Chloe Sparrow

by Lesley Crewe

  It’s a hideously long day, hours upon hours spent talking to Ken dolls, but Amanda has a blast and spends so much time grilling these alpha males that I’m ready to wring her neck.

  “I can see the Situation going on here,” she mumbles.

  I whisper, “What situation?”

  “Never mind, you don’t watch Jersey Shore.”

  One fellow points out that not only is he incredibly handsome, he graduated from M.I.T. and is a millionaire on paper. I pass a note to Amanda that says I’m a millionaire too. Later that afternoon we have a guy who winks every time he says something. It borders on creepy.

  “I’ve got a great job.” Wink.

  He probably lives at home with his mother.

  “I’m a real gentleman.” Wink.

  Maybe he’s a flasher.

  I escape to the ladies’ room for a minute, but what I desperately want is more caffeine, which I track down in the lunchroom. The copy girl is taking the last of the cream. “Are you having fun?” she asks. “Are the guys hot?”

  “As hot as my coffee. Any more cream?”

  “You’re, like, so lucky.” She takes her creamy java and leaves. There’s only skim milk in the fridge. If there’s anything I can’t stand, it’s skim milk in coffee.

  I wish I had cream.

  It’s amazing how quickly my resolve about not wishing disappears when I want something. After counting to ten I look in the fridge again. There’s the cream, in the back on the top shelf.

  We’re down to the last interview, but the minute Amanda sees my coffee she wants one, so she ducks out. The intern waltzes in the other door with Austin Hawke. He thanks the intern and fixes his jacket sleeve before advancing towards me. He’s the only man to reach over the desk and shake my hand.

  “Austin Hawke. Nice to meet you.”

  “Hello, Dr. Hawke. It’s nice to see you again.”

  He looks puzzled. “We’ve met before?”

  “I’m Chloe Sparrow, Norton’s mother.”

  He still looks confused. Obviously I made an impression on him. “Sit down, please.”

  He settles in his chair and gives me a charming smile. Amanda comes in with her coffee mug and momentarily stops dead when she sees my veterinarian, but quickly gathers herself and sits beside me. Austin reaches over to shake her hand too.

  “Austin Hawke. Lovely to meet you.”

  “Amanda Partridge, and the pleasure’s all mine.” She sounds like she’s purring, which strikes me as funny, but it’s been a long day so I cut to the chase.

  “Why on earth do you want to be on this show, Dr. Hawke?”

  Amanda jumps in. “What Miss Sparrow means, is why would you like to be a part of this fabulous new series?”

  He hesitates. “I have to be honest. My sister dared me to apply. It was a joke, but then I found out the bachelor gets paid, and since I’ll do just about anything to pay off my student loan, I thought I’d see it through.”

  He’s forthright, if nothing else. “You think you can propose to someone you never met in twelve weeks’ time?”

  “I have no idea, but my mother says I’m a hopeless romantic. The girls at the office call me Dr. McFurry.”

  Amanda is melting into a pile of goo beside me. She grills him for an hour, asks him about everything, from what he likes for breakfast to his favourite hockey team. Finally, I thank him for coming and he shakes our hands again, and looks at me more closely.

  “I remember you now. You’ve cut your hair since we last met. It looks very nice.”

  Now I’m blushing.

  When the door finally closes behind him, Amanda hits me on the arm. “He’s absolutely perfect! He’s the one!”

  “Just because he looks like an actor I’ve never heard of? Is that a good enough reason?”

  Amanda’s spray tan seems to be fading, always a sign of fatigue. “You know why you’re the producer? The bigwigs upstairs think you’re young and hip and have your pulse on what the eighteen-to-twenty-five-year-old demographic wants to watch. They don’t know there’s a middle-aged woman rattling around under that tight, luminous skin of yours.”

  “But is it a conflict of interest because he’s my cat’s vet?”

  “Who’s gonna know and who gives a shit? He’s the best of the bunch.”

  “Fine, if you say so.”

