The Wig, the Bitch & the Meltdown

by Jay Manuel

  “Come on, Tom.” Pablo played spin doctor as well as Olivia Pope did in Scandal. “She just had a really bad day. You tellin’ me you’ve never had a bad day?”

  Another sloppy looking reporter fired at Pablo. “I heard the network cancelled the show. Is that why you’re here?”

  “No one’s cancelled anything. In fact, I’m going back to work right now. It’s gonna be amazing, big surprises.” Pablo hurried past the bee buzzing journalists as his Uber pulled up to the curb. Who the fuck was the mole?

  “So, is it true that you might file a sexual harassment lawsuit against Mason Hughes? Is that why you were upstairs with the network brass?” Harvey Levin himself appeared from behind a camera and smiled at him with got you eyes. Pablo swept the shock off his face and looked directly at the head of TMZ, who loved to grab gossip and spew it all over the internet with little regard for his appalling crime against humanity.

  “Well, look who the cat cleaned up, spray tanned, Crewed and dragged out. I thought you never left the studio these days, Harvey?”

  “A story like this? Check out what I have and plan on releasing once I get your statement.” The former legal analyst, and TMZ gossip website founder, handed Pablo an iPad with a video playing Mason and him fighting in the ally next to the soundstage—only hours before. “Your set security is leaking like the Titanic.”

  Pablo laughed out loud and stepped into his Uber. “No one actually believes anything TMZ posts, Harvey. You know as well as I do that anything can be edited to look real. You wanna waste your time on fake news, go ahead.”

  The suburban peeled away up Sixth Avenue. Pablo took a long, slow, deep breath to keep himself together. There was a fucking mole! The Uber driver shifted his eyes back and forth from the traffic to his rearview mirror.

  “Aren’t you that guy from Keisha Kash’s modeling show? My girlfriend loves her—she’s her role model.”

  “You know, it’s not just HER show,” Pablo yelled.

  “Fine. Whatever. I thought you were one of the nice ones.”

  I am, Pablo wanted to say. I am. But he was too overwhelmed by the pressure cooker of his career, the reporters and lack of sleep. “Sorry, I just need a minute.”

  The crowded Manhattan streets, unaffected by the turmoil and urgency roiling in Pablo’s mind, moved at a snail’s pace. The one story he never wanted out in the public was in the hands of the press. There was no way Mason would say anything–that’s for sure. And there wasn’t any benefit in Keisha trading the story. But they were the only ones who knew. Pablo closed his eyes and focused on the video he’d just watched. He sat bolt upright as clarity dawned on him. “Fuck.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Oh no, not you. I’m sorry. I just figured something out.” Pablo was going to get a bad rating from this Uber driver—for sure.

  Considering the angle from which the conversation between Mason and him was shot, they had been outside Miss Thing’s trailer. The clever bastard had filmed them.

  “What a bitch,” Pablo quietly mumbled. He could just see the evil look on Miss Thing’s face—donning an ear to ear grin like the Cheshire Cat from the original 1951 Disney animated film, Alice in Wonderland. However, he needed proof before he could confront the shady model coach.

  Pablo pulled his iPhone out of his bag and frantically typed four individual text messages to I.C.E. Tears welled up in his eyes, as he did the one thing he NEVER did. Pablo asked for help.

  Pablo TEXTS: All hell breaking loose!

  Press asking me about Mason!

  KK falling apart!

  HELP!

  Nothing came back. Pablo waited. Nothing. Why was it when you needed someone the most, they were never around? Everybody knew I.C.E. meant ‘In Case of Emergency,’ so what the hell?

  * * *

  “Late start for the crew?” Pablo walked onto the soundstage lot and waved at Rachel heading past the loading dock. The catering area was oddly deserted even though it was 9:45 a.m.

  “Thank God you’re here. I need you to go check on her. Security says she’s been in there all night. Please.”

  “I’m literally on my way there now. Hashtag, I got this.”

  “Aw, I love you.” Rachel sounded like she was about to throttle a cute puppy. She didn’t vocalize emotion well. “And while you’re at it, could you see if there’s a chance she may wanna visit set and actually save her show and all of our fucking jobs?”

