Chapter 21
Lucy
When Linda from the network calls, I’m surprised. It’s the first time I’ve heard from any of them. I guess that’s what happens when you leave your old life behind. Does Linda even know about the divorce? Of course she must. News like that travels fast in tv land, I remember.
“We’re doing a feature on ReUse,” says Linda.
“Oh. That’ll be great publicity for them! Thank you.”
“We’d really like to round it out. They told us all about your generous donation, and Violetta wants to interview you.”
“I don’t think ...”
“You know Violetta, Lucy. She’s insisting. Think of the audience. ReUse will really benefit from your gift. Unless ...”
I roll my eyes. An uneasy weight shifts in my gut. But what’s the worst that could happen? Can I overlook my own personal humiliation for the sake of the charity?
“I’ve never been really comfortable in front of the camera, Linda. We’re off-stage support, you and me.”
“Come on, Lucy. It’s for the charity, isn’t it? We’ve filmed your shabby chic pieces – stunning by the way, you’re so talented. Linda might ask you about your techniques. The viewers would be interested.”
She might. Or she might not.
I know what Linda’s doing, calming me down and buttering me up, but I do want ReUse to benefit from my gift.
We might as well maximize the impact through the free publicity.
Violetta’s morning show attracts a big audience, and they’re exactly the people who might want to pick up nice furniture at reasonable prices.
“As long as it’s about the furniture and the charity. Okay.” And as long as I don’t have to see my Ex and the Minx.
Linda gives me the time slot. Phew. It’s far earlier in the day than current affairs, Bart’s specialty. I should be safe.
I barely sleep, remembering my old life.
I’m uneasy, imagining what Violetta might do to me on screen.
I get there in good time, assuming they’ll send me in to get my hair and make-up done, but there’s none of that.
They leave me on a plastic chair until the last minute.
I almost chicken out, but see that Chad’s still on Violetta’s team, filming.
I’d love to hear about his kids. He was expecting another when I left.
Chad and I are good friends. We’d always catch up when I was around. He’s filmed my old garden over many years, and all the Christmas backdrops using our own tree. He’s watched Phoebe grow up.
Chad and I used to shake our heads between Violetta’s victims, the never-ending stream of innocents, awe-struck in her presence, rabbits in the headlights.
I hated how Violetta would keep her cool as she’d impale them with her questions; make them squirm. Some never even realized, even a few politicians. Violetta showed up their duplicity, the fools.
I glance at my watch. Surely it’s time for a break on set.
But Chad gestures to me, headset on, plugged into the network, a creature of the machine, like Violetta.
At least I’m wise to her. I even admire her, the way she carved out a place for herself and has kept it so long in this sexist industry.
I agreed to come along, but I wasn’t expecting to be a focus of the story. I’m not prepared. If I’d realized they weren’t going to show me the courtesy of doing my makeup for me, I could have done my own – armored up. I know how to use makeup like a shield.
I’ve been working overtime for Donna and Freya – haven’t even had my hair styled in a while. I was hoping to be in the background of a shoot, a two-second cross over with a smile. Seems the network has other ideas.
I used to think that daytime tv was honorable – a lifeline of news and world affairs delivered to people trapped in their homes or in hospital beds. Chad always joked it was just window dressing between the ads.
I fear I’m about to see it laid bare. As Violetta beckons me across and an assistant wires me for sound, she leans back, at ease on her fancy sofa. She fixes me with the smile of a snake as my stomach disappears. Daytime tv is gladiatorial.
Chad points at the low chair opposite Violetta, and gives me a wry smile. It’s probably the only program in America that still broadcasts live. There’s no escape.
Violetta is pencil thin, perfectly dressed and coiffed, the high collar concealing her age.
She’s using all the tricks. I don’t blame her – just wish I’d made my own preparations more carefully.
Violetta is a star in her own right. If she’d been given a chance in Bart’s roles, she’d be strutting the world stage, maybe even making a difference.
