Predictably, Regan threw her head in her hands and started weeping. It was an awful moment, and you couldn’t help but feel sorry for her. All her life, Regan lived under her sister’s shadow. Until now, From Fat to Fabulous was the only thing she’d ever done fully on her own.
I stared at Briana. She was wearing a tiny black shirt, black high heels, and a silver sequined strapless top. She had the kind of huge, perfect tits that only money can buy. She looked, in all honesty, like she was right out of the pages of Playboy. I could see no similarity between her and Regan. Their faces were totally different, and Regan easily outweighed Briana by more than two hundred pounds. It seemed a cruel joke of nature that they were sisters.
Wassup!” Briana cried, raising her arms in the air.
I couldn’t believe poor Regan was having her one shot at glory sabotaged by her glamorous little sister. I was so caught up in feeling bad for her, that I missed what was coming.
“Our next guest—who will also be joining the cast as of tonight—is the epitome of class and style,” Jagger said. “He comes to us all the way from Merry Olde England. I love this guy’s name, it sounds like something straight out of a Charles Dickens novel.”
I watched the door swing open, and I heard Jagger speak, his voice drawn out as though in slow-motion in that final moment before the guillotine dropped.
“America, say hello to Nicholas Appleby!”
Chapter Nineteen
I ran.
Out of my seat, through the living room, up the stairs, and into my bedroom. I could hear the cameraman thundering along behind me. I didn’t look back—not even to sneak a glimpse of Nick. I kept right on running until I’d reached the closet—the only sanctuary available. I flew inside and slammed the door. I dropped onto my stomach, pulling dresses and shirts off the racks and burying myself beneath them. It wasn’t much of a hiding place, and I knew it wouldn’t last for long.
“Kat!” I heard a voice scream. It was a woman’s voice.
Zaidee.
“Go away,” I hollered, my sound muffled underneath the pile of clothes.
“Kat, I need to talk to you.”
“I can’t talk,” I sobbed. I wiped my face off with the sleeve of one of Regan’s shirts. How? How? HOW? How had the show found out about Nick? Who told them?
“Kat, we’re in the middle of a live show right now,” Zaidee lectured. “Remember what I said on your first day in the mansion? You can’t ditch the camera crews because you’re having a bad day.”
“This is a little more than a BAD DAY.” I hiccupped. “This is my WORST FUCKING NIGHTMARE COME TO LIFE!” I gasped, realizing what I’d just said.
“Watch your language,” Zaidee scolded.
Charles Dickens. Jagger said Nick’s name reminded him of a Charles Dickens character. . . .
“We’re live, Kat. You’ve got to come back downstairs immediately!”
That’s too big a coincidence . . . they must have put two and two together from my phone conversation with Donna!
“It’s written into your contract, Kat. You’re required to participate in the filming of all live shows!”
“Zaidee,” I begged. “Please don’t make me go back. I can’t do it. I can’t. I can’t!”
“What are you so afraid of, Kat?” I had no choice. I had to tell her the truth.
“Nick Appleby, who is now downstairs, has no idea I’m overweight,” I confessed, blurting it out all in one breath.
Zaidee was quiet for a minute. Then she said, “I know, Kat. I know all about your situation.”
“Oh my God!” I gasped. “He’s told you everything?”
“We know, yes.”
“So you see why I can’t come out of here until he’s gone!”
“Listen, Kat.” Her tone grew firm. “I do not come in here and interfere with the filming process unless a breach of policy has been made. Unless a contestant crosses a line. Kat, tonight you’ve crossed that line.”
I began crying harder, producing great big sobs that wracked my entire body.
Zaidee softened her tone. “I’m sorry you’re so upset. But nothing bad is going to happen if you come out. Nick’s downstairs waiting to meet you for the first time, waiting to talk to you.”
“I can’t let him see me,” I bawled. “He’ll hate me.”
“Kat.” She sighed. “Nick already has seen you.”
“What!” I gasped, mortified.