  “She’s not supposed to know the show’s in jeopardy, is she?” Pablo raised his eyebrow.

  “I disagree. The best way to keep celebrities in line is dangling the possibility of their star fading. They hate being irrelevant.”

  Pablo stepped through fire doors and headed down a long hallway, pushing open yet a second set of fire doors. So many fire doors just to protect the show from her fiery temper. The dingy gold star on her dressing suite had fingerprints on it.

  Quietly, he knocked on the door. Nothing.

  He placed his ear close without touching. Silence. Knock. Nothing.

  Finally, Pablo pounded on the door in case she was in her en-suite bathroom.

  “Y’all keep banging on this door like I’m handing out free pussy.” It was De La Renta.

  “It’s me.” Pablo opened the door and peered in.

  “Thank God, it’s you.”

  “Is it safe?”

  “Hell, if I know. I’ve been tryin’ to get her outta the bathroom since last night.” De La Renta looked at the bathroom door while he practically shouted. “Mother snapped, bad. AND it can’t be pretty.” He flitted around the dressing suite, gathering his belongings and dumping them into his Louis Vuitton Supreme backpack. “I didn’t sign up to be the gatekeeper and guardian to Mother—you did. And I got things to do. Like making her a new fucking wig. I’m outta here,” he whispered to Pablo as he exited.

  Pablo didn’t even try to stop De La Renta from his dramatic exit. Once a Capricorn made his mind up, it was best to just leave them be. You think karma’s a bitch? Wait until you piss off a Capricorn. They keep a frozen shoulder in the freezer, just in case they need to ice someone out. De La Renta’s specialty was putting people “on pause;” it even worked on celebrities.

  Keisha’s new dressing suite was monstrous. When Andy became her manager, he wanted to raise the Supermodel’s profile above the other talent’s so he’d convinced her that her trailer, which before had been more comfortable and conveniently stationed outside near all the other talent double-bangers, was passé. It was like Andy had put “inconvenience” into her contract. This new dressing suite forced producers to commute all the way to the other side of the studio for onset meetings, and then schlep all the way back. Worst of all, Keisha really didn’t like being so isolated from the nucleus of the cast and crew. At the very least, she missed being in close proximity to the catering truck.

  The colossal chamber was equipped with a full hair and makeup room, a ring-lit selfie station, over-sized lounge area anchored by four large white sofas, modern glass tables topped with fresh white rose arrangements and an 85” OLED TV. It was way too much space for a star who kept herself locked inside with either De La Renta or Pablo, for fear that crew members might catch a glimpse of what she looked like “outta drag,” as De La Renta called it. During the first season, Keisha always came to the set without her wig or makeup; however, one day the studio manager kept walking right past her without any idea of who she was. She ran to her trailer in tears and from then on refused to come to the set without her face and “lid.” The Supermodel needed to be fortified with her armor—as she called it—more than ever, and so it was.

  Pablo waited for a moment after De La Renta left, steeling his nerves. He didn’t want to admit it to himself, but Keisha’s meltdown had freaked him out. Her venomous outburst scared him. He thought he understood her, but after last night he wasn’t so sure. How should he approach her? Seriously or jovially? So
lemn or light?

  He walked up to the closed door in the makeup area leading to Keisha’s own private bathroom and tapped lightly on the door. “Hey…Judy, it’s me, Mickey. Can I come in?”

  From the other side of the door, he could hear shuffling and then the tumbler clinking in the lock. Turning the handle, he slowly peeked through the opening of the door. Keisha was still wearing her dress from judging last night, with the side zip fully undone. Slumped on the floor, she looked helpless and sad. A hot mess. Her iPhone was in her right hand and attached to the charger which was plugged into the wall.

  “You didn’t spend all night watching that crap, did you?”

  She nodded. Her wig flopping loosely from side to side. At least, her do didn’t look as bad as De La Renta feared. “Come on, let’s get you cleaned up.” He got down on the floor with her and began to clear away her smeared makeup with a baby wipe, speaking in the soothing voice of a parent trying to calm a brokenhearted child. “I know things are hard for you right now, but Mr. Pablo’s gonna take care of everything.”

