“I thought you were from Ohio,” I said, looking down at my notes.
“Yes, that’s where we relocated after my dad’s death. My mom was originally from Cleveland, and she wanted to be close to her family after losing my pop. I was only nine years old at the time,” he said, looking down and pausing in an effort to compose himself. “One of my fondest memories,” he continued, “is going to the fire station with my pop and helping him prepare his famous, spicy chili for the other firefighters. Hanging out with my pop at the fire station was how I developed my love of cooking. My dad was an American hero,” Michelangelo said, wiping away a tear. “If I win this competition, I’m going to open a restaurant called The Fire Station to honor his memory. His chili and some of his other favorite dishes will be included on the menu.”
I had officially gone from rooting for Ralphie to wanting Michelangelo to win. No doubt, he’d be an audience favorite based on his looks and sex appeal, but after viewing his emotionally charged one-on-one session, I was sure the producers of the show as well as the viewers at home would root for him based on his unexpected display of sensitivity.
• • •
“We started out with twenty amateur cooks and now we’re looking at the final five,” I said in an enthusiastic voice and widening my eyes in a way that I hoped would add the twinkle that my audience had come to adore. “Woo-hoo, final five,” I yelled, pumping my fist in the air.
The kids cheered along with me and pumped their fists.
“All of you should be extremely proud of yourselves, and I know the last thing any of you want is to go home.”
On cue, the kids shook their heads, agreeing that they didn’t want to go home.
“Well, contestants, it’s time to put your best foot forward. In young people’s terms, it’s time to turn up because it just got real here at Cori’s kitchen!”
After I delivered my spiel, one of the producers told me that the moms had arrived and were hidden off camera. Their arrival would be a surprise to the kids. With my segment complete, I went backstage to greet them.
The only two black women in the group were as different as night and day. There was Ralphie’s foster mom with her cheap clothes and obviously fake Louis Vuitton bag. Michelangelo’s mom, on the other hand, was an elegant and stylish woman with good bone structure and beautiful salt-and-pepper hair. She had the exact reddish-brown complexion as her son.
I looked the women over and couldn’t believe Josh had been worrying about Ralphie’s foster mother when he should have been more concerned about Angus’s mom. Angus’s mom had an unkempt look and thinning, dirty blonde hair. Even worse, she was covered with tattoos, like her son. And one of the tattoos was a swastika. Being Jewish, Josh, I was sure, was not pleased about the tattoo.
Confirming my suspicion, Josh sent his assistant in and had Angus’s mom hustled off to makeup to get the offensive symbol covered.
I excused myself, telling the moms I’d meet with them individually in a short while. I bumped into Josh in the corridor, and I could tell by his frazzled appearance that having a Nazi supporter on the show had upset him.
But I had no mercy on Josh. I gave him a smirk and couldn’t help rubbing it in his face. “I told you Angus was a white supremacist, but you were so concerned that a black woman would be an embarrassment to the show, you welcomed someone who’s sporting a big-ass swastika,” I taunted.
“Please, Cori. I can’t do this with you right now. I have a show to run, and I don’t have time to eat crow,” he said as he pushed past me.
Feeling smug, I returned to the room where the moms had gathered and listened briefly while one of the producers explained to them that they were going to be doing a blind taste test and would not be informed which dish had been prepared by their kid.
With the moms being briefed and with Angus’s mother being made presentable for TV, I had time for a quick break. Before entering my dressing room, I listened and laughed as Josh barked orders at the crew. He was such a temperamental diva, taking his frustrations out on the innocent production team.
Eager to slip off my heels and give my feet a break, I pushed open the door. To my surprise, my dressing room was decorated with balloons and party streamers. Azaria Fierro and Norris Buckley crept up behind me.
“Congrats, new Mommy,” Azaria said, smiling and holding a beautifully decorated box. I had a thing for nicely presented presents, and even though I loathed the woman, I gladly accepted the gift.
“We realize it’s a bit early, but we wanted to do something special for you,” Norris said.
