Paige and Benjamin are acting oblivious as he helps her unload her sleek Louis Vuitton bags. I have to chuckle to myself as I remember her old set of pink luggage, which was donated to Goodwill when she replaced it a few months ago. Of course, she wouldn’t be caught dead with those Malibu Barbie bags now that she’s a star.
Paige, impeccably dressed in Armani, removes her Gucci shades and poses for the cameras, making a sparkling smile that I’m sure she hopes will grace the cover of something. Benjamin acts a bit more subdued, almost as if he’s embarrassed by this attention, which I seriously doubt. Then Paige actually pauses to answer questions.
“Where are you two going?” someone calls out.
“It’s only me going,” Paige answers sweetly. “Ben just offered me a ride today. I’m on my way to London to tape some On the Runway episodes and to make a guest appearance on Britain’s Got Style.”
“But you two are back together?”
“We’re good friends,” Paige says innocently. “Ben’s been through a rough patch and friends help each other.” She turns and pats Benjamin on the cheek. “Don’t they?”
He flashes one of his famous “Hollywood” smiles and nods. “Yeah … good friends stick together.”
Fran and I are joining them and Ben kisses Paige on the cheek. He tells her to have a good time as the paparazzi take a few more shots of us going into the terminal.
“That was fun,” Paige says lightly as we go to check our bags.
“Fun?” I glance at her curiously.
“Oh, come on,” she says to me. “Don’t tell me you don’t enjoy the attention just a little, Erin?”
I shrug. “I guess I see it as a necessary evil.”
Fran chuckles. “I see it as free advertising.”
It’s not long before we’re checked in and waiting for our plane to board. Paige, as usual, purchases an armload of the latest fashion magazines at the newsstand, which she will skim through and then leave on the plane. As we’re sitting at the gate, I can feel eyes on us. Several girls have spotted Paige and they approach hesitantly, asking for autographs. When she complies, they also take photos with their phones and I can see one girl is already sending a picture—to who knows how many people. I suspect Mollie will soon be spying these same shots on whichever social network is most popular these days.
I can see that Paige, who acts nonchalant as she patiently smiles for the shots, is totally eating this up. It’s like she never gets tired of the attention. I just don’t get it. Yes, I understand the need for publicity and being polite to fans. But doesn’t she care about privacy? Doesn’t she have any boundaries when it comes to being approached by strangers? Yet again, I wonder how we can be sisters and be so totally different.
Finally, and thankfully, first class is boarding and I’m relieved to escape the little fan club. Paige blows them kisses as we head on our way and reminds them to tune in to the show.
“I won’t miss that,” I say as I find my seat by the window.
“What do you mean?” Paige asks as she arranges her carry-on and then sits down beside me.
“I mean in London. I won’t miss the fans or the paparazzi.”
She frowns. “Are you serious?”
“Huh?”
“You honestly thought there would be no paparazzi in London?”
“There weren’t any in Paris. Not much anyway.”
She gives me a patronizing smile. “Little sister … you have so much to learn.”
“You honestly think there’ll be paparazzi in London who want to follow us?” I question.
She nods. “I’d be disappointed if there weren’t.”
I just shrug, then open my Birkin bag to retrieve my book, a biography of the famous director John Ford. But as I search the spaces of the bag, I realize that it’s not here. I must’ve left it on my nightstand at home. I let out an angry growl and close my bag.
“What is it now?” Paige asks me.
“My book.” I scowl. “I forgot it.”
“Here.” She hands me one of her fashion magazines. “Read this. It’ll probably do you more good anyway.”
“Right …” But I take the magazine and begin to flip through the glossy pages, frowning at the perfectly airbrushed images of overly thin models and wondering—for the umpteenth time—how I managed to get pulled into an industry like this. A few minutes into the flight, I finally manage to find an article between some ads, and I’m actually rather intrigued by the title: “Are You an Attention Junkie? What Will You Do to Win Praise from Others?”
