by Maggie Way
He walks over to me and lifts a lock of my long hair, which I just had highlighted with light-caramel colored streaks in honor of my television debut. "Hmm," he says noncommittally before ordering me to spin around in my seat so he can inspect me face-to-face. He's much closer than my personal space limit normally allows for people I don't know. In fact, he's so close that I can now see how impossibly perfect his complexion is. Does the man not have any pores?
I start to feel anxious under his intense scrutiny. After all, I have plenty of flaws. My hands feel clammy and dampness is starting to accumulate under my arms. It is an odd sensation because I almost never sweat.
Pulling back to stand to his full height, which has to be at least six feet, he raises a hand to his chin. He appears to be pondering what the verdict will be about his perusal of my face. I wonder if he is trying to think of a way to tell me he's not a miracle worker.
"I can work with this," he finally decides before beaming a smile at me and displaying his straight, blindingly white teeth.
Relief floods my system––warm and sweet. For some strange reason, this gorgeous stranger's approval had quickly become of the utmost importance to me. The rational side of my mind knows that one person's opinion of my physical attributes shouldn't matter so much, but my physiological response to his blatant examination of me is undeniable.
"First, you need to relax," he informs me as he uses an outstretched arm to indicate the long sofa stretched along the other wall of the cabin.
His announcement has the opposite effect. Is this the proverbial casting couch on which so many stars over the years have had to perform sexual favors in exchange for fame? Or does he just want me to take a nap? My musings causes a nervous bubble of laughter to escape from me.
As much as I want to be on this show and become the next big thing, I will not sleep with this man to get there. Even though he is super sexy and being with him would probably be beyond amazing, I'm not willing to sell myself out that way.
I stop in my tracks and turn back to him as he's ushering me to the sofa. "Look," I start, "I can't...I mean, I won't..." I stop, uncertain how to proceed with my denial of his advances.
He looks perplexed for a moment before giving me a knowing grin. He leans in to whisper in my ear, "You're not my type."
"Oh," I say awkwardly, somewhat hurt by his cutting honesty.
My expression must have betrayed my injured ego because he quickly amends his statement. "You're not my preferred gender," he reveals before leaning in to give me a quick peck on the cheek. His lips actually touch my skin, unlike T.J.'s earlier air kisses.
"Ohhh," I respond, comprehension dawning. For some reason, his news makes me feel much better.
"Now lie down and let me work my magic." His eyes sparkle as if he's testing me.
For some reason, my gut now trusts him, so I comply with his request. He is slender enough to sit down beside my prone body on the sofa. The next thing I know, a groan of pure bliss bursts out of me as he rubs away the tension I had apparently been holding in my neck and shoulders.
"You weren't kidding," I tell him after my lengthy, relaxing massage. "You have magic hands."
"So I'm told," he teases me, making me smile.
For some reason, I now feel completely at ease with this man. "I don't even know your name," I realize aloud.
"After what we just did on this couch? I'm shocked, Ruthie!" His pronouncement indicates that he is already aware of my name. He smiles to let me know he's teasing.
"A random, handsome stranger bringing me to new heights of ecstasy on a casting couch...my dreams of fame are already coming true." He laughs at my silly joke, and I love the sound of it.
My limbs feel like limp noodles as I slither back over to the makeup chair. "My name is Sydney," he informs me, "but everyone who is anyone calls me Syd."
"I'm so glad to meet you, Syd," I say honestly before teasing, "I might let you have your way with me on a couch before knowing your name, but I would not let you touch my hair and makeup without it."
We both laugh loud enough to be heard out in the hallway, and I beam at him, certain that we are destined to be great friends.
Chapter Five
"Turn around and look at me," he commands. "I need to get a good view of the palette I'm starting with."
Feeling a little nervous, I comply with his request.
He stoops down and takes his time, studying me closely. The tiniest frown lines appear on his forehead when something during his intense perusal of my features seems to displease him. Somehow the minute wrinkles manage to make him look even more handsome.
