“When’s the interview?” Taylor asks.
I look at the apple-shaped clock on the kitchen wall. “They’re supposed to begin taping it at six.” That’s five minutes away. I reach for my cane and begin to stand. “I think I’d better get over there.”
“I’ll bring the car around,” Taylor says, already halfway to the door.
Chapter Fifteen
Gwendolyn
I look at the people assembled in my living room, which doesn’t feel even a tiny bit like mine yet. I can’t help but wonder if I’m making the biggest mistake of my life. Admittedly, that would be pretty big. I feel so uneasy while I watch Stuart Bolder and Shelley Simon go over notes in the corner that I’m overcome with temptation to call the whole thing off.
“What if I change my mind?” I ask.
Stuart looks up; his face is already perfected, his tie is adjusted just right, and his teeth are glaringly white and unrelentingly perfect. His dimples show too much and I’m strongly reminded of my classmate Elton Jorgensen, who never forgave Smith for coming to Riveredge Academy and proving on a daily basis that he was cooler, smarter, and wiser than Elton.
“Don’t be silly, Gwendolyn. We’re here to help you redeem yourself,” Stuart says, as if he’s already addressing multitudes.
“Listen to reason, Gwendolyn,” Trey says calmly, like he’s been on my side since day one, like we’re in this together. “After the interview you’ll have your money, and you’ll be free of So Perfect.”
“I’m ‘Gwendolyn’ again? Not ‘Ms. Golden?’”
“I’ll call you whatever you want, as long as you cooperate.”
“What if I’ve changed my mind? Stuart looks like he’s about to visit the queen, and no one has offered me so much as a powder puff.”
In my So Perfect days, Armand always worked with Wardrobe to choose my outfits. He made sure that they were tailored, pressed, and ready for me to step into. He had opinions about my nails, hair, and makeup, and I trusted his judgment and went along. I don’t know how to make myself look good, but at least I realize that I shouldn’t go on television the way I look right now.
“Your choices were to do the interview, in which case you’d get your stock options and become free of your contract, or to refuse to do the interview, in which case we would sue you. You picked the former and it’s too late to change your mind. We’re almost ready to start shooting, in case you hadn’t noticed. As for your personal appearance, you should’ve asked Armand to come and get you ready if you’re incapable of doing it yourself.”
I’ve overhead enough conversations today to know that Trey is angry at Armand’s agent Josie, who has cut Trey out of the loop and is trying to free Armand of his So Perfect contract. Without Armand, there is no So Perfect, and Trey has nothing.
“Why do you want me to do this?” I ask, trying not to cry. I know I made the wrong choice. I know I’m stepping into a trap.
“It’s not about what I want. The public wants more of you, Gwendolyn,” he says. As if I’m toilet paper or batteries and there’s a big storm coming.
I consider calling Smith. He has helped me so much since I came to town; I feel like he can fix practically anything that’s broken. He certainly doesn’t owe me, though. He just keeps doing kind things for me, and I keep allowing him to. I learned through Caroline that he wouldn’t accept a commission on the house sale so that she could keep more money. Although I don’t think the few thousand dollars was going to make much of a difference to him, I hate knowing he’s been giving his time to me, literally for nothing. He also stored all my things from the Scenic house and had it delivered this morning, in addition to bringing lunch over himself. He has been a moral support and friend to me, and how have I repaid him? I haven’t. I can’t ask him to do more.
I know Walter Owens would run right over, if he isn’t already standing outside one of the windows, peeking in. He took it upon himself to throw me a surprise going away dinner last night at the hotel restaurant. It was as awkward and presumptuous as his gift-bearing visit here this afternoon. Everyone says how sweet Walter is, but if he doesn’t want me to take out a restraining order, he seriously needs to dial it back.
I found myself wishing that Smith were there last night instead of Walter. Actually, instead of Megan and Kyle, too. Megan was passive-aggressive towards Kyle, while he seemed irritated with her at every turn. He wasn’t a bully so much as a nag. I can see that he’s handsome, and he’s clearly the competent, responsible one in their household when it comes to parenting, but I’ve come to the conclusion that Kyle’s a whiny brat.
“Thanks for the lead on the house,” I told him last night.
He glanced at Megan then frowned down at his plate.
“Nice and neat how that all worked out, huh?” Megan asked in a strained voice.
Kyle pouted and clanked his silverware. He got upset when a photographer appeared out of nowhere and snapped pictures of our table—which seems to always happen to me when Walter knows my plans.
Kyle and Megan left early, and Walter excused himself to take care of a hotel issue, leaving just my dad and me at the table. My dad pointed out that Kyle has never once held a real job. “Deadbeat,” he called him, not for the first time.
“And who would be good enough for Megan, Dad?”
“Lots of boys she went to school with would have been good choices,” he said.
“Boys from our neighborhood, who belonged to the country club, and attended Riveredge Academy, right?”
“Why not?” he asked.
“I wish Smith were here tonight,” I said, trying to sound matter-of-fact.
“The realtor?”
My friend, adolescent love, a man I trust and think about almost constantly these days…
“Yes. The realtor.”
