by Janey Mack
“Well, I guess that’s something. Good luck tomorrow.”
3:50 a.m., feeling bizarrely flippant in a navy blue Marc Jacobs suit, I went down to the lobby of the James Hotel. Leticia and Daicen were already waiting in the limo, dressed for the day in fuchsia and black respectively, their eyes ablaze with the adrenaline and excitement of a couple of raccoons caught in a Burger King Dumpster.
I got in the car.
“Oh my God! Oh my God!” Leticia said, fanning herself with her hands. “We saw them both! Megyn Kelly and Sean Hannity.”
“When?”
“Last night—” Daicen started.
“You snooze, you lose!” Leticia said. “My agent got me a private tour of Studio J.”
“Studio J?”
“The Fox News building.” Daicen’s eyes creased at the corners. “It might have gone a bit smoother if Leticia hadn’t completely lost her mind.”
“It’s true.” Leticia shook her head in unremorseful delight. “I was screaming like I’d won the Showcase on The Price Is Right. Whaddya expect?” She waved frantically at her partner in crime. “C’mon, c’mon. Show her the pictures!”
Daicen handed me his iPhone.
“Hannity even took us on set and threw me a football.”
I scrolled through a roll of Leticia hugging and posing with her celebrity crushes. I held out the phone. “Niecy’ll turn grass green when she sees these.”
“Won’t she, though?” Leticia grabbed the phone, laughing in pure delight. “Can I? E-mail?” she asked Daicen.
“Certainly.” Leticia started e-mailing the photos. My brother caught my eye. “Dhu West may have finished with Talbott Cottles Coles,” Daicen said, “but the mayor remains a media darling. And you, sister dear, are not.”
Was reinstatement really worth this level of disgrace? Were my coworkers? Was anything?
“The secret to ending this or any other type of celebrity is . . .” He leaned forward until his forehead almost touched mine and whispered the sacred secret of the ages, “Boredom. Do not raise your voice, smile, frown, or shrink away. Remain stone-faced and monotonous.”
“And then?”
“They’ll cut to commercial and toss your bromidic being to the curb before the break’s ended.”
“Genius,” I croaked.
The limo slowed to a stop in front of the broadcast building. We stepped out into the blazing lights, a small crowd of out-of-towners already gathering for the chance to wave at their friends back home on Good Day USA’s weather segment.
Inside, studio aides in maroon blazers met us at Reception, issued us passes, and delivered us to the place where the morning magic happened. The set.
Good Day USA was shot on two large and two smaller gold-and-orange-colored stages. Leticia elbowed me. “Over there!” She gave a tiny squeal. “Victor Cruz.”
Sure enough, the Giants wide receiver in jeans and a T-shirt, crossed the set and disappeared down a hallway.
“Oooh-eeee.” Leticia danced several yards after him in a three-two clave rhythm. “I’d salsa with him any day.”
I started back toward Daicen and stopped.
Bliss Adair appeared out of nowhere in a crisp white shirt—going French with black lace bra exposed underneath—and a taupe skirt so short it was made for standing only. She sauntered up to my brother, took his face between her hands, and kissed him right on the mouth.
Ergh?
She tipped her head back. “Good morning, darling.”
Well, that happened faster than a knife fight in a phone booth.
“Hello to you, too.” Daicen said, with as much emotion as a slab of concrete.
OMG. He likes her!
“I’ve got a treat for you.” Her lips parted in a smile. “Bruce, the producer, has promised to take you into the control room during the live shoot. A real behind-the-scenes experience. Isn’t that delicious?”
“Yes,” he said.
Leticia stayed at a distance, crossed her arms, and gave Bliss a hard once-over. It was clear the auburn-haired beauty had come up lacking.
Bliss waved over a man one sandwich away from emaciation wearing a Band of Outsiders ultra-svelte suit. After a serious ogle at my brother, he asked, “Bliss, who is this cool drink of water?”
“Daicen McGrane,” she answered, slipping her arm through his. He held out his hand.
Bruce took it in a genteel shake. “I hear you’re a real up-and-comer.”
My brother cocked a brow at Bliss. “Don’t believe a word she says.”
Wow.
