As Seen on TV

by Sarah Mlynowski

  He laughs. “Oops.”

  “Why are you laughing? Look at my face, Steve. I’m so not laughing. Maybe you don’t care about what happens to your clothes, but I care about mine.”

  He stops laughing. “They’re just clothes, Sunny. Who cares? What the hell has happened to your priorities?”

  Why is he making me feel bad? He’s the irresponsible one. “I’m going to the gym. By the time I get back, you’d better have sorted through the lost and found and located as many pieces of my clothing as humanly possible, and have figured out how to get the rest of my wardrobe back. My very expensive wardrobe. Start with 4D. She has my sweater.”

  His eggs sizzle as I stomp out of the kitchen.

  I hate working out. Really I do. I especially hate this Stairmaster. It kills. And it’s so boring. Why don’t they make these things with built-in televisions or something?

  Pump, pump, pump.

  Since the relay race left me totally out of breath, I’ve been here for two hours every day this week, trying to get into shape.

  Also, if I’m going to start auditioning for roles, I have to look perfect.

  Carrie was a little surprised when I told her this morning I wanted to get into acting.

  “I can’t really see it,” she said. “What happened to your business development jobs? I thought you’ve been interviewing.”

  I shrugged. “I prefer the television industry. I like being in the public eye. Will you keep me on as a client? Start sending me to auditions? If I don’t win the show, I mean.”

  She agreed.

  When my forty-five minutes are up, I head over to the weights, and pass the pool on the way.

  I haven’t swum in forever. But there’s no time. The Stairmaster is a better workout than swimming, isn’t it?

  The pool is open twenty-four hours. Maybe one night I should trade in sleep for a swim.

  All week, I’ve been unsuccessfully scanning the room for Karen Dansk from Women’s Network. When Party Girls is done, I’m going to call her. Why not? She said I should call her if I need anything. Maybe she can get me a role on a new sitcom.

  Also, I was warned I’d be expected to sport a bathing suit this week. The impetus for the Page Six fiasco was me telling Steve I was heading off to Stark’s to buy a new one and he insisted on coming with me.

  “What do you think of this one?” I asked, modeling a red string bikini as he sat on the changing room floor, playing with threads in the carpet.

  His eyes popped out of his head as if attached to Slinkies. “Are you insane?”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “You…can’t show that much skin on television. It’s a G-rated show. Try on this.” He passed me a one-piece black suit.

  “It’s so boring.” I said. I don’t even recognize the label. Swimfun. I’m not wearing something from designed by Swimfun. What’s Swimfun?

  “It’s practical. You need something sporty. You don’t want your top flying off in the middle.”

  We settled on a one-piece black Calvin Klein suit. It was sexy, covered what Steve deemed to be enough skin, and…well it was Calvin Klein.

  Steve has been acting all weird-ed out since the L.A. discussion. I’ve caught him staring at me oddly more than a few times, as if he’s trying to figure me out.

  Wait a second. Did he lose my clothes…on purpose? To make a point about my clothes? How he thinks I’m putting my new self before him?

  I’ll kill him if he did that on purpose.

  Especially if I need to get all new clothes. Maybe Miche will go shopping with me. Yeah right. I’ve been trying to make shopping plans with Miche all week, but she didn’t call me back until yesterday, when she wanted me to come over and watch a movie. Of course I went. I’m not sure why I keep running to her every time she deigns to allow me the honor of her company. Of course when I was there, we laughed all night, and I forgot I was angry with her for not returning my calls right away.

  “She sounds a lot like your father,” Steve had commented Wednesday night when I complained that I hadn’t heard from her. “She uses people.”

  “You don’t even know her,” I said in defense. “She’s just busy.”

  I knew he was right. She did remind me of my father. I was always calling him for plans, too, and he never called me back right away, either. Since I’ve moved here, I’ve called him at least twice a week to say hello, to make lunch/dinner plans. I speak to his secretary more than I speak to him.

  Today’s second epiphany: I don’t think my father’s ever called the apartment. Does he even know the number?