“He knows,” she told me. “Believe me, he knows. Nick’s seen tapes of the show. He knows why you’re here. And he wants to talk to you. He wants to straighten things out. You’ve got to give him that chance.”
My head was spinning. I had no idea what to do, other than the fact that every fiber of my body was screaming out for me to hide. Since that wasn’t an option, at least not any longer, I figured I’d didn’t have much choice.
“All right,” I said flatly. “You win.” Slowly, I pushed open the door.
Zaidee saw me, and her eyes bulged. “Tate,” she barked to the cameraman, running her fingers along her neck in a slashing motion.
“Cut the shot. Tell Roger to go to cam three.” He dipped the lens down toward the floor. Tate. I never thought of my cameraman as having a name before.
“Honey, I am going to do you the biggest favor of your life.” She grabbed ahold of Tate’s headset and started talking into it. “Roger, hold on cam three for about two minutes, get the full back-story. Yeah, I know what I’m doing. Uh-huh, try and make it interesting. Yeah, I’m aware that you’re the director, you dick.” She laughed. “No hard feelings. I owe ya, okay? Oh, and get Stevie up here immediately for a quick touchup on Kat. Tell her to haul ass.”
I stared at her in surprise. It was all unfolding at about a million miles per hour. I couldn’t figure out which way was up.
“Kat, doll,” Zaidee said, fixing me with a look of tenderness. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but you look like a train wreck. That pretty little mug of yours is caked in snot, tearstains, and mascara.”
I drew in a breath. “Don’t sweat it, hon. I’m getting our makeup artist up here to do an emergency procedure. Think of this as CPR for your face,” she said, cracking up at her own joke. “Boy, you don’t know how good you’ve got it, kiddo,” she said.
I was instantly reminded of Richard Geddlefinger. He always called me that. Suddenly, I longed desperately to be back in Memphis, back in my boring life, attending one of Richard Geddlefinger’s marathon Monday meetings.
“I’m playing God here, much to our director’s chagrin,” Zaidee said. “Enjoy your miracle, hon. I’m letting you clean up before we get the shot of you meeting your little boyfriend. And you’re not going to give me any trouble anymore, are you? No more running away from the cameras, eh?” She put her arm around my shoulders and gave me a tight squeeze.
I nodded miserably, staring at the floor.
“Tate, go ahead and film this, we’re gonna cut between cam three and cam four,” she said. Tate swung the camera back onto his shoulder and aimed it at me. “Here, get your lavalier back on straight, Kat,” she ordered, pointing toward my microphone.
I looked down at my shirt. The lapel mic had slipped off and was now hanging at my side. I pulled it to the top of my collar, and clipped it back into place.
A moment later, a mousy-haired woman with glasses appeared, carrying a big metallic box that resembled a tool kit. I could only assume she was Stevie, the makeup artist.
“Sit,” Stevie ordered, practically shoving me onto the bed. She wiped my face down with makeup remover and then set to work. She whipped out an array of beauty products, and began applying concealer, base, and powder. Then she touched up my eyes with some eye shadow and a fresh coat of mascara.
“Don’t ruin this, okay?” she said. She left as quickly as she came.
Zaidee gave me a thumbs-up sign. “Go get him,” she mouthed.
Slowly, I rose from the bed. I had stalled Nick for nearly five months, using every excuse I could
think of to avoid meeting him, so I could lose weight. And now here he was, waiting for me downstairs.
Nick Appleby, in the flesh. Waiting in the Fat2Fab house. I started down the stairs. It was time to face the music.
Janelle was standing at the bottom of the stairs waiting for me. “Oh my God, Kat, are you okay?” she asked. Her cameraman had followed her over, and he and Tate scrambled to stay out of each other’s shot.
“No, I’m terrible,” I told Janelle. “This is the worst thing that’s ever happened to me.” My voice broke and I couldn’t continue. I couldn’t stop thinking about Stevie and her stupid orders not to mess up my makeup. “Janelle, this is so awful.”
“I know,” she said, her bottom lip quivering. “Matt’s here.”
“What!” I gasped. “As in your bastard ex-husband Matt?” She grimaced. “Yes. That’d be the one.”
