Spotlight

by Melody Carlson

  “I can’t wait to see her wedding dress collection,” Paige says. “That show is on Saturday.”

  “So what do you girls think?” Fran says. “Want to eat out or go back to the hotel for room service?”

  Remembering our “model” lunch, I opt for going out and, thankfully, Paige agrees. As we drive Fran calls ahead and finds a popular place in Soho where the wait will only be fifteen minutes.

  “Do you think any paparazzi will be around?” Paige asks quietly.

  “I don’t see why,” Fran tells her. “Unless you’re sending information onto one of the social networks.”

  “Of course not.” Paige firmly shakes her head. “And I spoke to Benjamin last night—told him that he’d better not do anything else to fuel this fire.”

  “Has he?” I ask.

  She shrugs. “He hasn’t helped to put any rumors to rest.”

  “I’m sure he’s enjoying the free publicity,” Fran says.

  “Free at my expense, you mean.”

  When we’re dropped at the restaurant, we go in without any sign of paparazzi. I do notice a few heads turn as we’re being seated, but I remind myself that’s always been how it is with Paige. She turns heads and she enjoys doing so.

  “Maybe the paparazzi have found bigger stories to follow,” Paige says as we’re browsing our menus.

  “You sound like you miss them,” I point out.

  She shrugs. “No. But no one wants to be ignored either.”

  I can’t help but laugh at how flaky that sounds. “I don’t mind being ignored,” I tell her. “At least by paparazzi anyway.”

  We eat our dinner in peace and quiet and exit the restaurant with no unwanted fanfare. Unwanted from me that is … I’m not so sure about Paige. But when we get back to our hotel, there seems to be a fair number of people clustered around the entrance again.

  “Oh no,” Paige says in alarm. “I guess our little reprieve is over.”

  “Want me to go ahead?” I offer, “and act as a smokescreen so you can slip in the side door?”

  She seems uncertain, but Fran agrees to this plan. When I get to the door, however, I see that the spotlight is shining for someone else. It turns out that Tyra Banks and her entourage have just arrived. It seems they’re here for the taping of her show and the upcoming fashion events next week. I laugh to myself as I go back to inform my sister that she is no longer the hottest fashion story in London.

  Paige seems disappointed as she gets out of the car, and strides toward the entrance of the hotel like she’s a superstar. Seriously, she’s like look at me, I’m so hot. Don’t you want a shot of me?

  And to my dismay her persona works. It seems that Tyra and her crew have gone inside now, and since the paparazzi are already gathered, they turn their cameras onto Paige. Just as I expected, these “journalists” show how small-minded they are since their questioning goes straight to the Benjamin Kross relationship again: is Paige pregnant and when is the big wedding?

  “Really,” she says in a tone that might be interpreted as haughty. “Can’t you come up with anything better than that? Why don’t you write a story about how a flying saucer full of fashion-conscious aliens from Venus brought me here so that I could spy out fashion trends on Earth and—”

  “Why are you always avoiding the questions?” a guy interrupts her. “There’s no crime in being in love with a man—even if he has broken the law. In this day and age, it’s not a big deal to be pregnant when you’re not married, Paige. People do it all the time. Just own up to it and we’ll let you be.”

  “That’s right,” yells another, “own up to it and we’ll be on our merry way.”

  “All we want is the truth,” a woman calls out.

  “The truth?” she shouts at them. “You want the truth?”

  No one responds. It’s as if they’re waiting for some choice morsel of gossip.

  “The truth is I’m sick of you Brits posting bogus photos and printing lies about me. I don’t know how you can look at yourselves in the mirror when you get up in the morning. If you keep this up I will be speaking to my attorney.” She turns around and nearly stumbles over the woman standing behind her. I grab Paige’s arm, steadying her, and the two of us push our way through the grumbling throng, who apparently didn’t appreciate Paige’s comments. We find Fran standing in the lobby with an I-told-you-so look on her face.

  “Happy now?” Fran asks her.

  Paige smiles. “As a matter of fact, I am.”

