by Anna Adams
“You must be Cynthia Carlisle, the new legal intern?” asked a young man lighting a cigarette. He had the dark curls of a lisping child but eyes as stern as gargoyle. He waited for her answer, barely keeping his impatience under rein.
Cynthia swiftly pulled the newly lit cigarette out of his lips and crushed it under her heel. Ash returning to ash.
She hadn’t spent two months in a retreat cleansing her mental and physical being to be polluted by an avid smoker. And what if he was grumbling? She wasn’t afraid of a mere intern in her father’s company.
“Do you know what this will do to you?” she asked. “I wonder at this Daniel Siwel guy for allowing interns to smoke in a workplace.” Things were definitely wrong in Soulville if the head of the legal department allowed this kind of freedom.
“I am Daniel Siwel,” the young man let out through gritted teeth, irritated at being deprived of the soothing atmosphere of nicotine’s cloudy grimace.
Cynthia’s disconcertment lasted no longer than a split second, before she decided if she was to embarrass herself, she might as well try to keep her head in vertical position.
“Then you should know better. I think,” Cynthia finished her sentence with a mumble. She really shouldn’t be drawing attention to herself on her first day as a legal intern under a false name. And fake glasses.
“I’m sure you understand, I wouldn’t be an upstanding citizen if I didn’t try to save the life of a man so young. How old are you?” she blurted, instantly wishing she hadn’t. He couldn’t be older than twenty-five. How had he managed to become head of the legal department at such a young age?
“I’m your boss, and that’s all you need to know,” he answered, glowering like the butt of his dying cigarette. He was tempted to light another, but was wary of this unstable new intern’s reaction, and didn’t like taking long breaks anyway. He’d teach her a lesson. Nobody played with his cigarettes and got away with it.
“Follow me,” he barked.
Cynthia complied. Stay calm, she told herself. Stay calm, stay calm, STAY CALM.
When she got to the busy fifth floor, she barely managed to follow her mental admonition. She’d never been to Soulville’s legal department. She rarely came to Soulville as it was.
These walls, these overflowing coffee-makers, coffee stains dried from all-nighters, staplers munching on pages of legal documents, this was the heart of Soulville. Contracts and legal clauses drifted in the air, legal settlements were hatched in these offices, and new stars were born when they scribbled their first autograph on these papers.
And this was her very own cubicle!
Daniel took a heavy file from the cubicle adjoining hers and dropped it on Cynthia’s moaning desk.
“Triple copy, Ms. Carlisle,” he indicated, “Welcome to Soulville.”
And while, not so far away, James Baldwin entered Glitter Records, Cynthia photocopied Soulville’s heart.
*****
“Aren’t I surprised to see you here! I thought you’d be enjoying your freedom in LA by now. Finding it harder to leave than you expected?” Alan greeted Matt with a wide smile, displaying the brilliant set of teeth he used to snack on his opponents.
“I won’t be here much longer. I need to ask a favor of you,” Matt started.
“Favors and I are strangers,” Alan replied, his smile still plastered to his face.
“Then you’ll name your price.”
“Sounds interesting enough to tickle my interest. What do you want?”
“It’s about Maude.”
“Isn’t it always with you?”
Matt ignored Alan’s sarcasm.
“Lexie Staz is writing an unauthorized tell-all book about her. I want you to bury it.”
“What makes you think I have that kind of power?”
“I know you. You have minions everywhere. You’re the one who invited Lexie to Maude’s release party, and I know you have contacts in the press and the publishing industry. Make Lexie drop this project.”
Alan mulled over the idea, pondering at how easy it would be to get what he wanted from Matt.
“I’ll do whatever you ask.”
There were no other words Alan relished more than those of submission and reluctant obedience. Those words he could swallow and digest with ease.
“I want you to stay.”
Matt had to smile in spite of himself.
“Having trouble letting go, Alan?”
