by Carol Durand
“Hello everyone, thank you for your patience,” Francesca breezed in, with Missy trailing awkwardly behind her. “This is Melissa Gladstone, Ian’s friend. Melissa, go ahead and take the seat at center stage please,” she waved a hand in the direction of the lone chair and Missy’s heart dropped to her knees as she contemplated having to sit by herself on the stage with everyone staring at her, but she made her way to the lime green molded plastic chair and sat.
“Now, Melissa, the team will introduce themselves one at a time, and ask you a question once they’ve done so. Ready?” she asked, merely as a formality. Missy nodded, and a stunning woman with an afro and a vintage top and skirt began the inquisition.
“Hello, Melissa, I’m Kelia,” she said in a calm, soothing voice which made Missy grateful that she was the first to introduce herself. “Tell me the first thing that comes to mind when you think of your favorite TV show,” she directed. Missy breathed a sigh of relief, glad that this exotically beautiful woman hadn’t asked her anything about acting or her experience.
“Dinner,” she answered with a smile.
“I’m sorry…did you say dinner?” Kelia raised her eyebrows, amused.
Missy nodded. “Yes, the only time that I’m able to watch TV is usually when I sit down to eat. I’ll curl up on the couch and enjoy a show while I’m eating, so TV makes me think of dinner,” she explained. Kelia nodded, made a note and grinned up at Missy, encouraging her. A balding man who looked to be in his early sixties spoke next.
“Tim Gilbert here,” he introduced himself without preamble. “Who’s your favorite actor of all time?” he said in a voice that sounded like it had a lifetime of cigarette smoke behind it. Again, Missy was relieved. If this was the nature of the questions that she had to answer, she’d breeze through the process.
“Well, truthfully, I don’t watch much TV or go to the movies, but I’d have to say, without question, that my favorite actor was, and is, Ian Carson. He was kind and sweet, and befriended me when I had a particularly difficult client that I was dealing with. I’ll never forget his friendship,” Missy smiled sadly.
“Did you ever see any of his movies?” Tim asked, looking over the top of his cobalt blue designer glasses.
“Not until after he died, no, but since then, I’ve seen them all. He was quite talented.”
Tim made his notes and nodded, indicating that he was finished. The next man on the panel was much younger than Missy, somewhere in his late twenties she guessed, with a scraggly beard and mustache and long, curly brown hair. His jeans looked as though they’d lost in a battle with a lawn mower, and his black, long-sleeved shirt fit like a second skin.
“Hi Mel, I’m Martin Cambridge,” the lad introduced himself. Missy hated being called Mel – it just seemed so masculine, not to mention overly familiar – but, having been raised in the South and knowing her manners, she smiled politely anyway. “My question for you is this – what role do you think television should play in influencing societal behaviors?”
Missy stared at the young man for a moment, blinking. The question had come out of left field, and she couldn’t fathom what possible relevance it might have to auditioning for a baking show, but she decided to try to answer it as succinctly as possible.
“Well…that’s a good question, Martin,” she began, lying through her teeth to try and buy some time to think. “It’s evident that television has a profound impact upon popular culture – everything from fashion to new words and expressions, to affecting how people feel about the issues of the day. As to how it should influence behaviors…I don’t know that it should influence behaviors at all. Personally, I’d much prefer that folks think for themselves and make their own decisions rather than allowing the undue influence of popular personalities who may or may not know what they’re talking about.”
Now it was Martin’s turn to stare and blink, which he did for what seemed like forever before nodding noncommittally and turning his gaze to the notepad in front of him, signaling the end of his part of the inquisition.
The last member of the panel regarded her with what seemed to be a mixture of curiosity and disdain. He was a rather rotund man in his late 50’s, with a heavily dyed and heartily greased comb-over, who gazed skeptically at Missy from beneath beetled brows, which were unfortunately dyed to match his hair.
“Kelvin Michaels,” he said, as though no further words were necessary. He leaned forward, elbows on the table, fingers steepled under his multiple chins. “What makes you think that you have what it takes to host your own television show?” he demanded, his sole intention to make her squirm.