“Bliss and Sterling are the gold standard when it comes to locating talent,” Bruce said gallantly. “Come, I’ll take you back. Things will start moving around here pretty quickly.”
“I’d like to see Maisie and Leticia settled first, if I may,” Daicen said.
Bliss’s teal eyes and pink lips went round in sweet surprise. “That’s why I’m here, of course. Hair, wardrobe, and makeup. If you’re really that worried, darling, you can check on them in the green room.”
Daicen let Bruce lead him away.
Bliss, all business, took several quick steps on the shiny floor in the opposite direction. She stopped and spun on her heel, fist on hip. “Let’s go, ladies.”
Leticia trotted to catch up, firing questions at her like an Uzi on full automatic. “When do I meet Alec Anders? An’ Juliana Tate? How much time till we on TV? Can I get Cruz’s autograph?”
I lagged behind, a pulsing pressure building behind my eyes, and heard Daicen’s voice slice across the set, “You know what they say, Bruce. No matter how beautiful she is, some guy somewhere is sick to death of her.”
The producer laughed and clapped his hands. “Love it!”
From the way my brother was endearing himself to Bruce, I must be in a lot more trouble than even I thought I was. Something jabbed at the back of my brain as I hurried to catch up with Leticia and Bliss.
Hair and makeup took forty-two minutes with a chatty young man with blue hair named Chazz, whose life’s dream was to become the next Alexis Vogel. “Just one more set of false eyelashes and you’ll be perfection.”
“Another?” I said. “Chazz, you’re making me look better than I ever have before, but can’t we tone it down a bit? I mean, it’s a little intense for a parking enforcement agent.”
“A what?”
“A meter maid.”
He giggled.
Bliss opened the door and peeked inside. “She looks perfect, Chazz. Absolutely perfect.”
I looked at my reflection in the mirror. On the plus side, I was almost unrecognizable in full Playboy Bunny hair and makeup.
Bliss snapped her fingers. “Up, up. Let’s go.”
“Where?” But even as I asked, I already knew the answer.
Wardrobe.
Chapter 30
You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.
“I look like the naughty meter maid from a Frederick’s of Hollywood catalog,” I said, trying to pull the pale blue poly-nylon blend shirt closed.
“It’s perfect,” Bliss said. “A smidge snug. But just what we’re looking for.”
“A smidge?”
“Huh.” Her teeth gleamed in an insincere grimace. “I was sure you were a double zero just like me.”
Sure you were. “Try a four.”
“Not possible.” She shook her head in baffled amazement. “Go figure.”
The wardrobe woman batted my hands away, put ginormous squares of double-stick tape on the tops of my breasts, and none too gently pressed the blouse tight to my skin. “If you don’t mess with it, the tape’ll last fourteen hours.” She slung a fluorescent-orange 1970s-style crossing-guard belt around my waist, complete with matching sash that sliced across my far-too-exposed cleavage.
The wardrobe woman left the room, leaving Bliss and me alone, staring at my reflection in front of the full-length mirror. A toss-up as to which was more disturbing, the abject horror in my eyes or the satisfaction in hers.
&nb
sp; The shirt, so tight I could barely breathe, was tucked into a navy blue pencil skirt that had gone to war with a sharpener and lost. Badly.
Apparently rock bottom isn’t low enough. Cave diving, anyone? “Um, seriously—”
“You look great,” Bliss said. “Far more approachable.”
For what? A hand job?
The dressing room door flew open, slamming against the wall. Leticia stomped in, wearing a brand-new, freshly pressed PEA standard-issue uniform. “Yo, Bootsie. You wanna ’splain to me what’s wrong with my pink suit?”
“Oh Leticia. I know, it’s been a whirlwind, hasn’t it?” Bliss bit an impossibly full lip in sympathy. “Why, I’m sure Daicen hasn’t had a second alone with you to discuss the dress clause on your contract.”
He hadn’t with me, either. And he could be damn sure I’d take my pound of flesh—with sandpaper and a spackle knife—layer by agonizing layer.
Leticia got a load of me. Her eyes bugged. “Holy shit. What the hell you got on, McGrane?”
“Pure genius.” Bliss said. “It’s part of Sterling’s ‘make friends with the public’ campaign.”