  However, she is singing another song the next morning. “Look at how they’re maligning me now,” she says as we’re standing in the lobby, waiting for our car to arrive and take us to our Kate Moss interview.

  “Where did you get that?” I frown as I spot one of Britain’s most popular tabloids in her hand.

  “Here in the gift shop.” She thrusts the paper at me. “This morning’s edition. Look what they said about me.”

  As Fran joins us, I scan the headline—“Paige Forrester Blasts Britain.” For Fran’s sake, I read the words out loud. ‘“Miss Forrester, star of America’s On the Runway, in an angry outburst against Great Britain said, “The truth is I’m sick of you Brits, and I don’t know how you can look at yourselves in the mirror.” Apparently Miss Forrester, a self-proclaimed fashion diva, is under the impression that no one in Great Britain has any fashion sense whatsoever, and it seems that she plans to make this clear on her reality TV show. Miss Forrester went on to say that she planned to seek legal counsel to sue any paper who printed her statement. Miss Forrester is a guest in Great Britain, with plans to make an appearance on our popular reality show, Britain’s Got Style, but the question on many a Brit’s mind this morning is whether or not Miss Forrester has any style herself. Not to mention class. Miss Forrester is reputed to be pregnant with—’”

  “Stop!” Paige rips the paper from my hands. “I can’t take another word!”

  “Oh, dear.” Fran shakes her head. “This is not good.”

  “How can they print such lies?”

  “I don’t know,” Fran says in a grim tone. “But the car is here. Let’s go.”

  I take the rumpled paper back from Paige and as we’re riding, I reread the opening sentence of the article again—silently this time. “Actually, it’s not all lies,” I say quietly.

  “Not lies?” Paige looks like she’s on the verge of tears now. “How can you, my very own sister, say that?”

  “Because it’s true. I was with you last night and I heard you talking.” I point to the paper. “You did say you were sick of the Brits, Paige. You also said you didn’t know how they could look at themselves in the mirror. Maybe you didn’t mean it in the context that they took it, but you did say those words.”

  Paige lets out a low animal-like growl. “They twisted it, Erin. You know they did.”

  “They twisted your meaning to make a story,” I tell her. “But you did say those words.”

  “Quiet,” Fran tells us. “I can’t hear this message.”

  So we both sit quietly as Fran listens to her voicemail with a severe frown.

  “Who is it?” Paige asks.

  “Kate Moss’s spokesperson.”

  “And?” I wait.

  “Kate has cancelled this morning’s interview and has no intention of rescheduling.”

  Paige makes two tight-balled fists. “Why?”

  “Sounds like she’s been following the press and she doesn’t want to be linked with you.”

  “This is so unfair!” Paige slumps back into the seat, her head hanging.

  “It is unfair,” I admit. “But you opened yourself up for it again when you spoke to the paparazzi last night. You could’ve easily slipped past them, you know.”

  “Please. Do. Not. Lecture. Me.” Paige looks like she’s about ready to blow and so I decide to be quiet as Fran tells the driver to take us back to the hotel. Fortunately, it must be too early for the paparazzi because the entrance is still pretty empty. We all quietly go inside and withou
t anyone saying a word, we ride back up the elevator and walk into our rooms.

  So now I’m pacing in my room, and thinking, this is great. Just great. We’re over here to record episodes and suddenly, because Paige has stuck her foot in her mouth, it looks like we’re being shut down almost before we’re even started. Seriously, if Kate Moss doesn’t want to talk to us, why would anyone else? And why would Britain’s Got Style still want Paige on their show?

  It’s like Paige got off on the wrong foot with this country as soon as we got here. I can’t really blame her for anything specific in regard to the paparazzi—well, before last night anyway. At first she was actually polite to the rabid reporters. But I can blame her for blabbing on the social networks and for tweeting before we even got here. I can also blame her for her indiscretion with Benjamin. I never thought that was a good idea. Benjamin has always had a bad-boy image with the press and with Mia Renwick’s death, his image has only gotten worse. I’m frankly surprised that he still has a movie offer—if that’s even true.