"What's wrong?" I ask him.
"Are you completely relaxed?" He answers my question with one of his own.
"Of course," I tell him. "Your magic hands just made me feel as pliable as a warm bowl of wax."
I had anticipated at least a grin from my response to his query. Instead, his brow furrows further. "I have some bad news for you," he finally divulges.
Feeling overly anxious about what it could be, I nod, indicating for him to go on. "Honey," he clasps one of my hands within his as if he is about ready to give me a death sentence. "You have RBF."
"I have what??" I ask him, feeling completely alarmed. Is this some new form of cancer or some other dreaded disease that I've never heard of? How can he tell I have it just by looking at me? Whatever it is, I can tell it's serious by his dire tone and mannerisms.
"Here, I'll show you." He spins me in the seat to face the mirror.
I gaze at my reflection, tilting my head from side to side trying to see what he is so concerned about. My eyes dart to him when he inhales sharply.
In response to my questioning look, he says, "You compensated as soon as I turned you around," he informs me. "Your face perked up immediately when you faced the mirror." Almost as an afterthought he adds, "You have no idea that you have it, do you? You've been lying to yourself all of this time."
Starting to get annoyed with this cryptic and worrisome discussion, I snap, "Oh, for heaven's sake, what in the world is RBF?"
"It's best if you see for yourself," he answers. "Turn away from the mirror and relax."
"That's easier said than done," I inform him as I attempt to un-scrunch my face, despite the concerns he has raised.
"Just relax," he says calmly as he gently squeezes my shoulders, rubbing his thumbs along the blades, which are now holding renewed tension––thanks to his mysterious acronym.
He bends down to peer into my face as he rubs. Once he's satisfied with my expression, he says, "Okay, now freeze. Don't move a muscle," he instructs me as he slowly turns me towards the mirror. "There, see it?" he asks, indicating my face. "That's one of the worst cases of resting bitch face that I have ever seen," he informs me.
"Resting bitch face?" I squeak, having never heard the term.
"See how your mouth points downward and your eyebrows look hostile?" I stare at the mirror, starting to see what he is talking about.
I begin to feel panicky about this new condition that I wasn't aware of, so I turn to Syd with pleading eyes. "What does this mean?" I ask him, unsure what to do.
"It just means that when you are in a relaxed state, your face makes you look like a total bitch." I recoil at the harshness of his words, so he softens the blow by adding, "It's no big deal, Honey. I've read that twenty percent of women suffer from it, and most of them have no idea, either. The problem is that people tend to naturally perk up their faces when they face a mirror or camera. We literally put our best face forward, but then we end up not knowing what we truly look like to others when our faces are relaxed."
His explanation makes sense, but it doesn't alleviate my concerns. "The cameras will be following me all of the time on this show. Am I supposed to try to keep a perpetual smile on my face, so I don't look like a total witch on television?"
"It's bitch," he reminds me before elbowing me lightly and chuckling to let me know he is teasing. "And no, you can't possibly
smile all the time. Besides, you'd look like a weirdo."
"Agreed," I nod, "But what can I do? I want to be seen as the internet's Sweetheart, not the internet's angry Bitch-Face Queen." Even though I'm truly concerned, I can't help but chuckle along with him. Liking the sound of his laughter, I continue, "Is there a Bitch-Face Anonymous Club I can join?"
At this, he cackles and I join in, even though the comedy is at my expense. Once our laughter subsides, he helps alleviate my concerns. "You don't need a twelve-step program," he informs me before adding confidently, "That RBF doesn't stand a chance against me and my makeup kit."
I want to feel reassured by his words, but a mental image flashes into my mind of me going on television with a permanent, creepy make-up smile plastered to my face like the Joker from Batman.
