way around. Camilla Jejune’s the producer. Shamiyah
works for her. The whole show was Camilla’s con-
cept, and she’s the one who did all the leg work to
bring it into being—not an easy thing, no matter
who you are—and until last year, Camilla Jejune
was a nobody. I guess that could explain why she’s
so protective of it. A real micro-manager, if you ask
me. She’s gotta okay every contestant personally.
Make sure each one of them has a concept that will
sell the show to the network . . . and hopefully kill
all the competition in the ratings.”
Audra blinked at her, stuck on an earlier thorn in
her words. “B—but I thought Shamiyah was the
producer—”
“She’s a producer. The show has three or four of
them who work on creating the package for each
woman featured as an Ugly Duck. Shamiyah’s your
producer. But Camilla’s the executive producer—or
one of them anyway.” She sighed. “Lots of people
have the title ‘producer’ on these programs. Camilla’s
the executive producer who does the work.”
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“I don’t know anything about television. I’m a
classic movies chick myself.”
“The titles of the producers should be the last
thing on your mind, honey,” Carla said, swabbing a
streak down Audra’s arm with a cotton ball.
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah,” she gazed earnestly into Audra’s face. “I
just hope you’re not sensitive to criticism.” She
shook her head again, before gazing at Audra with a
look of such intensity the odd, nervous feeling of
grave importance fluttered in Audra’s belly again.
“Why?”
The woman hesitated, and then sighed. “I’ve only
had to sit through one of these kinds of sessions . . .
and”—she paused again, her eyes finding Audra’s—
“they really know how to take people apart, body
part by body part. It’s a little creepy—like sitting
down with Dr. Frankenstein while he assembles his
monster . . .” She shuddered until she felt Audra’s
eyes, wide and nervous, fixed closely on her face.
“But of course, instead of a monster what they end
up with is a beautiful woman. Right?” she added,
struggling to resume her former brightness. “Now
let’s find a good vein and draw this blood.”
Chapter 9
“So which one was it? The Atkins or South
Beach?”
Shamiyah thrust a deli box of salad greens into
Audra’s hands, along with a massive bottle of water.
“Never mind, this should work with either one,”
she continued before Audra even could process the
words.
“You’re talking about my diet, right?” Audra said.
“I really wasn’t following any particular plan. It’s
not like I’ve been living on salads or anything. I
just . . .” and she stopped short, not sure that she
wanted to admit that she really had only given up
candy bars and Oreos, along with the late-night
habit of snacking to the dramas of Betty, Joan and
Barbara. “Cut back. Started lifting a little weight—”
“Well, girl, you better like salads, because if you
come on this show, that’s the bulk of what you’re
gonna be eating for a good three months—”
“Just salads?” Audra spat. “I’m down with the
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Karyn Langhorne
slice-and-dice plastic surgery, but salads every day?
That’s near inhuman! What about jerk chicken?
What about fried chicken and macaroni or—”
“Just salads.” Shamiyah said with such finality
that it made Audra’s heart sink. “Remember what I
told you? About being willing to do anything?”
Shamiyah’s eyes searched Audra, assessing her sin-
cerity again.
Audra nodded slowly.
“Just salads,” Shamiyah repeated, then glanced
toward the door, an edge creeping into her voice.
“They’ll be here in a second . . . and a few of them
won’t like seeing you eating, even if it’s only a salad.
Hurry up, all right? Have you got the pictures from
the fashion magazines? The features you like?”
Audra nodded, pulling a wad of ripped pages
from her back pocket. “I got ’em. But I gotta tell you,
Shamiyah, I don’t see how I could ever look like any
of those girls. But I brought a picture of my sister
Petra—” Audra reached for her wallet, flipping to
the wedding photo of Petra and her husband. “I re-
ally think—”
“It’s okay,” Shamiyah said, not even glancing at
the picture. “They probably won’t ask you for that
input today . . . but making sure you’re prepared is a
part of my job. Now, hurry up!” She glanced at
a sporty wristwatch in a candy apple shade of red.
“I swear, she’s fanatical about time . . . and we don’t
have much more of it.”
When the salad and water were consumed,
Shamiyah seated Audra at the head of a long table,
so dark and highly polished that Audra could see
DIARY OF AN UGLY DUCKLING
111
her reflection in its gleaming surface. At the other
end of the room, a large-screen plasma television
hung from the wall, a small laptop computer rest-
ing on a stand just beneath it. Audra glanced
around the rest of the room, but for the most part it
looked like a conference room she might have found
anywhere—nicer than many, but still just a confer-
ence room.
