Talk about being caught between a rock and a hard place. Didn’t she just say she can’t do this—can’t be a single parent? Really, what am I supposed to tell her?
“Sorry I bothered you,” she says finally. “I just thought my best friend would have something more encouraging to say.”
“Fine. I do have something to say.”
“What?”
I take in a deep breath. “Okay … you need to take this one day at a time, Mollie. You need to kind of step back and take care of yourself, and your baby, and you need to trust that God will show you what to do next. Remember he promises to give us what we need for today. Just today.”
“Okay …” She sounds a little calmer now.
“Okay.”
“So why didn’t you just say that in the beginning?”
I control the urge to yell that I’m not a trained therapist and that I’m doing the best I can here. “And, one more thing.”
“What?”
“You need to stop watching commercials like that.”
She actually kind of laughs, which is a relief, like she’s crawled in off the ledge now.
“Seriously,” I add. “Some ads are psychologically designed to trigger an emotional response. You should see my mom when this particular coffee ad comes on. She’s like a basket case.”
“Okay. I’ll just say no to commercials.”
“That’s right.” I look at the clock again. “And I need to go talk to Helen now.”
“So what’s up? Something new with the show?”
I realize I haven’t told Mollie my latest news, and so I promise to give her a full update later. She begs me to stop by her house on my way home.
“Okay,” I tell her. “It’ll probably be close to six by then.”
“That’s okay,” she says quickly. “It’s not like I have a life anyway.”
As I drive to the studio, I consider how much of a life I have—or don’t have. Besides work, it seems that most of my spare time has been spent with Mollie. I realize she’s in a very needy place right now, and spending time with her has been good overall. I know that I promised to be a better friend to her, but sometimes I feel selfish—like I should be able to do what I want to do.
The truth is I actually miss Blake. I miss his phone calls and going out with him. And, to be honest, I miss Lionel too. I’m starting to wonder if this so-called pact with my sister wasn’t just a figment of my imagination. Or perhaps it’s one more way for Paige to keep me under her thumb while she goes out and does whatever she feels like, even if it’s a huge mistake—so that I’ll be available to pick up her pieces. And what would happen if I blew my life to smithereens and she was the one who had to clean it up?
“Sorry to call this meeting at the last minute,” Helen tells me after her assistant, Sabrina, tells me I can go into her office.
“That’s okay.” I sit down in one of the leather chairs and wait.
“Did you tell Paige we were meeting without her?”
“It’s not like I purposely didn’t tell her,” I admit. “But it just never came up.”
“How did the bridesmaid dress shopping go?”
I roll my eyes then laugh. “It’ll probably make a good show. Paige wants to film it at the Chanel boutique and the manager seemed to be game.”
“Of course she’s game. It’s free advertising.”
“Right.” I wait, wondering exactly why Helen didn’t want Paige here this afternoon.
“You’ve probably guessed why I wanted to keep this meeting private today?”
“I suspect it has to do with Paige’s attitude about having me as her new costar on the show.”
Helen nods with a coy smile. “Yes … you and Paige are both smart girls. But you have a different kind of smarts. Paige is sharp and savvy when it comes to fashion, and has wit and charm. In fact, the girl is amazingly gifted.”
“I know.”
“But you seem to have a gift of empathy and a sense of reality that our viewers love too, Erin. And that’s no small thing.”
I kind of shrug. “Thanks.”
“The question is how to get both of you girls on the screen without shutting Paige down. That’s why I’ve invited you here today.”
“Okay …” I nod. “I get that.”
“For starters, I want to say that your opinions matter to the show, Erin.”
“Right.” I realize she’s perfectly serious, but I almost want to laugh since my opinions have never been much of a consideration before.
“I’ve observed you in the past, at our planning meetings,” she continues. “I’ve seen that glazed-over expression you get, as if you couldn’t care less what we do or don’t do. I know that fashion is not your thing.”
