by Emily Bishop
Flashbulbs go off all around Candace and me. We stand as a unified front before the press corps, beneath a banner which reads in pink cursive: My Billionaire Bachelor. Then, in black and neon splatter: SEASON 6!! I’ve donned a cool, ice-blue suit and a black tie for the occasion. My hair was styled meticulously by the new makeup artist, whose name I can never recall to save my life.
“Are you ready to do this?” Candace asks from behind her smiling–or clenched – teeth.
“I would have quit a long time ago,” I smile-talk back to her, “if Roxanne hadn’t begged me to do this for you.”
Candace swats me hard on the back with an open palm, probably meaning for the gesture to be one of camaraderie. “Good man.” She says that with her actual, unsmiling mouth, then nods and smoothens her black blazer and matching skirt. She wears coral-colored lipstick today, hardening an already intimidating and rigid mouth. But I feel comfortable facing the cameras and the reporters with this hard-headed bitch at my side. I might have been born doing this, but she was born ready for it.
Deny the pregnancy. Deny the relationship. Finish the show. Those were Candace’s ironclad demands.
Increase security. Find Roxanne reliable and safe work outside of show business. If Jared comes back into the picture, all bets are off. Those were our demands.
Candace and I both turned to Roxanne for the final say, and she nodded in affirmation once. I agree with my baby. If this deal sounds good to her, then it sounds good to me.
I tried to get my phone back during negotiations, too, but Candace shook her head before I could finish asking the question. “Your girlfriend has my phone number,” she said. “If she really needs you, she can call me. Then I’ll decide if she really needs you.”
“Thank you all for coming today,” Candace warmly greets the members of the press, putting on a face for them that I’ve never seen her wear before. It’s so strangely inviting. “Thank you for giving us the opportunity to straighten the record before all this conjecture gets too far out of hand.”
“Is Roxanne Meriweather pregnant?” an eager reporter shrills from the flock.
“I cannot absolutely disclose that,” I lie. “But I can tell you that the sources cited in all of these claims are very soft, so it is doubtful.”
“Doubtful,” Candace echoes assertively.
“There have been rumors that she was fired from My Billionaire Bachelor. Can you confirm or deny that, Ms. Madden?” someone else yells.
“Miss Meriweather was offered an opportunity at another location,” Candace clarifies. “There’s been so much confusion regarding the salmonella outbreak in the Greece episode, we decided it might be best to just put some space between her and the show for the rest of the season. We do not discriminate against pregnant women, of course, but the media has been very distracted by our makeup artist’s appearance in one episode. She is not Sir Blake Berringer’s girlfriend. She was not a regular contestant. Everything that has been published lately is pure conjecture, or coincidence, completely unrelated to the show My Billionaire Bachelor.”
A flurry of flashbulbs hit us, and my hands tighten into fists. I hate this. “Sir Berringer,” someone calls to me. “Who is the girl from the background image?”
“No comment,” I say closely to the mic.
“Are you at liberty to date a staff member from the show, if you so choose?” someone else calls.
“No comment.”
“Do you regret agreeing to do the show, considering your issues with the media in the past?”
“Absolutely not.” It’s only half of a lie. I did this show for Roxanne, and in that sense, there are no regrets. But I wish the paparazzi didn’t poison everything. Now the mother of my child is vexed by them, so much so that she had to change career paths midstream.
Candace tells me that she sings in a lounge called Fancy’s now.
“Thank you all so much for your time and your interest,” Candace bids them farewell. “In this world of ever-increasing technology and in a troubled economy, it’s easy to be fooled by our own eyes, fooled by charlatans who desperately need to make a buck. Let me say that we bear no ill will toward the publications which have wrongfully reported on this alleged development. Thank you again.” She ends it with the flourish of one last princess wave and exits stage left.
I follow behind her and pat her back. “You should have gone into acting,” I tell her with a little chuckle. “That was very believable.”
