No Tom Fiorelli and no Sabbi Ribiero, either. At the beginning of the movie, Viv kept craning her neck, trying to see if they were among the eighty or so guests on the deck, but they were nowhere to be found.
The staff came around handing out soft fleece blankets and buckets of popcorn.
I saw Jaideep.
“Hey!” I waved.
“Ah, look at you, out enjoying the evening. I think you are feeling better,” he said.
And I realized I did feel better.
At dinner I was actually able to eat some (unbelievably delicious) lobster. After the meal, I pocketed two packets of Solu, like everyone else, but again, I didn’t eat the dessert. I think Viv can tell that I’m not so into it, but she didn’t question me.
She was too happy to eat my flourless Solu-sweetened chocolate cake!
“This is my friend Viv,” I told him. “Jaideep works in the kitchen. We met on the first day.”
“Hi! Tell me, Jaideep,” Viv said, in a mock-serious tone. “Is this film any good?”
“Sure!” Jaideep said without hesitation. “If you happen to be a girl.”
We laughed. Jaideep handed us an extra popcorn and headed off.
“Enjoy the show, ladies!” he called.
And we really did.
TOM
DAY TWO
I WORK OUT HARD when the day’s shoot is wrapped.
I only have an hour and a half because Almstead’s asked me to dine with him at his personal table and he eats at five thirty.
Why do old people eat so early?
* * *
I call Derek while I pick out what to wear.
“Tom-ass! How’s it going?” he says.
I can hear the grin in his voice.
So it can be dangerous to make friends with the people you pay. I learned that the hard way. But Derek’s different.
There were years when my mom would try to bribe kids to be my friends. Like the time she said to these three skateboarders at the park, who I didn’t even know: “You know, all Tom’s friends this year will be invited to our place for a gaming party—and everyone will go home with their very own Xbox!”
And there I was, ten years old, fat and miserable, standing off to the side, wanting to die.
“Come ride my board!” they called. “Dude, I love that show you’re on!”
I made my mom take me home.
At least I had that much pride.
But things were always different with me and Derek.
“How was the day?” he asks me.
I tell him, recount my food.
“I’m eating in the steak house tonight,” I tell him.
“They always serve grilled chicken in a steak house,” he tells me. “And hey, dude, you have to call your mom. She called me, asking how you are.”
“Sorry,” I say.
“Please tell me you’ll call her. ASAP.”
I pull a sports coat out of the closet. It’s just a Jack Spade—nothing fancy—but I really like the cut. I pick out a pair of dark jeans to go with.
“How’s that girl?” he asks. “Freckles.”
“I made such an ass out of myself,” I say. “It’s probably best if I never talk to her again.”
“You definitely have to talk to her again.”
“You know, I think she’s shy. You know what I mean? She, like, doesn’t want to be the center of attention.”
“Rare breed,” Derek says. “I like her more and more.”
We hang up and I make the dreaded call.
“Really?” my mom says by way of answering. “I have to wait two days to hear about the cruise of the century? From my own son?”
“Hey,” I say. “Sorry. It’s been very hectic.”
“I guess it’s a rough life,” she says.
My mom has a way of making everything, even something undeniably awesome, sound like a drag.
“I’m having dinner with the head of Pipop and Solu tonight,” I tell her. “So things are going pretty well.”
“Tell him I hate the new Diet Pip. They have to bring back the old one.”
“I’ll tell him.”
“The coverage looks good, but I’m not crazy about your forehead.”
“Thanks, Mom. I’m not crazy about yours, either.”
“You know what I mean. It’s greasy. Tell Tamara you need more powder.”
“Will do.”
I pick out a nice gray shirt to go with the jacket.
“Hey, I’m running late.”
“All right. Well, Susanna called. MTV is jerking us around on Spring Break. They don’t see their way to raising your fee and I told Susanna—”
I just uh-huh and okay my way through the rest of the conversation.
My mom can’t seem to let go of control. We agreed that Tamara would come on as my manager, but my mom still insists all the calls from my agent go through her.