Or it would have, had it not been for the light
poles dotting the carpet, angling their theatrical
lighting implements toward the table from every
conceivable vantage point.
“Are there going to be cameras?” Audra asked,
raising her eyebrows in surprise.
“Is this Hollywood?” Shamiyah shot back and this
time there was no mistaking the anxiety in her
voice. “You read the papers you signed, right? We
tape just about everything—”
“But I thought this was preliminary?”
“If you’re willing to do what they want, it won’t
be,” Shamiyah said cryptically, then took a seat far
away, leaving a gap of at least a half dozen chairs be-
tween them.
Cameras. Audra let the idea sink in. Somehow,
from what Shamiyah had said, she hadn’t expected
there to be cameras at this extremely preliminary
stage . . . but then, as Shamiyah had also said, this
was Hollywood, and Ugly Duckling was a television
show.
“Most of this footage probably won’t get used . . .
but you never know,” Shamiyah said as if she real-
ized the coldness of her earlier comments. “I’d
rather have it than wish I had it, you know? Besides,
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Karyn Langhorne
you signed the papers.” She shrugged her shoul-
ders. “We own your image and y
our story now . . . at
least for a while.”
Audra nodded like she was in the know, even as
another creepy feeling, like a footstep on her grave,
crept down her back. Even the image of her trans-
formed self wasn’t enough to dissipate it. She shud-
dered in spite of herself, searching for an anchor to
banish fear and root her in the present moment.
“Why are you sitting way down there?” Audra
asked, focusing all of her attention on the other
woman. “Did my deodorant quit or something?”
She sniffed at her pits, tossing a smile at Shamiyah.
“I know it’s been a tough morning, but Carla did
douse me in a pool of water just before I came back
up here.”
Shamiyah smiled and opened her mouth like she
was about to answer, but then the door opened and
the sound of other voices filled the room.
The first to enter was a smallish, wiry-looking
white man with dark hair on both his head and his
chin, and a white lab coat over a dress shirt and tie.
His lips quirked into a quick smile as he spotted Au-
dra at her place at the top of the table, but he said
nothing, just quickly took the first seat on her left.
Three more lab-coated professionals followed: a
blonde woman who looked more like a TV soap-
opera version of a doctor than most of the actual
ones Audra had met, then a gray-haired older man
with a tough action-hero physique, and last, a
stocky, barrel-chested black man whose shaved
dome of a head instantly reminded her of Art. All of
the white-coated figures looked familiar . . . but it
DIARY OF AN UGLY DUCKLING
113
was the black man who locked eyes with Audra in a
protracted stare, as if he could see through to her
skeleton.
She didn’t have time to explore that feeling, how-
ever, because following the white-coated figures was
a whole crew of others. A rangy, muscular woman
wearing the kind of crop top that only a woman
with a flat six-pack of a stomach could carry off
swept in, fussing with a straight mass of shoulder-
length black hair. She was followed by another trim
woman, her short, gray hair worn close to her head,
who seemed more interested in the sheaf of white
paper in her hand than her fellow human beings in
the room. Two more women followed her: a petite
brunette woman wearing a pair of expensive-looking
eyeglasses and a sober blue suit who smiled at Au-
dra as she took a seat by Shamiyah on the left side of
the table, and a Hispanic-looking woman with a
mass of henna-colored hair streaming down her
back. She carried a thick clipboard jammed with pa-
per and was talking a mile a minute to someone be-
hind her. That “someone” turned out to be not just a
single person but an army of young-looking men
and women holding devices of all kinds. Two black
professional cameras rested on the shoulders of two
of the men, while two others carried some kind of
sound devices that looked like sophisticated ampli-
fiers. A set of young women carried what appeared
to be microphones dangling from a couple of long
silver poles. To her surprise, there were several
younger men holding nothing at all, and what ap-
peared to be a small army of young women holding
little black boxes Audra did not recognize until they
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Karyn Langhorne
plopped themselves in front of each of the white-
coated figures and proceeded to open them, reveal-
ing a bigger collection of makeup, makeup brushes
and makeup paraphernalia than Audra had ever
seen outside a department store in her life.
“Shamiyah!” The Latina shouted the name, an
edge in her voice that made Audra jump in surprise.
The woman sounded like a furious drill instructor
on a bad hair day. Shamiyah popped to her feet like
an automated soldier, an expression of out-and-out
fear on her face that didn’t jibe with her earlier
confidence.