I glance at Paige then continue to read. Honestly, it’s like they know my sister and are writing about her. The more I read, the more I realize that Paige could be seriously at risk.
“You should take this little quiz,” I tell her after the flight attendant serves us coffee and scones.
“A fashion quiz?” she says with interest.
“Kind of,” I say.
“Okay.” She nods. “Give it to me.”
I grab a pen and begin to read through the questions, circling the answers as she gives them to me. But after several questions, Paige catches on. “I thought you said it was a fashion quiz,” she tells me.
I hold up the cover of the publication. “It’s a fashion magazine,” I say. “I just assumed it’s somehow related to style.” I continue, reading the next question, which is about where a person might stand in a crowded room of strangers.
“That would be C,” she tells me. “In the center, of course,”
“Of course.” I nod as if I’d do the same, although I know I would pick D, ‘near an exit’.
Finally we are done and I’m tallying up her score.
“So how did I do?” she asks.
“Pretty much like I expected,” I confess as I figure out which category she’s fallen into.
She leans over to see, but I close the magazine. “Come on, Erin,” she pesters. “What kind of test was it? How did I score?”
“It was just for fun,” I tell her.
“Okay, that was fun. Now explain.”
“It was a test about whether or not you might be an attention addict.”
“You mean like ADD?” she asks. “I was evaluated for attention deficit disorder as a kid, you know, but they didn’t think I have it. They decided I was restless and energetic.”
“No, it’s not that kind of attention,” I explain. “It’s not a deficit disorder. It’s more like an addiction.”
“An addiction?” She frowns. “What do you mean?”
“The psychologist who wrote the article claims that some people can be addicted to attention.”
“What?”
“It’s like a drug for them. They can’t get enough. They’ll do anything to get praise and approval from others.”
She makes a face. “That sounds desperate… and pathetic.”
I don’t know how to respond to this, so I just nod.
“So, how did I score?”
“Well, the author had five categories …” Now I’m wishing I hadn’t done this. What good will it do? Most likely it’ll only aggravate her.
“What were the categories?” Paige breaks off a piece of scone and nibbles on it.
“I, uh, I can’t remember.” My fingers curl around the edges of the magazine and I’m wishing I could open the window and just chuck it out.
“Oh, come on, Erin.” She gives me an irate look. “It’s my magazine anyway. Do I have to pry it out of your fingers?”
“No.”
“Then tell me. What are the categories, and how did I score?”
“But it might make you mad.”
She gives me a sugary smile. “I promise I won’t get mad at you, Erin. Now you’ve got me really curious. I want to know what kind of pathetic people get addicted to attention.”
I take in a deep breath and open the magazine, deciding to read them to her backward. “The five categories are: One, the Hermit Crab—you stay as far away from others as possible and if they come y
our way, you snap at them. Two, the Mole—you use false humility to pretend you don’t like the limelight, but you secretly crave it. Three, the Cat—attention is no big deal, you can take it or leave it, but mostly you just want to live your life. Four, the Dog—you adore attention and eagerly pursue it with tail a-wagging.” I pause to clear my throat. “And five, the Peacock—you live for attention, you can’t get enough, and you will strut your stuff until your feathers fall off to obtain it.”
“And … so?” Paige waits.
“So what?”
“Which one am I?” She smiles sweetly.
“You mean you don’t know?”
She glares at me now. “Do you know how aggravating you can be sometimes?”
“You’re the peacock,” I say quickly. “A perfect score.”
She frowns. “The peacock?”
I nod and continue reading the article.
“Well …” She sighs. “At least peacocks are the prettiest ones in that quiz. I wouldn’t want to be a hermit crab or a mole.”
I can’t help but laugh since that’s exactly a peacock sort of response.
“So which one are you?” she asks.
“I didn’t take the test.”
“Well, take it then because I’m sure you’re the hermit crab.”