“What the hell is he doing here?” I cried. “What is this, blast from the past night?”
“The show tracked him down in Indiana.”
“Holy shit!” I said, once again catching myself a second too late. I felt a brief pang of guilt for making the censors work overtime, but quickly dismissed it. If Zaidee and her crew were going to shock me by bringing on my secret lover, then they deserved whatever they got.
“Ladies,” Jagger called, appearing in the hall, “I need for you to come back and take your seats with the rest of the cast.”
I felt like a convicted killer, heading to my execution. I was a dead woman walking.
“We’ve just gotta make it through tonight,” Janelle said, grabbing my hand and holding it for support. “After tonight, it will all be over and things can go back to normal. Or, as normal as can be expected in this crazy place.”
When I got to the living room, I saw they had added more chairs so the new arrivals could sit. Janelle perched next to a fair-haired man with a buzz cut. He had to be her ex-husband, Matt. But my eyes traveled over him with only a passing interest.
All I saw was Nick. Tall, dark, and handsome Nick. He looked exactly like he’d described himself to me over the phone. Exactly like his pictures. If anything, he looked better in person than what I’d been imagining!
Maybe it was all of Donna’s chidings – “he could be in prison, he could be 70 years old, or 17, he could be overweight himself!” – but I think on some level, I’d been expecting some giant, marked flaw. Some reason to explain why Nick had been so shy with his own pictures, some reason to explain why he’d spent so much time on a long-distance relationship in the first place.
Everybody lies online, right? At least a little…. Sure, I’m a worse offender than most, but doesn’t everybody tweak at least a few aspects of their life to make it sound better? It’s not even really about lying, if you think about it: it’s just putting your best foot forward.
But it looked like Nick had just put his actual foot forward. Everything he’d said appeared to be true. He wasn’t four feet tall. He didn’t have a receding hairline. He wasn’t an eighty-year-old man with no teeth and a flask of Viagra.
He was exactly, one hundred percent who he’d said he was.
And that only made it worse.
I had no way to redeem myself. At least if we had both been fakes, our lies would have canceled each other out. But, no, I was the lone fraud. This was without a doubt, one hundred percent my fault.
Jagger guided me to my seat which, not coincidentally, was right next to Nick. My knees were shaking as I lowered myself into it.
“As you may remember,” Jagger began, “in the very beginning I mentioned the ‘fate of the game’ could hinge on your room assignments. Everyone assumed I meant the sleeping arrangements chosen the first night. But you underestimate us,” he said, raising an eyebrow. “I was actually referring to one of our biggest twists. From this night on, some contestants will have to share rooms with people from their pasts . . . people who will make playing the game very difficult.”
You could have heard a pin drop.
“Regan,” Jagger said, turning to face her, “as soon as the live show is over you’ll pack your bags and head out.”
“I’m being kicked off!” Regan shrieked.
“Ah, on the contrary. We’re giving you and Briana some quality family time. You’ll now be bunking together in a tiny bedroom downstairs. Janelle and Kat, you’ll stay where you are . . . for now. But who knows when the room genie may reappear and shuffle around your fate?”
I groaned at his cheesy joke.
Beside me, Nick laughed.
“This is so awkward,” I said, looking down.
For a long moment, Nick didn’t say a single word. Then he leaned across the chair and kissed me, square on the lips. It was fast and awkward. Certainly not how I’d pictured it happening. But then, this wasn’t how I’d pictured our first meeting, either. He leaned back, folding his arms across his chest.
I was too stunned to say a word. Nick had just kissed me!
Nicholas J. Appleby was here, in the flesh, and he had just kissed me!
I turned to face him, taking in his full appearance for the first time. From head to toe, he was dressed in black. Black pants, black sweater, black leather shoes.
“Hi, I’m Nick,” he said in his soft British accent. He extended his palm to me. I slapped my big, sweaty hand into his. His skin was dry and smooth.
“Do you want to go somewhere after this is over, so we can talk?” he asked.
