“Back seat, Addie,” I say.
“Oh, well, of course.” She avoids my eyes. She smiles at the driver, eases herself out of the car, and slides in next to me. She smells good, like vanilla. I can’t help but notice she’s fidgety, her hands clasping and unclasping in her lap. My ego would like to think that I make her a little nervous.
“We need to go over next week’s schedule. First up, Good Morning America is scheduled for Tuesday. The car will be at your apartment at seven a.m. You’ll be on during the eight a.m. segment. George will meet us at GMA to dress you, and they’ll do your hair and makeup. Right after that is The View.”
“Do I really need all of this help? Clothes? Makeup? Hair? It seems like overkill. I’m not a celebrity.”
I look at her with a cool stare.
“Okay, maybe I need a little help. Oh God! This is really happening. I mean, I wrote a book. This is too much too fast!” She covers her face with her hands and proceeds to hyperventilate.
“Breathe. Just breathe,” I whisper with a gentleness that startles me a little. My sense of protecting her is heightened. I want to soothe her. Assure her. But most of all, I want to ease this anxiety that tells me she doesn’t think she is deserving or worthy of this opportunity.
Addie slowly regains a normal breathing pattern.
“Thanks. I don’t think I’m prepared for this whirlwind. I mean, I wrote a book. Just a book.”
“Addie, you keep repeating that you wrote a book. But it’s a book that will make an impact. Be proud. Enjoy the moment. Celebrate it. Stop looking at this as if it were a bad thing.”
“You’re right, of course. It’s just my experience that with something good, there is always something bad to follow. I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop, the shit to hit the fan, the floor beneath me to drop, the—”
I interrupt her. “I get the idea, Addie. It’s perfectly normal to feel anxious, but you have a team of people who will have your back every step of the way.” I itch to touch her, but I need to remain neutral. No emotional attachment. This is only a job.
Addie
I feel uncomfortable the moment the words leave my mouth. I don’t want to appear vulnerable. My whole life has been a series of unfortunate occurrences. Giving Jameson a glimpse of my insecurities, well, it was not a part of my plan. I like to keep those things closely guarded. Besides, his body language tells me that he’s currently experiencing extreme discomfort, or perhaps he just always appears constipated. Maybe I’m not so bad off after all. Now, if I could get my lady parts to agree that this isn’t anything more than a business transaction. But no, the proximity of his hot body has them singing the “Hallelujah” chorus. Bitches.
“Sorry for my little meltdown. I just can’t seem to process all of this, and I am a little freaked out, to say the least,” I whisper.
“No worries. This isn’t the first time that I’ve had a client panic,” he states, completely monotone.
Right. Client. Geez, Addie, remember you’re simply a paycheck to him.
The car slows at the curb in front of my apartment, and the driver opens the door for me. I glance at Jameson and give a slight smile before turning to leave. I feel his hand grab my wrist and jump at the firmness of his grip.
“Not so fast. I thought I could give you a few pointers that will make you feel more comfortable during the interviews you’ll be giving.” He is still holding on to my wrist. I look down, and he instantly releases it. I miss the touch.
He clears his throat. “First, the producer will run over the questions they’ll be asking, so you will have that information in advance. The best advice I can give you is to focus on the interviewer. Pretend it’s a conversation with a good friend. Doing that will relax you.”
“That makes sense except that there are cameras, lights, and millions of people watching me.” My voice raises an octave.
“I think you will surprise yourself, Addie. Your book is relatable, and so are you.”
Before I can even respond, his warmth dissipates, and the colder, more stoic Jameson emerges. “And remember, push the book as much as you can during the interview. You want to sell it, not just have a chat. It’s all about promotion. The more you promote, the more sales you will make. I’ll be back at seven a.m. on Tuesday to pick you up. George will meet us there with your outfit, and then you’ll go to hair and makeup. Don’t be late.”
I nod that I understand even though my mind is reeling. I get out of the car and look back, but he’s looking at his phone, dismissing me.
I walk into my apartment, and the buzzer immediately assaults me. Adhering to Jameson’s concerns, I ask for identification. It’s my cousin, Matthew. Again. I imagine that this isn’t a social call but more of a monetary request disguised as a social call.
I open the door and gesture for him to enter. It astounds me that Matthew is still as good-looking as he was in high school. He is of medium height, has black hair, and his arms are lined with tattoos (which are mostly covered by the leather jacket that he wears). It never fails to amaze me that at one time, we were close—but something shifted. When we were younger, he was like another brother. When Owen was born, things changed. Maybe he was uncomfortable with his disability, or quite possibly, he was discovering the world of the female persuasion. Possibly both, but there had been a growing distance between us for years. Once he met Dorothy, our relationship evaporated. He draws people in with his charismatic, engaging personality. He’s one of those people who could sell ice to an Eskimo. Too bad he doesn’t use those skills to keep a job.
“Hey, Matthew.” I try to sound chipper.
“Hey, yourself. You didn’t even tell your only cousin about your new book. I had to hear about it from Dorothy, who saw it on Twitter. That hurt my feelings.” He pouts. I soften as I feel the old Matthew emerging. Sweet. Caring.