  I’ve seen him three times since I moved here. The first two were Carrie’s idea. Granted, the last was his. But only after I bumped into him when he was buying a jacket.

  Fantastic. Let’s tally up. Family. My father is avoiding me. My only other family member, my sister, keeps harassing me with her “Purity tampons are destroying the world” diatribes, so I never call her back. The worst part is she’s most likely right, so as well as being a terrible relative, I’m personally responsible for the probable illness of millions of women.

  Now friends. Miche never returns my calls. There used to be Millie. But I haven’t been very good at keeping in touch, and the truth is whenever we do talk, our realities are too different now to really relate. There’s Carrie, of course. But does she count as a friend when our relationship often feels like it’s based on barter? She gives me heads-up about the show, I give her heads-up about my father. How can I truly trust someone whose presence is based solely on circumstance and need? There’s Brittany. But she’s too dumb for me to ever bond with. Of course, there’s Erin. But I can’t imagine she’ll ever speak to me again after Saturday.

  “I want Erin off,” Miche had said in the VIP room, eyes gleaming. “She’s a vile sketch-ball and I want to dump that Cosmo right over her head.”

  I didn’t have the stomach to spill a drink over anyone’s head, never mind a girl who was about to have her dreams crushed.

  After Miche soaked her, the crowd went wild.

  Erin was drenched, her outfit stained, her hair tinted pink. She spun around and stabbed her finger at Miche. “You enjoyed that, you bitch, didn’t you?”

  If the cameras weren’t there I think she would have punched Miche in the face.

  “Omigod, what a freak,” Miche said, squeezing my hand.

  Erin didn’t say goodbye, she just stormed off. Dirk tried to follow her with his camera, but she kneed him in the groin.

  Poor Erin. I should call her and make sure she’s okay. Although she probably wants nothing to do with me.

  And now men. Steve. My boyfriend who has become highly possessive and loses my stuff on purpose.

  Not that I don’t deserve it. I forget plans. I’ve reshuffled him to the bottom of my priority list. I’m always bitchy. I won’t admit to anyone that he exists. And I’ve been fantasizing about another guy.

  I’m the worst live-in girlfriend ever.

  The worst part is I don’t even feel bad. Shouldn’t I feel terrible for the way I’m behaving toward him?

  Matt and my e-mails have increased to once a day. Nothing crazy or explicit or technically cheating. But flirty enough to make me delete them as soon as I hit Send, and then delete them from my Deleted file.

  I think I hate myself.

  After finishing with the weights, I change in the locker room and walk back home. Taped to the wall of the elevator is a poster that says, “Have you seen me?”

  Underneath are drawings of women’s shirts and jeans and men’s boxers. Underneath the drawings is the following message:

  Help! I belong to a nice lady whose silly boyfriend accidentally and very regretfully left me in this elevator on Thursday night. You may have found me in the lost and found basket. If so, I would sincerely appreciate if you could bring me back to my owner. Please call 555-1676 and help me find my way home.

  I can’t suppress a grin.

  Why is it that I’m so mean and he’s sti
ll so sweet? That’s it. No more Matt e-mails. No more bitchiness. Steve is adorable and I’m going to treat him like he deserves to be treated.

  When I open the door, the lights are off. Steve isn’t home yet, but my gray Nicole Miller sweater is spread diagonally across the bedspread, arms crossed.

  There’s a message on the machine from Carrie:

  “Hi, hon. Listen, Howard wants to shake things up a bit tomorrow. Instead of you girls getting ready at the Bolton Hotel, he wants to take some footage of you getting ready at your own apartments, now that there are only three of you.” She pauses. “I tried to talk him out of it, but no luck. Apparently some of the viewers have written in about wanting to see where you live. They’re all confused about why we film you at a hotel. I’m not sure what you want to do—I had to tell him you lived downtown, but I said I didn’t know the exact address. He was just happy all three of you live on the island so the crew doesn’t have to do too much traveling. Do you have a friend’s place you can use? I’d tell you to use mine, but Howard knows where I live. Let me know.”

  I guess it’s convenient for them that we kicked Erin off. She lived all the way in Brooklyn.