  After work I hit a video store and ask for a Ryan Gosling movie. The girl hands me The Notebook. Sounds boring.

  The bus ride home soothes me as I stare out the dirty window watching the world go by, but the best part of my day is walking from the bus stop to my house. My street has narrow Victorian row houses like mine, but also a few arts and crafts bungalows and gingerbread houses, a perfect backdrop for the charming urban gardens all the young families are planting around me. The idea of planting flowers is nice, but they’d only die on me so I’ve never bothered.

  When I show up to take Norton back to my house, he’s on Gramps’s lap being rocked to sleep. The minute Gramps realizes I’m there, he starts gesturing. “Take this damn cat, will ya? She won’t leave me alone.”

  Then he looks annoyed when I take the damn cat. Once Norton is fed and cuddled at home, I gulp down a grilled cheese sandwich while standing by the stove. Then I take a bath, get in my flannel pyjamas, make some popcorn, and put on the DVD. Press play. Two hours later I’m sobbing into my empty popcorn bowl because I’m in love with Ryan Gosling and I want his babies. I call Amanda.

  “Hello? Who is this?”

  I blow my nose into my buttery napkin. “It’s me.”

  “Chloe? You sound like you have a head cold.”

  “I just watched The Notebook.”

  “I know. Didn’t I tell you he was perfect?”

  “Oh, he is. He is.”

  Norton looks a bit fed up with my blubbering. I can’t blame her. She’s supposed to be resting.

  I’ve wanted to work for the CBC since I was a young teenager. My parents had a love affair with their news anchor, Knowlton Nash, and I grew up listening to the sounds of mortar fire in the background of terse news clips, delivered by brave male and female reporters telling Canadians the score in the hot spots of the world. This is serious stuff. People need to know what’s going on, and I was always determined to be part of it, which is why I studied journalism and television production at Ryerson and graduated at the top of my class. I know what you’re thinking and yes, I admit it. I did wish that I’d graduate at the top of my class, which made me feel bad for a while, but then I thought what the heck. It’s not something I’m going to brag about in a social situation, and I certainly would’ve passed anyway. So I don’t feel guilty about it.

  Not really.

  The best thing about working for the CBC is coming into the building and walking through the atrium. The vast space floats over my head. A deep well of knowledge hangs in the air. Just knowing there are floors and floors of busy little beavers informing us about the world and our place in it gives me a chill. Although some days I also think how cool it would be to put up clotheslines and hang our laundry out.

  I also love walking into the hustle and bustle of our newsroom and studio, everyone busy at their desks or rushing by with armfuls of paper. There is a constant murmur of people on their phones or conferring with each other about important news items. Featured guests and artists wait in what we jokingly call the green room, which is a couch and coffee table by the entrance door; however, we do have bottled water and a dish full of peppermints they can help themselves to.

  When I need a break, I walk to the wall of windows that overlook the city and watch the traffic and people going about their business, everyone in a hurry to get somewhere. Toronto is a centre for business, culture, and sports, all pulsing together to create a vibrant and modern dynamic. It’s beautiful and upscale, surrounded by older and unique neighbourhoods like my
own Cabbagetown, Chinatown, and Kensington, with its famous market.

  As I walk up the stairwell to work a week after my Notebook revelation (I’ve watched it five times now), I gird my loins, knowing the female interviews are coming up. It was hard enough picking one bachelor, never mind twenty women. I tell myself yet again that I’ve been given an opportunity that everyone (Amanda) seems to want, so I’m going to stop whining and do my best. This isn’t the kind of show I’ll produce forever, and the reality is that networks make money on reality shows, so I’d better get with the program. In 2011, money makes the world go round, and I’ll hop on this carousel with enthusiasm and hold on tight.

  Three days later, I feel faint and want to get off. Amanda and I are worn out and punchy, and if I see another pair of enhanced breasts I may have to kill myself. So far the most popular answers to the question Why do you want to be on this show? are as follows:

  “I want to be married.”

