Chapter 1 – Ten Years Later . . .
Chapter One
LOUISA
TEN YEARS LATER...
“C ut! Cut! Urgh, jeez, Brittany, pull yourself together.” Annoyance curdles to shallow anger on our producer’s face as our midday culinary anchor drops yet another bowl of batter, covering the floor. “Louisa!”
I pull the headset from my head and hug the clipboard to my chest as I rush to his side. “Yes, Marty?”
“Either that woman possesses the tactile skills of a toddler, or you ordered the wrong bowls.”
I cringe.
It’s not the bowls.
“Maybe she needs a break?” I ask in soft words, preparing to be in the firing line next. We’ve been at this Christmas baking segment for four hours. Britt was distraught when she got here; something about her boyfriend shipping out. Poor girl, that’s got to hurt.
“Nope, I’m done waiting for this. We don’t have the timeline to start again. Improvise.” He flings a hand toward set.
“Improvise?” I barely let the word past my lips.
“Yeah, where you make shit up. Like half the people watching this crappy show are going to know the fucking difference. Give her a clean bowl. Go again!”
Shit.
I replace the headset and scurry onto set. Britt is on her hands and knees, tears scoring lines down her TV makeup. I drop to my knees to help. After four years of college and culinary school, my dreams of being in her position aren’t looking as appealing as they once did. Get a double major , they said . It’ll be fun , they said . Goddamn liars, the lot of them. I’ll never land the chance to anchor a flea circus, let alone be the next Julia Child.
“Thanks, Lou. You don’t have to... On a scale of one to you’re fired , how angry is Marty?”
“He’ll cool off. Are you okay?” I rest on my heels, and she does the same.
“I’ll never get used to Toby leaving for tour.” She swipes at her now-bleeding mascara, not doing herself any favors.
“Hey, hey. He’ll be okay. I’m sure.”
I actually have no idea about any of this military stuff. Heavens, I don’t even know where the wars are in the world these days. I’ve been so occupied with my own harried life. Always keeping my eye on the prize.
The next Julia Child.
God, wouldn’t that be something.
“ Now ladies! Or do I need to send in the cleanup crew!”
Take a hike, Marty.
I glance back at the grump of a producer who’s been running us ragged for months for his ratings. “Jesus.”
“Sorry, Marty,” Britt calls out.
“Don’t be sorry, Brittany, be professional. Get the damn segment done. It’s not a hard ask. At this rate, we’ll be doing it live. We have less than ten to air.”
“Ass,” she mutters.
Marty is notorious for running timelines into the ground. It’s not the first time a prerecord has had to be live because of his sloppy time management. With the floor clean and the bowl replaced, I radio for makeup and wardrobe. Britt disappears for exactly two and a half minutes and is back with a smile plastered on her pretty face in no time.
Safely behind the camera crew, the countdown starts. On Air flashes red over the entrance door. The clapperboard snaps. Britt starts mixing. That smile still in place. She picks up the spoon when the batter is done, and she has talked the audience through making it. Holding it over a prepared cake tin, she begins to scrape the batter into the tin. And then it happens.
Again.
I watch in horror as the bowl leaves her fingers, slamming into the cake tin, rolling over the counter, taking props and glass jars of spiced and herbed oils with it. You could hear a pin drop as we all hold our breath while the three tall glass oil bottles roll toward the edge of the counter.
Crack!
Crack! Crack!
Shit.
I drag my gaze to Britt’s devastated face. Her chin wobbles, her hands still outstretched like she could stop the slow-motion disaster from happening.
“CUT! Fuck me, Britt. Greenroom. Now!” Marty throws his headset to the ground. Britt runs off in a fluster of tears. I pick up the gear and hang it over his chair.
This time, cleanup sorts out the mess as I run through the run sheet, hoping—no, praying—Britt survives Marty’s wrath.
“Think he’ll fire her?” one of the sound guys says, padding over to where I stand.