I roll my eyes. “I’m pretty sure I’m the cat. But if it makes you happy I’ll take it.”
“No, you’d probably just cheat. So does it say anything else about the peacock?”
“Yeah, most of the article is aimed at the peacock.”
“Why?”
“Because the peacock is the serious attention addict.”
Paige shakes her head. “No … I don’t think so.”
“You don’t?”
“No. I think whoever wrote that article didn’t understand peacocks. Peacocks get attention simply because they can. It’s the way they’re made. I mean, you wouldn’t expect a peacock to go around hiding in a hole or trying to keep people from looking at her beautiful feathers. The nature of the peacock is to be the center of attention. Everyone enjoys looking at a peacock.”
“Right.” I nod and return to reading. Fortunately Paige returns to her magazine too. And, although I’m surprised at how dense my sister is, I begin to realize as I continue to read the article that it’s like a blind spot with her. She doesn’t have any idea that she’s an attention addict. And it sounds like she won’t get it either—not until certain things happen.
The article lists various circumstances that might help an addict move toward recovery—things like suddenly being shoved out of the limelight due to unfortunate circumstances like illness or injury or financial difficulties. Or she might literally exhaust herself and her resources while seeking the limelight. Last but not least, she might come to the realization that all the attention in the world will never satisfy her. It seems that, like with other addictions, the first step to getting better is to admit you have a problem. Since I don’t see that happening with Paige anytime soon, I won’t be holding my breath.
But after I finish the article I realize that peacocks like Paige don’t get there alone. Their hunger for attention combined with their narcissistic nature drives them to surround themselves with friends, fans, and even the occasional stalker. They crave for their followers to adore them and constantly shower them with praise and attention. Without those faithful admirers, a peacock will perish.
It’s not that I want Paige to perish. But I wouldn’t mind if the peacock in my sister turned it down a notch or two. This is for Paige’s sake as much as for mine, because it sounds like peacocks eventually suffer from serious burnout. The article lists a number of celebrities who’ve gone to desperate measures to keep the spotlight on them even though their careers were clearly over. It’s not pretty. I hate to think of my sister ending up like that.
Yet it seems the only thing I can do to help her—and it’s not much—is to make sure I’m not one of those people that constantly feeds her addiction with my praise and adoration. Not that I want to do that, but I know I’ve often fallen into that pattern simply because it’s my easy way out. But lately it seems like I don’t care anymore, like I’m rubbing Paige the wrong way on purpose.
So maybe that’s it; maybe I’m the antidote for Paige’s attention addiction. Or maybe I’m only fooling myself. For all I know I could be the mole—the one who secretly craves attention almost as much as a peacock. Just to be sure, I take the test. To my relief, unless I cheated (and I tried not to), I am the cat. Attention is no big deal … I can take it or leave it. Of course, like a finicky cat, I want attention when I want it … and I don’t want attention when I don’t want it. And, as the article points out, life is seldom like that. Especially mine.
Chapter
12
It’s the next morning when we arrive at Heathrow. Although I slept somewhat during the flight, I feel frazzled and frumpy as we walk through the terminal, but Paige looks like she just stepped out of makeup and hair, which is handy because the camera crew arrived in London yesterday. Right after we pick up our bags and pass through customs, they start filming us.
As always, Fran hangs behind the scenes as the cameras roll, but I don’t get that luxury as Paige and I (just two American girls) casually stroll through Heathrow making our official arrival in London look like we think we’re Brad and Angelina. I try not to feel conspicuous as a crowd of curious onlookers watches our progression. But I wish I’d thought to check my hair … not to mention my teeth. I obviously did not study my schedule carefully because I really thought we’d have time to go to our hotel and freshen up a bit before launching into shooting today.
