“Doesn’t count,” Tate said. “You’re a Yankee. I’m talking about a Regina in the South. She claims she’s from the South, right?”
“Somewhere in Georgia,” Val said. “And she’s sure enough got a believable accent.”
“Everything about her is phony,” Tate insisted. “Don’t you think?”
“I dunno,” Val said. “I just thought she was pretty all-American looking.”
“Nobody looks like that all the time,” Tate said darkly. “Look at you, for instance.”
“Thanks,” Val said.
“You know what I mean,” he went on. “The makeup, the clothes. So buttoned-up looking. Like out of a magazine or something.”
“Some men like women who look like that,” Val said. “Scott Zaleski sure seems to.”
“Who? That producer of hers?”
“Mmm-hmm,” she said. “Word is they’re an item.”
“Figures,” he said, grumpily. “Barbie and Ken. The perfect couple. Never a hair out of place on either of ’em.”
Chapter 18
Gina!” Lisa pounded on the bathroom door with both fists. “Come on, Geen. Let me in. You gotta let somebody see it. I’m your sister. I’ll still love you no matter what.”
“Go away,” Gina wailed.
“It can’t be that bad,” Lisa said, putting her cheek to the door frame. “It’s Sunday afternoon. You’ve had on that conditioner D’John gave you since Friday night. He said that would fix you right up.”
“Yeah, right,” Gina retorted. “He’s bald. Why should I believe anything a bald guy says about hair?”
“You can’t stay in there forever. You gotta eat. You gotta sleep. And you gotta go to work tomorrow. You’ve still got more shows to tape, right?”
“Work!” Gina shrieked. “Oh, my God. I can’t go to work looking like this. I’m a freak.”
“Just let me in. It can’t be that bad. Even if it is, we’ll fix it. We’ll make it all right. I promise.”
A moment passed. Lisa heard the lock click. The door swung open an inch. She took a deep breath and stepped inside.
Her sister, Regina Foxton, was sitting on the side of the bathtub. She was wearing pale pink baby-doll pajamas, with a damp towel draped over her slumped shoulders. Her eyes were bloodshot. Her hair was quite blond, what there was of it.
Lisa swallowed hard and tried to think of something cheerful to say.
“It’s…cute,” she said finally. “And it really shows off your facial structure.”
“Liar,” Gina said glumly.
Lisa sat beside her and slung an arm over her big sister’s shoulder. “It’s not that bad, really. I mean, it’s short, yeah. Shorter than you’ve ever worn it before.”
“Yeah, since I was, like, three?” Gina said. “You’ve seen the old pictures.”
“Come on,” Lisa said, getting up and taking her sister’s hand. “Come into my room. Will you let me see if I can fix it?”
“Doesn’t matter,” Gina said dully. “Cut it all off. Shave my head if you want. My career is over. No job, no man. No money. You think they’re still hiring at Hi-Beams?”
“Stop talking like that,” Lisa said, leading her into her own bedroom, sidestepping the piles of clothing and shoes, dirty dishes, books, and dog-eared magazines. “Sit,” she ordered, pointing to the slipper chair in front of her dressing table. She picked up a pair of scissors and walked slowly around Gina. “I’m just gonna even it out a little,” she said finally. “It broke off unevenly, especially on the sides, which is why you’ve got those kinda Bozo the Clown clumps going on. I’ll feather it around your face, and trim off that kinda mullet thing you’ve got going in the back.”
“Fine,” Gina sighed and closed her eyes. “Whatever.”
Lisa snipped and hummed, combed, then hummed some more. She stopped once, picked up the “Sexiest People Alive” issue of People, and leafed through it until she found the picture she wanted. “Aha!” she said softly. She picked up the scissors again, snipped some more. “Hold still now,” she ordered, wrapping the abbreviated strands of her sister’s hair around her curling iron. “I’m not used to working with hair this short, and I don’t want to burn you.”
“Whatever.”
After a few minutes, she put down the curling iron and spritzed Gina’s hair with her favorite finishing gel. With her fingertips, she separated the curls into tendrils, working this way and that until she was satisfied with the results.
“Open your eyes,” Lisa said finally.
“I’m afraid.”
