing is going to take a piss. Since you’re so paranoid, maybe you’d like to watch?”
Monica winced as his grip tightened around her arm and he shook her. “I’ve had enough of your sneaking around. Do you think I don’t know what’s going on behind my back? It’s Alto, isn’t it?”
Monica jerked free. “Oh, please! Give me credit for better taste than that.”
“Then who is it? Beaumont? You’ve always had a thing for diddling old geezers. As long as they’re fat in the one place that counts. Isn’t that so, sweetheart?”
Instead of answering him, she hauled back and clipped him across his two-day stubble. As he staggered backwards, she twirled on her four-inch designer stilettos and marched into the ladies’ room.
Since I couldn’t be sure the man wouldn’t follow her, I decided to head for a restroom on the floor above. I wasn’t worried about Monica. With that left hook of hers, she could take care of herself.
_____
The following Monday we had our first official production meeting with Sheri Rabbstein. “Could be an ethnic statement,” whispered Cloris as we eyed Sheri’s outfit, another muumuu but this time a turquoise, navy, and purple geometric print. “Maybe she’s Hawaiian.”
I helped myself to a cup of coffee while we waited for the others to arrive. “Only if the lost tribe of Israel wound up on Waikiki Beach,” I said.
One by one, the other members of the American Woman team trickled in. Twenty minutes after the scheduled start of the meeting I checked my watch for the eighteenth time, mentally running through a checklist of the tasks awaiting me back at the office.
“What are we waiting for?” asked Naomi.
“Vince and Monica,” said Sheri.
We waited. And waited. And waited. Fifteen minutes later, Vince called in sick. Ten minutes after that, Monica did likewise.
“Sick my ass,” muttered Sheri, disconnecting from the call. Then she flashed us a tight smile. “Vince and Monica have both come down with Blue Flu. They won’t be joining us today.”
“What about Lou?” asked Naomi.
“Lou isn’t hands-on. He deals with the big picture. I handle segment production.” She grabbed a stack of thick presentation books sitting on a chair and dealt them out along the makeshift conference table set up in the You Heard It Here First studio. Around us, workmen dismantled the former stage set.
“This is the first month’s shows broken down into segments and taping schedules,” said Sheri. She raised her voice above the din of hammers, drills, and grunting carpenters. “We begin rehearsals a week from today. Five days for everyone to learn the ropes, then we begin taping.”
“Doesn’t give us much time,” grumbled Jeanie.
“Sorry about that,” said Sheri. “Lou wants to kick off on Labor Day, so we have no choice.” She waved her arm at the chaos surrounding us. “We’re broadcasting reruns now in order to get ready for the premier show.”
I flipped open my book. “You’ve chosen the makeover candidate already?”
Sheri’s normally ruddy cheeks flamed to near-vermilion as she grinned sheepishly and spoke around a giggle. “You’re looking at her.”
“You?” asked Tessa.
“Uhm … isn’t that a bit unethical?” asked Sheila.
“Not at all,” said Sheri, a puzzled expression settling across her brow. “Given our time constraints, this was the most expeditious solution. We have no intention of misleading our viewers. We plan to use staff members to start things rolling and will have a disclaimer to that effect at the end of each show. Once the shows begin to air, viewers will be invited to send videotaped resumes from which we’ll select future candidates.”
“Nice little perk,” said Cloris. “Do you get to take the vacation, too?”
Sheri graced her with one of her flush-cheeked, perky smiles. “Of course. Each month’s segment ends with a video diary of the vacation.”
“I don’t suppose we get any such perks,” said Sheila.
“You’ll get to meet and work with lots of celebrities.”
“Like Vince Alto and Monica Rivers?” asked Tessa. “Whoop-de-fucking-doo.”
Sheri’s buoyant attitude deflated like a punctured dirigible. “Look,” she said. “I know how you’re all feeling about getting roped into this show—”
Naomi placed her palms on the table and leaned forward. “With all due respect, you can’t possibly know how my editors feel.”
Cloris and I made eye contact, silently acknowledging to each other that Naomi hadn’t included herself in her statement. Reluctantly, I concluded my coworkers were right about our editorial director. She’d sold us out.
“Unless you’ve agreed to forego your salary and work for free,” Serena added. Two angry splotches appeared on either side of her café latte complexion, and her eyes narrowed into tight slits.