“Here are my tips for arriving fresh and lovely after an overnight flight,” Paige says to the cameras as we pause near the exit. “First off, drink plenty of water to avoid puffy eyes.” She points to me and giggles. “Apparently somebody forgot to do this. Next, remember to remove your makeup and apply moisturizer before falling asleep so your skin will wake up looking refreshed. Then be sure to give yourself time to apply some fresh makeup before the plane lands.” She looks at me and dismally shakes her head. “Notice these raccoon eyes from yesterday’s mascara. Well, a little moisturizer and tissue could’ve cleaned that right up.”
“Thanks for telling me now,” I say with a stiff smile.
“And here’s a tip for avoiding this little disaster.” She actually turns me around so the camera can see the back of my head. “Oh, my!” She giggles. “To prevent serious bed head like this, try wrapping a silk scarf loosely around your hair before you fall asleep on the plane. It will keep your hair in place and looking coifed when you make your arrival.”
As I turn around and touch the back of my head, I can feel that it’s flat and messy. Big surprise there. Then as we head outside to the passenger pickup area, Paige is telling the cameras about how she packed a couple of extra clothing items in her carry-on. “So I could do a quick presto change-o and not have to stand here on this lovely sunny morning looking like I slept on the street.” She turns to me. “Unfortunately my sister was not as well prepared.” She shrugs and smiles for the camera. “Oh, well. Maybe next time.” Then she waves her arms dramatically. “Welcome to London, England, where we will soon discover what makes Brit fashion sizzle.”
“That’s a wrap,” Fran calls out. “Nice work, Paige.”
Paige grins at me. “Thanks for being such a good little example of the fashion-on-the-go don’ts. You make my work so easy.”
I suppress the urge to growl. “I’m sure your fans will appreciate seeing your true colors, Paige. The way you treat your sister must endear yourself to them ever so much.”
She gives me a puzzled frown.
“There’s our limo, girls.” Fran points to a black car, then goes over to consult with the crew. With relief I hurry over to the car, but Paige is suddenly besieged by the small crowd that has been watching her. Naturally, she is in her element as she cheerfully poses for photos and signs her name
on whatever pieces of paper are shoved her way. Eventually Fran pulls her away from her adoring fans and ushers her over to the limo.
“So you thought there’d be no paparazzi in London,” Paige says as she slides in next to me.
“I wouldn’t exactly call curious onlookers paparazzi,” I point out.
“Don’t be too sure,” she says as she removes a compact from her bag, opens it, and checks out her already-immaculate appearance. “A couple of those cameras looked fairly serious to me.”
I’m looking over my notes for our trip now and I realize that there really isn’t anything in here about being filmed upon our arrival, but when I point this out to Fran she tells me it was a last-minute change. “Didn’t Paige tell you before we left?” Fran asks.
“Obviously not.”
Fran laughs. “Oh … I think I see why.”
“So this was a little set-up to make me into your fashion don’t?” I glare at my sister. “Real nice.”
“Hey, I could’ve told you to fix yourself up,” she says, “but would you have given up your precious sleep to do it?”
I consider this. I had finally been sleeping soundly just before the flight touched down.
“Besides, according to that survey, you’re the one who doesn’t care about being in the spotlight, right?”
I just shrug as I search in my bag for something to improve my appearance—like that’s even possible.
“Why should you care about how you look then?”
“Oh, Paige.” Fran shakes her head with disapproval. “That’s not very nice of you.”
“But it’s true.”
“I’m sorry you were caught off guard,” Fran tells me. “Paige thought our viewers would enjoy hearing some tips about how you can travel and arrive in style. I had no idea she didn’t tell you.”
“Don’t forget,” Paige holds up her index finger, “this is a reality show. I was merely trying to keep it real for the sake of the viewers.”
I carefully measure my words now, trying not to lose my temper as I respond to my sister’s trickster ways. “Well … for the sake of the show, and since it is a show about fashion and style, I would think you’d want your own sister to put her best foot forward too. After all, if your costar looks bad, doesn’t it reflect poorly on you as the queen of style—like, oops, you missed something?”
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