Love Sold Separately

by Ellen Meister

  “Or something,” Dana said. “But relax. It’s all good. I’ll use the nervous energy to my advantage.” Even as she said it, she felt the adrenaline coursing through her, and couldn’t stop moving. She stepped from side to side to side to side.

  “I thought you refused to do any drugs but weed.”

  “Just this once,” Dana said. “I had no choice.”

  “I made coffee. You would have been fine.”

  “I was so stoned, Megan. And drunk. Anyway, what’s done is done. And I’m okay. Really.” She started stepping faster, adding more dance moves, burning off energy. “Honest. I can do this. So what if I’m a little hyper? Chatty is good, right? Hyperchatty. Chatty hyper. This line is moving so quickly. They must be throwing these girls out the second they walk in. I guess they have a particular type in mind. I wonder what they’re looking for. Blond, maybe? Am I too dark? You think they want younger? Older? Am I wearing enough lipstick? Anything on my teeth? My hair looks cute, right? It would be great if I got this. I wonder what my mother would say. I wonder what my father would say. My father is—”

  “You are talking a mile a minute,” Megan said.

  “Am I? But clearly, right? I’m enunciating? That’s what’s important.”

  The line advanced and before she knew it they were at the security desk, facing down a uniformed guard with white hair, doughy cheeks and a determined scowl. He wasn’t the least bit charmed by the line of pretty women streaming past his desk, and seemed to regard each as a potential terrorist. His name badge said J. Beecham.

  “Twenty bucks if you can make that guy smile,” Megan whispered to Dana.

  It was meant as a joke, but as soon as Dana was confronted by the surly security guard, she knew she had to take the challenge. After he examined her driver’s license, looked through her purse and dismissed her, she pointed to the Dunkin’ Donuts cup on the table behind him.

  “That yours?” she asked.

  “What about it?”

  Dana rummaged through her handbag and extracted a five-dollar Dunkin’ Donuts gift card she’d received for taking a mall survey. “I’ve been looking for someone to give this to,” she said. It wasn’t true—she’d been saving it to treat herself to a sugar rush after her next good audition.

  The man looked at her. “’Scuse me?”

  “I got it as a gift but I never go to Dunkin’ Donuts.”

  He took the card from her and studied it as if suspicious it might be the work of a master forger. Dana tried to imagine such a person as a member of a band of thieves, desperate and sugar-starved, dedicated to defrauding the doughnut industry. The movie version would star George Clooney and Brad Pitt, and be called Baker’s Dozen.

  Beecham’s face softened. “You sure, miss?”

  “My pleasure,” she said, beaming, as if nothing could make her happier.

  He slipped the card into his breast pocket and tapped it. “Thanks, Ms.—” he paused to look at her signature in the visitors’ log “—Barry. Appreciate it.” And then he smiled, revealing small yellowing teeth.

  “I can’t believe you sacrificed doughnuts for a bet,” Megan said when they were out of earshot.

  “Who said anything about sacrifice?” Dana said. “I’m up fifteen bucks.” She held out her hand and Megan slapped in a twenty.

  “If you get the job, will you use it to treat me to a doughnut?”

  “In Paris.”

  They followed the crowd inside and Megan handed Dana’s headshot and résumé to a young woman so perky she could only be an intern. They were ushered into a waiting room with a dozen crisply dressed young women, all in black except for one other brunette in a butterscotch, off-the-shoulder sweater. A beauty model, Dana thought. With drop-dead gorgeous curves and a face like Catherine Zeta-Jones.

  Dana bit her lip and Megan patted her hand. “As long as you go in before her, you’ll be okay.”

  The intern walked back into the room with a clipboard. “Tammy O’Neill?” she called.

  Dana glanced around the room, hoping one of the black-clad women would respond. But they crossed and uncrossed their legs, stared at their cell phones.

  “I’m Tammy,” said the luscious sweater girl.

  Dana’s face fell. “What am I going to do?” she whispered.

  “Easy,” Megan said. “Surprise them.”