Sheri blinked. “Why would I do that?”
“Exactly,” said Cloris. “However, we weren’t given a choice.”
I stared at Sheri’s confused expression. “She doesn’t know,” I said.
“Know what?” she asked.
“That our contracts with Trimedia have trapped us into taking on what amounts to a second full-time job without getting an extra cent.”
“But we have a huge budget,” she said.
“Except we’re not a line item on it,” said Naomi.
We? I glanced at Cloris. Maybe Naomi hadn’t screwed us after all.
Sheri slumped back in her chair. “I’m sorry. Really. I had no idea.” Then she inhaled a deep breath, settled that perky smile back on her face, and tapped the presentation book in front of her. “Then I guess none of you will be offended that I’ve taken the liberty of planning out all your projects for you.”
_____
“What a control freak,” said Cloris. The eight of us were on the train, returning to our New Jersey office. Naomi had remained in Manhattan.
“Who, Sheri?”
“Of course, Sheri. This show’s a farce.” She pummeled the presentation book resting on her lap. “And we’re nothing more than unpaid drudges.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t be so hard on her,” I said. “After all, she’s actually made our lives easier.”
“True,” said Jeanie, leaning over from her seat across the aisle to join in the conversation. “I’m just relieved to learn the press release exaggerated concerning the total home makeover.” Instead, Jeanie and I were responsible for finding ways to jazz up the existing residence using lots of imagination and limited cash. Sheri wanted the show to reflect decorating tips viewers with modest budgets could incorporate into their own homes.
“She’s saved us hours of planning,” I said. “But I doubt she’ll bother going to all this trouble for future shows.”
“Why would she?” asked Cloris. “She won’t be the recipient of your labors.”
I fanned through the pages of my book. “She may be a control freak, but she’s also a dynamo. Look at the amount of work she put into this. And in only a few days.”
“How do you know she organized this in a few days?” asked Jeanie.
“Mama met Lou less than two weeks ago. Except …” I chewed on the inside of my cheek for a moment. Something didn’t add up. “Mop dolls?”
“Come again?” asked Cloris.
“Sheri wants mop doll crafts for the first taping. I haven’t seen mop dolls around in well over a decade. No crafts store I know even carries mop heads anymore.”
&nb
sp; “Meaning?” asked Cloris.
“Meaning, I’ll bet Sheri worked up this pilot program years ago when mop dolls were popular. Friday night she said she’d been trying to get Lou to change the show’s format for ages, remember?” No wonder Sheri seemed so pissed at Lou. And Mama. Sheri had finally gotten her way, but Mama was getting all the credit.
“What exactly is a mop doll?” asked Tessa from the seat behind us.
“A doll made from a cotton string mop.”
“Am I supposed to know what that is?”
“The kind of mop the janitors use to swab the floors at work.”
“Eww! Gross! Why would anyone want a doll made of something like that?”
I turned to confront her. “Actually, they’re quite cute and easy to make. Very folksy.”
Tessa scrunched her nose. “If you say so.” She turned her head to study her reflection in the window. “Mop dolls and muumuus,” she muttered. “This woman doesn’t need a makeover; she needs a taste transplant.”
“Not to mention a perky-ectomy,” added Janice. “The woman is too Mary Sunshine giggly for my taste.”
“Must be the Karo syrup running through her veins,” said Cloris.
“Personally, I think it’s in our best interests not to make an enemy of Sheri Rabbstein,” said Sheila. “I have a feeling we’re going to have enough problems with Vince and Monica.”
“Too late for me,” I said. “Your mother didn’t kidnap Sheri’s baby and pass it off as her own idea.”
“So what are you going to do about it?” asked Cloris.
“Damned if I know.” But somehow I had to get Mama to relinquish ownership of the new programming. I’d seen the way Sheri looked at Mama and could read between the lines, no matter how many giggles punctuated Sheri’s perky chatter. I didn’t want her taking out her resentment for Mama on me.
Basic Mop Doll
Materials: 24 oz. mop head (available in the cleaning section of most hardware stores, discount centers, and supermarkets), 4” Dylite® (smooth craft foam) ball, 5” x 5” natural muslin, wooden craft stick, 3/16” black half-round beads, rubber bands, tacky glue, glue gun (optional), blush or pink powdered chalk.