  “Erin?” Paige sticks her head through the open door between her suite and my room.

  “What?”

  “I need to talk.”

  Okay I’m not sure I’m ready to talk to her yet. The fact is I’m feeling a little mad at the moment. When I think of how I’ve sacrificed most of my first year of film school to get to this point… well, it’s a little disturbing.

  “Will you come in here?” she asks.

  Without answering, I follow her back into her suite then collapse on the sofa and let out a big deep sigh.

  “I don’t know what to do,” she says quietly. “Fran is mad at me, which means Helen is mad at me.” She looks up with moist blue eyes. “Are you mad at me too?”

  I just frown.

  “Okay I’ll take that as a yes.”

  I fold my arms across my front and sit there.

  “I don’t know what to do …” she says again.

  “I don’t either.”

  “But you’re the one who usually has the answers,” she tells me.

  “I’m fresh out at the moment, Paige.”

  So we both sit there in silence. While I’m sure I could think of something if I tried hard enough, I’m just not willing to try. I’d rather let her stew in this mess she’s helped cook up. Savor the flavor. I keep sitting there, simply looking down at my lap, until finally I glance up, to see that she’s gone.

  So much for coming up with solutions. I’m about to return to my room when I hear the sounds coming from her bedroom. I go in there to find her stretched out on the bed, quietly crying. Something about this gets to me. Maybe it’s because she’s not being a drama queen. This is real.

  I sit down beside her and wait for her to stop. But the crying goes on for quite some time and I finally reach over and touch her hair. “Crying isn’t going to fix this,” I say quietly. “When you’re ready to listen, I think I have some ideas.”

  She keeps on crying and now I don’t know what to do. I mean, I know my sister and I know she can overreact and get wildly emotional sometimes, but this seems like honest-to-goodness despair. So I go over to Fran’s room and explain what’s going on.

  “I suppose I was kind of hard on her after we got up here,” Fran admits. “But Paige knows that a lot rides on her. Helen has made it clear that she expects Paige to keep a relatively clean reputation. Our sponsors expect it too.”

  “But most of the stuff that’s being printed about her isn’t even true,” I remind Fran.

  “Perception can be stronger than truth.” Fran shakes her head. “Now I’m finding out that Kate Moss isn’t the only one to cancel on Paige.”

  “Oh …” I let out a sigh. “I was worried about that.”

  “British people don’t take kindly to being insulted by a twenty-year-old fashion diva.”

  “No, I expect they don’t.”

  “Anyway, I’m glad you came over to talk. Helen has a new plan.” She waves me to a chair to sit down. “She thinks that her little Jiminy Cricket might be able to save this sinking ship.”

  “How?”

  “First of all, both you and Paige will hold a press conference. Helen wants a repentant Paige to stay in the background while you step up and make a very sincere and intelligent apology. Do you think you can do that?”

  “I guess so.”

  “Helen said it’s important that you don’t make this an attempt to clean up your sister’s smeared reputation. Just let that go for now. Mostly you have the challenging task of winning back the Brits.” She actually laughs. “Now that sounds easy, doesn’t it?”

  “Right.” I roll my eyes. “Easy breezy.”

  “Okay. I’ll set up the press conference.” She looks at my outfit. “You change into something that looks British and slightly serious.” She chuckles. “Kind of like your usual clothing.”

  “I happen to really like British style,” I admit.

  “Make that work for you.”

  I stand now. “So that’s it.”

  “That’s it for now. I’ll admit it’s a long shot… but it’s worth a try.”

  “Do you want me to tell Paige?”

  She nods as she picks up her phone. “Sure. I’d appreciate that.”

  I go back to Paige’s suite and attempt to tell her about Helen’s plan, but I’m not sure she’s getting it. She still seems to be a basket case. So, once again, I sit on the edge of her bed. “Paige,” I say gently. “Is there more going on here than this bad publicity?”

  She sits up now, wiping her wet face with her hands. “What do you mean?”