  “I’m looking for love.”

  “I need a man.”

  “I want to be a star.”

  “I don’t want to die alone.”

  The traffic of women is a blur, until a candidate shows up who’s almost as flat-chested as I am. She reaches over the desk to shake our hands before sitting down. Austin’s going to love her.

  “Hello, I’m Jocelyn Dove.”

  A Hawke and a Dove? This is television gold. By the time we finish our interview, Amanda and I realize that Jocelyn’s so perfect, we want to marry her.

  We eventually have our list and go through it one last time.

  “So their average age is twenty-five,” Amanda says. “They all have jobs, but I’m not convinced that Sydney isn’t a pole dancer. What does she do again?”

  “She’s supposedly an actress. Naturally, Jocelyn is a kindergarten teacher, and Lizette is a race-car driver, which is impossibly cool. Tracy is a graphic designer, and Mysti is a law student. Holly and Molly are flight attendants.”

  “Chloe, are you sure having twins is a good idea?”

  “They aren’t identical, and maybe it will be a disaster, but isn’t drama what we want? What’s going to be a nightmare is that we have two Jennifers, two Kates, two Sandys, and two Sarahs.”

  “Don’t forget Rebecca, Becca, and Becky.”

  “Emily and Erin round it out. That’s twenty girls, all of them better looking than me.”

  “Don’t be so hard on yourself, Chloe.”

  “They’re better looking than you, too, not to mention younger.”

  “Up yours.”

  We need a drink very badly, so we pack up and head to the nearest bar. As always, the minute we walk out of the building and around the corner, the wind hits us full blast and we’re trudging forward like pack animals, but at least the wind is warm and the rain’s cleared up. We race to get to the bar door first. Three drafts and a platter of nachos later, I’m happy with the world.

  “Can you remember any of their names?”

  “The Dove girl…Jocelyn.”

  “She is so winning this competition. Let’s just plunk the two of them in a hot tub and watch them mate. What would you call the offspring of a dove and a hawk, anyway?”

  “Hovedawk?”

  “How about Warren Peace?”

  The two of us crack up before I knock back my glass.

  “You’re always showing off, Sparrow.”

  “Do you know what else just occurred to me? We have a Hawke, a Dove, a Sparrow, and a Partridge.”

  “Don’t forget Ryan Gosling. What do you think it means?”

  “How the flock should I know?”

  “Oh, snap!” She gives me a high five.

  I put my elbows on the table. “What’s it like to go home to somebody at night?”

  “Not everything it’s cracked up to be when you come home late. We should shove off.” She raises her hand in the air.

  “No, no, no. I’m definitely paying for this. My treat. My treat.” I fumble around and try to locate my purse, but it seems to have disappeared. “Holy shit! My purse is gone.”

  “It’s hanging on the back of your chair.”

  “Oh.”

  At that moment a guy walks over and stands beside me. “Excuse me, my name is Enrique. Would you mind if I sit down?”

  Yes, I do. I don’t know what to say to this guy, but Amanda and Enrique are looking at me. “Okay.”

  So he sits down. Amanda is amazingly helpful now that she’s rolling her paper place mat and not looking at me.

  “What is your name, little one?” Enrique asks.

  “Are you talking to me?”

  “Yes,” he grins. “Your name?”

  I’m pretty sure you shouldn’t give your name to a strange man right off the bat, but I can’t think of another one until I blurt, “Amanda.”

  Amanda stops rolling the paper and gives me a dirty look.

  “And what do you do, pretty Amanda?” He downs his drink.

  “I work.”

  “Where?”

  “Here.”

  “In this bar?”

  “In Toronto.”

  “Doing what?”

  “This and that.”

  He laughs and traces his finger down my arm. “We should do this and that together.”

  Amanda grabs her purse, my purse, her coat, and my nasty sweater in a matter of seconds and then yanks me out my chair. “Oh, no you don’t. Get lost, Enrique.” She pays the bill and we’re out the door in a matter of minutes.

