If the Shoe Fits

by Julie Murphy

  For the rest of the afternoon, my fake stepmom, Tammy, and I bake fake cookies and do fake dishes and have fake conversations and have fake fun. The whole time, from behind the camera, Beck urges, “Smile! Act natural!”

  Those three words spin circles in my head for the rest of the day and well into the night as I pack my bags and tuck the triplets into bed once more. Smile. Act natural.

  The next morning, I do a quick run through my room to make sure I didn’t miss anything. Dropping down to one knee, I check under the bed, but I don’t find a stray shoe or eyeliner. Instead, all I see is a large cardboard box. I reach forward and drag it out. Scrawled across the top in Erica’s quick handwriting it says, Simon’s for C. A soft gasp escapes me.

  Last summer, when I tried sorting through some of Dad’s things, I asked Erica if she could just save some of them for me. I’d already taken one of his threadbare flannels, his favorite slippers, and a few of his Clive Cussler novels just after he died, so I felt okay leaving it to her to decide what was worth keeping. Especially when the alternative was me facing all the pain I’d been hiding from for years.

  I let my fingers dance along his name for a moment. A part of me feels sick to know that I slept here all week with his remaining belongings just hovering beneath me, like a ghost. I wasn’t ready last summer, and I’m definitely not ready now. I slide the box back where I found it and take my luggage across the yard and into the main house.

  Inside, Erica is rushing around with a woman slightly older than her in a floral Oxford shirt, khaki Bermuda shorts, and thick-soled walking shoes. “And this is where I keep their favorite cups. They’ll use the other cups, but these are their favorites. Gus hates celery. Mary will tell you she can swim without her puddle jumper, but she’s lying. In fact, it’s best to assume Mary is lying more often than not. She’s not malicious. Just creative. And Jack is a bigger softy than he lets on and—”

  The sound of my two large suitcases rolling over the tile interrupts Erica’s rapid-fire info dump on this poor woman.

  “Oh, Cindy!” she says. “You’re ready! Let’s get Bruce to take you to the Marriott to meet the rest of the girls.”

  “Maybe I should take a Lyft or something? Less conspicuous?”

  Her eyes light up. “Yes!” She turns to the woman beside her, who is surprisingly unfrazzled. “This is Jana. She’ll be taking over with the triplets for the summer.”

  Jana smiles. “Nice to meet you.”

  “Jana was the behind-the-scenes nanny for that Nicole + Joel + More show. You know, the one with the young couple who were having fertility trouble and then ended up with quintuplets.”

  “Oh, yeah,” I say. “Didn’t he cheat on her with…”

  Jana smirks. “With their new nanny. After I moved back to Los Angeles.”

  I nod. “Well, I guess triplets will be a breeze for you.”

  “That’s what I was trying to explain to Ms. Tremaine,” she says gently but firmly.

  Erica sighs. “Sorry, mom anxiety is at an all-time high today.”

  I nod and stand there for a moment. I hate saying goodbye, especially to Erica. Do we hug? Say I love you? The two of us weave awkwardly back and forth for a moment before opting for a side hug. Nothing says You’re my only living almost parent like a goodbye side hug.

  I leave my phone in the drawer in the kitchen, but before I power it down, I shoot off one text to Sierra. I’m disappearing for a little while, but if you tune in to Channel Eight next Tuesday night, you’ll see why. I love you.

  When I arrive at the hotel, I find that the show has taken over the unopened hotel bar.

  There’s a small check-in table with some junior assistant producers, including Mallory from yesterday with the braids and the band sticker clipboard. I line up, get a name tag, and am instructed to leave my luggage and go mingle with other cast members.

  “Cin!”

  My heart swells at the sound of Drew’s voice.

  Her head bounces above the crowd of women—all of them tall and thin in very chic, low-maintenance looks.

  My hips and I part through the crowd until I see Anna and Drew. “Thank God,” I whisper.

  “It’s so good to see you!” Anna says loudly, sounding more like an acquaintance than a sister.