Missy stared him down, never allowing her gaze to waver for even a moment. “Absolutely nothing,” she replied, unashamed and not the least bit intimidated. Few things raised her ire more than someone who deliberately tried to get her goat.
“Excuse me?” Kelvin said, seemingly offended.
Looking him dead in the eye and speaking with great conviction, Missy responded. “As far as I can tell, I have absolutely nothing to offer your viewers. I’m a cupcake artist from the middle of nowhere Louisiana, and I know nothing about acting or making presentations, or giving a television audience what they’re looking for. I know how to bake, I know how to successfully run a business, and I know how to get along with most folks – that’s the extent of my abilities, and if that’s not enough, so be it. I came out here because apparently someone thought it would be a good idea. If I can helps someone, or provide information in a way that folks enjoy, well, that’s just great. If not, I’m perfectly happy to go back to my two successful shops in Louisiana and live out my days among people that I know and love,” she said calmly, eyes flashing.
A slow smile spread across the bulbous features of Kelvin’s face, as other panel members gauged his reaction. He nodded at Missy with approval. “She’s got moxie, I’ll give her that…let’s put a script in her hands, Frannie,” he remarked, looking over at Francesca, who then thrust a stapled packet of papers into a bewildered Missy’s hand.
“Read up on this, sweetheart. We’ll give you a few minutes, then we want to hear what you sound like. Back in ten,” she told everyone in the room. As the four people at the table filed out, the producer came over to Missy with a reassuring smile. “Great job, Melissa! Would you like some water or coffee or something?”
“Wide-eyed and feeling more than ever that she was in some sort of bizarre dream state, Missy shook her head. “I don’t think caffeine would be a very good idea at this point,” she said, holding up a slightly trembling hand.
“Okay, deep breaths,” Francesca soothed, patting her shoulder. “You’ve made it through the tough part, the rest of this will be a piece of cake. It doesn’t matter that you’ve never done any acting, you’re going to be yourself when you’re on the show, so just be you, but larger than life,” she suggested as though Missy might have some idea as to what she was talking about.
“Larger than life?” she gulped. “I don’t think I know how to do that…”
“Sure you do,” the producer waved dismissively. “Just be you, but louder, brighter, more energetic.” The lithe woman looked her up and down, as if seeing her for the first time. “And, if we end up doing this, we’re going to want to think about getting you set up with a personal trainer, pronto,” she remarked, whipping out a small notebook and writing something down.
Missy stared at her, blinking and wondering what on earth she had gotten herself into. She knew that she was a bit curvier than the lissome women she had seen gliding about, but…a personal trainer? Where she came from, women were supposed to be fit but feminine. Her daily romps in the park with her furry babies had done a fine job of keeping her in shape, or so she had thought. Seeing the growing terror in her eyes, Francesca laughed and patted her shoulder again.
“No worries, Melissa, you just take a look at the script, give some thought as to how you’d read the lines, and we’ll worry about details later,” she said, turning and heading for the door.
When the door closed behind the energy-in-motion producer, Missy sighed and tried to concentrate on the script, which turned out to be a commercial for a diet cola. Frowning because she didn’t drink diet cola and knew nothing about how to do a television commercial, she flipped quickly through the pages, beginning to panic. The dialogue sounded stilted and unnatural, and the stage directions indicated that she should be delivering them with high energy and enthusiasm. Francesca had just told her that she didn’t need to act, she could just be herself, but Missy would never say any of the things that the “bright-eyed mom” in the commercial was supposed to say. Putting the script down on her lap, she decided that this entire experience had clearly been a waste of everyone’s time, and she would just tell them so when they came back in the room. The panel filed back in, chatting and sipping from power water bottles and lattes, taking their seats and settling down to look expectantly at Missy, who stood and held up the script.