I hold up my hands helplessly. “Hey, Paige is my sister. She’s the expert. That doesn’t leave much room for me in that arena.”
She adjusts her glasses, narrowing her eyes at me. “And yet I think you understand it a lot more than you usually let on. It’s as if you are so used to taking the backseat when it comes to Paige that you don’t even try.”
“I’m sure that’s partially true. But it’s also true that I’m not that into fashion. There are two main reasons I’ve stayed interested in the show.” I hold up one finger. “First of all, because I do care about my sister, and both Mom and you felt she needed Jiminy Cricket by her side. But to be fair, I think she’s grown up a lot and that part of my role could be lessening.” I hold up my second finger. “Secondly, my motivating reason is that working in film and TV was always my goal. So getting to be part of the camera crew has been a real education.”
“Yes. But it’s my opinion that to learn the most about TV and film, people should immerse themselves completely. That means experiencing all aspects of the industry. I believe the best directors are multitalented—behind the cameras, in front of the cameras, writing, editing, promoting … you name it and they can do it. Take Woody Allen, for instance. He’s done it all and, in my opinion, he’s brilliant.”
I consider this. Woody Allen’s not my favorite Hollywood example. “How about Charlie Chaplin?”
She nods eagerly. “Exactly my point. He acted, wrote, directed, produced—the works. The man was pure genius.” She picks up a pen and shakes it. “And that brings us back to you, Erin. I want you to appreciate that you will learn more about this business if you’ll take your role costarring with Paige seriously.”
“I plan to.”
She looks a bit surprised. “Really?”
“Seriously, I do plan to. I think it’s a great opportunity. I already have a show I’d like to discuss with you.”
“Really?”
“Remember how I wanted to do a show that focuses on models and body image and eating disorders and how all of this impacts the average American woman?”
She nods slowly. “Yes. I realize we ran out of time in Paris. But that’s the kind of episode that can be filmed anywhere. Perhaps it’s less offensive to the international markets if we handle it right here in Los Angeles anyway.”
“That makes sense.”
“So …” Helen presses her lips together. “I’m making an executive decision. I want you to take the lead in that show. Talk to Fran and do your research and we’ll see how it plays out.”
“Okay.”
“But I also want you to help Paige with this transition, Erin. The last thing we want is for her to shut down. We need her to make the show work. No Paige … no show. And I have a feeling, since you’ve known her a lot longer than we have, that you probably have some basic understanding of how the girl works.”
“Or at least some coping skills,” I offer.
Helen laughs. “Yes, I’m sure none of us can completely comprehend how that pretty head of her’s works. But, don’t be fooled, it does work.”
“Don’t worry, I know that.”
“And somehow you’ve got to do your best to make sure that you two work together.” She gets a serious look. “I know that’s
a lot to ask, Erin. But I have a feeling you can deliver.”
This sends a shiver of insecurity down my spine, but I put on a brave face. “I hope so.”
“Good.” She claps her hands now, her signal that we’re done here. “So consider yourself officially promoted.” She stands.
“So does my promotion mean I get a raise?” I ask hopefully.
Helen laughs. “Why don’t you ask your agent to make an appointment with me? We can discuss renegotiating your contract.”
I nod. “Okay. I will.”
So on my way out to the parking lot, I decide to give Marty Stuart a call. Paige and I both signed on with Marty several months ago. Jon produces and co-hosts the Rise ‘n’ Shine, LA show and Marty is his agent too, and, although Marty hasn’t done much more than negotiate our original contracts, he’s a good guy.
“Hey, Erin,” he says to me as if we’re old friends. “What’s up?”
I quickly fill him in on my meeting with Helen and how she suggested he contact her. “Do you think I was out of line to ask for a raise like that?” I finally ask.
He laughs. “Not at all. But it’s my job to negotiate it with her.”
“Oh, good.”
