by Lisa Ferrari
“Really? That’s how much you got for that commercial?”
Calista nods. “Plus royalties. I make something like eleven cents every time the commercial airs for the next twenty-four months. So, it’s not much but it’s going to add up. Plus, it’s more about the publicity, you know? Projecting an image and being marketable.”
“Can I ask you a personal question?”
“Depends how personal.”
“What made you decide to get your boobs done?”
Calista looks up at the ceiling in thought. “Um, it was partly personal and partly professional. Professional because it helps to have a curvy chest and when I lost all that weight, I think my boobs were half of it. I’ve always been big up top. I developed early, at, like, eleven. And by fourteen I was a doubleD, and I’ve been busty ever since. But then I lost a hundred and four pounds and my boobs vanished and I kinda missed them. So I made the production company pay for them before Chasing Lazer and they sent me to the best guy in town.”
“Do you ever regret it?”
“Not so far. Like I said, I’ve always been chesty so for me they felt familiar. But maybe for a girl who was always sort of lean upstairs, going from an A or a B to a D might take some getting used to.”
“So you’re not thinking about taking them out, like Demi Moore did after Striptease?”
“She had them taken out? Really? I didn’t know that. Wow. No, I actually kind of like them. I have to strap them down with a special sports bra every time I run the stairs, but that’s okay.”
“Stairs?”
“Down in Redondo, where I live. There are these big stairs that lead down to the beach. I go up and down them about every other day. People have come to know me for my legs, so I’m terrified of losing them. So I do that to make sure I keep them looking good.” Her phone makes a distinct farting sound and she checks it. “Is that the time? Crap, I gotta go, I’m supposed to meet my agent for lunch at Mel’s in twenty minutes. But it was so nice to meet you, Claire. Good luck with the part.”
“Good luck to you, too.”
Calista hugs me, smiles, and heads for the door.
She turns and hurries back. “Oh wait.” She pulls out her phone and holds it up so we can take a selfie. “Let’s take a pic, so we’ll always remember this.”
“Okay.”
She clicks it. We look good.
“You have NFC on your phone? I’ll beam it to you.”
She taps her phone a couple times to share the image, I go into Settings and turn on my NFC, and we hold our phones back to back like they’re kissing. My phone buzzes briefly and the download comes in.
“Got it?”
I open it to confirm that I do. “Yep.”
“Okay. Bye!”
“Bye.”
Calista leaves.
I’m forced to admit that she’s not a total bimbo bitch slut. She’s actually pretty cool. Somehow it makes me feel better about competing against her. She’s real. She’s a person, same as me. Hearing her story took her from the girl on the screen in a bikini (holographic, bacon, or otherwise) and showed me that she’s not someone to fear. And her success doesn’t seem as scary as I’d assumed it to be. If she can do it, and she clearly has done it, so can I.
WE SAY OUR goodbyes to Sheila, Rami, Aaron, Heather, and everyone else in the office. Everyone vows to bleed themselves dry trying to make this picture go, and with both Kellan and me in it… TOGETHER.
Sheila walks us out to the car, where Ray is waiting to drive us wherever we need to go. She asks about our plans for Thanksgiving and reiterates her offer. She asks us to let her know as soon as possible so she can be certain to set two more places for us and to make sure there’s enough food.
Ray drives us down Sunset Boulevard, in the general direction of LAX, so we can pick a spot for lunch per Sheila’s instructions.
We spot a Mel’s Diner. Kellan insists we go there.
I tell him I spoke with Calista in the ladies’ room and she is having lunch there with her agent.
“Well, this should be interesting.”
And it is.
THERE ARE ALREADY paparazzi out front, no doubt because Calista Legs Roth showed up about thirty minutes ago.
When Ray opens the door for me and I step out, guys with cameras rush us, surrounding us. Kellan slides across the seat and gets out behind me.
I try to act cool, as though I’m not instantly more self-conscious than I’ve ever been before in my entire life.
Kellan takes me by the hand and I remember what Calista said about being more alpha and less beta. I squeeze Kellan’s hand and strut toward the door with long strides.
Kellan matches my pace and opens the door for me. He does it a bit slower than I would’ve expected and I can tell he’s milking the moment of chivalry for all its worth. Clever.
We enter the diner. It looks pretty much just like the one back home. It’s fairly busy, about three-quarters full with a lunch crowd.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Calista and another woman in a smart red business suit sitting against the far wall, away from the windows.
Calista sees me and gives me a discreet thumbs up. She and I both have our sunglasses on.
Kellan and I are seated in a booth. Kellan slides in on the same side and sits next to me. Our table is in fact next to a window and the photographers outside are going apeshit.
I turn to Kellan, smile, and do my best ventriloquism, trying not to move my lips. “Are we really going to eat like this?”
Kellan kisses me on the cheek and I see a flurry of camera flashes outside. “Sure. Just ignore them. Pretend they’re not there. Pretend we’re back home having a post-workout meal after leaving the Palace.”
