by Avery Aster
They all shake their head in disapproval.
“Well then, what?” For dramatic effect, I stand and cross my arms as I start to pace the conference room. “I’ve given my career everything I’ve got. Maybe my fifteen minutes are over.”
Taddy laughs, throaty. “Darling, just because you’re not popular today with the Millennial Generation doesn’t mean we can’t get you back on track.”
“Yeah, it’s not like you’re Madonna holding on for dear life touring the globe in a pair of Depends,” Blake jokes and puts his right hand on his hip.
“Or Paris. Who, may I add, really didn’t have any talents whatsoever.” Kiki gives a wide-eyed look that gets everyone laughing again.
Labeled a TV villain, I’m a talented people magnet. Viewers love to watch me stir the pot. I can flip a table, pull a weave to start a fight—anything for ratings.
Returning to my seat, I open the folder and tab my way through the pages. My eyes stop at one titled ‘Reality TV Castings.’ Ripping the paper out from the folder, I roll my eyes and begin to crinkle it into a ball, saying, “Heeeell no.”
“Ohhh yes.” Taddy rips it out of my hands, holds the paper up to her heart, and rubs it over her breast almost nostalgically. “Neve, we need you to return to the basics. Back to what you’re known for. Reality TV all the way.”
“I don’t wanna.” Replaying all the earlier programs I’ve done in my head, I conclude, “I should be a talk show host by now, or a regular actor in a nighttime drama.”
“Miss Adele, you’ve paid your dues. No one here denies that. However, the market for blonde, tan, curvy girls your age, with your résumé, is a bit oversaturated this season.” Blake pulls out a pen and writes a few lines down on a piece of paper.
“Let’s go down the list, see what we’ve got, and go from there,” Kiki says, opening her folder and making eye contact with Blake.
“If you’ll excuse me for a minute, I’ll be right back.” Taddy stands and makes her way to the door, saying over her shoulder, “Carry on without me.”
A tall, muscular, inked man who clearly isn’t one of the Brill, Inc. employees waits for her on the other side of the glass wall.
We lock eyes. I hold the stare. I count back—five, four, three, two, one—and then look away.
Holy. Fuuuck. Me.
That five-second stare always gets ’em. My heart races to the point where my pulse is virtually in my throat and my panties are starting to get moist. “Who is that piece of yumminess?” My chest tightens, along with my nipples. I arch my back so he can admire my physique. Go ahead and say it; I’m giving off an air of utter shameless, possibly even shallowness to boot. But I don’t care. This is New York freakin’ City. In this town, we do as we please, and flirt as if our lives depend on it.
The sensitivity in my breasts finally came back about a year ago after the augmentation. For a while I was petrified that I’d lost all feeling in my perky girls.
Kiki looks at the door and then at me. Her smile, typically professional and demure, sets wide and almost giddy. “That’s—”
“Taddy’s boyfriend’s brother,” Blake finishes for her. “His name is Sheldon Truman.”
“Would ya just look at him.” I lick my cherry-lacquered lips confidently, objectifying him as if he were steak dinner at Keens restaurant in Herald Square. Broad shoulders, thick sandy-colored hair, a face set with a sharp jaw and hauntingly dark eyes, which make my imagination run wild with thoughts of what it would be like to kiss him. It’s as if the universe has scientifically blended Tom Hardy, Hugh Jackman, and Chris Hemsworth together, along with a smothering of sexy tattoos. Poof! There you have it. Mr. Sheldon Truman.
“Sheldon sure is beautiful.” Agreeing with me, Kiki squirms in her seat.
“He’s t-r-o-u-b-l-e.” Blake shakes his head. “Now, may we get back to business?”
“Right. Okay.” I glace down at the sheet listing the programs and pretend not to pay him any further mind.
“Amazing Race?” Blake offers.
“Too exhausting.”
“Naked & Afraid?” Kiki suggests.
“Uhhh, can you say major cray-cray?”
They nod in agreement.
Realizing I’m domestic—I can make tea, soup, and sandwiches—I inquire, “What about this baking show?”
“Their contract is for less than half a mil.” Blake’s mouth takes on an unpleasant twist.
“Yikes.”