  A woman who could potentially be a long-lost Kardashian with smooth straight black hair stretching nearly to her waist crosses her arms over her busty chest. Pointy nude nails make her fingers look endless. “And how do you three know one another?”

  Anna’s expression goes blank, but Drew swoops in to the rescue. “We went to high school with Cindy. She was a year behind us, right, Cin?”

  I nod. The best lie is always the truth. “Yep, high school.”

  “Isn’t that cute?” the woman says.

  Anna beams. “Addison, this is Cindy. Cindy, this is Addison.” And then like she’s the mayor of HottieMcLegville, Anna introduces me to the rest of the girls in their little circle. Zoe, Claudia, Jen S., Jen B., Jen K., Gen with a G, Jenny, Olivia, Trina…The names keep coming. There are a few lawyers, one doctor, and a teacher, but most simply say they’re in social media consultation, which seems to be code for Instagram model.

  “Okay, ladies! Please take a seat,” Beck calls through cupped hands from where she sits on top of the bar. “Orientation time, people!”

  We crowd around little round tables, and I find myself safely tucked between Anna and Drew. I wave at Beck, but her gaze coasts right over me, and I’m guessing it’s because she’s trying not to play favorites. Then again, that assumes I’m her favorite. I shake the thought from my head. She’s probably that friendly with all the contestants so they warm up faster. Get it together, Cindy. This isn’t real life. This is reality television.

  I felt good this morning. I put on a pair of pointy coral patent leather loafers I made for my final during my study abroad in Italy and a crisp white T-shirt tucked into my favorite cuffed mom jeans. But every single woman here is shiny and glossy and polished in a way I’ve never been. I am definitely out of my depth here.

  “All right, class, listen up,” Beck says. “Most of you know me, but for those who don’t, I’m Beck. Back at that table are Zeke, Mallory, and Thomas. They are your assistant producers. And this is Wes.” She motions to the tall guy with light brown skin beside her with his hair shaved close on the sides, leaving a pile of curls atop his head. “Think of Wes and me as co-captains. We are your junior executive producers. We are your people. If something happens, you talk to us. If something that is supposed to happen doesn’t happen, you talk to us. Think of us as your mothers, your sisters, your therapists, your fairy godmothers, but also your dad who sometimes has to lay down the law.”

  “Tell us a dad joke!” someone shouts.

  Without missing a beat, Beck says, “I’m reading a book about antigravity. It’s impossible to put down.”

  Half of the room laughs dryly, while the other half makes a confused tittering noise.

  “And of course, the renowned Erica Tremaine is your show creator and executive producer. She will be in and out during production. We’re about to load you all up on a fancy bus,” she continues. “At which time we will distribute a welcome packet with some house rules, a map of the château, a brief bio of our mystery suitor—”

  The women, including Anna and Drew, whistle and squeal.

  “I heard he’s a pilot,” someone behind me says.

  Beck clears her throat. “And you will also find your room numbers along with the names of your roommates. We have about four girls to a room, but that will change as many of you are eliminated. Tonight, we go from twenty-five to eighteen, so some of you won’t even have a full room by the time you close your eyes.”

  The women groan, and even I feel a sinking pit in my stomach.

  “This is when I should give you a lecture about sisterhood and playing nice and yada, yada, yada, but let’s be real: When has that ever made for good TV?”

  The room goes sharply quie
t except for the producers chuckling at the back of the room.

  “I’m kidding,” Beck says. “Sort of. In all seriousness, we want you all to get along, of course, but don’t forget that this is a competition with true love on the line.”

  Around me, several women nod with fervor. Not Addison, though. She sits with her legs crossed once at the knee and again at the ankle—is the woman a contortionist? Maybe a contortionist influencer? Is there an audience for that?

  “And of course,” Beck continues, “a hundred thousand dollars.”