“Yeah, right.” Leticia snorted. “She be makin’ all kind o’ friends lookin’ like a ho’.”
Bliss crossed the room to the wet bar. “The City of Chicago will vote on your uniform. One of several we’ll be unveiling over the Internet, on billboards, and in magazines.”
“Hold up,” Leticia said. “Are you telling me, a bunch o’ rootie poos can pick a hoochie suit like that? And I’ll have to wear it?” She rolled her eyes. “Oh hell, no!”
“Obviously it would be cut to your size,” Bliss said with her back to us.
“Oh yeah?” Leticia’s braids began to shake like a rattler’s tail. “And what size do you think I be?”
A cork popped. Bliss turned, holding a green bottle of champagne. “What do you girls say to a little preshow Bolly?”
Leticia’s eyes lit up.
“I don’t think so,” I said. “I’m guessing Sterling won’t want us acting like a couple of Maury show refugees.”
Bliss poured a glass to the brim, handed it to Leticia, and said to me, “Well, aren’t you just a big ol’ wet blanket?”
Leticia took a sip as Bliss poured a glass for herself. “Break a leg.” She held out her glass to Leticia.
They clinked glasses. “I’ll break both.”
A soft knock sounded on the door, and the wardrobe woman reappeared. She held up an old school–style stewardess cap. “Almost forgot.”
Oh hell, no!
I sat down and let the wardrobe woman bobby-pin the cap into my hot-rollered overteased ’do.
Leticia laughed so hard, champagne came out her nose. “Damn, that hurts!” She snuffled into a handful of tissues.
Bliss set her glass down. “Ready to shine for Dhu West and Sterling, ladies?”
Does Bear Grylls drink his own pee?
“Sure,” I said, in a voice so flat it’d been ironed. “Let’s do it.”
The green room wasn’t green at all.
Leticia grabbed the sleeve of our maroon-jacketed page, startling him. “Yo, you’re supposed to take us to the green room. This here’s pink.”
Drunk tank pink.
“Yes, ma’am,” he said. “It’s Baker-Miller Pink.”
Holy cat, it really is.
The page continued, “The studio looked to the American Institute for Biosocial Research and found that this particular shade of pink helps suppress anxiety and puts people at ease. It can even slow heart rates.”
Subliminal Xanax. A safe bet it was not the on-deck color at the Maury show.
I perched gingerly on the edge of a pink fabric couch.
Leticia followed the page to the craft services table, where a watermelon swan floated in a pond of tropical fruit and breakfast rolls. Another bottle of Bollinger wrapped in a white towel waited in an ice bucket.
The page poured a glass for Leticia and with great deference asked if Bliss and I would care for any.
“Actually, would you be an absolute lamb and double-check on our meet and greet?” Bliss said breathily to the page.
The page nodded his head like he was trying to hammer a nail into his chest with his chin. “Yes, ma’am, right away, ma’am.” He left.
Bliss pointed a finger at Leticia and me. “The two of you are not, I repeat, not to leave this room for any reason. Do you understand me?”
Leticia took a bite of kiwi from the plate she’d dished up. “Where you think we’re gonna go?”
Bliss tapped the toe of her nude-colored Jimmy Choo.
“You’re the boss,” I said.
“That’s right, I am. I’m going to check on Daicen, then I’ll be right back.” With a final warning look, Bliss va-va-voomed away.
Leticia tossed back the rest of her champagne and poured some more. “You seriously ain’t letting that ho-bag date our agent, is you?”
“I’ll get right on that,” I said with a mock salute. “I can’t think of a thing Daicen’d like more than relationship advice from his baby sister.”
Leticia settled in next to me on the pink leather couch. “I’m not feeling ’zactly copacetic in here.” She puffed out her cheeks. “Color’s startin’ to mess with me.”
“I know. I feel like a strand of E. coli trapped in a bottle of Pepto-Bismol.”
“Jesus, McGrane. Don’t say any o’ that crazy shit on TV, a’ight?” She leaned back and crossed her legs. “I got my peoples recording this.”
“I’ll do my best.”
“That’s all we ask for around here,” said Grade-A celebrity morning-show host Juliana Tate from the doorway of the pink green room. She had the bizarre anthropomorphic shape required by all television newscasters and live show hosts—the Tootsie Pop—a giant melon of a head on a tiny stick-like body.