"Oh Dear," Syd says upon seeing the concerned expression that I am unable to hide. "It looks like someone needs some beauty rest." He helps me stand and ushers me to an adjoining room that appears to be my cabin. I'm pleasantly surprised to see that my belongings have already been delivered, but it's a little disconcerting that my suitcases have been unpacked. I'm not sure how I feel about having had a stranger rifling through my personal things.
That concern is quickly overshadowed by Syd's next words. "Why don't you take a hot shower and have a quick catnap?" I like the sound of his suggestion until he adds, "You need your beauty rest before your wedding tonight."
I turn to him with wide eyes before he closes the door and latches the lock from his side. "My what?!?" I screech and pound on the door, jiggling the handle trying unsuccessfully to regain entry to the makeup room, but the other side of the door is completely silent.
Chapter Six
I pace back and forth in my room before poking my head out into the hallway. It seems to stretch endlessly in both directions, with a plethora of closed doors. I have no idea where anyone else related to the show is staying.
After considering going to the ship's lobby and demanding to see T.J., I finally decide to take a few moments to calm down. Perhaps a shower is in order. After all, I have the grime of a half-day of travel on me. I'm not sure when filming will begin, but I'd rather at least be clean when I make my television debut. Trouncing out half-cocked and filthy to yell at the producers of the show would not make a terrific first impression.
I'll get this ridiculous wedding business straightened out once I am clean and presentable. They can't make me get married, right? I'm starting to wish I'd read that thick contract that was overnighted to me before I had blindly signed it.
As I let the steamy water in the barely-big-enough-for-one-person shower wash over me, I decide that I am in charge of me, no matter what that contract says. They probably want me to pitch a hissy fit about the surprise wedding. It would make for great television, but it would also make me look like a spoiled brat.
Instead, I will calmly tell them that the wedding is off. Perhaps the show can follow me and my intended groom as we go on a few dates and get to know each other? Or we could place the man they have chosen in a group of eligible bachelors to see if I choose the same one they have selected for me? That would make it a Bachelorette on the high seas kind of thing. There are plenty of ideas that will work without requiring a quickie wedding to someone I've never met.
By the time I emerge from the shower, I am calmed down and confident that I can talk some reason into the show's producers. Deciding that it has already been an exhausting and emotional day, I pull back the covers, intending to relax for a few minutes on the cool cotton sheets.
I must have fallen into a deep sleep because when I awaken to the sound of knocking on my adjoining door, the sun is setting over the horizon of the water. Deciding that whoever is on the other side can wait for a minute, I walk over to the sliding glass door to peer outside.
An expanse of blue water greets me. Surprised that I slept through our departure, I gaze out at the ocean. This is my first time on a ship of this size, and I'm relieved to see that we really are seaworthy, despite the significant tonnage the vessel must weigh.
Walking back to fling the door open, I'm pleased to see Syd, even though he has shocked me a couple of times already today with his flippant announcements. "Shouldn't they have beeped the horn or something when we left?" I ask him.
He smiles at my question. "They blasted the whistle when we embarked," he informs me before adding, "There was also a muster drill and bon voyage party on the pool deck."
"How did I miss all that?" I wonder aloud, truly perplexed.
"I looked in on you, but you looked so peaceful in your sleep that I told them to leave you alone."
"Isn't the safety drill mandatory?" I ask him, perplexed that I was able to skip out on something that seems so important, and still somewhat concerned about the ship's seaworthiness.
"It's amazing the clout the show has already," he informs me. "I let them know I would take care of you, and I will, Honey." He points to my closet. "Your life vest is in there. If the alarm sounds, follow the glowing arrows on the carpet to our lifeboat. I won't let you drown."
For some reason his words reassure me, even though I barely know the man. All thoughts of safety are quickly washed away as I follow him into the adjoining room. A rolling cart of gorgeous gowns has been wheeled in.
"Oh my!" Unable to stop myself, I walk over and begin looking through them. Each one is more fabulous than the last, and I squeal with delight over them.