Oh my God, it’s going to be okay! He’s seen me and he still likes me! It’s all going to be okay!
“I can’t leave the house,” I said lamely. “It’s not allowed.”
“I know.” He ran a hand through his hair. “ I mean somewhere inside the house. I can’t leave either. I’m moving in here. Didn’t they tell you?”
What?
“No, they didn’t tell me anything,” I said numbly, aware that the entire room—not to mention millions of viewers—was listening to our conversation. “Until I heard them announce you, I had no idea you were coming. Seeing you has put me in a state of total shock.”
“Well then,” Nick grinned, “that makes two of us.”
Chapter Twenty
“Your best bet is to play it safe,” Janelle said. “Wait until Nick approaches you.”
“Yeah, let him make the first move,” Regan chimed in.
“Because if you start chasing him around, pleading with him to talk to you, it’s going to make you look desperate,” Janelle continued, “which you definitely are not!”
“Definitely.” Regan nodded emphatically.
I was beginning to wonder if Regan had a thought of her own. All she ever did was second other people’s opinions.
And anyway, as much as I appreciated their confidence, I didn’t buy it. How could they say I wasn’t desperate when I so obviously personified the term? It had been eight days since Nick arrived in the house and, thus far, he’d barely spoken three sentences to me. Three sentences in eight days. Okay, so in all fairness, more than half of those days don’t count. As soon as the live show had ended Nick was whisked away, taken out of the mansion by the producers to do who-knows-what. Then when he came back (three days ago) he was given some “some private off-camera time” to adjust to being on the show. This “private off-camera time” had lasted for roughly twenty-four hours. Which means for the past two days, Nick had been back in the Fat2Fab mansion. And ever since then he’d been avoiding me like the plague.
I was dying to find out what was going through his head. And why he’d kissed me during the live show. But as soon as Nick came back to the mansion, he moved into the downstairs bedroom suite (which had been previously closed off) with Matt. I’d tried numerous times to approach him and start a conversation, but he was doing his damn best to avoid me. He kept a completely different schedule from the rest of us—eating, sleeping, and exercising (as it turned out, he was an avid runner prone to spending ninety-minute stretches on the treadmill) when he pleased.
I could ha
ve cornered him in Greg’s Gym, but it was too embarrassing. Even though I was getting the hang of not feeling self-conscious while I worked out, I didn’t want to have my big showdown with Nick surrounded by treadmills and elliptical runners. My only link to him was via Matt, Janelle’s ex-husband. He kept me informed by passing along little tidbits of information through Janelle. According to Matt, Nick was “having an especially hard time adjusting” to living in a reality TV fishbowl. It wasn’t anything personal against me, and once he got acclimated, he wanted us to sit down and “have a long talk about our feelings.”
It was slightly encouraging, but given the way the info had been passed down—from Nick to Matt to Janelle to me—there was no telling how accurate any of it was. For the life of me, I couldn’t imagine Nick telling Matt he wanted to discuss his feelings. Did men even talk to each other that way? I suspected Janelle had thrown that part in to make me feel better.
“But what if Nick keeps ignoring me?” I asked Janelle. “We’ve got five weeks left in this nightmare. I can’t possibly avoid him for over a month!”
“Oh, there’s no way Nick will be here for the duration,” Janelle said. “He doesn’t fit with the dynamic of the show.”
“Don’t be so sure.” Regan shuddered, jutting out her lower lip. “Briana’s talking like she’s here to stay.”
For once I couldn’t blame Regan for pouting. She was under a tremendous amount of stress. Her life had been thrown into huge turmoil by the arrival of the unexpected guests. Living in the cramped downstairs bedroom with Briana was turning into a nightmare. Making matters worse, they were sharing a small day bed.
“Zaidee wants them crammed in like sardines. That way Regan and Briana are forced to hash out their differences,” Jagger had disclosed to me privately, looking decidedly uncomfortable. I wasn’t sure if he was uneasy with their sleeping situation, or if he felt strange for confiding in me. I wondered how the producers felt about Jagger sharing these secrets with me.
The Next Big Thing Page 22