“Food and home shows usually don’t pay well,” Kiki declares with a new sense of authority. She tends to get like that whenever Taddy leaves the room. I find it endearing that Kiki emulates Taddy’s work ethic.
“How come?” I ask, still feeling Sheldon’s eyes upon me. Without looking at him, I toss my hair over my shoulder and slowly, ever so carefully, lick my lips. First my top lip and then the bottom. I let my mouth have a slight open space—you know, like one of those blow-up sex dolls plastic faces. I read in HerSay magazine that it’ll drive a man wild.
“Not enough drama to bring in the ratings. Hmmm.” Kiki flips the paper over. “Blake, what reality show is casting this week that pays the highest and yields the most viewers? Whatever it is, that’s what Neve should star on.”
I nod in agreement toward her and then Blake, finally drifting my gaze back at Sheldon, who is still on the other side of the glass—and by the way hasn’t taken his dark eyes off me. Not even once.
Suddenly Sheldon hugs Taddy. Then his lips, full and oh-so-kissable, mouth, “Good-bye.”
“Celebrity Newlywed Boot Camp on LUX TV,” Blake replies to Kiki as Taddy returns to the room. “That’s the show Neve needs.”
Taddy’s body seems tense, her face etched in worry.
“Ohhhh, that makes so much sense.” Kiki sits up in her chair, confirming Blake’s suggestion. “Taddy’s friend Poppy White is the host. From what I hear, it’s the only show that’s casting A-list celebs this season.”
“What’s the matter?” I ask Taddy, ignoring their suggestions.
She sighs. “That’s my future brother-in-law. He’s just having a tough time. Lost his job at York Airlines. To stay competitive with the other low-cost airlines, they’ve let their contracts with union employees lapse.”
“Oh no.” I’d heard about the airlines recent troubles. “Is he a pilot?”
I’ve always had the fantasy of marrying a pilot, jetting off on a minute’s notice up to New England to see the leaves change. Anywhere in the world you want to go, you can, if you have your own plane.
Taddy shakes her head.
“Flight attendant?” I ask, thinking Sheldon doesn’t appear to have the grace to serve coffee or tea in the air. Nor can I imagine his big muscular body making it’s way down the aisle. Surely he’d knock a few people out with his juiciness.
“Mechanic,” she says finally.
“Really?” My arousal for blue-collar men just hit an all-time high.
“Sheldon’s specialty is the jumbo jets. Today though, as a favor, I had him do some bodywork on my Escalade.” Shame washes over Taddy’s strikingly proud face.
“You shoulda never tried to ride up over that median on Park Avenue to pass a cabby who’d stopped short for a new fare, Miss Brill.”
“I know, Kiki.” Taddy shoots her a glare to zip it.
“I mean, you nearly ran right into the Asian Society building on 70th Street. All those poor tourists out front were practically climbing the walls to avoid getting hit by us.”
“Sweet Jesus, woman with a big mouth.” Drawing her pointer and thumb fingers up to her lips, she flips her assistant the message to shut the frick up.
Ignoring her boss, Kiki turns to me and says, “You should’ve seen us. Miss Brill totally smashed the Cadillac’s grill into one of those statues they have out front. Sitting in the passenger seat, I was scared out of my mind. I peed my pants.”
Drumming my feet on the floor, we all start to laugh, to the point I gasp for air before saying, “A mechanic, huh? That’
s hot.” I glance at Kiki, who nods in agreement with me. “There’s nothing hotter than a man who works with his hands.” And we’re not talking about a guy who fixes mufflers for a living. Like Taddy says, the dude repairs Boeing 757s and Airbuses.
My virginal mind—hornier than usual—thinks about his hands, strong and confident, gliding under my panties, taking me like no man has ever taken me before. Come to think of it, no man has ever really taken me at all before. Considering my fame and how much effort I put into my looks, it’s embarrassing that I haven’t lost the V-card yet. Call me old-fashioned, but I’m still waiting for ‘the one.’
“Sheldon refuses to take a handout from me or his brother.”
“Why not?” I ask, suddenly more interested in Sheldon’s well-being than my own.
“Pride. Ego. He’s all machismo,” Taddy answers, with a thread of annoyance.