“That new album of yours, you can work on it in Soulville.”
Matt wouldn’t have hesitated if James were still in Soulville. But with Alan’s view on music, Matt might as well have produced his album at Glitter.
“I want creative freedom.”
“You’ll get creative freedom, but it has to be produced here. And I’ll handle promotion.”
“I want my creation room back.”
“That can be arranged.”
“I want Maude to work with me on my album.”
“It seems to me you’re getting more out of this deal than I am.”
Matt raised an amused eyebrow. They both knew someone was getting more out of this unofficial contract, and it wasn’t Matt.
“You’ll be making a lot of money off my back. Don’t you want to sell the best possible album?”
“I have other plans for Maude, and they don’t involve you.” In fact, he may be more of an encumbrance if his schoolboy romance got in the way. On the other hand, Matt and Maude made great music together and that couldn’t be overlooked.
“Maybe one song if we find the time, but no promises. Take it or leave it.”
“This goes without saying, this pact stays between us and us only.”
“Consider it done,” Alan replied stretching out an open hand. Matt shook it, a sour aftertaste filling his mouth.
*****
“No way,” Maude declared staunchly. She shook her head and waited to see if the idea would tumble out of her brain and into blissful oblivion.
“It’s just a bikini, Maude,” Adrianna argued, holding up a skimpy yellow two-piece.
“Exactly!” Maude protested. “Where’s the initial concept of the video clip? ‘Sunrise’ was supposed to be all about the piano and me. All of a sudden, I have to prance around in this bikini. There won’t even be a pool in the clip! Besides, I’m no actress. Just playing the piano was fine with me.”
Adrianna lifted her eyes to the ceiling, then closed them, mentally counting to ten. Uncle Alan hadn’t told her this job would be harder than walking in ten-inch stilettos on a runaway. Maude understood precious little about attractiveness and its impact on a marketing campaign. She was content with the notoriety she already possessed, unaware or unwilling to acknowledge she could go far beyond what she’d ever imagined. That’s why Alan had assigned her to this task. Adrianna refused to let her uncle down even if it meant working with a seventeen-year-old French girl who didn’t regard breakfast as one of the seven deadly sins.
When she opened her eyes again, Maude had disappeared.
She was headed for Alan’s office, Adrianna was sure of it.
Sure enough, Maude barged into Alan’s office but stopped short when she saw Matt and Alan shaking hands.
“Ah Maude, you’re just in time to hear the good news. Matt has decided to remain at Soulville.”
Maude questioned Matt with her eyes, and he confirmed what Alan said to be true with a tight-lipped nod.
WHY? Was written all over her face. And the answer came back silently, but oh so loud and clear.
You.
Maude’s heart skipped a joyful beat until she saw an infuriated Adrianna enter the office, clinging to the bikini like a life jacket in stormy waters.
“You should escape Soulville while you can, Matt, or else they’ll have you prancing around naked in no time.”
“You won’t be naked!” Adrianna screeched. “Tell her, Matt, tell her how beautiful she’ll be in this!” she pleaded, holding up the bikini.
“Tell he
r I’ll look ridiculous!” Maude protested, hoping Matt would defend her without using the term “ridiculous.”
Matt knew better than to interfere when two women quarreled about image, preferring to remain as neutral as Helvetica during World War II.
“Maude, I get creative license to determine what you wear in a video clip,” Alan explained calmly, as if talking to a toddler.
“Alan,” Maude replied just as calmly. “Where this body is concerned, I get creative license to choose what I wear. You can wear this bikini if you want. I’m sure you’ll look smashing in it.”
She turned to leave, but was stopped by Alan’s syrupy voice.
“Fine. We’ll change the concept. But you owe me.”
Maude slowly turned around.
“What do you want?”
Alan told her what he wanted, then ushered her out of his office. He still had some unfinished business with Matt.
When Maude entered the mutilated creation room once more, Cynthia was waiting for her, all the while inspecting the treadmill with circumspection.