“You still like him, all scarred up like that?”
“I don’t notice the scars much,” I said. It’s true.
My dad seemed to really think about this, which struck me because he’s more of a talker than a quiet thinker. There aren’t a lot of lengthy pauses during discussions with my dad.
“Your mom would’ve wanted to hear that,” he said finally.
“Why? She hated Smith.”
“I don’t know. She was really sad when he had that accident. It shook her up. She was sick at the time herself. I think she’d like to know that people could look past his injuries.”
The idea of my mother suddenly developing empathy so close to the end of her life seemed like a nice fairy story, but only about as real as one. If she’d cared about Smith’s accident, she would’ve told me about it. Someone should have.
“Well, then I missed another chance to make Mother happy, didn’t I?” I asked, patting my dad’s hand.
My dad looked around like he was suddenly worried. He spoke low. “A woman called me up today, Gwennie. A reporter who said she was getting ready for your interview.”
“I’m sorry anyone bugged you, Dad,” I said. I kissed his cheek, hoping to erase the frown lines around his eyes. “It must suck to have me for a kid these days.”
“I’m proud of you, Dedo. And I love you. I just hope you know that, and remember it. Your mom loved you very much, too. We may have made mistakes along the way, I know we did, but we never meant to hurt anyone.” My dad’s voice broke a little.
“What’s wrong?”
“I miss your mom, I worry about your sister and you, and I’m just tired out. I think I’d better get on home.”
I walked my dad to his car and took the back elevator up to avoid Walter Owens.
“Are we set?” Stuart Bolder asks as he gets his already-perfect makeup retouched. I try to ignore him and his entourage. No one offers me any makeup, and no one touches my hair. No one tells me to turn my chair, “a little more to the left. No, too much. Yes, perfect,” like they do Stuart.
I know it’s too late for any of that. We’re about to start taping.
My muscles ache from unpacking boxes all morning. A hot shower would be just the thing. Caroline was so sweet to leave me with a practical welcome gift: a shower curtain, towels, and a bath mat for my master bathroom. She said we forgot to order them. I wouldn’t have noticed until I’d gone up to shower, but Caroline thinks of everything.
In the show house, my bathroom had been—and this is no exaggeration because Armand told me himself when he measured—bigger than my bedroom here. My bedroom there was the size of the entire upper floor here. I don’t mind that everything is smaller in this house, I just wish it were pretty, and cozy, like it was when it belonged to Caroline. It looks abandoned now, and as disheveled as me.
I tuck my feet up under my butt, take a deep breath, and try to relax. I have so many misgivings about this interview. I wish I was prepared, but I don’t think normal rules apply to this tabloid/coliseum/circus world where I find myself hiding behind dark glasses/battling to the death/spinning overhead without a safety net. I’m beginning to think there are only wrong answers and the best I can hope to do is pick the least wrong among them.
Before So Perfect happened to me, I had never considered fame at all. I hadn’t thought about riding high or plummeting, and I assumed every public figure went into their area of adulation or villainy with their eyes wide open. If I’d thought of it at all, I might have surmised that those celebrities who were unceremoniously toppled from their pedestals deserved it, and that the bad simply went along with the good. Over the past few years I’ve come to realize that some of us are clueless about the ramifications of what it means to become public property, that every mistake seems bigger when looked at under a tabloid microscope, that personal details it would be impolite to discuss regarding neighbors are unapologetically consumed about celebrities in checkout lines or on television talk shows. It’s truly an awful bubble to be stuck inside. I don’t know if this interview will burst it and set me free, or just blow me around some more.
The tension heightens as the hair and makeup people dash away, and Stuart Bolder is told we’re on in five, four, three, two…
I frown and look off camera. I forget to breathe. I have no clue what to say—every line used to be fed to me. I’ve never done an interview without preparation. I’ve talked on camera about cakes and centerpieces and the perfect Valentines wine, but I’ve never had to defend myself against allegations that I’m a liar who deserves what she got.
I forget the specifics of the most recent insulting question when I turn back to Stuart. I answer the same way I did last time, and think maybe I’ll just keep repeating the line over and over again, until they give up and leave me alone. “I was told that I had to do this interview to comply with the terms of my contract. I really don’t have anything to say.”
I wish my tone was tougher. I feel red patches form on my cheeks and work their way down to my neck and chest, like frost forming on a window, or mud colored dye soaking into white fabric.
Stuart smiles indulgently, as if I just complimented his tie. “How does it feel to have gone from riches to rags?”
“The ‘riches’ weren’t really mine, and I don’t consider this to be ‘rags.’”
“Let’s turn our attention to Armand Leopold for a second. Shall we?”
Footage of Armand laughing at my incompetence plays on a monitor beside us.
“I know that was edited to make Armand look bad,” I say.
“Viewers all across the country thought he looked great!” Stuart laughs.
“To make me look bad then,” I say quietly.
Stuart smiles into the camera, as if his whole life is one big audition. “Can you tell us more about the man everyone is uncharitably calling Scar Face, and your new love interest, hotel manager Walter Owens?”