Lisa gave her shoulder a gentle poke. “Open!”
Gina opened one eye slowly, then the other, quickly. Her hands flew to her face.
“Oh, my God!”
Lisa smiled proudly. “You like it? I was going for a sort of Gwen Stefani look. But not as radical, of course.”
Gina leaned into the mirror, then leaned out. The woman in the mirror was a stranger. On Friday night, she’d been what she’d always thought of as average, on-a-good-day-pretty. Shoulder-length brown hair with blond highlights, brown eyes. Good skin, tanned now from a couple weekends at Scott’s rented house up at the lake. Button nose with a bump on the ridge from a skateboard accident in seventh grade. Mouth a little wide for the shape of her face, but her first boyfriend had said her lips reminded him of Julia Roberts, which she’d taken as a compliment.
Now she was somebody new. Loose wisps of blond hair curled around her head, and her eyes peeked out from feathery bangs. Her eyes looked bigger. Her cheekbones were more pronounced than she remembered. Her neck and shoulders felt naked.
“Geen? Say something. Do you really hate it that much? I mean, maybe D’John could do it better. He’s been calling. He really feels awful about what happened. He said to tell you he can give you extensions. And nobody will be able to tell—”
Gina threw her arms around Lisa and squeezed. “Shut up, fool. It’s great. Really. I mean it. You saved my life.”
Lisa’s mouth flew open. “Really? No shit? You like it?”
Gina blinked back tears. “Really. It’ll take some getting used to. And you’ll have to show me how you did it. But yeah. It’s way better than I could have hoped for. I don’t know how to thank you.”
Lisa beamed. “That’s okay. I mean, you’re welcome. But, since you mention it, I’m a little short of cash this week—”
The doorbell rang then, startling them both.
“Are you expecting somebody?” Gina asked.
“Uh,” Lisa said. “I think maybe it’s Scott.”
“Scott!” Gina cried. “What does he want? You didn’t tell him about my hair, did you?”
“D’John told him,” Lisa said. “We were afraid you’d never come out of that bathroom. You wouldn’t answer your cell phone or the house phone, so he started calling my cell at the butt-crack of dawn.”
“Go to the door,” Gina said, giving her sister a shove. “Make him go away.”
“He won’t,” Lisa said flatly. “This is the second time he’s come by. Anyway, I think you guys need to talk. Straight up.”
“Lisa,” Gina moaned. “I can’t do this. Not like this. Not yet.”
Lisa picked up her car keys and headed for the front door. “Sorry, Geen. It’s now or never. I’m going over to Sarah’s to play Halo for a little while.” She gave her sister a finger wave, then opened the door.
Scott stood on the doorstep, holding a brown paper shopping bag from Whole Foods. Gina ducked back inside the bathroom and slammed the door before he could get a good glimpse.
“Hey, Lisa,” Scott said, stepping inside the condo. “Thanks for doing this for me.”
His damp black hair still bore comb marks, and he had the Bluetooth earpiece for his BlackBerry in his right ear. Lisa had never seen him without that earpiece. Scott’s blue jeans were sharply creased, the sleeves of his pale aqua button-down shirt rolled up a precise two and a half folds. He wore his Gucci loafers sockless, but spit-polished. His idea of Sunday casu
al.
Lisa looked him up and down. She was wearing a tight faded army-green tank top with no bra, and she had her hands jammed into the back pockets of faded cut-off camo fatigues that she wore with the fly half-unbuttoned, the waistband rolled down to her skinny exposed hip bones.
“I’m not doing it for you, fuckwad,” she said, her voice dripping acid. “I’m doing it for her.”
She started to shoulder past him, but stopped short when their faces were only inches apart.
Lisa’s blond hair had been dyed a scary shade of purple, and she was wearing it in a bizarre kind of Dutch-boy bob with jagged-edged gel-spiked bangs. She had the same melted Hershey’s Kisses dark brown eyes as Gina, but hers were kohl-rimmed and menacing. “And you better not say a damned word about her hair. ’Cuz if you make my sister feel any worse than she already does, I will hunt you down and bitch-slap your sorry ass into next week.”