“Soulville is where I sold my soul,” Maude moaned, resting her head on Cynthia’s shoulder.
“Soulville is where I maimed my name,” Cynthia answered with a wan smile.
“Are you sure it’s worth it?”
“I get to take my lunch and coffee breaks with you. It’s worth it.”
Maude smiled gratefully at her cousin.
“I’m glad you’re here. And I’m hoping Matt’s creation room will be its old self again tomorrow. He’s staying in New York.” Cynthia peered at her cousin. She knew Maude well enough by now to understand she would never admit to being besottedly happy Matt was staying.
“I’ll be making a guest appearance on Living with the Livingstons next week.”
Maude sighed. Ever since she’d accepted Alan’s ultimatum, contradictory emotions fought inside her. She would be lying if she didn’t admit an unsavory sort of curiosity towards a show she’d always scorned Mrs. Ruchet for watching. Lola and Lila Livingston had been the reasons behind at least half of Mrs. Ruchet’s elaborately ridiculous diets.
But then, catching glimpses of a picture was nowhere near as exciting as being in the frame. Or as daunting.
“What I don’t get is this: if it’s called an unscripted show, why do I have a script?” Maude asked.
“The mysteries of television.”
“The worst of all of this is I miss singing. Really singing, not what I do with my new vocal coach. She’s awful.”
“And no more classical, huh?”
“There goes my dream of being the next Rebecca Sylvester.”
Cynthia whistled. Rebecca Sylvester was one of the youngest rising sopranos. At only twenty-two she’d sung several times in Paris and London.
“I had no idea you’d seriously considered having a classical career. A Rebecca Sylvester sort of career. Do you see yourself in one of those stuck-up Parisian music schools like the one Rebecca Sylvester attended? Which was it? The Conservatoire de Paris or the National Academy of Arts?”
“National Academy of Arts. Both schools are rivals kind of like Harvard and Yale. I wanted to pursue a classical career before coming to New York. And Ms. Tragent . . . ” Maude hesitated. Ms. Tragent had told her she had what it took. But that seemed so far away now.
“What?” Cynthia insisted.
“It doesn’t matter now,” Maude finished lamely. “Classical has been ripped out of my life.”
*****
Walking through a TV set for the first time is like a first day in a battlefield: little to no familiar faces, awkward missteps galore, and the unsinkable impression of being out of place with a palpable, ominous foreboding.
Maude wore camouflage. Lots of it. At least it sure seemed that way, as she could no longer recognize herself. Apart from the heavy makeup, she was dressed in an elegant black lace leather peplum dress and strappy stiletto sandals. She knew she’d never get around the minefield unharmed. Not that she didn’t like nice clothes, but she wanted to scratch her back and there was no way this dress would give her permission to make such a risqué move. The garment barely allowed her to breathe, let alone scratch. Her whole surroundings would frown down on her if she gave in to her impulse.
The Livingstons’ penthouse was a museum of modern luxury with a panoramic view of a cityscape where one could either stand at the top of the world or at its sharp edge. Natural light flooded the living room and bounced off the white oak flooring made for stilettos to prance on. The collective American retina recognized every detail of the elegant contemporary arrangement of the penthouse turned studio for the purposes of what had rapidly become the most-watched TV reality show.
Adrianna, sergeant major, eyed Maude suspiciously while she talked to the short bi-spectacled director. Turning away with exasperation, Maude’s agonizing foot stepped on Lila’s foot.
“So sorry,” Maude apologized knowing, she’d stepped on a mine.
But Lila was too preoccupied watching the makeup artist put on the final touches to her sister’s makeup.
“She’s not prettier than me, is she?” Lila asked. The question often kept her awake at night when monsters of self-doubt crawled underneath her bed.