  If I don’t figure out how to hide a certain fixture in my apartment—Steve—I’m going to be the next one dripping in Cosmo.

  I call Miche to discuss, but of course, she doesn’t answer.

  “Honey,” I say, kissing him on his windblown cheek. I pass him a glass of wine as he walks through the door. “I want to thank you for putting up that sign in the elevator. And for returning my sweater. I’m sorry I got so mad at you before, I know it was an accident.”

  His eyes blink rapidly. Apparently he’s in shock at my speedy absolution. “I’m forgiven? Already? But I had an entire script of groveling prepared.”

  “No groveling required.” I kiss him again.

  “I am sorry. I don’t know what I was thinking.” He sips the wine, then wraps his arm around me. “I brought you Ben & Jerry’s chocolate ice cream as a peace offering.”

  Peace offering? Did I not make clear to him that I was spending the afternoon at the gym? What’s the point in working out if I eat ice cream? “Steve, I’m on a diet.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, you don’t need to diet.” He takes a closer look around the room and drops his arm. “Did you clean up? Where’s all my stuff?”

  All his belongings—pictures of his family, beer bottle collection, Dennis Rodman–signed basketball, sports books—have been packed in a box and hidden at the back of the bedroom closet. At the back of the closet with his shoes, coats, deodorant, cologne and all further signs that a male lives in this apartment.

  He picks up the recently reframed photo of Millie and me in front of the Eiffel Tower.

  “Don’t get mad. It’s for the show. They want to film me getting ready here tomorrow so I had to hide your stuff.”

  He gets that constipated look on his face, then cracks his neck.

  I’m waiting for him to say something. Instead he takes off his coat, hangs it up and, without looking at me, retreats into our bedroom and slams the door.

  He has no right to be mad at me. This is my place, too, isn’t it? I pace around the living room and then end up just outside the bedroom. “I didn’t have a choice, Steve,” I call through the door. “They’re coming tomorrow.”

  “You didn’t have a choice?” His voice through the wall sounds faraway, strained.

  I go inside. “No, I didn’t.”

  He’s lying on his stomach, face turned toward the window, away from me. “I think you had many choices. First of all, I’ve had enough of being your little secret. We live together. End of story. Tell them you met someone. Would that be so awful?”

  I know I said I’d try to be nicer, but he’s being a bit unreasonable. I sigh. “Steve, it’s only two more weeks.”

  “Not if you win.” He rolls toward me. “Second, why didn’t you just tell them you had a male roommate? It is a two-bedroom. It wouldn’t have been unheard of.”

  I hadn’t thought of that. I sit down on the corner of the bed. “Come on, Steven.”

  “Second—”

  “You already said second.”

  “Third, could you not have waited for me to get back? So I could help you? So we could make me invisible together?”

  “I thought you’d be tired and not want to deal with it. Excuse me for trying to be considerate.”

  Why am I so snarky? His feelings are hurt, obviously. But why can’t he stand me doing things on my own? I don’t have time right now for all this togetherness. I have a manicure, pedicure, eyebrow wax and lip wax scheduled for tomorrow morning. I won’t have any time to get rid of traces of him then. (I vetoed the bikini wax after the last disaster. However, I’m going to have to shave again because of that bathing suit rumor. Aqua relay?)

  “Considerate? You were being considerate?”

  “Enough already. Get over it. I got over your donating my wardrobe to the neighbors.” I lie down on the bed, facing him. Now for the trump card. “And who are you to preach about the virtues of honesty? You still haven’t told your parents that we’re living together.”

  A car honks outside. We stare into each other’s eyes. How can I hurt those big green eyes? I wrap my arm around his waist.

  He sighs. “What am I going to do with you?”

  “Love me forever and ever?” I kiss him hard on the lips. “And not be here tomorrow afternoon because Pete is coming at three to set up?”

  He sighs. “I’ll spend the day at my sister’s. I haven’t hung out with the kids in two weeks.”

  Two weeks? He saw them two weeks ago? I don’t remember that. “When did you see them? Where was I?”