Our waitress arrives and Kellan orders omelets for us, no hashbrowns, no fries. Just salad, with oil and vinegar and some lemon.
Kellan checks his phone and shows it to me.
Sure enough, all three of us are all over Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, Periscope, Snapchat, and some other social networks I’ve never even heard of.
“Is this really a good idea?” I ask.
“Are you kidding? People love stuff like this. No matter what happens and who gets the part, it’ll help sell the movie. Hopefully, you and I will be around long enough to be the benefactors of all this media scrutiny.”
While we eat, I try not to think about the ‘what if’ element of Kellan’s statement. I also try to ignore the people on the other side of the window photographing us the whole time. I have my sunglasses on, so I’m able to turn my face toward Kellan while still watching them. After about twenty minutes of it, the scrutiny and attention starts to strike me as funny and I’m able to relax a bit and enjoy my omelet.
AT LAX, THERE are even more paparazzi.
They’re waiting as Ray drops us off and they follow us into the terminal, and again as we walk toward the security screening area. I keep my sunglasses on.
They’re calling my name, trying to get my attention, trying to get me to look in their direction so they can get a good shot. There are even several big video cameras with bright spotlights on.
It’s a really good thing I have my sunglasses on, otherwise I wouldn’t be able to see where I was going.
“Claire, Claire! How was your meeting today?” somebody shouts.
Everyone else gets quiet.
“Great.” I’m vaguely aware that this is the first time I’m going to be speaking on camera. It’s a chance for me to make up for those horrid photos of my fat butt getting in and out of the Mister Beaumont in front of Crowbar a few months ago. I pull my shoulders back and hope my posture is good and that I sound confident.
“You look fantastic,” one of the photographers says. The crowd of them moves with us through the terminal.
“Thanks,” I say. “Kicking the crap out of Navy SEALs on the beach at midnight will do that to a girl.”
Everyone laughs. A bunch of them yell “Good luck!”
“Thanks, guys
, you’re sweet.” I try to do that cool sign-off thing; I bump my fist on my heart twice, kiss my two fingers, and make a peace sign.
I secretly can’t wait to see what Denise says when she sees it.
Chapter 18
KELLAN AND I arrive home and flop on the sofa, exhausted.
Kellan takes my hand in his. “That was certainly an interesting day.”
“Yeah, it was.”
“You were amazing. I’m so proud of you.”
“For what?”
“For handling yourself with such poise and dignity and grace. You were perfect.”
“Thanks. You were perfect, too.”
Kellan leans over and kisses me. “What should we do now?”
“Drink a protein shake with about a thousand grams of creatine, hit the weights harder than we’ve ever hit them in our lives, drink another protein shake, and then go outside and collapse in the spa and try not to puke. And then have mind-altering sex until we pass out.”
Kellan laughs. “God I love you.”
THAT’S EXACTLY WHAT we do.
We train.
Hard.
I insist on training legs. Kellan wants to do shoulders and arms but I want my legs to look as good as Calista’s. I don’t tell Kellan what Nathan said about my butt. It was awkward and weird when Nathan said it so I basically just want to forget it.
During our workout, our phones are going berserk with alerts for texts and email from people we know who saw us on TV or online. TMZ breaks the story after Calista’s publicist put out the word that Calista is up for the lead female role in the most expensive movie of all time.
Sheila texts to say that she and Rami and Aaron and Heather all decided to leak the info about me, too, because they want me to have a fair shot at the part and they figure people need to hear my name as well. Sheila says not to say anything but she hopes I get it because Kellan and I are an actual couple and she wants that chemistry on screen.
TMZ shows the footage of me on the beach with the SEALs. Pretty soon, the video has gone viral: The First Lady SEAL? They show me carrying Chavez and Newberry up and down the beach, low-crawling through the sand, doing leg raises in the surf, and getting pounded in the face by cold water.
They start calling me ‘Iron Born’ because of my tee shirt. I understand now why Kellan told me to wear it that night despite its prominent stench.
They also show the footage of Kellan and me at Mel’s. They show Calista, too.
Finally, they show us walking through LAX, hand in hand, and me speaking. Kellan isn’t asked anything and doesn’t say a word. But he’s got a huge smile on his face and is watching me the whole time. I didn’t realize it when it was all happening, with all the bright lights and everything.
But we both look good. I actually like the way I look. Sheila was right about Kellan dressing me. I’m a tiny bit embarrassed but I think I look and sound…sexy. Especially when I do the heart-bump-finger-kiss thing.
“What was that?” Kellan asks.
“What was what?”
“That salute thing you did there at the end.”
“I have no idea. I thought it was something cool to do. So I just sorta did it.”
“Hmm. Well, it looked good.”
I’m amazed how everyone played into it, just as Kellan said they would.
I get another text from Sheila.
Good job guys!
They’re eating it up!
Aaron and Rami both text similar praise.
So does Denise:
Holy shit, girl!
You are famous.
AND hot!
That one makes me feel good. Denise is my oldest friend. I value her opinion. Maybe too much. But I can’t help it.