  Keisha leaned her head on Pablo’s chest and sobbed. He wrapped his arms around her and let her lean even more into him, in a way she hadn’t done since they’d begun this whole wild ride. Pablo genuinely felt his heart break for his BFF and if nothing else, he’d remember this moment of affection when they were both people who simply cared for each other. It made all the rest of her crap worthwhile.

  “You never came back,” she pouted.

  “Joe wouldn’t let me.”

  “All night?”

  “Pretty much, but it gave me time to fix things. I figured out the cryptic message. It was an anagram.”

  “What’s an anagram, again?”

  “It’s a phrase formed by rearranging the letters of another—it doesn’t matter. The important thing is, the note isn’t from a stalker.”

  “It isn’t?”

  “Nope. I think it’s from your mom.” He showed her what he’d figured out on the graph paper, and that Make a go of it Top Kimoru, actually said: Proof to get Mama out Kiki.

  Keisha’s eyes shifted into focus and she grabbed Pablo’s hand. “Mama’s the only person who calls me Kiki.”

  “Egg-zackly. But a vial of blood? How would that be proof to get her outta jail?”

  “No clue, but mama always has a Plan B.”

  “Fine. Let’s see what she says. But why all the cloak-and- dagger?”

  “She has to be careful with things connected to me. I used to love my puzzle books as a kid and she probably assumed I’d figure it out. How did you figure it out?”

  Pablo told her all the complexities, explaining and recounting every step of how he solved the anagram—including how he got stuck in the bathroom while Andy and Kayla were doing the nasty. Keisha might have been traumatized by yesterday’s events but she was still copacetic enough for her eyes to narrow into slits at the Andy news. She looked up at him and forced a little clenched jaw smile.

  Pablo felt a little chill run down his spine. She looked a little like a psychiatric patient off her meds, not defenseless at all. And something in her eyes told him he’d just given her a brand new weapon for her arsenal. Gently, he helped her up off the floor and over to the couch. “You ready to face the world yet?”

  “Almost.”

  Pablo reached for the walkie-talkie sitting on the makeup counter, smiled sweetly at her and pressed the talk button. “Does anyone have eyes on Keisha’s stylist? There’s a new girl coming in today,” he reminded whomever was listening.

  “I got her here.”

  “Send her to Keisha’s in thirty.” He tilted his head toward Keisha.

  “Sixty,” she mouthed.

  “Sixty.”

  “Copy that,” an anonymous PA’s voice crackled over the walkie.

  Stripping off last night’s over worn attire, Keisha walked across the room, naked, to the shower. “Can you get me some eggs and bacon from catering, Mr. Pablo?” Her voice was weird and high pitched. “I’m starving.”

  Almost an hour later, the semi-svelte Supermodel the world knew and lusted after, was sitting on the couch next to Pablo, happily scrolling through Vogue.com on his laptop. Stripped of all her makeup and hair, she looked like any normal human being, fiddling with her exposed cornrows.

  “Yaaaaas. Look at this one. That’s perfect.” Keisha pointed at the screen.

  Pablo’s eyes widened in disbelief at her choice but he choked back his response. “You’re right, Mommy. It’s perfect for you. But are you sure that’s what you wanna be wearing when you show up tomorrow?”

  Her eyes hooded and narrowed. Her cheeks sunk into her teeth, like she was sucking on sour candy. It was her, does a bear shit in the woods? look.

  “Okay then. I’ll make sure De La Renta has everything he needs,” he paused, “and I just wanna say thank you too. Andy told me—”

  Abruptly, the door flew open and a big-busted, black stylist sporting an afro and headband strutted into the dressing suite, hauling with her a huge, Gucci logo-print tracksuit.

  “Look what I scored for you, Miss Kash! The new Dapper Dan collection with matching sneakers. Girl, you gonna look so fly. And, you can keep the cornrows; De La Renta won’t mind if you skip the wig on this one.”

  Pablo’s mouth dropped open.

  Like a heat seeking missile, Keisha turned toward the new stylist, who had walked into the room without so much as a knock or an introduction. “Can you tell, Miss…I’m sorry, Baby, what’s your name, again?”