"I'm glad you approve of our dress selections for you," the words come from T.J. He and Jamie have quietly entered the room from the hallway.
I turn to them, intending to hold my ground. "They are beautiful," I say honestly, before adding, "but I am not getting married tonight."
T.J. raises his eyebrows slightly as if my words amuse him. "Is that so?" He almost sounds like he's mocking me. "Your contract says otherwise."
"I don't care," I lift my chin in defiance. "I refuse to marry someone I don't know. There are other ways we can make the show work. I have plenty of ideas." Before I can begin to explain any of my thoughts, T.J. holds up a hand to stop me.
"Have it your way," he replies, making me wonder how I won him over so easily. I had thought I would have to do some major sweet-talking and negotiating. Then he reveals what he really means. "We'll find someone else to be on the show...someone who is grateful for the chance to win the $250,000 grand prize."
My mouth falls open. I assumed I would get paid something for my appearances on the show, but being an unknown, I thought most of my reimbursement would come from advertisements and special guest appearances once I became a household name. A quarter of a million dollars is beyond my wildest dreams. That amount of money could set me up for a long time. All of a sudden, the quickie wedding, while still outrageous, doesn't seem quite as preposterous.
Striking while the iron is hot, T.J. continues, "I'm sure there are plenty of young women who would love to take your place on the show and become famous. You are welcome to disembark the ship and fly home at our next port. This will be at your own expense, of course."
He smiles, but it's the smile of a crocodile, and I know I won't like whatever is coming next. "Oh," he starts like he has just thought of it, "you'll need to reimburse us the money for your tickets for the plane ride here and the cruise. Jamie," he turns to the woman standing slightly behind him, "find out how much Ruthie will owe us for her tickets, please."
"Sure," the woman nods, already pulling out her smartphone to do the needed research.
"We'll let you know the damages," T.J. informs me briskly as he turns to usher Jamie out of the room with him.
I don't need to hear the answer to know that it's more than I can afford. I'm doubting my decision to trust this slick producer, but I'm in too deep to turn back now. "Wait," I say, making the crocodile turn and grin at me like I was fresh prey that had just slithered into his swamp.
Chapter Seven
The croc and his assistant made a quick exit after assuring me that everyt
hing would be just fine. I turn to Syd, the only person on this ship that I trust at all, for advice.
"What should I do?" I ask him desperately.
"It's the chance to win a lot of money," he says rationally. At my nod, he continues, "And who knows, maybe it will be a true love connection."
I smile at him as he rolls my hair around the hot curling wand. I know that he's trying to be kind, but I need to talk to someone who has my best interests at heart...like my sister, Roxy, or my crazy grandma, Baggy.
Unfortunately, whoever unpacked my belongings had confiscated my cell phone. This discovery sent me into a minor panic attack over the picture I keep with me to look at every night before bed, but I found it still tucked away in the pocket of my suitcase. Immense relief flooded me when I realized it hadn't been taken, or likely even seen. I don't want to share that particular secret with the show's viewing audience, yet I still hadn't been willing to leave home without the photograph.
Before my nap, I had tried unsuccessfully to make a call from the desk phone in my room. Apparently, part of the 'fun' of this show is cutting us off from communicating with our loved ones.
Turning to Syd, I ask, "Is this crazy?"
"Yes, absolutely," he answers honestly before adding, "but that's okay."
Wondering what he means, I turn to look directly at him rather than his reflection in the mirror. He squats down so he can look at me eye-to-eye. "Think how much you have to gain from this, Honey. You might become famous, you might win a ton of cash, and I know you think it's crazy, but you just might find the man of your dreams."
I nod, acknowledging that his points are valid, but still uncertain about this whole arranged marriage thing. "And what do you have to lose?" he asks me logically. "Do you have a man waiting for you at home?"
"No," I admit, before adding, "but what if I can't stand the guy they've chosen for me?"