This is the year I tell my mom I don’t want her to be involved in running my business anymore.
I’ve been telling myself that since I turned fourteen.
I think my problem is this image I get of her, sitting in the home office she had built into our big Brentwood house. She’s got this large wooden desk and framed photos of me on different gigs, with different stars, on all the walls.
I see her there, with the phones dead, just sitting there. It’s too sad.
* * *
The smell of steak is intense. How am I going to not eat a steak? Grilled chicken. Thanks, Derek.
I’m the first to arrive, but the waiter knows to lead me right to the best table. Crisp linen tablecloth, real silver flatware. Each table lit with a small, antique oil-burning lamp. The steak house is on Deck 11, with a view of the ocean.
This is a classy ship, no doubt about it.
Tamara clearly doesn’t approve of my sports coat. I can see it in her face when she arrives with Rich, who is, of course, wearing a suit.
“Tom, I hear the day’s shoot went really well,” Rich exclaims. “Congratulations.”
“It’s all Tamara,” I say. “She set it all up.”
“Oh, shut up, the both of you,” Tamara says. But there’s a hint of a smile on her face. “Our goal in this meeting is to get to know Almstead better—and find out if there’s anything he wants from us that we’re not giving him.”
“Lord, she’s efficient, ain’t she?” Rich says.
“Nothing but efficient. Literally,” I joke.
Tamara narrows her eyes at me. “Wiseass. I need a martini,” Tamara says, waving for a waiter. “Diet Pip for you, Tom?”
“I’ll take a soda water with lime.”
“Here he is,” Rich says under his breath.
Mr. Almstead has entered the steak house, flanked by his burly assistant.
Darn it. Almstead’s wearing a three-piece suit with a tie.
There are a bunch of other diners, even at this ungodly hour, and each of them stops Almstead to shake his hand and thank him as he makes his way over to us.
“So pleased you three could join me,” Almstead chirps as he draws close.
“Good evening, sir,” I say.
We all rise to greet him. Is it right for Tamara to rise? Maybe women are supposed to stay seated? The fine points of etiquette escape me sometimes. But Tamara’s up and shaking his hand.
“Please, sit down. Don’t make a fuss,” he says.
The assistant holds Almstead’s cane and helps Almstead by pulling back his chair.
Then the big brute just … stands there.
“Will your assistant be joining us?” Rich asks, nodding toward the monster.
“Oh no. Amos is built like a brick shithouse. He could stand there all night and not move an inch, isn’t that right, Amos?”
“Yes, sir.”
Almstead waggles his eyebrows.
“He used to say ‘Sir, yes, sir.’ We’re not fooling anyone, are we?” he asks. “Amos is a former marine. I’m afraid my board of directors has strongly recommended I
have a bodyguard. It makes me feel silly, but maybe you read about the attack.”
I had.
“This deranged guy insisted that his obese wife’s death was due to a soda-pop addiction and tried to take me out with a sawed-off shotgun.”
“It was an outrage,” Rich says.
“Very disturbing,” Tamara agrees.
“I’ve said it a million times,” Almstead says. “It’s soda! If you don’t want to be fat, don’t drink it!”
A waiter hands us menus.
God, the steaks.
Twelve-ounce porterhouse. Eight-ounce filets. A twenty-ounce New York strip.
Grrr.
“Now more states are proposing those ridiculous regulations on the sizes of drinks stores can sell!” Tamara says.
“Oh, those bother the board, all right, but I don’t pay them any mind. People want what they want, and they’re willing to do just about anything to get it, most times. A man thirsty for twenty-four ounces of pop, why he’ll just buy two sixteen-ounce bottles, drink the extra and be all the happier.”
“Look at this!” the guy at the table next to us exclaims. The waiter is setting down a beautiful steak in front of the man. It’s the twenty-ounce strip, has to be. It’s sizzling hot. The smell of crackling butter radiates from it.
The waiter sets a seafood risotto in front of the man’s wife.