  “It’s Pamella. I started yesterday but it was a little crazy.”

  “Well Pamella, one of my hashtag new rules is, KNOCK! Don’t ever barge in here without asking my permission.” Keisha rose up from the couch to her full height and towered over the tall girl, who began to shrink in the Supermodel’s shadow. “Plus, I don’t do logos! And, that cut? That’s gonna make me look huge.”

  Pablo was grateful not to be on the other end of the new stylist’s dressing down. Keisha was clearly back to her old self.

  “Oh, Miss Kash, you’re wrong. Naomi Campbell is rocking all the Dapper Dan stuff.”

  Keisha waved her hands in front of the new girl’s face, her voice rocketing into creepy land. “Mr. Pablo, make it go away.”

  Pablo jumped up and escorted Pamella out of the dressing suite. “Don’t worry, I’ll personally go pick up the wardrobe you just chose for tomorrow’s photoshoot and leave it with De La Renta.”

  Closing the door to a crack, he leaned back in to whisper, “I’ll also talk to Rachel about hiring a new stylist.” Pablo closed the dressing suite door and looked at the poor girl on his arm.

  “That was super creepy,” Pamella said to him.

  “Child, trust me, rejection is protection. She goes through stylists like Sasha Berenson goes through bottles of Chardonnay.”

  “You mean I’m fired? I didn’t work more than a few hours. What did I do?”

  Pablo nodded. “You used the N-word.”

  He left the previously sassy, energetic young stylist bawling in the hallway, probably wondering when she’d used the N-word. He had real work to do, not the least of which was styling the photoshoot that was, hopefully, going to save the show.

  18

  TWISTED VANITY

  5 DAYS TILL WRAP, SEASON SIX

  EARLY THE NEXT morning, Pablo stood alone under the LED lights at Highline Stages as he set up the new photoshoot for the remaining four contestants. Three camera crews hovered around him. Behind the cameras, Rachel, Joe and Broyce intently watched the monitor. Behind the producers and execs, a row of attorneys, wearing ill-fitting power suits and holding yellow legal pads, muttered amongst themselves. Legal was on set to ensure that the appropriate verbiage was used to introduce the controversial photoshoot and protect the show from litigation.

  “Quiet on set,” Bill shouted.

  “Quiet on set,”
the 2nd AD repeated.

  “Rolling.” The word echoed across the studio.

  Pablo smiled as Rachel signaled, Action.

  Taking his cue, Pablo began his introduction. “Hey, girls, for today’s photoshoot we’re going to honor cancer survivors.”

  The three models immediately looked over at Nichole, who appeared unphased by the new direction the episode was now taking. Mason, Miss Thing and Sasha walked into frame and stood next to Pablo.

  “And for the first time on Model Muse, all our resident judges will be on set for this worthy cause because ultimately, today, we’re honoring all women who have battled and are now fighting Breast Cancer.”

  A Steadicam pushed in close to capture a single tear falling down Nichole’s porcelain face.

  “As an added bonus, our very own noted fashion photographer, Mason Hughes, will be shooting this special tribute.”

  Usually stiffly upright, Mason bowed toward the girls. They were all working it. “It is an honor…”

  Pablo clapped his hands. “Okay, time to head off to hair and makeup.”

  “That’s a stop down everyone,” Rachel stood up and announced. “Girls, make sure you use the bathrooms now. This is gonna be a long makeup process today. Camera crews, repo in the dressing area to capture reality. Nichole, it looks like you have some down time.” The other models moved toward the hair stylists.

  Pablo made a beeline over to where Rachel was now standing in the middle of the studio. He covered his mic and whispered into her ear so no one could hear him. “What happened to Sasha? She looks senseless…I mean, more than usual.”

  “She hasn’t slept since she jolted awake in judging–I even tried to give her her breakfast bottle of wine and it did nothing.” Rachel seemed unphased by the incredulity of her own statement. That had been 34 hours ago.

  Pablo scanned the studio and locked in on the production assistant he’d given the Adderall pills to. “How many pills did you put in her Diet Coke?” He grabbed the poor kid by the arm and hissed in his face.