“Thanks, guys,” I muttered as I carefully unwrapped the gift. Inside the Nordstrom box were Burberry cashmere and cotton rompers, an assortment of adorable boy-themed infant sleepwear by other top designers, and a plush, stuffed bunny that Azaria said was identical to one that Kate and William’s little prince was given when he was born. I had no idea where she’d gotten that information, but I was impressed with the quality of the stuffed animal.
Although Azaria and I would never be BFF’s, I appreciated the gesture. Some of the gossip bloggers had been insinuating that Maverick and I had selected in vitro fertilization to produce a “designer baby” with athletic ability, a specific body type, and precise hair and eye color. The accusations were ridiculous. Our son would no doubt inherit his father’s athleticism, and with us both possessing brown hair and brown eyes, why would we make our baby’s physical traits different than ours? The media could be so ridiculous at times.
But, still, their attacks hurt, and with Maverick acting sullen and barely speaking to me, I was in need of a little pampering. I thanked Azaria and Norris profusely and then ushered them out. I appreciated their thoughtfulness, but I still wanted to get out of my heels and relax in private before returning to the set.
My marital problems troubled me. Maverick had increased the amount of time he was whoring around with Katya, and it worried me that he might be getting emotionally attached to her. If the media caught on to his indiscretion, our image would be destroyed. And God forbid if he had actually caught feelings for the prostitute and decided to leave me. Everything in my spirit balked at the idea of having to raise our child as a single parent.
On one of her tapes, Grandma Eula Mae had said that a man would share more of his soul with a whore than with his own wife. She said that lots of men had fallen in love with her girls and were willing to forsake their families, their careers, and their reputations to bask in the joy of licking whore-pussy for the rest of their lives.
Imagining the shame of such a betrayal, I cringed. Still, I knew my husband like the back of my hand, and he wasn’t like those men back in Grandma Eula Mae’s day. For starters, his network would be mortified if he broke up with me and tried to pass off a hooker as wife material. Furthermore, Maverick was much too image-conscious to allow a broken-English-speaking, cheap slut destroy our lives. I was certain that his network had an ethical expectation of Maverick, and had put a morals clause in his contract, prohibiting him from engaging in disreputable conduct.
But I had to take some kind of action to improve our relationship. Maybe if I allowed him to bite me a little, he’d leave Katya alone. On second thought, no, I couldn’t have that. Pain was not a turn-on for me and being left with bruises covering my body was out of the question.
Maybe if I found him a new prostitute who enjoyed being bitten, I could keep him away from Katya. There were plenty of sick bitches out there, who’d do most anything for money, including going along with Maverick’s twisted fetish.
One thing was for sure, Katya had to go.
I called the agency and lodged a complaint against Katya with the manager. I told her that I forbade Katya to be allowed to hook up with my husband ever again, and went so far as to threaten a lawsuit against the agency if they sent that bitch out on another date with my husband.
Although it was hard to get the wor
ds out, I swallowed my pride and divulged my husband’s predilection for biting. I agreed to pay double if they could find another girl who’d go along with his twisted desires. The manager assured me that she’d find someone suitable for my husband and that she’d be very discreet.
• • •
Clayton, Robin, and Gina came to my dressing room to touch me up before I went in front of the camera, again. The moment they opened the door, I could sense the chaos that was occurring outside my peaceful environment.
The three of them made a big fuss over the presents that Azaria and Norris had given me and began rattling tissue paper as they opened the gift boxes.
“Look at this cute little Burberry romper,” Gina exclaimed, taking it out of the box and holding it up.
Feeling cranky over the behavior of Maverick and his whore, I was snappish toward Gina. “Please don’t touch the baby’s things. I didn’t give you guys permission to go through those gifts.”
“Sorry,” Gina muttered.
Not wanting to get yelled at, Clayton and Robin quickly replaced the lids on boxes they were about to investigate, and the two of them exchanged a glance that I clearly read as: Someone must be on her period!
It irritated me when people used their eyes to talk about me right in my face, but I let it go—this time! But if I ever caught Clayton and Robin doing it again, I’d be interviewing a new makeup artist and wardrobe supervisor.