My mouth waters.
Our waiter approaches and asks for our orders.
Derek would be so proud, I order a chicken breast and steamed vegetables.
Almstead looks at me with surprise.
“You can’t be trying to reduce!” he exclaims. “You on a diet, Fiorelli?”
“No, sir,” I say. “It’s just … every morning I make a food plan and I stick to it.”
Almstead starts clapping.
“That’s the way! I can’t tell you how much I respect that! Say there,” he calls to the waiter. “Change my order. I’ll have what he’s having.”
The waiter nods politely. “Very good, sir.”
“I hate it when they don’t write down the orders,” Almstead says. “They think they’re being fancy, but something always gets messed up.”
“Mr. Almstead, Tom and I were wondering if there’s any particular element to the story behind Solu that you’d like us to focus on in the next few days,” Tamara says.
“You’re doing great. We just want people to know it works and it’s safe,” Almstead says. “And they can see that from your footage. Seeing is believing!”
“We just wanted to make sure because … well … you may have seen the New Yorker article,” Rich says delicately. “They focus on your involvement, putting forward the idea that you invested in Solu because of some kind of guilt about the role that Pipop has played in the obesity epidemic.”
“Bull crap!” Almstead says. “I don’t feel guilty about our pop. Never have. I invested in Solu because I know business!
“You know, when I was young, we had nicknames that didn’t lie. They weren’t ‘ironic.’ If you were short, they called you Shorty. If you were fat, they called you Fatty, or Piggie or Lardy or Oinkers. If you had a gimpy right arm they called you Lefty. If you had one eye you were Dead-Eye.
“You know what I was called?”
We shake our heads.
It occurs to me that we don’t really have to talk at all at this meal. Almstead likes to grandstand. He just wants an audience.
Seems like lots of old people are like this.
“I was Oinkers. Yep, I know I don’t look it now, but I was round as a pumpkin.”
“I guess you and I have that in common, sir,” I venture. “I had a little trouble with weight when I was a kid, too.”
I give him a smile.
Almstead looks at me blankly for a second, then snaps his fingers. “That’s right, you were a tubby little sucker, weren’t you?”
I thought we’d bond about it, but the way he says “tubby little sucker” makes me feel kind of pissed.
“I bet I know what happened to you,” he goes on. “Girls! You realized you’d never have a shot so you leaned down. Am I right?”
I shrug. “Sort of.”
Here Almstead’s eyes flash to the man at the table next to us. The man has cut off a piece of steak that’s too big and is chewing with his mouth partly open.
Disgust flashes over Almstead’s face.
“No, the Oinkers of the world need a solution. And Solu is the solution. Plain and simple.”
Tamara raises her glass. “To Solu!”
We all toast.
“I’ll tell you what, you can talk about this in your press releases and whatnot—Pipop started out as medicine. I bet you didn’t know that. My grandfather, Thomas Almstead, was a druggist and a general-store owner. And he mixed up Pipop as a nerve tonic.”
“That’s so cool,” I say.
“We can definitely use that,” Tamara says.
“Pipop was his contribution; Solu is my contribution!” Almstead says.
Four waiters arrive in tandem, setting down our covered plates and removing the silver domes in unison.
As I look at my chicken, I guess I look a bit down in the mouth.
Almstead laughs at my expression.
“Cheer up, son!” he says. “There’s always tomorrow.”
I smile.
“Yeah,” I say. “I think steak is on the meal plan for tomorrow.”
“I’ll drink to that!” Almstead hoots.
He’s a funny guy.
I like him. Kind of.
LAUREL
DAY THREE
IN THE MORNING, I tell Viv I have to practice my guitar, and it’s true. She tells me she has to get more sleep. So I leave the room.
I’m working on a Bach prelude. It’s impossibly hard and I’m horrible at it, but I’m hoping that practice will make (not perfect but) marginally acceptable.