“Well, it’s kind of new to me, too. Plus, it’s a tad overwhelming. I haven’t had a lot of time to adjust.” It’s the truth. I feel like I’m living someone else’s life.
“Really? A windfall of money is overwhelming? You wrote a stupid book. Big fucking deal.” Nice. Yep, ladies and gentlemen, the real Matthew is back. The cold, spiteful man who feels that the world owes him. I tense up instantly.
“There hasn’t been a windfall of money. We are just starting to promote it, so…” I stop mid-sentence, knowing that an explanation will simply fall on deaf ears. “What brings you here, Matthew? You aren’t here to talk about my book.” I sigh.
“Oh Addie, you’ve always been so sensitive. Look, I just need a little loan until I find another job. After all, we are family, and family helps each other.” He is looking at me expectantly. Normally, I would roll over and comply with his request. Didn’t I just give him a handout a few months ago? Maybe it’s the fact that I’m emotionally spent—that I am currently trying to navigate this newfound status. I’m a little tired of taking care of everyone else, especially people who are perfectly capable of taking care of themselves. Maybe I’m tired of being told what to do, what to wear—well, the list is lengthy. There’s no room for this fresh hell. All of the emotional baggage of constantly enabling my cousin bubbles up and spews out. My brain is screaming, “There she blows!”
“Let me get this right. I slave for a decade creating a book that I hoped someone would be generous enough to publish, and you, who goes through jobs like women go through chocolate, want a piece of the action? I’ve ‘loaned’ money before that has never been repaid. Several months ago, I wrote you a big, fat check that should have kept you afloat for a while. I am tired of you and your wife idly expecting me to bail you out while Dorothy goes and ‘buys’ a new Michael Kors purse.” I do air quotes on ‘buy’ because let’s be honest, convicted or not, she is a shoplifter.
“Matthew, while I’m on a roll, I will tell you that your freeloading days have officially ended. There will be no more handouts. You an
d your shoplifting hoarder of a wife need to get jobs.” I exhale. Wow, that feels fucking amazing. The guilt I thought I would feel simply isn’t there.
“You know she was never convicted, right? It was all a big misunderstanding.” He’s looking at me like he’s still trying to convince himself- cue my exaggerated eye roll.
“Is that the only message you got from what I just said?” I am so done at this point.
“Are you kidding me right now? It isn’t my fault that I can’t find or keep a job. It isn’t my fault that your selfish mother refused to leave me any money. You. Owe. Me.” His face darkens. His finger points at me. To be completely honest, I am a little intimidated and very surprised, but I won’t let him steer me away from honoring my truth.
“My mother owed you nothing. I don’t owe you anything. Stop blaming everyone for your own shit. When did you become so entitled and bitter? There was a time when we were close. I don’t even know who you are anymore.” I shake my head. Tears threaten to fall, but I resist the urge to show any vulnerability.
He smirks. “Whatever, Addie. You have always thought you were better than everyone else. I guess family means nothing to you.”
“Family does mean something to me. I thought that giving you money all of this time would make us closer, but the reality is that it seems to have done the opposite. You don’t care about Owen or me—you simply want to use me as your own personal ATM. I’m done, done trying to make us have a relationship that doesn’t even exist, and done being used. But most of all, done being the pushover I’ve been for years. Grow up, Matthew. You and your wife need to find someone else to manipulate.”
“It’s cute that you’re standing up for yourself. Little Addie, who couldn’t even get a date. Whose only friend is her retarded brother. But even with this book, you are still the pathetic, fat loser you always were. Watch your back because your high and mighty days are numbered.”
“Are you threatening me?”
“I would never threaten family. Have a good day, Addie.” He turns and walks out the door.
Could this day get any stranger?
Addie
I can hardly sleep. The thought of being on television for the whole world to judge me elicits tremendous anxiety. At seven a.m., I am staring out of the window, willing Jameson not to show up. But when I see the town car pull up in front of my apartment, I go numb. My stomach churns. I hesitate to leave my sanctuary. I might hyperventilate. What if I make a fool of myself on national television? What if I can’t remember anything about my book? Suddenly, my legs are walking to the door without my permission. The next thing I know, I’m standing on the sidewalk in a trance, frozen, staring at the black car idling at the curb. My stomach rolls…oh God, I might throw up right here in full view of everybody. I see the back window of the car open.
“You have to get into the car for us to get to the set,” Jameson
deadpans.
His voice jolts me out of my stupor, and I swallow down my nausea. Deep breaths. Don’t show weakness, I tell myself. I can do this. I brought chocolate with me.
I narrow my eyes, covering my fear by giving him my best glare. On a good day, I’m not overly intimidating, so I sigh and assume the seat next to the brooding publicist. Jameson smells good. I just want to sniff him vertically and horizontally.
“Are you sniffing me?”
I realize I’m leaning toward him while making a sniffing sound. Oops. My lady parts comment, “Good job,” and I tell them to hush. I said that last word out loud, too. He gives me a strange look.
“Don’t be silly. It’s the coffee I’m smelling. Did you bring one for me? Isn’t that part of your job?” I stare at him expectantly.