“I’m sorry to have wasted everyone’s time. There’s no way that I can do this. My understanding was that I was auditioning for a baking show. Baking is my area of expertise and I would feel more than comfortable talking all day long about it, but pretending to love and sell something that I know absolutely nothing about is definitely way out of my comfort zone, so, thank you for your hospitality, but I’m clearly not the person that you’re looking for,” Missy smiled at the panel and started to step down from the platform, only to be stopped by Francesca.
“Okay, Melissa, wait, let’s try this…why don’t you tell us which cupcake that you bake is your favorite and why,” the producer suggested, holding her hand up to instruct Missy not to step down from the platform.
“My favorite cupcake? But…why?” Missy was puzzled.
“We want to see you talk about your passion, and we want to hear your voice and how you sound, that’s all, so why don’t you tell us about your favorite cupcake rather than talking about diet soda?” Francesca smiled encouragingly. “So, which kind of cupcake is your favorite?” she asked, indicating that Missy should sit back down.
Continuing to stand, Missy’s eyes lit up, and she began to speak, growing more animated with every syllable. “Well, it’s actually impossible for me to choose a favorite, because there are so many different tastes and textures, and I come up with a new flavor every week, but I can talk about some of the customer favorites. Folks seem to love the Margarita Madness cupcakes that I created when I came back from a trip to the Caribbean…” she went on at length, excited to describe her creation and the elements that go into crafting the perfect cupcake.
“Well, I don’t know about you guys,” Kelia remarked, when Missy was done with her mini-cooking lesson. “But, my stomach has been growling for a good five minutes,” she grinned. The members of the panel nodded, smiling at the now-confident baker. “Francesca, I say we do a screen test. Are we all in agreement?” There were nods all around, with the exception of Kelvin Michaels, who stroked his chin, gazing at Missy thoughtfully, eyes narrowed.
“Kelvin?” Kelia prompted. He raised an eyebrow at her, clearly not pleased at being rushed.
“We’ll do the screen test, but there needs to be an understanding that when direction is given, it needs to be followed,” he proclaimed in his gravelly voice, staring at Missy over the top of his designer reading glasses. Missy stared right back at him, not saying a word.
“Right, right, of course,” Francesca said hastily, moving toward the stage to whisk her newly-bold budding starlet off to a screening room.
Chapter 5
“I just want to go home,” Missy said softly, taking comfort from hearing the rich deep tones of Chas’s voice on the other end of the phone. “I don’t belong out here – I feel like I’m in way over my head.”
“Well, you’ve never been one to shy away from a challenge,” the handsome detective reminded her. “When will they let you know whether you’ve been selected?”
“Tomorrow morning,” she sighed. “They’re reviewing my screen test tonight, and I’m almost hoping that they’ll reject me,” she admitted.
“Sweetie, you’re really good at what you do. If you can help someone else express their creativity through teaching them how to bake, wouldn’t you want to do that?” he asked gently. “I know that when you’re showing Cheryl and Ben a new recipe at the shop, it’s exciting for all of you.”
“Yeah, that’s true,” Missy agreed, then changed the subject to ask what had been happening in LaChance while she was gone. The two chatted easily for several more minutes before Chas started yawning and needed to get to bed. After hanging up, Missy felt much better, but had no idea how she was going to handle it if she was actually chosen to host a baking show.
**
Rubbing the sleep from her eyes after a night of tossing and turning, Missy groped for her phone on the nightstand beside her.
“Missy Gladstone,” she answered, stifling a yawn.
“Melissa, hi, good morning!” Francesca greeted her energetically, as usual. “Hey listen, wanted to let you know – it’s unanimous, you’re in. Your driver will pick you up around 10:00 this morning to bring you to the studio to discuss details, then there’ll be a luncheon to introduce you to everyone, and we’ll set up a tentative date to begin filming. I hope you’re as excited as we are to get started. So, anyway, hon, I’ve gotta run, but I’ll look forward to seeing you soon – bye!” the producer rang off before Missy could open her mouth. Feeling fuzzy and befuddled, she glanced at the clock on her bedside table. 9:15??? She flung the covers back and headed for the shower.