  2

  Easy? Dana thought as she looked down at the ugliest piece of jewelry she had ever seen. She had been ushered into a soundstage labeled Studio C and put behind a table with a single malachite ring on display. It was hideous. Like a cheap prop from a play about pirate booty—something that would look ornate even from the rafters. The green-striped stone was round and large, set high inside a brass circle inlaid with spiky dark gems of indistinguishable origin. If that wasn’t bad enough, the striated stone and brass setting were based on a shank of rose gold. It clashed so loudly it clanged, and was almost painful to look at.

  There was no script, and prospective hosts were expected to ad-lib. Dana knew she could do a passable job of gushing over the elements of the ring as if it were the very thing that would make any woman’s life complete. But she also knew that just about every person auditioning could do the same thing. And if voluptuous Catherine Zeta-Jones had been even halfway decent at it, she was toast.

  The house lights were still on, so Dana could see the death panel of judges sitting in a row of director’s chairs before her. There was a sharp-jawed woman in glasses, wearing a floral print blouse and dark slacks. She had the fierce-eyed look of a casting director, desperately underfed and ready to fight anyone who went against her expert opinion on the talent in question. Next to her was an alert assistant in black, holding a stack of folders and a tablet. A large man in an expensive suit sat on the other end. He was sixty-ish, African American, with a club tie and a small lapel pin. Though she wasn’t close enough to smell him, Dana sensed expensive cologne. This guy was senior management. Maybe even the president or CEO. And in the middle was the star herself, Kitty Todd. The woman every suburban housewife aspired to be. Her silky hair was shoulder-length, subtly highlighted and turned adorably out at the edges. She wore a blue dress today, richly hued, with a sculpted neckline that emphasized her collarbones. It fit like it was made for her, which it almost certainly was.

  A wiry tattooed guy in a black T-shirt and jeans approached Dana to hook up her mike. She held her head back as he threaded the wire under her sweater—a potentially awkward moment that hadn’t fazed her for years.

  “Maybe we should be introduced,” she said.

  He snorted an appreciative laugh as he clipped the tiny mike to the front of her sweater. “I’m Lorenzo,” he said in a gravelly voice that suggested a guy who had substituted cigarettes for a less legal substance. He had an intense energy about him.

  “What do they call you?” she asked, thinking he seemed like someone who would have a nickname like Mustang or Spike. The kind of name they gave to someone who was wrapped just a little too tight.

  “To my face or behind my back?” he asked, and she decided immediately that she liked him.

  “I take it this isn’t on?” she said, pointing to her mike.

  “Not yet.”

  “I’m Dana,” she said. “Can I ask you something?”

  He looked at her with eyes as dark and earnest as Lin-Manuel Miranda’s. She felt like he was someone she could trust.

  “Do you have a comb on you?” she whispered.

  “You look fine,” he said.

  “It’s not that.” She took a quick glance around the studio, and spotted a stocky man in coveralls pushing a large broom behind the stage. He had shiny black hair combed neatly back.

  “What’s that guy’s name?” she asked, pointing with her chin.

  Lorenzo glanced over. “That’s Hector.”

  She smiled a thanks before he tur
ned on her mike and backed away.

  “Are you ready, Ms. Barry?” asked the woman in glasses.

  “Just a moment,” Dana said. “I have to ask Hector a question.”

  “Who the hell is Hector?” said Kitty Todd, pronouncing the name like it had something sticking to it.

  Dana turned to the man with the broom and called his name. He was so surprised to be addressed it took a moment to get his attention.

  “Can I borrow your comb?” Dana asked.

  The woman in glasses sighed, exasperated, and whispered something that sounded like, “Diva.” Kitty Todd took the opportunity to answer a call from the cell phone brought to her by a young male assistant with blond hair. Natural blond hair. He looked like a grown-up version of a Hanna Andersson catalog model.

  Just as Dana expected, Hector had a small black comb in his pocket. “Thank you,” she said when he handed it to her. “I’ll give it back when I’m done.”