“There is so much wrong with that question, I don’t even know where to begin,” I tell him wearily.
Stuart’s laugh is brimming with condescension. “Well, I’ve found it’s always best to begin at the beginning. Like first you learn how to cook, and then you might eventually pass yourself off as a chef. First you learn to decorate a house, and then you might call yourself a designer…”
“Fine, you jerk. First of all, I’d been trying to get out of my contract forever, but So Perfect wouldn’t let me, and they knew from the beginning I wasn’t anything they claimed. I’m only a painter.”
Stuart tries to interrupt, but I steamroll over him. “Second, you called my friend a name which is very hurtful, not to mention tediously unoriginal. He was in a car accident, which could happen to any of us. And he’s fifty times more attractive a man than you’ll ever be, you ass! Third, though I have never dated and will never date Walter Owens, he runs a great hotel. If anyone out there is coming to town, I highly recommend the Riveredge on Main. He’ll treat you well.”
Stuart’s smile seems to imply he’s having a cozy scotch with a friend, not that I just insulted him repeatedly and gave some free advertising to my stalker. We all look up suddenly because someone is pounding at my door. Trey swears and an intern reluctantly opens up.
It’s Smith! Seeing him helps me gather the rest of my courage.
I turn to Stuart. “You know what? Get the hell out of here.” I take off my microphone and hand it to someone on his team. “All of you! I’m done with this interview.”
“Oh no you’re not,” Trey says as he rushes over to me, not stopping until he’s right in my face.
“Yes I am. Leave my house.”
“You heard her,” Smith says.
A cameraman comes in close and bumps into Smith’s cane. I can’t tell if it was on purpose. Smith staggers but regains his footing. Stuart chuckles like it’s all a big joke.
“I told you all to leave my house!” I say.
“We’ll get the police over here if you don’t do as the lady asks,” Taylor says.
Stuart throws up his arms and turns to Trey. “Lady?” he scoffs. “People are only interested in Armand now. I don’t understand why we’re going through all this trouble for an interview with this used paintbrush.”
“What did you call her?” Smith asks, his voice unnaturally low.
“A used paint—,” Stuart starts to repeat, but he doesn’t quite insult me again before Smith punches him in the eye.
I’m jubilant for a fleeting moment. Then I see Smith lose his balance and topple over slowly, like a tree.
Chapter Sixteen
Caroline
“Welcome home!”
I push open the door and the kids run in ahead of me. I left all the lights on for this homecoming. I hope they love it. I need them to love it.
“Wow, mom.”
June turns back to me with bright eyes, and she’s smiling. I exhale.
Joy and James walk through cautiously, like they’re afraid to touch anything. They’re smiling, too. They hold hands as they always do when something is new or exciting, or when they’re tired. Or at the end of the school day after they have been apart for too long in their separate classrooms, which is still a big adjustment for two little people who had previously spent just about every sentient moment of their lives together, and even before. Witnessing their unquestioned trust in each other is one of the constant wonders of my life. I can’t believe Blake could simply walk away from that.
I made this house as much like our old one as I could. It cost half what Gwendolyn paid for mine, and since the same bank was foreclosing on both, it approved the sales. I was able to get decent financing, preserve my precarious credit along with Blake’s, and set aside his portion of the profits in an account. I’ll be damned if he can say I owe him anything when all is said and done.
“This house is a lot smaller than our old one, which makes me happy because we’ll be able to see and hear each other easier,” I say.
I instantly second guess myself. Maybe I shouldn’t shine a light on the fact that the place is tiny. I tend to point out all my imperfections. Suzie says that perhaps
no one would notice that the foot of my gravy bowl has been broken and glued, or there’s a hole under the arm of my good coat, if I didn’t insist on telling.
Joy and James jump up and down; apparently they like the idea of a smaller house.
“Let’s go upstairs!” James pulls Joy along. Neither of them would go upstairs alone in our old home, which wasn’t huge by any means. It’s true that we all tend to stick together, especially since Blake left.
“How many people live in our old house now?” James asks, turning back halfway up.
“One!” I tell him with my eyebrows raised, like it’s so strange.
“Is she a giant?” he asks.
“Nope. She’s a regular person.”
A month ago I had such a different view of Gwendolyn Golden. I don’t think I realized she was a real, flesh and blood woman, with fears, and worries, and problems, and dreams. She looked like she had it all, and it was all good. It’s troubling to see how she is portrayed in the media now, when I know for a fact that she’s practically the opposite. It makes me look at every celebrity differently than I used to.
“Is this house bigger or smaller than the house you grew up in, Mom?” Joy asks as she and James make their way down the stairs again.
“I think this is bigger,” I say, reaching down to stroke her soft curls when she gets to the bottom.
I know it’s bigger. The house I grew up in burned five years ago, and I’m sure the empty lot looks better than the house ever did. I like that Joy asked me this; it certainly puts things into perspective. This house is grand compared to the one where I lived when I was her age.
“And the one we just moved from was even bigger yet! I hope that regular lady doesn’t get lost in there,” Joy says before she and James run back up the stairs again.
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