**
Missy was surprised when a receptionist at the studio ushered her into a room that was abuzz with activity. A young woman, who said that she was Francesca’s assistant, handed her a clipboard with a packet of papers and instructed her to fill them out. Missy sat in a chair next to a muscular, tattooed young man with a thick, black ponytail, who looked up at her, smiling briefly before returning to his paperwork. She flipped through the stack of papers, noticing release forms, performance agreements, and other forms so filled with legalese that she could hardly make heads or tails of it. Noticing her bewilderment, the man beside her chuckled.
“It’s pretty standard stuff,” he reassured her, with a charming British accent. “Basically it all comes down to “we pay you, you show up on time and don’t discuss details of the show before its release,” he explained.
“You sound like you’ve done this before,” Missy observed, thinking it strange that Francesca was taking care of important details for multiple shows at once.
“I’ve been around a bit,” the genial man nodded. “Simon Reynolds,” he said, introducing himself. “You have a lovely accent. I’m guessing you’re the lady from the South.”
Missy grinned, gave him her name and shook hands. “Is it that obvious? I’m feeling a bit like a fish out of water at the moment,” she confessed.
“Don’t worry,” the Brit assured her. “Once we get in the kitchen, you’ll forget all about the cameras.”
“We? Umm…I’m afraid I don’t understand…” she replied, a tiny flicker of dread growing in her belly.
“Yeah, we – you know, you, me, the other competitors – once we get cooking, all the distractions go away and we can focus on our work,” he said, seeming confused by her question.
“Competitors?” alarm bells now pealed madly in Missy’s mind.
“You’re here for Cutthroat Cupcakes, right?” Simon asked, looking at her with perplexed amusement.
“Cutthroat Cupcakes??? I don’t think so,” she shook her head vehemently. “I’m here to host a baking show.”
“Oh dear, they didn’t explain things to you very well, now did they?” he observed, making a face. “So here’s the deal…there are five of us competing on a show called Cutthroat Cupcakes. The competitions all have a theme and the judges eliminate someone after each round. Whoever is left at the end gets to host their own baking show. Didn’t they tell you that?” he asked, incredulous.
“No one mentioned anything even remotely like that, or I wouldn’t have come at all,” Missy murmured.
“Really? Why? From what I hear, you’re favored to win.”
Missy sighed, disappointed and feeling as though she’d been misled. “Thanks for telling me, Simon,” she said, slipping the packet of papers back onto her neon blue plastic clipboard. “I’m going to go find Francesca and try to get out on the next plane back to Louisiana.”
Chapter 6
Missy had been whisked back to Francesca’s opulent office when she told the assistant that she wanted to go home immediately.
“Sweetheart, you don’t understand,” the producer leaned forward over her massive chrome and glass desk. “We have to do the competition in order to create the buzz we need to get great ratings for the baking show. This gives your fans a chance to see who you are, how you perform under pressure and how you handle every challenge with Southern charm and grace. It’s just a way to allow them to get to know you. Once they see you, they’ll love you!” she promised, pushing the release forms toward Missy.
“Fans? I don’t have fans,” Missy blinked, ignoring the forms.
“Not yet, honey, but you will. It’s only a matter of time,” the producer assured her, placing an expensive pen atop the stack of papers.
“But this is a competition…there’s no guarantee that I’ll win, and I might just make a fool of myself in the process. This could actually hurt my businesses back home,” Missy protested.
“Actually no,” Francesca turned serious. “This type of presence on a television show has shown conclusively that it boosts business for participants, even those who get eliminated, so you literally have nothing to lose and everything to gain,” she smiled triumphantly.
“I’m not a competitive person,” she responded quietly.
“You’re the best at what you do,” the determined producer reminded her. “By definition, that makes you competitive. The others will have to bring their A-game to even be in the same room with you, you have nothing to worry about,” she encouraged, picking up the pen and handing it to Missy. Feeling as though her entire career was on the line, and not at all certain that she was doing the right thing, she took a deep breath and scrawled her signature on the bottom line.