  Hector shrugged and went back to his post. Dana pushed the offensive ring to the side and set the comb on the display box. Then she waited for the attention of Kitty Todd, who was still on the phone, but now moisturizing her pretty hands while her assistant stood by, holding her rings. Hands, Dana realized, were the most valuable tool for a TV shopping hostess, and she hoped her days-old manicure wouldn’t be a problem. At last, Kitty finished her call, slipped her rings back on and turned her attention to Dana, who took a deep breath. Kill this, she coached herself. Just fucking kill it. And then she launched herself, aiming straight for the moon.

  “I’m Dana Barry,” she said in a bright voice as she looked directly into the audition camera. “Thank you for joining us for today’s special, which is the one beauty product every woman with every hair type must have. The sixty-eight-tooth Hector Comb is virtually unbreakable and comes with a lifetime guarantee. Think about that! How many products do you own that will last a lifetime? And I’m talking about a product you’ll use every single day! It works on short hair, it works on long hair, it works on blond hair and brown hair and black hair and red hair. It works on thick hair and thin hair. And look at the construction. Can I get a close-up, please? This is one solid piece of tested polycarbonate. The teeth are not glued or fitted together. And that’s what makes it indestructible.”

  Dana paused to pick up the comb, and demonstrate what it took to bend it.

  “You’ll see that it’s engineered to have some give so that it’s not brittle.” She slammed it against the side of the table and then held it up to the camera to show that it was still in one piece, and gave a small laugh, as if she were taking the viewer right inside her own incredulousness at the wonder of this gift from the heavens. “You can’t break it even if you try!”

  Dana took a breath, encouraged that no one had stopped her yet. She hoped it meant they were impressed.

  “Now,” she said, using it to comb through a lock of her hair, “I want you to notice that the tapered ends of the teeth make the Hector Comb glide perfectly through my hair. But it also works as a spiking tool.” At that, she used the comb to lift the short hair on top of her head.

  “Oh!” she said, looking up as if she were reading live sales numbers from one of the black screens facing her. “We’ve already sold two thousand units! I’m thrilled so many of you are taking advantage of this incredible value. At $19.99—and available on our Easy-Bucks option for five dollars a month—it’s something you’ll want to grab before we’re sold out. And while you’re at it, get one for a friend, because everyone who cares about looking good will love having this remarkable, unbreakable, tapered-tooth marvel of hairstyling engineering. And, ladies...it’s portable!” Dana punched the word with near-hysteria, and hoped she hadn’t gone too far. “That’s right. The Hector Comb fits into your pocket, into your purse, into your backpack. If you’re like me and you’ve struggled to fit your beauty essentials into a tiny evening bag, you’ll appreciate that this takes up less room than a compact!”

  Dana stopped for a breath, ready to ramble for as long as they would let her. She went on to talk about the polished smoothness of the teeth, fudging facts about the molecular structure of polycarbonate plastic, explaining why it didn’t create static, no matter how often you combed your hair. She laughed charmingly as she recounted stories of embarrassing flyaways from other products. Since she didn’t have a selection of colors to offer, she marveled at the richness of the black plastic, tilting it to demonstrate how it reflected light like a gem. She gushed over the striking concept that it went with absolutely everything. She repeated the price, gave a made-up phone number, recounted stories of friends who bought the Hector Comb and didn’t know how they had ever lived without it. Dana amazed even herself at all the things she found to say about the comb, and was struck by the utter silence in the studio. Her gut sense was that they were more awed than bored, but she didn’t trust her perception. Not with the drugs still having a party with her neurotransmitters.

  Intent on keeping her spot lively, she decided to switch things up and start pulling people from offstage so she could demonstrate that it worked for every type of hair, even as a pick for curly and Afro styles that didn’t require combing.

  “I have some friends in the studio who would—”

  “Thank you, Ms. Barry!” called the woman in the glasses, and Dana swallowed hard. They had let her go longer than she expected, but it was such an abrupt interruption it sounded like a curt dismissal.

  The stage lights dimmed and Kitty Todd rose from her chair without even glancing Dana’s way. Her male assistant came scurrying over, and the two of them headed toward the door.