His face flushed, and he started to say something cute, but Lisa cut him short.
“Believe it,” she warned. “I’m not sweet like Gina. I’m a South Georgia redneck girl through and through. I’d just as soon cut you as look at you. You don’t wanna mess with me.”
“I was just going to ask you how she is,” Scott said, setting the shopping bag down on the floor.
“She’s shitty,” Lisa said. “That’s how she is. I hope you brought some good news about this Cooking Channel deal along with whatever kinda cheap-ass food you got in that sack.”
“Barry e-mailed me this morning,” Scott said stiffly. “He’s intrigued with the concept of Fresh Start. And he loves the tapes I sent. So we are definitely in the running.”
“Great.” Lisa nodded. She jerked her head in the direction of the bathroom door. “Tell her.”
“I will.”
“And remember what I said about making her cry.”
When Lisa was gone, Scott took the shopping bag and unpacked its contents on the kitchen counter. Cold sesame noodle salad. A small container of chilled grilled honey-lime salmon. Two ripe nectarines. He took out a bottle of Perrier and uncapped it.
He tapped on the bathroom door. “Gina,” he said.
“Go away,” Gina said. She stood at the bathroom mirror, patting concealer under her eyes.
“I’ve got good news, honey,” Scott said.
“You don’t ever get to call me honey again,” Gina said. “Save that for Danitra Bickerstaff.”
He winced. “I’m sorry. I deserved that. You’re right. I screwed up. Big-time. But we really do need to talk. About the show.”
“What about the show?” Gina fastened the diamond studs in her ears, then rejected them. With hair this short, she needed statement earrings. She found a pair of Lisa’s earrings in a dish on the counter. They were two-inch silver hoops. She screwed them in, and slowly rotated her head from side to side. Yes. Good. Maybe she should get a second set of piercings. Lisa had half a dozen holes in her ears. Why not? It wasn’t like her public was going to get a chance to comment on her appearance once she was off the air. Maybe she’d go really punk, and get a tattoo. Like a tiny little shattered heart, right above her breast. Lisa had a red devil tattoo, right above her butt crack. If Birdelle Foxton ever saw that, Gina thought, she would have a myocardial infarction on the spot.
“I need to talk to you face-to-face,” Scott said.
Gina took a deep breath and opened the door.
“Jesus!” Scott said, taking a step backward. “What did you do to yourself?”
She tried to bite back the tears. “This was all your idea,” she said finally. “You’re the one who wanted me to go blonder.”
Suddenly, he remembered Lisa’s warning. He did not need to upset Gina any more than was absolutely necessary. And he really didn’t want to find out what a South Georgia girl like Lisa was capable of in the ass-kicking department.
“It’s nice,” he said finally, touching one of the tendrils that curled above her earlobe. “It’ll just take some getting used to.”
Gina felt an involuntary spasm of pleasure at his touch, but she pushed his hand away. She was done with all that.
“You said something about good news?”
“I did,” he said. “I brought you some lunch. Let’s sit down and talk like two civilized adults, can we?”
“I’m not hungry,” she said, but she followed him into the kitchen.
He got two plates from the cabinet, and set them out with the cold noodles and the salmon. He poured two goblets of Perrier. Like he owned the place, she thought bitterly.
She picked up one of the nectarines, sat down, and bit into it.
He took a fork and wound the sesame noodles around the tines. He did it perfectly. “We’re definitely in the running with The Cooking Channel,” he said, pausing to slurp the noodles.
“You’re sure? Even after that catastrophe with the flounder?”
“Positive,” he said. “Barry loves the concept of Fresh Start. He e-mailed me as soon as he got back to New York. He as much as told me we’re a lock.”
“As much as? What’s that mean?”
Scott took a bite of the salmon and washed it down with Perrier. “He wants us to ship the tapes of this week’s shows just as soon as we’ve got ’em in the can.”
“What about Tate Moody? And Vittles? Are they still in the running too?”
“Don’t worry about it,” Scott said. “That guy’s a joke. A dog as a sidekick? On a cooking show? It’s a health hazard. Anyway, how gimmicky can you get?”
“Have you seen that dog?” Gina asked. “I have. He’s precious.”