I don’t date, so I can’t really say what a typical guy is like, especially since most of my social actions are on camera. It’s been that way for a few years now. After a while, you get use to it.
“Sheldon should model or act. I bet the TV loves him. He’s gorgeous,” I state positively.
Taddy lets out a loud puff of air. “Sheldon has no interest in being famous. I don’t think he even owns a TV. Anyways, back to fame and fortune. What did I miss?”
“We were going over the TV lineup. Neve needs to be booked on the biggest reality show. You know, something like that Vanderpump Rules.” Kiki smiles.
“Which show piques your interest?” Taddy opens her folder.
Glancing at them one at a time, my eyes narrow. “I’m A-list. We know this. I gotta get on that Newlywed show.”
“Wouldn’t that be fabulous?” Blake confirms as if it’s a pipe dream.
“Yeah, you ninnies, except for one slight problem.” Taddy laughs so hard she snorts.
“You don’t have a husband,” Kiki reminds me.
“No yet. But that can always be fixed. Right? It’s television, after all.”
“Reality TV. You know, you’re supposed to be real.” Blake’s blue eyes widen. Perhaps he knows where I’m going with this.
“Spare me,” I say.
“Neve.” Taddy lunges forward as if suddenly more in tune with the conversation than before. “The whole reason you got fired last year from the Housewives show was because you were mostly scripted. Your entire storyline was fake.”
“So?” I don’t see the point.
“Viewers want realness. That’s why none of your products are selling. Folks can’t relate to you anymore.” Blake presses his lips into a thin line.
Sure, I see his point. Viewers enjoy watching their TV personalities go bankrupt, fight addiction, have nervous breakdowns, gain weight, loose weight, and fight with their friends and relatives. But I don’t agree with Blake. At least I don’t think most of that applies to me, as I don’t have that many friends and I don’t have any relatives. None. Zero. Nada.
“Need I remind you? I bring the drama.” Annoyed, I press my back into the chair.
“Yes, you do. You’re very good at getting the cast to turn on one another. But it’s not real, and it won’t sustain an entire season. It might work for an episode or two, but that’s about it.” Taddy taps her Mont Blanc pen on the table, the one I bought for her for Christmas a few years ago as a token of appreciation for getting my perfume into mass distribution. Too bad the fragrance stunk. How was I to know women in the Midwest wouldn’t like the fresh green smell of ferns? So much for trying to be different.
“I’m assuming the Newlywed show is about newlyweds. So if I were to get married, let’s say this week, legitimately, I’d go on the show with no agenda other than learning how to cohabitate with my new spouse.” I speak matter-of-factly, nearly scientific, as if it’s just another walk in Central Park.
Who am I kidding? I’ve never had a real long-term relationship, let alone ever been married. Heck, I’ve never even lived with someone before. Well, except for growing up in foster homes and then later group homes. Back then I shared an 8x10 bedroom with three other girls my own age. That’s what happens when you don’t know who your father is, and your mother picks Jimmy Walker as his replacement. I was five when it all started, but more on that later. Much later.
“Let’s entertain this for a minute,” Blake suggests.
“Who could we get to play your hubby?” Kiki follows his lead.
“Beiber?” Taddy offers.
I roll my eyes. “No. Too boyish. I want a man. A real man.”
“Hemsworth.”
“Too famous.” So I offer, “Zac Effron.” Like he’s any less famous or less boyish. Not!
“According to Debauchery, Zac is in Europe shooting a movie.”
“Robert Pattinson?”
“Not into vampires,” I retort, hating the mere thought of blood. “Every time I look at him I think of Twilight.”
We kept at it, going down the list, virtually naming every man from New York City to Hollywood until I was exasperated. “I’m stumped.”
“Why don’t we pick this back up tomorrow? Let me make some phone calls, see what we can do.” Taddy glances at her wristwatch and then stands as if she has to attend to another client.
“What about Sheldon?” I ask, crossing my legs and getting more comfortable, giving her the clue we’re not done with this meeting.
“Oh no. No, no, no,” Taddy replies, still standing.
“Is Sheldon single?” I tap my nail on the table for her to sit back down.
“Yes… but… no way.”
“He needs the money,” I remind her.