“And look at you over there,” Candace returns smilingly, “with all your no comments.” She winks. “Just remember: keep it up for three more dates, lover boy, and then you can go make out with Roxanne in the middle of Times Square if you want to.”
“I can do that now,” I remind her. I do not like the way she sounds as if she believes that she owns me. I’m doing this out of loyalty to Roxanne. No paltry contract could hold me. “You remember that.”
***
The final date of the season is mind-numbing, and I have senioritis like never before. My body is electric with impatience more than giddiness as Roz and I thread through the candlelit, murmuring crowd. Roz is a local aspiring model (slash retail worker) and the eighth contestant of the show. I accidentally call her Rox more times than I can count, and surely more times than she wanted to hear. She’s as cute as a button, an unusually young and alternative-looking girl for this brand of television. She wears a loose-knit beanie and a cheap-looking striped dress with sandals. Over drinks, I really try to be interested in her college experience.
In the ride over to the chic little coffeehouse, The Tiny Tea Rack, Roz says, “So, seriously, what are my chances of winning the show?”
I laugh uncomfortably. “Why would you ask me that?”
“After Greece?” Roz says. “And Roxanne?”
“We held a press conference,” I remind her. “Roxanne’s pregnancy is a coincidence.”
Roz chuckles knowingly. “Right.”
“Is the experience not good enough?” I ask with a forced smile, and Roz laughs louder now.
“Right,” she says again. “The experience and the paycheck.”
We arrive at The Tiny Tea Rack, a local poetry bar, and the smells of patchouli and wine are strong in here. On the show, it will seem to be an intimate setting, filled with low lights and murmuring patrons, but that is because the viewers at home aren’t able to see the fringe of cameras following us everywhere, turning every room into a stage. At least the lights are very low, too low to even tell what someone really looks like, unless they’re up on that stage, sitting on the stool, reading bad poetry.
As we sit and chat and I try to listen and absorb the American experience–as if I’ve never been here before, although, admittedly, I’ve never been here before–my mind drifts back to Roxanne in spite of my best efforts. I think about the next time I’ll see her.
I wish I could call her. We haven’t spoken in almost a month, and I only know she’s okay because Candace claims she is.
I don’t know if you’ve ever tried to go two months without a phone. They pass slowly. There isn’t much to actually do around that fake mansion. It’s mostly a blur of stand-offs with Candace and breathing exercises, covering cameras so I can masturbate and think about Roxanne, and pantomiming interest in these grotesque renditions of Americanized dates. I went to a dance in a barn in Appalachia. I visited the monuments of Washington, DC. Something tells me these aren’t typical first dates for the average American, but I went anyway, doing exactly as Candace needs, as per our arrangement.
Now there is only one episode left: selecting my favorite date, and sweeping her off on the vacation of her choosing.
And Roz is right. She doesn’t stand a chance. I’m sure the Internet will go up in flames, but I don’t give a shit. I’m going to choose Roxanne.
The next poet to ascend the stage and perch on a stool in the limelight is a young and dramatically pregnant blonde girl. She wears glasses, pigtails, and a plaid maternity shirt with little m
aternity skinny jeans, which I did not know existed. Her belly could pop at any moment, and my heart instinctively aches for Roxanne. This has been the longest month of my life.
The pregnant girl waddles over to the stool and slowly situates herself on top of it. “Hey everybody,” she greets, shoving her large glasses up her nose. A cheer ripples through the crowd. Maybe she’s one of their regulars.
“Lulu!” someone calls out in encouragement, and she blushes. I guess she is a regular performer.
“I’ve got a new one,” she announces bashfully.
“Lulu with that new-new!” someone else calls out.
Lulu clears her throat and settles up against the mic, beginning to read. The imagery is dark, lonely, and feminine. There are tons of allusions and references to natural phenomenon. It dawns on me that the poem is really about being pregnant and alone–pregnant and single.
“But this is my cross to bear,” she finishes, “and my hatchet to bury.”