“I’ve been thinking it’s about time to renegotiate for both you girls. With the show’s new level of popularity, the stakes are rising.” He promises to get back to me and hangs up.
Feeling very much like an adult, I get into my Jeep and drive home. As I drive, I consider how I can make the episode about fashion and body image work for the show. For starters, I think I need to come up with a strong title—something that will grab viewers’ attention and make them want to watch. I play with a number of ideas and finally decide on: “Killer Style: What Happens When Fashion Turns Lethal?”
Okay, it might be a little too extreme for our demographics, but it’s a start. And, really, according to some of my research, a few models have actually died from complications of eating disorders. Plus, I know that millions of young women are affected daily by the images of super-thin models. The truth is I’ve struggled with my own body image as a result of the constant exposure to the beauty myth that thin is so in. Spending time in Paris and around some stick-thin models didn’t help much either, although I try not to give in to that kind of warped thinking.
I recently read a statistic that most fashion models weigh about a fourth less than the average American woman. One-fourth less! I find that both astonishing and disgusting.
As I stop for a red light, I notice a billboard with yet another overly thin and scantily clad model holding a very expensive bottle of designer cologne and gazing at it as if she’s in love with it, when in reality she’s probably just wishing it were a milkshake. I have to wonder—why do we as a culture put up with this crud? And am I, by being part of a TV show about fashion, aiding and abetting in the degeneration of the mental health and well-being of the American woman? Okay, that’s probably overstating it. But I have to wonder.
As the light turns green, I remind myself that Paige, while naturally thin, isn’t of the anorexic variety. She does seem to respect health issues. Also, I tell myself, I will do what I can to reeducate our viewers. If that’s even possible. I sigh as I envision the image of the little Dutch boy sticking his finger in the wall of the dike in order to hold back the floodwaters threatening the entire town. This won’t be easy.
Chapter
4
“What’s so interesting?” Mollie asks as she returns to the family room with a pizza box in hand. We started watching an indie movie that Lionel recently recommended to me, but it’s turned out to be kind of a bomb. So I’ve switched gears and am now plugged into my laptop.
“Research,” I tell her.
Mollie drops the cardboard box onto the coffee table, something she would not do if her neat-freak mom were home, but since her parents are on a Mexican cruise right now, celebrating their twenty-fifth anniversary—a trip they booked almost a year ago and Mollie insisted they take—Mollie has let the house get pretty messy. “What are you researching?”
“In my new role as costar Helen is letting me put together a show about how fashion impacts the body image of the average American woman.”
Mollie laughs sarcastically as she rubs her bulging, round stomach. “Probably not as much as pregnancy does.” Thanks to her lime green warm-ups, combined with her red curly hair and short stature, Mollie reminds me of a chubby leprechaun today. Not that I would ever, in a million years, say this to her.
“Right …” I look back down at my screen. “It says here that in a recent survey, twenty-seven percent of teen girls felt media pressure to have a perfect body.”
“Only twenty-seven percent?” She frowns as she takes out a slice of pizza. “That seems pretty low to me.”
I nod as I reach for a piece. “I know. But maybe not all the girls surveyed were honest. Think about it—no one likes to admit to feeling media pressure. But it’s a well-known fact that most American women don’t like their bodies. Where do you think those ideas come from?”
“From being bombarded with images of beautiful women … probably starting with our first Barbie doll.” She flops down on the sectional and turns off the TV.
“Exactly.” I nod as I take a bite. “I never did like Barbies.”
She laughs. “Not me. I loved my Barbies.”
“Why?” I ask. “Why would you love something that made you feel like you didn’t measure up?”
“Barbie was so perfect.” With her pizza suspended halfway to her mouth, Mollie gets a dreamy look. “Those long slender legs and cute little feet… those perky boobs—and now that I think about it, she never even needed a bra. And she looked fabulous in every outfit. Man, that girl could even make army boots look good.” She sighs and takes another bite.