“You sure you really wanna do this, Neve?” Blake waits for my reply as I nod, then continues, “A fake marriage is stooping to a new low. Even for you!”
Talk about self-righteous.
“I admire you, Blake, for marrying the man of your dreams. So wonderful. Regardless, I haven’t met anyone nearly as good as your hubby, Miguel, and this is reality TV. The pay is good. The cast is amazing. I don’t see me having any other choice.”
On my feet, I walk across the boardroom and put my hands on Taddy’s shoulders. She’s tall and beautiful. I’m maybe five-seven on a good day, but she’s a statue. I gaze up at her green eyes; they sparkle like emeralds. Mine do that too when I’m wearing my colored contacts—which, by the way, is twenty-four-seven. Otherwise, they’re just a boring brown. “If I don’t get this show it’s safe to say my career is over.”
“I agree,” Taddy says.
“Not only will I be out millions of dollars, but everything Brill, Inc. has worked so hard for on my brand will die. Looks like I’ll have to terminate my relationship with you and not move forward with a new publicity retainer.”
“I hadn’t thought about it like that.” Taddy frowns.
The Neve Adele brand is one of her largest contracts. I pay Brill, Inc. a ton of money to keep my personality and products out there. Plus, Taddy gets a cut on everything I sell. Hence why she’s had me booked several times this year at The Shopping Channel hawking the cheapest jewelry money can by. The stuff turns your skin green, but I don’t mind because my fans don’t seem to care either.
“Let’s give it a shot. I promise, I’ll be real.”
“As real as one can be in a fake marriage,” Blake throws in his two cents with a saucy tone that usually I find endearing and funny. Today? Not so much.
“I’m begging you.” I clasp my hands together in a please-have-mercy-on-me prayer position and bat my fake mink lashes so hard in their direction I think for sure my contacts will pop out.
“Okay, I’ll talk to Sheldon,” Taddy agrees with fake enthusiasm, as if it’ll never happen.
I drop my chin, glaring at her in dismay before questioning, “How could anyone not want to marry me?” I’m kidding—sort of. Yes, I’m confident that men of any age, race, what-the-frick-ever would be lucky to share the bed of a reality star like Kim Kardashian, or me for that matter. Regardless, it’s all a façad
e. Who I am on TV is not who I am in real life.
“Sheldon is no angel.” Taddy’s right eyebrow, outlined to perfection probably with an auburn pencil from my cosmetics line, rises with caution. “If he agrees to marry you, I won’t take any responsibility for his behavior. He’s unruly and unpredictable.”
“Aren’t all men?” I laugh.
“Not like Sheldon. You’ll see.”
One Fuckin’ Million Bucks!
Harlem
Sheldon
“Fuck no, Taddy. You mentioned a date, but nothing about marriage.” Turning, I gape at her in awe and then glance over at my son. Liam doesn’t look back. He never does. Since he came to live with me nearly two years ago, I’ve gotten used to it. With his own way of communicating with me, Liam is special.
“Not even for a million dollars?”
“I can’t believe you just threw that figure out.” A flare of adrenaline charges through me as I walk up to my living room window and look out over Harlem. The foliage, which up to a few days ago had radiated amber shades of fall, is almost all on the ground. The naked and bare branches appear lifeless and sleepy, much like the state of my current bank account, which makes me realize that with Thanksgiving behind us, Christmas is on it’s way.
“For the love of Liam and all things fabulous, just do it,” Taddy presses on. “ Celebrity Newlywed Boot Camp is shot over a two-week period. My BFF, Lex, says she’ll watch your son.”
“I can’t really afford day care, let alone have Liam staying with someone around the clock.” I try not to make my frustration evident.
“You know Lex is a semi-retired fashionista gazillionaire who is now a stay-at-home mom. She double-hearts kids and is willing to watch him for free.”
Lex Easton is the only Manhattanite I know who, before the age of forty, had made billions of dollars, married an actual prince, gave birth to a litter of kids, and only works when she feels like it. On any given day she genuinely appears happy—very happy. Unlike most women who live on the Upper East Side, she speaks her mind, eats whatever the hell she wants, and doesn’t give a shit what New Yorkers think of her. Whoever says money doesn’t buy happiness is totally full of it.