  I’m nodding off when she pulls the car up to my door. With the engine still running, she turns to me. “That guy at the bar was a player. If a man touches you without your permission five seconds after knowing you, that’s a sign to stay away from him.”

  “I didn’t want him to sit down. I did it for you.”

  “Promise me you won’t go to a bar alone. Not for a very long time.” Her phone dings and she reads her text. “Hubby’s wondering where I am. Gotta go.”

  “Thanks for the ride.”

  There’s no outside light on and the house is in darkness. Damn. It’s so depressing. Things are closed up and dark at Gramps’s, too. I wonder if they ever worry about me coming home late at night. There’s a note on my door. Brought Norton back at nine. I’m feeling pretty sorry for myself by the time I get to my bedroom and fall across the bed. Norton asks me how my day went. I wish she wouldn’t. I never have anything exciting to tell her.

  CHAPTER THREE

  In the morning I wake up with a hangover. That’s two in the same month. This is not good, because I have a production meeting and my first face-to-face with Austin and then his harem. Contracts need to be signed and a meeting with the realtor has been arranged, and then I have to present a report to Mr. Gardner at the end of the day. All the while my head feels like a kaleidoscope.

  A hot shower helps, and so do the painkillers, but my saving grace is the gigantic travel mug I found in a sales bin last year. I fill it with bubbly Coke to settle my stomach, after giving Norton her breakfast and a big sloppy kiss. “Aunt Ollie will be here at eight to take you next door. I love you. Please don’t have my babies until I get back.”

  The last thing I do is look in the full-length mirror behind my bedroom door. This morning I have on a brand new suit. It’s charcoal grey with a fine pinstripe. The pencil skirt hits me just above the knee, and the jacket has a smart tailored bow at the small of my back. The saleslady who helped me loved the feminine detail. That was nice of her. My dad had a charcoal pinstripe suit. I feel strong and powerful wearing it, or I would if my headache would only disappear. I’m ashamed to say my physical condition causes me to ignore the little old ladies on the bus today. My behind remains firmly in my seat. They’re on their own.

  “Love the suit!” Amanda says when I walk through the door at work. “You actually look
like you know what you’re doing.”

  “What would I do without you, Amanda?”

  The production meeting lasts almost three hours, everyone reporting on the logistics of the show, recommendations for location shoots, and financial matters. Company lawyers go over legal mumbo-jumbo and break down what’s expected from the bachelor and what’s required of the ladies and also explain the confidentiality contracts. I almost pass out when I see the amount of money budgeted for alcohol.

  “Is this necessary?”

  Everyone swivels their heads to look at me. The host of our show, Trey Withers (who’s smarmy, if you ask me, but comes highly recommended), launches into a detailed explanation as to why alcohol is essential for creating a more dynamic atmosphere on set.

  “We want to keep the contestants buzzed from morning until night so they have no inhibitions, get into cat fights, say stupid things to Austin, and create uncomfortable situations 24-7.”

  “That’s creepy.”

  Trey gives me a withering look. “Reality television is about people behaving badly. That’s what today’s audience wants to watch, Miss Sparrow. You better get used to it, since you’re the producer of this show. Millions of dollars are now your responsibility.”

  He’s right, of course, but I still feel sleazy and slightly sick when I think about it. When we adjourn I take more painkillers before I meet with Austin in the small office where we first interviewed him. I check my cellphone. He’s ten minutes late, which annoys me. Does he want this job or not?

  There’s a knock at the door.

  “Come in.”

  Austin walks into the room wearing an open-collar white shirt and black dress pants. He is clean-shaven and smells divine. He reaches for my hand and gives me a smile. “Miss Sparrow, I’m sorry I’m late. I had a dehydrated gerbil show up just as I was leaving.”

  “No worries, Dr. Hawke. Please sit down.”

  “Thank you. And please call me Austin.”

  I fidget with my pen. “You must be wondering why you’re here.”

  “To deliver Norton’s kittens?”