Everyone extends their arms and snaps for her instead of giving applause. Feeling clumsy, I snap my fingers along with the crowd, and Roz twists to ask me if I’ve ever written poetry for fun before.
I say no. I can barely focus on what she’s saying, though, and she does have to repeat herself.
As I watch Lulu saunter off the stage, so small with her big belly protruding out in front of her like a piece of furniture being toted, I imagine Roxanne in her place, and my heart softens. I don’t know if I can do this anymore.
I don’t know if I can wait one more goddamn week to see her.
“You know, I don’t know how anyone does what that little girl is doing,” Roz offers contemplatively.
“What?” I ask.
“I don’t know how women can just be pregnant and alone. It’s so…so sad. Almost scary, you know? It’s just not right.”
I swallow thickly. “Right,” I say.
The room feels like it’s closing in on me, breathing down my neck. I’ve got to get out of here before I really snap and just disappear.
“That little baby is so vulnerable,” she goes on, still staring after Lulu as the young girl threads through the crowd. Her eyes turn to me and she watches closely as she adds, “It needs its daddy.”
My jaw clenches. I don’t know if this girl is trying to test me, but if she is, she’s won. I break. That’s it. That’s enough.
I shoot up from the table and barge through the crowd, abandoning Roz as she yells after me, confused about the sudden veer this episode is taking.
Well, Shannon or Sharron, or whoever could tell her all about it. This is just what a date with Blake Berringer is like. Someone out there loves it, even if most women find the unpredictability pretty infuriating.
“Try and follow me,” I dare the camera crew as several of them jostle through the crowd, struggling to keep up with me without damaging their equipment. “I’m about to introduce you to the winner of season six, everybody.”
Candace is screeching so loud through one cameraman’s earpiece, I can hear her myself.
I grab a cab and let the driver know that I’m heading to a little jazz lounge called Fancy’s.
Chapter 14
Roxanne
“How long has it been since I’ve been inside you?”
My eyes turn over the notched wooden chairs littering the wide structure of Fancy’s. Warm yellow lamplight glazes every round tabletop. The walls are packed with framed celebrity relics, from the high heels of sultry jazz singers to the nine iron of 1967’s PGA winner. It’s kitschy and amusing. I like it, though the smell of liquor was overwhelming at first. Now it’s oddly comforting.
Fancy’s has become my new home. Two hours before my first shift will begin, I’m still wearing pajamas and flip flops. I sit at a lone table and tuck my hands around my knees.
I miss The Lofts.
Iggy and Pepper didn’t want to kick me out, and I didn’t want to go, but the paparazzi thronging outside of our windows was making everyone’s life hell. They would camp. They would sleep in shifts. All believing that one of them might snap the moment that an enraged and/or lustful Sir Blake Berringer might storm up the walk and take me in his arms, or throw me up against a wall. There might be a loud argument about whether or not to get an abortion, right? There might be sex. There might be tears. So they camped.
Vultures.
There was also a slight chance that so much exposure would incidentally reveal my address to Jared, if he searched hard enough. It just wasn’t worth the risk. So I disappeared again.
Backlit liquor bottles line the shelves behind the bar, where Rudy, a first-generation Russian immigrant, polishes glasses and waits.
I watch Rudy and smile.
I was terrified when I first met him, just like I was with Candace.
I just met Rudy last month, but still. I was terrified again.
I swallow and tell myself that I’m back on my feet now. Jared has no dominion over me here. His threats will remain empty.
Rudy is bald and pink, with a faded ring of golden hair around his head. He’s a thick man, with beefy arms, a barrel chest, a strong nose, and a mustache in the shape of a damn sausage link. He’s intense. As you get closer, you find that his chestnut eyes have unexpected moments of kindness, just like Candace’s blue ones.
And, like Candace, he offered me a place to stay. There’s a room in the back of the house not being used for anything but the occasional nap. He said that I could take it. I don’t own many possessions anymore, so it was as easily said as done.