He smirks and hands me the cup of liquid gold. I might have moaned, and he raises his eyebrow.
As we pull up to the back door of the studio, my breath catches. My nerves are at a rave.
“Addie, if you hold your breath, you will pass out.” God, he is so annoying.
“Thanks for the reminder, Captain Obvious. I will keep that in mind for future reference.” I mock salute him.
He smiles at me, or maybe I am so far gone that I’m simply hallucinating, but I swear there is a slight tug of his lips, and teeth are exposed—a rare phenomenon.
As we enter the building, I see that George is waiting impatiently.
“Girl, what did I tell you about this sorry excuse for clothing? You can look cute and stylish while being comfortable. Never mind. First things first, and we need you, Addie Snyder, to put the FAB in FABULOUS. Fortunately, you have me to help you get there.”
Seriously, it is the butt crack of dawn. Why is he so perky? I nod in agreement since he’s right. I am a hot mess who needs any help she can get.
There are so much touching and various invasions of personal space. First, George buttons and zips and pulls at my clothes, then the makeup girl is all over my face and neck, next the hairstylist gets close, and then a slew of miscellaneous assistants proceed to feel me up. I haven’t had this much action in, well, let’s just say my lady parts have cobwebs, and if Christopher Columbus were alive, he would think he found a whole new world. I might be a virgin by default.
By the time everyone is done, George looks at me and says, “Addie, you look amazing. I mean, I am amazing, but it helps to have something wonderful to work with, and you are beautiful.” He says it so matter-of-factly that at that moment, I have no choice but to believe him.
He positions me in front of the mirror, and I gasp. I am wearing stylish, fitted black pants with an elegant pink silk blouse that accentuates my assets. The “girls” look like they’re waving “hello” instead of dragging along the waistband of my pants. George chose low-heeled pumps since he knows I’m fearful of falling in heels, and my pixie cut is styled in a way that frames my face.
I stare. George grins, and Jameson appears to be having a stroke.
Jameson
I am not sure what it is about this woman. She’s not my type. I’m usually drawn to glamorous, refined women who are easily disposable. I don’t want the emotional tendencies that lead to the R-word: relationship. The word makes me break out in a cold sweat. But Addie, she is another R-word: refreshing. I like how she greets everyone with kindness and a smile. I enjoy how astonished she is when she catches a glimpse of herself after George styles her—and I can’t help but stare at her transformation. And it is amusing how she searches her large purse in hopes of finding a piece of chocolate, and when she does, pops it in her mouth like a Xanax. Lucky piece of chocolate.
What the hell is happening to me?
The interview goes without a hitch. She is incredibly relatable, and her nervousness barely shows. My phone buzzes nonstop as we head over to the set of The View.
“You did fantastically. After The View, we’ll meet Nina for lunch to go over the book tour, and then we’ll head back to Rockefeller Center to meet with the producers of The Tonight Show. Same deal as GMA. They will go over questions with you, and then you’re done for the day.” I am still looking at my phone, not wanting to make eye contact.
Silence.
“Addie, did you hear me? Are you okay? Look, I know this is all very overwhelming—”
“Do you? Do you know this whole situation is making me want to scream? I am trying very hard to be excited. To celebrate this moment when my dreams have come true. But I’m seriously wondering if I’m cut out for this. That interview was terrifying. I am a behind-the-scenes person. This,” she gestures to her new look, “is not me.”
I am used to the diva meltdowns. The outrageous demands of celebrities and what happens when they don’t receive their requests. But this—this is a totally different beast. I have never had anyone who didn’t want to be the center of attention.
“Addie, I can’t imagine the kind of pressure you’re feeling, but this is part of the package. You are under contr
actual obligation to fulfill these appearances until after the book tour.” I say it with firm conviction, but I regret the words the moment they spill out of my mouth. This probably isn’t what she needed to hear.
“I should have known you wouldn’t have a human response. You know, to be sympathetic to my feelings, my fears. I guess you aren’t paid to be a support system.” She turns and looks out the window.
For the first time in a while, I am speechless. I can placate the most difficult individual, but the authenticity of this woman is gutting me. How do I handle this?
“I am paid to keep you on schedule. I’m a publicist, not a therapist.” Once the words leave my lips, I can hear the hurt in her gasp. From what I saw in my background check of Addie, the people in her life are users and always have been. The only ally she seems to have is Nina, and maybe one day, I can be that as well. I need to do a better job of not being an asshole.
Addie
That night, I stumble into my humble abode, depleted. There is something about this apartment that honors the real me—a writer who wants to write. I strip out of my fancy new clothes and cloak myself in my pajamas. Too keyed up to sleep, I open my laptop and start to write.
The door buzzer startles me awake, and when I immediately fall back asleep, my phone starts ringing. And the door buzzer goes off again, on steroids. I feel the indentation of the keyboard on my face from the night spent on my laptop. Owen beats me to the buzzer. Somehow, it’s eight a.m., and I need to be on a local morning show at nine. Shit.
“Who is it?” My brother loves to act like he is the guardian of our domain.
“It’s Jameson. I’m Addie’s publicist,” his sexy voice announces.
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