I control myself from throwing a pillow at her. “But how did that make you feel back then? More importantly, how does it make you feel now?”
“Fat.” Mollie looks at her rounded belly with a slightly astonished expression, as if she can’t quite believe it herself.
I try not to laugh.
“And short. And plain. And ugly.” She sighs.
That makes me feel more like crying. “But that’s all wrong,” I tell her. “You are adorable, Mollie. Sure, you’ve gained weight because you’re pregnant, but that’s a temporary thing. Otherwise, you are petite and pretty, and your hair and coloring is stunning. You’re a doll. And I don’t mean a plastic one either.”
She smiles at me. “Thanks.”
I decide to google something. I’ve heard that Barbie’s dimensions would be pretty strange if she were a real woman. “Listen to this,” I say suddenly. “It says here that if Barbie were human she would be nearly six feet tall and weigh about one hundred pounds, which means she would be so grossly underweight that she’d have stopped menstruating and could never have children. Plus her nineteen-inch waist would have difficulty supporting her nearly forty-inch bust, which would probably result in serious back problems. And her feet are so small she probably wouldn’t be able to walk.”
Mollie shakes her head. “Poor Barbie.”
“Poor Barbie? What about the poor American woman who will never be happy with her body because she’s so stuck on the idea that she should look like Barbie? And yet the madness continues as these same women buy their little girls more Barbies. What is wrong with this country?”
Mollie laughs. “Lighten up, Erin. It sounds like you’re suggesting we start a Barbie-burning campaign.”
I ignore her as I continue to read more alarming statistics.
“Even if there were no more Barbies, there’d still be fashion models,” Mollie persists. “I’ll bet their height and weight ratios are almost as extreme as a human Barbie. I’ve heard of six-foot models weighing around a hundred and ten pounds. Walking skeletons.”
“That’s true.” I nod and point to my computer screen. “But listen to this. Did you know that the average American woman weighs about one
hundred forty-five pounds, wears a size eleven to fourteen, and is about five foot four?” I consider this. “Hey, that means I’m taller than average. Who knew?”
“And I’m almost average.” Mollie sounds hopeful. “All this time I’ve been thinking I was short.”
“According to this article, we’ve all been brainwashed by the media.” I shake my head. “No wonder we obsess over our appearance so much. It’s like we’ve been trained to measure our self-worth based on our physical looks.”
“Pathetic.” She wraps a string of cheese around her pizza and takes another bite.
I nod. “It really is. And, think about this, Mollie. You and I are okay looking. I mean, we don’t have any serious defects or—”
“You mean besides my oversized stomach.”
“You know what I mean. It’s like we’re relatively attractive. But what about other girls—ones who have serious challenges like obesity or physical defects or terrible acne—how do you think they feel?”
“Maybe they don’t care.”
I frown at her. “You think they don’t care?”
“You know … maybe they just give up on the whole stupid beauty thing and get on with their lives, become doctors or lawyers or missionaries.”
“In that case, they’d be the lucky ones. I could be jaded, but I seriously doubt that too many women in this country don’t care about their looks. Or if they do, they’re the exception.” I continue skimming websites, gathering facts, and I realize that “Killer Style” is a show that On the Runway has a moral responsibility to do. “And get this,” I tell Mollie. “The diet industry alone generates nearly fifty billion dollars a year. How is that even possible?”
“Because everyone wants to be thin.” Mollie sighs. “Okay, you’re depressing me now, Erin. The truth is I want to be thin too.”
“Give it a few months.”
But I’m actually depressing myself too. It’s hard to believe how American women have been victimized by the beauty myth—that we’re only worthwhile if we turn heads. It’s like this faulty thinking has seriously handicapped us and impaired our reasoning. And in my opinion Los Angeles is particularly messed up. When I read about things like extreme dieting, bulimia, anorexia, plastic surgery, hair removal, implants, teeth caps, liposuction, and everything else … I feel like it’s hopeless.
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