“Listen to me,” Scott said, reaching out and taking her hand. She slapped his away. He looked wounded. “You are a natural for this network. You are an amazing cook. We have an innovative, original concept with Fresh Start. Now, I know I hurt you. But I swear to God, it was a one-time-only deal. You’ve got to believe me. I care about you. Deeply.”
She looked away. “I can’t ever trust you again. It’s all so humiliating….”
He sighed. “All right. You’re right. Let’s not talk about us now. Let’s talk about the show.”
She took a sip of the Perrier. “What about the show?”
He put his fork down on the edge of the plate. “I brought over some wardrobe for this week. I’d already set it up with ZuZu’s in Buckhead.”
“What kind of clothes?” Gina asked, frowning.
“Nice ones,” he said. “Expensive stuff. Look. This is our big break, Gina. Network television. National exposure. Do you know what that can do for your career? We’re talking about a seven-figure contract. Your show will be on the air seven days a week, in every market in this country. Canada too. And don’t forget the overseas market. Peggy Paul’s show is a huge hit in England. And that’s just television. Your cookbooks will be instant best sellers. You’ll have endorsement deals. Appliances. Cookware. Tabletop. And then there’s packaged food lines. Frozen entrées. Maybe even your own lifestyle magazine.”
For a moment, she allowed herself to dream. Her own magazine! And another cookbook. She’d been jotting down ideas for months now. She wanted to take what she called southern heritage recipes, like her grandmother’s banana pudding, or Mama’s Coca-Cola pot roast, and update them—get rid of the packaged preprocessed ingredients and return to healthy, flavor-filled seasonal ingredients….
The loud ringing of a cell phone brought her back down to earth.
Scott glanced down at the BlackBerry tethered to his Italian leather belt. “Excuse me,” he said, getting up. “I’ve got to take this.”
He walked outside. She went to the front window and watched him, pacing around, shouting. She could see the protruding muscles in his neck, his hands chopping the air in agitation. It reminded her of Friday night. When he’d stood over her, totally absorbed in his own rage.
Five minutes passed. Scott came back inside. He found Gina in the kitchen, packing the food he’d brought back into the Whole Foods shopping bag.
“Here
,” she said, handing him the bag.
“What’s this?”
“Your food,” she said. “Also your razor, the CD you mixed me for Valentine’s Day, the sweatshirt I borrowed from you up at the lake, and a pair of jeans you left here a couple weeks ago.”
“That’s it? End of conversation?”
Gina gave it some thought. “Pretty much. I’m keeping the diamond earrings, because they’re pretty, and I think, all things considered, I deserve them.”
He shook his head. “This isn’t like you, Gina. I told you, we’ve got great things ahead of us. We’re a team….”
She forced a smile. “This is the new me. The adult me. I hope and pray TCC picks me to be their new southern chef. If they do, I guess we have to work together. That’s what adults do. They keep on going, even when things get ugly. If they don’t, I guess I’ll have to find a new job. One that doesn’t involve you.”
He put his hand on her shoulder. “Look. It doesn’t have to be like this.”
“Yeah,” she said. “It really does.”
Chapter 19
On Monday morning, Gina forced herself to look squarely in the bathroom mirror. The hair fairy had not made an overnight visit. The short blond wisps framing her face were the same alarming length and color they’d been when she finally went to bed Sunday night.
Fine. It was only hair. She’d been telling herself that for the entire weekend. It was time to start believing it. She had a million things to do before taping started later in the day.
In the bedroom, she gathered up the outfits Scott had brought over on Sunday. She grimaced at the olive green satin blouse with the long, billowing sleeves and the deep V-neck that he’d selected for the Thanksgiving show. The olive would make her skin look sallow, and the sleeves would end up dragging in her pie dough. The blouse had a $560 price tag and a designer label she’d never heard of. But then, she’d never even been inside ZuZu’s, which was in an exclusive shopping center on West Paces Ferry Road, where she never shopped. It wasn’t that she didn’t like nice clothes. She did. But she was used to finding them deeply discounted at Filene’s Basement, or on clearance at Bloomingdale’s. She could have bought three or four outfits for the price of that one blouse, she’d protested.
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