Maude critically analyzed Lila’s small turned-up nose, her worried grey eyes, and her waves of sunshine hair, and wondered who would question her beauty. Or her sister’s, because they were in every point similar as far as physical appearance went.
“You look lovely,” Maude reassured her as best as she could.
Lila surveyed Maude, saw she had an ally and decided she could like her. Pretty girls were her best friends and her best enemies. She couldn’t stand staring in the face of a pauperized person destitute of money as well as good looks. But walking with beautiful friends was also source of constant worry knowing their attractiveness could on its own grant them fame in the world of TV reality, a fame that would overshadow her own and push her into the dreaded abyss of has-beens. But when they agreed she was gorgeous with such open honesty as Maude had, which in itself was a rare occurrence, the weight was temporarily lifted, the threat alienated.
“I’ve been obsessing about this article in Hollywood Buzz. They said Lola was prettier than me. That my chin has some sort of assy, asssy . . . ”
“Asymmetry?” Maude volunteered, hiding a smile. To think English was Lila’s first language.
“So you see it, too?” Lola shrieked running to the closest mirror.
“No, no!” Maude insisted. Her first reflex was to hurry after her but she thought better of it when her dress insisted she forgo any brusque movement. She hobbled after Lila.
“There is no asymmetry. At all. If there is one, it’s in that reviewer’s brain,” Maude declared dryly.
“That’s what I thought,” Lila laughed. If there was an ugly duckling, her sister was it. She had strange-shaped feet. But of course Hollywood Buzz couldn’t see past her Dior stilettos. Unless someone told them that is.
“But you know, sometimes you wonder. There’s always a twin that’s prettier than the other.”
“Even when identical?” Maude asked wryly.
“Of co-ourse,” Lila drawled swirling away from the mirror with perfect grace.
“Ashley Olsen is way prettier than Mary-Kate.”
Maude’s jaw dropped. She couldn’t even tell the two apart!
“All right, peeps! Lola, are you ready?” the director asked.
“Of course, she would need more time to hide those flaws,” Lila snarled loud enough for her sister to hear.
“Oh honey, I’m not the one with an asymmetrical chin,” Lola retorted, rising from her chair.
Maude didn’t know which was the prettiest twin, but she’d definitely found the smartest one. It was strange these two were supposed to be “America’s closest sisters” when they each threw a private party when the other woke up with a pimple.
“Maude, Livingstons, follow me please.”
Maude foll
owed the director as best as she could to the next room where a large rectangular mirror stood near a bed.
The twins plopped on the bed while Maude stood in front of the mirror.
“All right, you remember your lines?” he asked.
Maude nodded. Remembering them wasn’t the hard part. “I know English isn’t my mother tongue, but I think I can manage.”
The director expressed caution. He knew the French were terrible at English. But nevertheless he took out his board and yelled “ Action!”
Maude harrumphed slightly and placed her hands on her hips.
“Girls,” she started in a monotone tone facing the mirror. “I don’t think we should go shopping.” She swayed her hips diligently. “Je suis horrible! I’m sooooo ugly today. I feel sooooo fat.” Maude would’ve laughed at herself if she hadn’t been drowning under absolute and wretched ridicule.
She felt sooooo stupid, that’s how she felt. And by the look on the director’s face, her acting was stupid as well.
Well, the script wasn’t exactly Molière either, Maude thought, heat rising up like a Vesuvius in her cheeks.
“I’ll tell you what the greatest sister in the world tells me whenever I’m down,” Lola jumped up from the bed and rushed to hug Maude. She was then joined by her sister while they cheered a sagging Maude.
Maude peered at Lola and then at Lila and wondered if she didn’t in fact see the smallest asymmetry in the latter’s chin.
“Cut!” the director shouted. “Maude, are you dreaming or what?”
“What?” Maude asked startled back to earth. “Oh sorry!” She harrumphed again. “Let’s go wipe those shops clean!”
“Try saying that while the camera is on you,” Lola remarked with an icy glare.