Rudy catches my eyes on him, hesitating in his polishing. “Something on my face?” he wonders.
I grin. “No,” I say. “I’m just waiting for my shift to start.”
A warm smile breaks across Rudy’s face. “You can play now, if you want to.”
I nod. “Okay,” I say, standing. “It won’t bother you?”
“Nah.” The side of Rudy’s mouth quirks. “I like it.”
I beam. “Okay.” I wind through the chairs to return to my room, excited to be up on that stage, if only for a moment longer.
My guitar is in my room, which I think used to be a really big closet. But now it’s a cramped–I mean, cozy–bedroom with tartan blankets spilling off a twin-sized bed. The size of this room makes me feel like I have entirely too many shoes, even though I only have a few, but it’s a safe place.
There’s no way Jared would ever find me here, and the paparazzi know nothing about it. The hidden gem mostly services patrons who are in their fifties and older, less interested in the twists and turns of an English alpha-hole’s love life. But still, I perform with a wig of frothy blonde curls and dramatic makeup to disguise my features. Instead of playing up my cheekbones and eyes, I focus on my nose and my chin. It almost changes the shape of my face.
But it’s early, so I don’t bother with all the accoutrements of Sheila. (That’s my stage name. Roxanne seemed like too much for this place.) I just snatch up my guitar and head onto the stage.
I sit bow-legged across the stool and hitch the guitar up into my arms, plucking the opening chords to “Sweet Child O’ Mine” by Guns ‘n Roses. I smile meekly over at Rudy and continue to strum, my eyes turning over the full floor. No one really filters in here until later in the evening. I have started thinking that Rudy is running some kind of illegal business out of the back, but at the same time, he’s so nice, huge, and steady, like a papa bear. It’s hard to be scared or judge him…although I’m pretty sure it’s guns. There’s a room in the back which is always locked. Men come and go, but they don’t order dinner or anything.
And I can’t figure out how a bar of this size operates right outside of Los Angeles with such low traffic. But he’s had it for a few years now.
A dart board hangs on the wall, and pool tables in the back complete the feel of a down-and-out, bluesy, low-maintenance place. The only thing missing is the juke box, but instead, Fancy’s got a stage. And me.
Can’t say I’m complaining.
/> Two hours later, the regulars of Fancy’s have all filtered in and ordered their usual. I don’t know any of these people personally, but they all have a similar look. Everyone here is going through something all by themselves. The women, no matter how old they look, are dressed in a kind of over-sexed despair. The depression is palpable. The men are shaggy and make bitter faces as they drink.
I like to think that my music is a little beam of sunshine into their night.
But it probably isn’t.
They probably wish I’d shut up.
“All right, thank you,” I say into the mic as the first song wraps up. No one applauds. No one ever applauds. I want to tell them that I’ve had gigs that paid better than this before–which is also weird (how is he paying me so much on, what, eight regulars and a handful of variables?)–but I don’t. Everyone here is just going through something alone. “Does anyone here enjoy Radiohead?”
Nothing.
Behind Rudy, mounted above the bar, are two televisions, one that is always playing sports and one that is always playing the news. I never really watch either one, but my eyes flash over to the screen when I recognize Blake’s face. There is a scrolling band of text with the report, but I can’t make out what it says from this distance.
“Rudy,” I call against the mic. “Could you turn that up for me?”
“It’s acoustic,” he reminds me helpfully.
I would laugh, but I don’t have the time right now. “No, the TV!”
Rudy makes an “ah!” face and turns, toggling a button on the television set. I pick up my guitar and swing my leg over the stool, coming into a stand.
“...is Blake Berringer, who most people now recognize as the English aristocrat who seriously wounded a young paparazzo by the name of Desmond Delago earlier this year.” A picture of the smiling nineteen-year-old boy, face and shoulder thoroughly bandaged, comes up on the screen. I wonder if that paparazzo, after this event, actually became a hunted celebrity like Blake for a while. Like myself...for a while, anyway. I know my fame is very temporary.