Instead, she takes her bitterness out on those she interviews.
But I am here for the charity, ready to help them maximize their coverage. I may have nothing much left to lose, but I am no loser. If I go down, I do not go down alone.
I sit, straighten my back, and stare at the camera, but it’s already rolling. Thanks for nothing, Chad, showing me stooped.
“Welcome, Lucy,” says Violetta, with the slightest shake of her head, as if I’m pathetic.
“Thank you, Violetta,” I say, with my own fake smile. I’m down, but not out. Not yet.
“You and Bart and Phoebe were the darlings of daytime tv for decades,” she says.
“Our viewers celebrated the change of seasons in your garden; Easter, Christmases and so much of your redecorating.” She pauses as Chad’s team shows replays of old footage of my beloved home, of Phoebe as a baby.
The tech team has artfully edited Bart out. He’s still on the payroll. Of course.
Thanks for nothing, bringing Phoebe into it. I did not agree to this.
“So why didn’t you fight for your marriage?” says Violetta, and she settles back with her death stare. So that’s how this is going to be. Okay. I’m no pushover.
“It takes two to make a relationship work, Violetta,” I say.
“Did you focus too much on your shabby chic business and let yourself go?”
She is miming pity as Chad’s lens drills into my face. She nods to make me nod, but I refuse.
“You won’t ask Bart Hardenburg the same questions, will you, Violotta, because he’s still on the network payroll,” I say.
Violetta blinks. I push on, mindful of the timing.
“I am not guilty and I am not a victim – not Bart’s, not yours, not anyone’s,” I say, perfectly composed.
“Difficult women lose their husbands,” Violetta shoots back.
“Selfish men create difficult women,” I parry.
“Lucy, what do you say to the rumors you’re an alcoholic and a drug addict?”
“I’d say you invented that rumor right now, Violetta, because this interview isn’t going how you planned.
This shoot is supposed to be about the ReUse charity, which gifts good quality furniture to people in need, so that something can be salvaged from failed relationships and other tragedies.
I am here to help benefit people who are bravely remaking their lives,” I say.
“And even if I was addicted to drugs and alcohol, which I’m not, there are programs available for people who need help, and many of your viewers will be bravely receiving therapy.
How dare you try to shame me and shame them, Violetta? ”
“You’ve let yourself go.” Violetta tries to interject, but I’m on a roll.
“If you’re trying to humiliate me so that viewers, mostly other women, are shamed into buying more beauty products, then you are despicable. Beauty comes from within, Violetta, and when your behaviour is ugly, you let all of us down.”
“Unstable,” says Violetta, and she gives the camera her sad eyes.
Chad is hyperventilating, gesticulating wildly, pointing at the crew to run the next ad, predictably, an anti-wrinkle treatment with some kind of pink plastic wand.
“Please,” Violetta hisses at me.
“The charity is the only reason I’m here,” I say. “You get off my back and I’ll get off yours. How dare you attack me like this. Have some decency. You should be ashamed.”
Her eyes flash anger and sudden self-control as Chad’s fingers go up again – four, three, two, one.
“So Lucy, how do you spend your time now that you’ve lost your home and husband and business? And how about Phoebe? How does she feel about all this?”
I see red.
“How dare you bring our child into this, Violetta? This has nothing to do with her!” I stare into the camera. “This network exploits staff and viewers,” I say and Violetta locks eyes with Chad and talks over the top of me, shaking her head.
Even with the five-second delay, most viewers will have heard me fight back. I’m so angry, I could explode. How could I ever have thought this industry was glamorous? Violetta talks to the camera.
“So sad to see our colleague reduced to this. When did you start receiving therapy, Lucy, and speaking of therapy, viewers, take a look at this beachfront health resort.”
Chad is at my shoulder, hoisting me out of the chair and shaking his head. They can’t get me out of there soon enough.