“Britt? No, she’s the face of the show. You can’t replace her without affecting the ratings.”
He looks at me, chewing his bottom lip, hands in his back pockets as he rocks on his heels.
“You need something, Dylan?” I ask, feeling as awkward as he looks right now.
“Ah, yeah, so.” He runs a hand through his hair, looking to the floor. “I was?—”
“Masters! You’re up! We’re going live , people. Hustle!” Marty’s voice booms through the set, echoing through the house seats that are used for other shows produced in the huge space.
Dylan stiffens and hurries back to his post, sinking into his chair with the look of a petulant child scolded for skipping school. Okay...
I snap my focus to the producer striding my way. The look on his face, all business, has my nerve up. Instantly.
“Up?” I ask, brows knitting.
“Get to wardrobe and makeup. You know this segment, you’re subbing in today.”
“I—” I choke on the air in my lungs.
“It’s what you’ve worked toward for years, isn’t it? Now’s your chance. You’ve got five minutes.”
I grip the clipboard to my chest, blinking as I try to discern if he’s messing with me or deadly serious. But I’m not prepared. Wanting something badly and stepping up under duress are two very different things.
“Masters, now. We haven’t got all day. Frigging hell, this is the last time I work with women. On the grounds on unprofessionalism, for one thing.”
I shake my head. He’s such an ass.
Not helping the nerves that are currently tossing javelins through my veins. I swear one pierced my heart.
He throws his hands up. As if to say hurry the hell up .
I drop the clipboard and run to wardrobe. The second I’m inside, the door shuts. Hands work me over. My old ripped jeans hit the floor. The sweater Mom gave me goes next. In under a minute, I’m standing in front of the long mirror in clothes I would never wear, looking so far removed from myself. If it wasn’t for the hair, face, and hands that I’m currently turning over in front of me, I would have thought some other woman was standing here.
About to live out the chance of a lifetime.
Daytime television culinary anchor.
Holy shit.
Someone grips my shoulders, hauling me into a chair. Fingers pull through my blonde hair, turning it from its updo of necessity to blown and curled. Something like fine dust explodes over my face as the young woman in front of me taps, swipes, and shapes my face.
Two minutes later, when they swivel the chair toward the long mirror, my mouth gapes. Someone more like Miss America stares back at me. I’ve always been pretty, but this is otherworldly. They are miracle workers. At least if I screw this up, no one from back home will recognize me.
Always a silver lining.
Heels slide onto my feet and the door opens. Manny, the wardrobe director, gives me a push, signaling me to hurry up. I jump from the chair and clack down the long white hall back to set. Marty glances me over before a small mic and receiver are planted on my body. Rough hands turn me toward set.
It’s now or never, Louisa.
I stalk my way toward the counter we have worked on for the cooking show for the last three years. I have to own this. I can recite this segment backward, so that shouldn’t be a problem. Still, I’m always behind the camera, not in front of it.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
I move in behind the set kitchen counter. The camera rolls in. The teleprompter rolls in beside it. The green words hover. As if waiting for my signal.
The room falls silent.
Marty cups his hands under his chin, mouthing ‘We are live.’
Oh great. Just great.
On Air flashes red.
My heart flings in my chest.
A stone grows in my throat by the second.
The clapperboard slams.
The teleprompter rolls.
My shoulders heave, hands clammy, as lightning buzzes through my body.
The last breath I took is lodged tight.
I open my mouth to repeat the words that rolled out of sight.
I try to swallow... and choke.
I can’t breathe.
I grip the edge of the counter.
Darkness floods my vision.
I’m drowning.
An ugly gasping noise leaves my throat.
“Fuck!” Marty jolts from his chair, knocking it backward.
I lean on the counter. The teleprompter slows to a stop. Whispers start up.
I turn and slide down the side of the counter.
Hot tears tracking over the Miss America makeup.
I chug a sob before my face falls into my hands.