  Everyone lets out an excited whoop! Even me! I could do so much with that money. I’ve been aimless for the last year, but I can’t ignore the little burst of excitement I feel when I think about what I could do if I won. That money, even after taxes, could be a real start to something huge for me and what might someday be my brand. I wiggle my toes inside my shoes, the worn leather insoles perfectly formed to the shape of my feet, and for a moment I imagine what it might be like to see these babies on shelves everywhere in all kinds of sizes and colors. And a very small part of me even aches for my sketch pad. Not because I have any huge ideas just bubbling at the surface, but because I miss the feel of it in my hands.

  “For a lot of you, this will be a life-changing experience, and we truly do hope you bond with one another, but don’t forget what you came here for. Or who you came here for.” Beck claps her hands together. “File up in a line outside the buses waiting for you in the carport. Please make sure your luggage is clearly marked…and with that, we’re off to the château!”

  We all cheer, and Anna squeezes my hand. “I can’t believe we’re actually doing this!”

  On the bus, Drew and Anna sit together and I sit behind them. Several women walk past me in search of other contestants, but a petite white woman with light brown hair wearing a pink-and-white-striped shirt dress and matching espadrilles stops at my row. “Is this seat taken?” she asks in a Southern drawl.

  “All yours,” I tell her.

  She holds a hand out to me, and I’m honestly surprised she’s not wearing matching lace gloves too.

  “I’m Sara Claire,” she tells me.

  I shake her hand and try to wedge myself against the wall to give her a little more space. “Cindy,” I tell her. “Just the one name.”

  She giggles, and then pats my thigh. “I’ve got plenty of room, Cindy. No need for shrinkin’ yourself up into a ball.”

  “Th-thanks,” I say, feeling a little self-conscious that she noticed, but then again, I’ve heard that Southern women have a way of being both polite and direct.

  We sit in silence as we begin to read through our welcome packets.

  MIDNIGHT CHTEAU RULES

  1. No glass containers—none whatsoever!—in the hot tub.

  2. Lights-out rules enforced. (Time varies by night.)

  3. No cell phones. No emails. No texts. No communication with the outside world.

  4. Violence will not be tolerated. Any violence will result in immediate elimination and potential law enforcement involvement.

  5. Smile! You’re on camera.

  A chill runs down my spine. Creepy.

  Beside me, Sara Claire gasps. “We’re roomies!”

  I look over at her packet and then quickly flip to the third page to catch up.

  ROOM 6:

  Sara Claire

  Cindy

  Addison

  Stacy

  “I hope Addison and Stacy are nice,” Sara Claire says.

  I peer over my shoulder to where Addison sits a few rows back, whispering to another woman.

  “That might be asking for too much,” I mutter.

  I flip back a page to find it labeled SUITOR BIO.

  This season’s suitor hails from an iconic family known for their fashion empire.

  What? The possible heir to a fashion empire? “Did you see this?” I ask, pointing to the bio.

  Sara Claire peers over my shoulder. “I wonder what brand it is?”

  “I don’t know, but the fashion industry is a smaller world than you’d expect, especially for the big luxury names.” I continue to read, searching for a hint.

  The suitor is known for his sharp-witted humor and business savvy. He might be vicious in the boardroom, but he’s a total softy with the ladies. His hobbies include sailing, water polo, high-stakes Scrabble, and returning his mother’s phone calls. He’s ready to upgrade from his single lifestyle and finally settle down with a woman who will challenge him and help represent the family brand.

  Sara Claire taps her pink nail against the page. “Playboy reputation rehab.”

  “Huh?”

  She turns to me and in a low voice says, “These guys are always some kind of archetype. Country boy with family values looking to settle down? He’s really a right-wing nut with mommy issues. Free-spirited adventure seeker looking for his soul mate to plant roots with? Immature daredevil who thinks he’s more special than everyone else. You gotta read between the lines.”

  I tilt my head, looking at the bio once more.

  She points to the second line. “Sharp-witted humor means ‘sarcastic jerk.’ High-stakes Scrabble? More like a gambling addiction. Single lifestyle? Sounds like he’s got a thing for one-night stands.”

  I look at her once again, trying to size her up. Sara Claire is not what I expected. “How do you know all this?”