“What’s going on out there?” I asked.
“The kids were being filmed as they prepared to cook. They were running around grabbing ingredients from the panty, and someone spilled olive oil on the floor. The preacher slid in it. He ripped his pants and his chef’s jacket was streaked with oil. Josh has halted production until the preacher cleans up and changes his clothes.”
“Hmph. The way Josh thrives on drama, I’m surprised he didn’t leave the slip scene in,” I replied. “Hell, I’m shocked that he didn’t make the good reverend do multiple takes of sliding in oil.”
“Well, with the moms scheduled to be on set, Josh wanted it to appear that everything was running smoothly,” Robin offered.
I sucked my teeth. “Josh is such a phony. He made Michelangelo retake the red sauce explosion over and over, but he’s choosing to edit out the klutzy preacher wallowing around on the floor in oil.” I gave a bitter laugh. “I wish I’d seen it.”
“It was hilarious,” Clayton offered.
“It really was,” Gina concurred. “Yancy claims that Becca had something to do with it. He’s accusing her of working dark magic.”
“That silly girl doesn’t know anything about witchcraft,” I said, shaking my head. “But it’s a good thing we’re not back in the days of the Salem witchcraft trials. If we were, Reverend Yancy Dunlap would see to it that Becca was burned at the stake.”
Clayton applied blush to my cheeks. “Hopefully, Becca will go home today. It’s tense enough on set, but her hocus-pocus bullcrap is starting to make the remaining contestants nervous.”
I knew exactly who was being eliminated, and it wasn’t Becca. It was the tatted skinhead. Angus could thank his swastika-covered mother for him not making it to the end.
At this stage in the competition, the amateur cooks were supposed to replicate any of my Southern meals of their choosing, but there was a twist. They had the task of elevating the meal by adding a side dish, made from secret ingredients stored in a mystery box. The producers had borrowed the idea for the twist from another cooking reality show. Cooking competitions stole ideas from each other all the time, and therefore our lack of originality didn’t bother me.
What bothered me was that Josh’s staff hadn’t vetted Angus thoroughly. Having a hate monger on the show wasn’t a good look. Maybe I could use Josh’s oversight as a reason to wrangle the title of executive producer from him. I would instruct Ellie to schedule a conference between me and the network big brass as soon as possible. Once I had control of the show, and was able to instill my creative ideas, I’d be guaranteed to win that fucking elusive Emmy.
CHAPTER 15
When I had conversed with Ralphie’s foster mom, backstage, she was fine—personable and rather charming despite her bad grammar and boisterous laughter. Trenell Carter cracked jokes and discreetly whispered her appreciation for the new teeth I’d paid for. We talked about Southern cooking, and I was surprised to learn she prepared canned corn exactly as Grandma Eula Mae had—with lots of butter in a black skillet, thickening it with flour, and then adding a sweet and savory mixture of brown sugar, salt, and lots of black pepper. Delicious!
An hour later when the contestants were off set, the moms were brought in. A quick glance at Trenell and I was instantly concerned. Her eyes were squinted, and her lips were pressed together severely, giving her an unfriendly look. I wondered if she’d gotten into an argument with one of the other moms. But before I could determine what was wrong with her, the contestants were brought out, and there was a hum of excitement as mothers were reunited with their grown children.
Noticing Ralphie and Trenell locked in a warm embrace, I relaxed, figuring I’d been wrong about her emotional state. Five minutes into the segment, when the group of mothers was given the first dish to taste, Trenell suddenly jumped up and shouted, “What the fuck is this shit? Is y’all tryna poison me? I ain’t saying any names, but I heard that a certain somebody was tryna keep me from participating in this lil’ get-together tonight. You muthafuckas ain’t gotta like me, but y’all taking shit too far if you think I’ma let you poison me and send me outta this bitch on a stretcher.”
Stunned by Trenell’s outburst, there was a chorus of gasps from cast and crew. It was clear to me that she was intoxicated. Before leaving the hotel, she’d probably slipped a bottle inside her bag and had sneakily gotten wasted while backstage.