“Yes, Camilla?”
“I thought I told you to arrange the chairs so that
the cameras can get the entire panel at once—”
“I tried but—”
“I don’t want to hear that! I want to see the chairs
arranged so the camera can pick up the entire panel
at once!” Camilla nearly shouted, snapping her fin-
gers with impatience.
“But—” Shamiyah began again until Camilla shot
her a withering look. Shamiyah folded her lips.
“That’s my fault,” the black-haired doctor said
mildly, rising. “I asked if we could hold this meet-
ing here because my schedule is so tight . . . but the
table’s not long enough for us to get that kind of
shot, Camilla. Do you think we can figure out an-
other way to get what you need?” His eyes flickered
around the room again. “I see you’ve got two cam-
eras, so, maybe we can station one guy at each end
of the room and—”
“Thanks, Alan. I’m sure we’ll figure something
out,” Camilla gave him a warm enough smile, shot
DIARY OF AN UGLY DUCKLING
115
Shamiyah another evil glance, then addressed the
production crew. “Maybe if we can station cameras
at both ends of the room?” She offered, repeating the
good doctor’s suggestion verbatim. “Don’t worry
about the images on the TV, we can edit them in
later. And for the most part, let’s not worry about
shooting the subject. If we use this footage at all, it
will be for the segment when the panel of experts
discusses the necessary changes, so what she says
won’t matter—”
“Camilla!” Shamiyah hissed, jerking her head to-
ward Audra.
Camilla stared blankly at her like she had no idea
what Shamiyah’s problem might be.
“Uh . . . this is Audra Marks,” she offered in a
prompting sort of tone as if to remind the woman
that her “subject” had a name.
Audra prepared her face for greeting . . . but the
woman never even turned in her direction.
“I know who she is,” Camilla said, taking the first
seat on Audra’s right and leaning back to allow a
young makeup artist with blue dye spiking her hair
to do her thing. “We’ll tape an introduction when
she arrives for surgery,” she muttered as the girl dot-
ted and dabbed and swiped colors over her face.
“That’s supposed to be our first meeting, and it’ll be
more authentic that way.”
“But—”
Camilla waved her fingers in impatient dismissal.
“She’s just here for us to look at today,” she snapped.
“If she doesn’t agree to the proposal, we’re not go-
ing to take her anyway, so—”
“So, the sooner we get on with the discussion
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Karyn Langhorne
process, the better for a
ll involved,” interrupted a
sonorous male voice.
The entire table seem to turn as a group toward
the speaker. Audra knew without having heard it
before that the voice belonged to the black doctor.
“You’re absolutely right, Dr. Jamison,” Camilla
said, using her deferential tone again. She shoved
the makeup girl aside and tossed her mane of
thick hair again before opening her notebook. She
snapped her fingers, shooing the makeup crew out
of the room, and summoning Shamiyah to her side
in a single gesture. Taking her cue, Shamiyah pro-
ceeded to dole out several small folders to the men
and women seated around the table as though she
were the secretary, and not a producer in her own
right. Audra watched in confusion, feeling once
again that nagging uncertainty, but she kept her
mouth shut.
“I trust you’ve all had a chance to review the data
from the examination, but we thought it would look
good to have the folders on the table, in the event
any of this footage makes the final cut.” She glanced
at the young man kneeling beside the amplifier de-
vice. “How’s sound?”
“I need a quick vocal of everyone to be sure,” he
muttered, sounding like he, too, was eager for this
session to begin and end.
“You heard the man.” She glanced at Audra, look-
ing her full in the face for the first time since she’d
entered the room. “Say something.”
“Something.”
Laughter filled the room, cutting some of the
tense atmosphere Camilla’s attitude had created.
DIARY OF AN UGLY DUCKLING
117
“That’s it, Audra,” the doctor to her right—whom
Audra had decided must be Alan Bremmar, one of
the plastic surgeons whose offices these were—
chuckled. “I, for one, really do hope this works
out. It’s always nice to work with women with per-
sonality.”
“Yeah, but once you make me beautiful, I won’t
need a personality anymore, now, will I?” Audra
quipped. “Like I said on the tape: The uglier you
are, the more personality you need—”
“We are not rolling yet, people!” Camilla inter-
rupted, her eyes flashing angrily. “If we could just
do the sound check? Please?” And she glared at Au-
dra like the whole thing was her fault.
“Fine,” Dr. Bremmar said good-humoredly
enough, as though the woman’s shrewish rudeness
meant no never mind to him. “I suggest we check by
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