  He shrugs. “Shopping, I think.”

  “Well, you’re a very good uncle for seeing them all the time.”

  His hand caresses my stomach. “Until we have babies of our own, they’re all I have to spoil.”

  Babies of our own? Yikes. I’m only twenty-four. I’m not exactly ready to be a mom. I giggle. “Let’s have this discussion in about…a decade or so?”

  He draws small circles on my arm. “I want to have at least five kids, so we can’t start too late.”

  Kids? What kids? What’s the baby rush all of a sudden? “Why don’t we practice?” I ask, lowering my hand to his groin. I unsnap and unzip his pants and pull down my panties and pull him inside of me. Got to hand it to my Steve, the man’s always ready. After a few minutes of thrusting, he tries to make me orgasm with his hand, and I moan and groan and “Oh my, oh my, I’m coming,” I tell him, even though I’m not. He comes inside me, and just before he rolls over, he murmurs, “Maybe your pills still aren’t working and we won’t have to wait that decade, after all.”

  The blinds are open and I stare outside. Within seconds he falls asleep on my chest, smothering me.

  20

  Mission: Impossible

  “All right,” Tania says. “We have enough footage of Sunny in her own surroundings. Let’s go to Michelle’s.”

  “All of us?” I ask. “Why?”

  “We told Michelle we’d all meet at her place,” Tania says. “Ready? I’m just using the rest room and then we’ll go.”

  I attempt to sit down on the couch without exposing my butt crack. My good black pants remain lost in the building, and the replacement pair I ran out to buy earlier today give low-rise a new definition. Whenever I sit down, my thong pops out to say hello. “Why don’t you have a seat, Pete, relax for a few minutes?” I ask, pulling my shirt down over my hips. “So what are you up to after this is done? You going to California?”

  Pete sits and stretches his arms above him. “Nah. My kids are in school here and my wife’s a teacher. I can’t exactly pick up and leave. I’m already looking for work. Any leads?”

  Knock, knock, knock.

  Uh-oh. Who is that? If Steve brought his nieces and nephews here I’m going to kill him. Maybe if I ignore it, whoever’s knocking will go away.

>   Knock, knock, knock.

  Pete looks at me strangely. “I think someone’s at your door.”

  “Really? I didn’t hear anything.”

  Knock, knock, knock.

  Damn. I open the door. A short blond woman with horrible brash-blond highlights is standing in the doorway, holding my favorite black pants.

  “Hi,” she says cheerfully. “I spoke to your boyfriend, Steve. I found these in the lost and found. He said one of you is usually home, so I should come by whenever I got a chance to drop them off. Sorry about taking them, but they’re great pants. I thought I won the lost and found lottery, you know? They’re Helmut Lang.”

  “No kidding.”

  She does a double take at the huge video camera and lights. “Is this a bad time?”

  “Thanks.” I grab the pants from her and slam the door. What are the chances Pete didn’t hear any of that? I slowly turn around. Maybe he’s in the midst of a fabulous daydream and oblivious to his surroundings? Please let the camera not be on.

  Pete’s wearing a lopsided grin. “Boyfriend, huh? So one of you is usually here? Where’s all his stuff?”

  The toilet flushes. I hear water running from the bathroom sink.

  “I…he…” I can’t believe it. I just got busted. Panic chokes me.

  He waves his hand. “Your secret’s safe with me, don’t worry.”

  I love Pete. Relief washes over me as Tania opens the bathroom door. “Ready?” she asks.

  “Give me two seconds,” I say. “I want to change my pants.”

  Thirty minutes later I’m sitting next to Brittany on Michelle’s tan leather couch, flipping through a coffee-table book (about the fabulous city of Manhattan) on the hand-carved wooden rectangular coffee table.

  I feel like I’ve gotten trapped in a Pottery Barn catalog.

  This episode Brittany is wearing jeans, running shoes, and a tank top. Her breasts look smaller than usual.

  “Why do you look flatter today?” I ask.

  “Sports bra. Last week I was bouncing all over the place.”

  Howard is on his cell phone, Pete is filming us.