  “Thanks for the opportunity,” Dana said. “If you have any questions—”

  Kitty held up a hand to silence her, and Dana could do nothing but watch as the pretty young man opened the door for his imperious boss. She paused there, framed and backlit, and turned to the woman in glasses.

  “Did you need something, Kitty?” the woman asked.

  “This one,” Kitty said, pointing to Dana. “Hire this one.”

  And that was it. The door closed behind her, and all Dana could hear was the swoosh-swoosh-swoosh of Hector’s broom.

  3

  “Are you listening to me?” Megan asked as they walked back from the studio.

  It was late afternoon, and the sun had retreated behind low clouds. Dana hunched against a breeze pushing from behind, reminding her that April weather could be capricious in New York. “I’m listening,” she said. “You don’t want me to get my hopes up.”

  She knew Megan was trying to manage her expectations, but it was a useless effort. That was just the way it was with auditions. The waiting was always a maddening game of mental Ping-Pong, as she bounced from joyous hope to agonizing despair and back again. And no matter which side of the court she was on when she got the call, the rejection stung like a paddle to the face.

  “Kitty Todd may think the world revolves around her,” Megan said, “but she isn’t the decision-maker here. That’s Sherry Zidel.”

  Dana played back the scene, trying to make sense of what happened after the door shut behind the Shopping Channel’s biggest star. Nobody moved, and tension hung in the air like the conspicuous smoke of a fog machine. Then the woman in the glasses broke the spell. She adjusted her frames and thanked Dana for coming in. Her expression had remained stoic, inscrutable.

  “Is she the casting director?” Dana asked.

  “She’s the supervising producer, actually, but your instincts are spot-on—she started in casting. I asked around about her. A tremendous pain in the ass apparently. Takes the bottom line very seriously. Too seriously. Like a dominatrix with a spreadsheet in one hand and a whip in the other.”

  “What about the guy in the suit?”

  “Charles Honeycutt, company president. He has to sign off on hires, but I think he defers to Sherry’s judgment.”

  Dana
was impressed. She hadn’t taken it that literally when she agreed to let Megan be her manager. But her friend was all in, and definitely doing more than her agent ever had.

  “What did she say to you?” Dana asked. “Did she like me? Did she blow you off?”

  “She didn’t say anything. Just that they’d be in touch.”

  Dana stopped and grabbed Megan’s arm. “That they’d be in touch?”

  “Don’t read anything into it.”

  “But that’s a good sign!”

  “You’ll make yourself crazy, Dana. You know how these things go.”

  She did. Even sure things weren’t sure things. And this was far from a sure thing. She released her friend’s arm and they trudged on, hurrying against the cold until they reached Dana’s apartment building. As they got ready to part, Dana thanked Megan for landing her the audition.

  Megan waved it away. “Thank me if you get the job.”

  Dana rubbed her friend’s arm, admiring the soft back and forth of the suede.

  “I know,” Megan said, feeling it herself. “It’s a great jacket.”

  “Even has a place to keep your hands warm.” Dana felt one of the pockets, pretending to admire it as she deftly slipped a folded-up twenty-dollar bill from her palm to her fingertips to the silky interior. She couldn’t bear to keep her friend’s hard-earned money.

  Megan was oblivious. “I’ll call you the second I hear anything,” she said.

  Dana fished in her purse for her keys. “If you value your life.”

  * * *

  The next day was Dana’s sister’s birthday, and they had plans for lunch. Dana usually looked forward to spending time with her sister, but she knew Chelsea would ask how things were going on the job, and Dana would have to admit she’d been fired for attitude from a place that sold attitude. Talk about a hot topic. It was humiliating.

  Dana wondered if she would be able to steer the conversation in a different direction by leading with the story of yesterday’s audition. Her sister was a shopping addict, and the very idea would light her up like Nordstrom’s in December. If Dana tossed Kitty’s pronouncement in the air as if aiming for the wastebasket, Chelsea might snatch it and insist the news was worth examining. You need to have more confidence, she might say. I really think you have a shot.