  “It just seems like an overreaction. I mean, we’ve been through some really difficult stuff before. It seems like you’re taking this especially hard. What’s really going on?”

  Paige takes in a long breath. “I miss Dylan.”

  I blink and stare at her. “Huh?”

  “I know. It sounds really dumb. But I think I’m in love with him.”

  I want to agree—this does sound really dumb, especially right now—but I control myself. “I don’t get it. What do you mean you miss him … that you think you’re in love with him? I thought you guys broke it off. That you were going to just be friends. Did I miss something?” She nods and now fresh tears are coming down her cheeks. And, okay, I’m totally bewildered. Like how is this breakdown about Dylan? But she’s crying so hard again that I doubt I can get to the bottom of it. I’m not even sure I want to.

  Chapter

  17

  “First of all, I want to apologize on behalf of my sister and myself,” I say after Fran introduces me at the press conference that’s being held in one of the hotel conference rooms. The audience looks grim and although Paige and Fran are standing nearby, I feel very much on my own. It’s some comfort to spot our camera guys in the back of the room, acting like they’re part of the press.

  “Yesterday, my sister made a statement that was misconstrued.” I glance at my notes—notes that Fran read and approved. “Paige spoke out in frustration last night. Her comments were in reference to a misrepresentation in some tabloids. She said she was sick of Brits, but not all Brits, only Brits who had been printing false stories and bogus photos to smear her name. But as for everyone else in Great Britain, we have nothing but the highest praise. We love your country.” I break away from my notes now, hoping to make this seem more personal. “I enjoyed taking a bus tour of the countryside. I couldn’t believe how beautiful it is here. And your amazing buildings and Windsor Castle—well, let’s just say we don’t have anything like that where I live.” I pause for a few chuckles and hope that they’re warming up a bit. “I’ve enjoyed the food and I had my first rashers. I’ve enjoyed meeting people and I love the way you guys talk. And I have to say—I adore British fashion.” I smile at the faces, noticing that some seem softer now.

  “There are so many things about your country that I love that I’m thinking maybe I’m actually British at heart.” I pause for the laughs that follow. “But I
mostly want you to understand that Paige was misquoted. I was there when she made the statement about not knowing how British tabloid reporters can look at themselves in the mirror in the morning. She wasn’t talking about Brits and fashion.” I shake my head. “She was simply referring to how a dishonest reporter might feel after writing an article that slandered Paige’s name.” I pause again. “I’m sure you can imagine how it feels to have someone reporting malicious and untrue things about you. It hurts. Paige’s outburst was a result of the libelous things that have been said about her. But because we are guests in your country, we feel it’s our responsibility to apologize and attempt to set the record straight. Thank you for your graciousness.” I smile and nod, and as I step away from the podium I’m surprised to hear several people clapping. They are joined by more and I feel hopeful.

  Fran steps back up to the podium again. “And Erin is happy to give honest answers to your questions now.” As I step back up, Fran and Paige exit and I am left on my own with reporters. But for the most part, the questions are relatively polite and I do my best to answer them.

  “No, my sister is not pregnant,” I say slowly. “The photo you saw a couple days ago was taken when I was shopping with my best friend who happens to be pregnant. Then someone photoshopped the photo of me by a baby crib with a photo of Paige to give the impression she was pregnant.”

  “But what about her relationship with Benjamin Kross?” someone shouts from the back. “Are you saying those photos were tampered with too?”

  I firmly shake my head. “No. Those photos are legit. Paige and Benjamin have dated in the past.” I pause now, wondering how much to say. “Okay, I’m going to be very honest with you and I hope my sister doesn’t get mad.” I take in a slow breath and I can tell the reporters are eagerly waiting. “Paige just confessed to me that the main reason this whole thing has been so stressful is because she is, in fact, in love with someone. But it’s not Benjamin Kross.” Okay, even as I speak, I’m wondering if I just made a huge mistake. Of course, I have no intention of revealing who that someone else is. Naturally a whole new set of questions follow and now everyone wants to know about the mystery guy.