  “I’m in the business of business. Hedge funds. Family business in Texas. Daddy calls me his BS radar. I go to meetings and look pretty. Everyone underestimates me, and I hear all the things their mouths aren’t sayin’.”

  “Whoa,” I say. “That job sounds wild. What are you even doing here?”

  She shrugs with a smile. “Would you believe me if I said true love?”

  “Wait. You mean you actually buy into all this stuff?”

  “Listen, I’m thirty-two. In Southern years, that’s ancient. I’ve tried every app. Every church singles group. Every website. Every friend of a friend.” She shakes her head, thinking of something to herself. “When the casting scouts approached me, I figured I couldn’t tell my mama I tried everything to give her grandbabies until I really had tried everything.”

  She must notice how wide my eyes are at that statement, and she swats at my leg. “You’re young still, but one day you’ll wake up and wonder where the time went.” She laughs. “Or maybe you won’t.”

  “But you really want to fall for some playboy looking to rehabilitate his reputation?”

  She waves. “I’ve worked with all kinds of scum, and what I can tell you is that one thing we all have in common is skeletons in the closet.”

  We drive for another hour, but the whole time, Sara Claire’s words sink in. I don’t know what my skeletons would be, but I’m sure they’re there.

  I feel fidgety and anxious without my phone, so I guess it turns out I’m more addicted to that little brick of technology than I thought. Eventually I just press my head against the glass and watch as Los Angeles slips by us as we drive deeper into the mountains.

  A few girls complain of motion sickness, and I hear someone behind me whisper, “I always thought the château was on a studio lot.”

  Another voice replies, “I heard it’s on an old compound some cult used to own before they had a big shootout with the FBI. Supposedly no one would buy it, so the network got a great deal on it.”

  I chuckle to myself, knowing that both of those stories are a little bit true. The show started out on a studio lot but quickly moved out to the mountains when they got a steal on the property formerly owned by Vince Pugh, a ’90s teen movie star who turned out to be an actual serial killer in real life. He’d bought the property from a studio exec whose wife wanted to bring the French countryside to Southern California.

  When we pull through the gate of the château, there’s a lot that looks familiar and more that doesn’t. Just on the other side of a stretch of tall hedges are rows of trailers and trucks full of equipment strategically tucked away. On th
e other side of the hedges, a long driveway with elaborate landscaping on either side leads to the front entrance, which welcomes us with its marble staircase and stately turrets. It’s a little dingier and much smaller than it appears on television, but that doesn’t stop just about everyone from gasping. And I have to admit, something about the dramatic roofline speaks to me.

  As the bus door wheezes open, Beck jumps on board. “Okay, ladies, you are responsible for getting your bags to your room. This might be the notorious château, but it is not a hotel. There is no valet. Pay close attention to your house map. If a door is locked, it is locked for a reason. If it’s not on the map, you don’t need to know what it is. And honestly, if you find a locked door, I can nearly guarantee you that the only thing behind it is old camera equipment. And before you ask, yes, the suitor is staying on the property. And no, I won’t tell you where.”

  A few women shriek, and then Beck steps back, clearing a path for us.

  We all pause for a second, then make a run for it. It reminds me of exiting the plane when I first landed at LAX, and Prince Charming—I mean, Henry—and I bonded over our annoyance with the chaos before he kindly helped a whole slew of people with their bags.

  I let the others go ahead of me until it’s just Beck and me on the bus. When I walk past her, I wait for her to give me some kind of sign that I’m not just another contestant to her. She scrolls through her phone as I make my approach, and I feel a sudden pang of jealousy at the sight of someone with a phone.

  Whoa, maybe I do need a technology detox.

  Beck looks up just as I walk past her and gives me a big wink. “Sara Claire is a good egg. Stick with her.”

  “Well, she is my roommate.”

  She smirks knowingly. “And you think that was an accident? Very few things on this show happen by chance. You’ll like Stacy too.”

  “Thank you,” I tell her, before jogging down the steps and dragging my two hulking bags up to the château. I can’t expect Beck to play favorites, but at least it’s nice to know that I’ve got a friend in this place.