I get another text. From Nathan.
Congrats on the
movie role.
I hope you get it.
How bad do you
want it?
I show it to Kellan.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” he asks.
“I don’t know.”
I text Nathan:
Why?
I know some people.
I might be able to
pull some strings.
Do you want to
cum back to NYC
to “discuss” it?
Kellan sighs. “I’m going to strangle that guy if I ever meet him. Look how he spelled ‘cum’. And he put ‘discuss’ in quotes. Tell him to fuck off.”
“What about my book deal? My contract?”
My phone pings again.
It’s Nathan:
I have
a beach house
in the Hamptons.
“See?” Kellan says.
Nathan texts again:
And
a Red Room
of Pain.
“What’s a Red Room of Pain?” Kellan asks.
“It’s a Fifty Shades of Grey reference. Christian Grey has a playroom where he takes his subs to tie them up and blindfold them and make them orgasm a gazillion times. Anastasia is scared of it so she calls it the Red Room of Pain.”
Another text from Nathan arrives:
We can spend
the weekend there.
No one will bother us.
I’ll let you
rock my world.
Kellan reads the text along with me. “Man…” he sighs, “fuck that guy. What an asshole. You told him you were seeing someone, right?”
“Yes! I did. I swear to God.”
“Okay, okay.” Kellan hugs me. “I believe you. But I think you need to set some boundaries with Hamburger Boy.”
“What about my book deal?” I don’t even want to think it, but I ask anyway: “Do you think there even is one?”
“Tough to say. But a real professional wouldn’t be sextorting you for it. You aren’t the first and you won’t be the last. Look, this is your call. But I would tell him once and for all that that behavior is not acceptable and he has to be professional if he wants to work with you. Period. And if he doesn’t, so be it. Besides, with the videos of you and everything, a lot of people are going to Google you. A lot of them will buy your books. Industry people in New York will, too. You don’t need Nathan Freakin’ Whatever-his-name-is. What’s his last name again?”
I can’t recall. Kellan has been making fun of him and calling him funny names and now I’ve lost track of Nathan’s actual name. Justly so, too, judging by his texts. “Um, Wellington?”
“You don’t know, either?”
“No, I can’t remember.”
Kellan hugs me and kisses me.
“Look,” he says, “let’s put our phones down and get back to our workout. We have business to take care of. Let Nathan… Dickface… Asshole… Shitburger hang for a while. Tomorrow you can tell him to clean up his act or take a hike.”
“Okay.”
Kellan and I get back to our workout. We decide to see how many sets of squats we can do with a fixed weight. I put a plate on each side and squat 135 pounds twenty-five times and manage to do nine sets before I’m only able to do it twice, and I fall down on the second one so Kellan says I’m done for the day.
We take our protein shakes in the spa as planned.
Somehow we find the strength to make love.
Chapter 19
KELLAN GETS UP early to drive to San Francisco for his photo shoot.
I have to work at two p.m., otherwise I would go with him. I really, really, REALLY wish I’d gone with him and that I had the guts to call Nancy and tell her I quit.
Denise texts and asks if I’m free for lunch.
We meet at Panera Bread.
Great, just what I need when I’m doing the weight-cut of my life: CARBS! And not just carbs, but bread. Freshly-baked bread. I LOVE freshly-baked bread. Especially French baguettes. I can eat them plain right out of the paper bag. I don’t need meat or cheese or mayo or Dijon mustard or anything. Just give me the baguette.
But not today.
Today I eat a salad with the dressing on the side and a plain chicken breast on top. I dip the tines of my fork in the dressing before each bite, rather than slathering my salad with the entire tureen of dressing.
Halfway through lunch, the sexy partner guy from Denise’s firm walks in, the one she wanted to set me up with a while back.
“Oh, look,” Denise says, “here’s Harper.”
Harper approaches our table, with a big friendly smile on his face.
“Harper,” says Denise, “I’d like you to meet, officially this time, my best friend in the whole wide world and the sweetest human being I’ve ever known, Claire Valentine. Claire, this is Harper Miller. Harper is the youngest partner in our firm.”
Harper and I shake. His hand is soft. Nothing like Kellan’s. Shaking hands with him reminds me of shaking hands with Calista yesterday, only softer.
“Nice to meet you, Ms. Valentine.”
“Nice to meet you.” I don’t want to be a bitch, but this is already weird. I’m ready to kick Denise in her vagina with the dirty toe of my special non-slip-sole work shoe.
“Harper, please, join us.”
“Thank you.” Harper sits down.
Denise merely grins guiltily at my menacing scowl.
Denise starts right in, “Claire, don’t you just love the name ‘Harper’ for a guy?”
“Yeah. And Harper Miller. It’s like if Harper Lee married Arthur Miller.”
“Who’s that?” Denise asks. She’s so unabashed about not knowing important information.
“Harper Lee wrote To Kill a Mockingbird. Arthur Miller was a playwright who wrote Death of a Salesman, among other things.”