Leticia made a gargled squawk, thrust her plate and champagne onto my lap, and got to her feet. “Miz Tate?”
Juliana Tate walked into the room in high heels and a fitted black suit. “You must be Leticia Jackson.”
Leticia nodded slowly, mouth ajar, as mooney-eyed as a Hare Krishna.
I set her plate and glass on the pink end table.
“I’m so pleased to meet you.” Juliana turned and flashed me her trademark toothy smile of oversized Chiclet caps. “And you must be Miss McGrane.”
“Guilty.” I got to my feet, wishing Leticia would quit gawping at her.
Juliana shook my hand. “I can’t tell you what a pleasure it is to make your acquaintance, Maisie. That video—” She tucked the perpetually loose strand of her pert bob behind her ear and puffed a short but empathetic exhale. “It took real guts to do what you did.”
How long is this going to take?
“It’s a thankless but important job, serving the public.” Juliana’s sympathetic smile didn’t quite cover the exploitative spark in her hazel eyes.
Oh, please don’t make me this week’s kitten-in-the-well.
Leticia finally found her voice. “Picture?” She held out her cell phone to me.
“Don’t be silly,” Juliana said, taking Leticia’s phone. “Page!”
The maroon blazer young man reappeared with a professional digital camera with paparazzi-sized flash and a clipboard.
Juliana handed him Leticia’s phone, her voice saccharine-sweet as she bared her teeth at the page. “Looks like someone forgot to acquire all electronic devices.”
His nose twitched like a gerbil’s on blow. He pocketed Leticia’s phone and looked at me. “If I might collect—”
“It’s with my things in Wardrobe,” I said.
“I don’t know if you know this,” Juliana gushed, “but Faces of USA, my pictorial book of my interviews, hit the New York Times best-seller list this week.”
“Girl, you killin’ it.” Leticia high-fived her.
“I know, isn’t that fantastic?” Juliana clasped her hands. “So, of course my publisher’s demanding another.” She incl
ined her head at the page.
He offered the clipboard and pen for Leticia to sign. “It’s a photo release, ma’am,” he explained. “For the book. I’ll e-mail you a copy of the photo immediately.”
Leticia signed her name without so much as a glance at the paper and offered me the clipboard.
“No thanks,” I said.
Juliana Tate tipped her head back and laughed. “In less than fifteen minutes, you gals are going to be on-screen in front of one-point-two million viewers. Now is not the time to go camera shy, Maisie.”
I took the clipboard. A standard-issue photo release. “Would you mind if I sign it after my agent okays it?”
“Certainly.” Juliana’s smile didn’t waver. “Let’s take the picture now, though. The Good Day set is a busy place.”
“Where would you like the photo, Ms. Tate?” the page said.
Juliana pursed her lips thoughtfully. “Out by the logo, I think.”
Leticia and I posed with Juliana Tate in front of the gold and orange sunrise set of Good Day USA. To Leticia’s complete delight, co-host Alec Anders and his mostly shaved enormous balding head hopped in the photo op, and then, to her displeasure, so did Bliss.
Ten minutes later, prepped and polished, we waited like racehorses in the starting gate.
“Joining us today,” Alec said as Bliss pushed us out on set, “are two of Chicago’s parking enforcement agents, Leticia Jackson and Maisie McGrane.”
“Welcome, welcome,” Juliana Tate said, meeting us midway. “Ms. Jackson, would you like to take a seat by Mr. Cruz.”
Victor Cruz gave a small wave.
“Oh, I got that, Juliana.” Leticia salsa-danced toward Victor and Alec on the main set. “It’s all good.”
“Ms. Jackson,” Juliana said into Camera Three, as Leticia crossed the set, “is wearing the current parking enforcement agent uniform.” She grinned into Camera Two as it pulled back, giving America a good look at me. “And Ms. McGrane, what is that you’re wearing?”
Hooters meets Police Academy.
“Dhu West, the company that oversees Chicago’s Traffic Enforcement Bureau, wants its employees to feel at their best when working with the public,” I said. “I’m wearing one of the test uniforms that both my fellow workers and the public will be voting on to represent the Windy City.”