I need that scholarship. Pensacola University has a pretty good program in classical guitar. Vivika thinks I should audition for Juilliard, but she doesn’t know what she’s talking about. (And it’s, like, fifty thousand dollars a year. And it’s really far away from home. And it’s in New York City.)
The ship is designed so that there are little private areas dotted around the upper deck, at the back of the ship. I find one of these and plunk myself down.
I was worried that my playing might disturb the other passengers, but about a half hour ago, this girl came over near me and sat down. I know she’s listening to me, but she’s pretending like she’s reading a Teen Vogue. She’s just a kid and must weigh 350 pounds. (If Solu works for anyone, I hope it works for her.)
I sort of want to strike up a conversation and advise her to ditch the Teen Vogue. I mean, why’s she torturing herself? Even a size 0 would feel depressed after reading that rag.
But the Bach. The Bach calls.
I’m working the piece backward, the way Mrs. Sandstrom wants me to.
There’s this tripping little phrase.
I just work it. Repeat. Bee dee-dee-dee. Bee dee-dee-dee. Bee dee-dee-dee.
I should apologize to the girl listening, but I didn’t ask her to sit near me. And I really want to nail it. Bee dee-dee-dee. Bee dee-dee-dee. Bee dee-dee-dee. I go for speed.
“Whoa!”
I look up.
It’s Tom Fiorelli, and for some reason, he is holding a tray with a white teapot and a cup and saucer on it.
“That is some serious guitar playing.”
He’s grinning at me.
Damn blush. It spreads instantly. I can feel that my face and neck are turning beet red.
“It’s Bach,” I say. “I mean, it’s just one phrase I’m having trouble with. From Bach.”
“It sounds … well, it sounds insane, but I’m sure the rest of the piece is really awesome.”
“It is!” says the girl. “And she plays it really good.”
“Hi, oh, hey! We met yesterday, didn’t we?” Tom says to the girl.
�
��You interviewed me! I’m Claire,” she says. She’s grinning broadly at Tom.
“I remember.”
While he’s not looking my way, it’s easier to study him.
It takes some time to get used to seeing someone in person you’ve only ever seen on screen.
It’s hard to explain how handsome this guy is.
It starts at the eyes, which are light hazel, and fringed by impossibly dark lashes. Thick eyebrows. His skin is tan, with a trace of stubble at the chin.
“I got a message from my friends. They totally saw me on TV! They said it was awesome,” Claire says.
“Cool. Well, tell them I say hi,” Tom says to the girl and turns back to me.
His hazel eyes are twinkly, glittery.
“So I made this for you,” he says, setting down the tray on the small table next to my chair. “It’s fresh ginger tea with honey and pepper. Whenever I’d get sick on set, they’d make me this in craft services. It really helps to settle your stomach. I thought it might help.”
He made me tea?!
“That’s really nice of you,” I say.
I stand up and lift the lid of the teapot. The spicy smell of ginger comes wafting up.
We’re standing pretty close. Almost too close, but it would be weird to sit down now.
Claire is peeking over the top of her lounge chair, like a little kid in a restaurant booth.
It makes me blush harder.
“How did you make it?” I ask. “Did you go in the kitchen?”
“No,” he says. “I asked my room steward to bring me hot water and ginger with my breakfast.”
“Oh,” I say.
(I should say something besides oh.)
Why can’t I think of anything to say?
“Well, it’s really nice of you.”
“Thanks,” he says. He sticks his hands in his pockets.
(Think of something to say, Laurel!!!)
“Well, I hope you feel better,” he says.
“Thanks,” I say. “You’re nice.”
(I am an idiot! Be interesting! Say something real!)
“Thanks,” he says.
He looks somewhat bemused.
I hear a digital lens click and see that Claire’s taken a photo of us on her iPhone.
It seems that every embarrassing moment I have with Tom Fiorelli will be in the public eye.
Claire’s probably about to tweet our conversation. #SoluGossip. #TomFiorelliAndSomeLoser. #SheCan’tHoldARegularConversationWithAGorgeousGuy.
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