A few moments after her verbal outburst, possessed with the strength of ten men, Trenell lifted the sizeable table and angrily toppled it, sending plates of food and cutlery zooming in all directions. The mothers shouted in alarm, and their offspring raced across the room to protect them from the flying daggers and broken glass.
It was a mess. All I could do was close my eyes and ask Jesus to take the wheel.
As security rushed to restrain Trenell, the bawdy woman had the audacity to stoop down and grab a steak knife from the wreckage. While wielding the knife, her eyes darted from side to side like a cornered animal trying to decide which man to slice into first.
At that point, I heard a thump, and I’m sure it was Josh, passing out from the shock of it all.
Then Ralphie’s skinny little white ass decided to get involved in the skirmish. “Y’all mufuckas bet not even think about laying a hand on my mama. I will fuck urbody up if any one of y’all lays a hand on her,” he ranted while balling his fists and biting down on his lip in a feral, intimidating way. Part of his unique identity was that he was a harmless-looking, skinny white dude who sounded black. But I’d never seen him take on the persona of a straight street thug. Bobbing his narrow shoulders and moving his body rhythmically, Ralphie was giving an impressive demonstration of an angry black man who’d been born and raised in the heart of the ghetto.
The chaos was unbelievable. So scandalous, I covered my eyes in shock and humiliation. I’d gone to bat for Ralphie and his heathen mother, and now this was how they repaid me. Disgusted, I walked off set and let Josh handle the bullshit.
That buck-wild bitch, Trenell, had played me. She’d pretended to be nice and friendly backstage, knowing all the while that she intended to get wasted before taping began. Overindulging in alcohol was the reason the bum-bitch had been stricken with diabetes in the first place. Had I known her appearance on the show would come to this, I would have never allowed her to communicate with Ralphie when she was lying up in the hospital at death’s door. Had I foreseen this calamity, I would have never put those teeth in her mouth. She’d be gumming foo
d for the rest of her disgraceful life.
I should have listened to Josh and kept Trenell’s trashy ass off my show. None of this would have happened if I had used my powers of persuasion to convince Ralphie to let us hire a respectable actress to play the role of his foster mom.
Now the entire episode would have to be scrapped. I was furious. In that moment, I made up my mind to stop protecting Ralphie from his inevitable fate. Despite his culinary ability, he was now facing elimination, and I could no longer help him. After the pandemonium and commotion that both he and his hell-raising foster mother had caused, he deserved to be gripped up by the scruff of his neck and tossed out the door.
Times like this, I needed Ellie’s calming voice to help me get through this disaster. Unfortunately, Ellie was busy accompanying Sophia on a shopping trip for maternity clothes. Sophia said she tended to show early in her pregnancies and she needed a more comfortable wardrobe. Sophia, with her cheap taste, had jumped at the opportunity to purchase discounted items at a maternity outlet in New Jersey, so I had no problem granting her wish. But her timing sucked; I needed Ellie here with me.
• • •
With production at a standstill, I sat in my dressing room waiting for the producers to do damage control. I had no idea how any amount of editing could salvage the scene, and I imagined that the entire segment would have to be reshot—minus Trenell.
I scrolled through my messages, and saw that there was one from Maverick requesting that I set up a date with Katya for tonight. Fuck you, Maverick! He was in for a big surprise when I informed him that Katya was no longer available to him. I planned to tell him that she was booked up, forever as the exclusive date of an Arabian billionaire.
Maverick would be distraught, but I would assure him that I was doing everything in my power to find him another hooker who was willing to be gnawed on.
I kicked off my heels, again and relaxed on my pink couch. Closing my eyes, I tried to imagine life as a parent. There’d be so much positive media coverage, both our careers would benefit. While envisioning the Brown family gracing the cover of multiple magazines, there was a soft rap on my door. It was much too light and too tentative a knock for it to be Josh, bothering me with an I told you so lecture regarding Trenell Carter.
Power Couple Page 11
