Chapter Eleven
Alfie
“So we heard you're dating someone, Dr. Angel. Care to share with us?” Dianne Crust says under the heat of the stage lights. She’s one half of the Dianne and Dennis Crust duo that graces the TV screens of a million Seattleites every weekday morning.
She’s in her early forties, has perfectly curled blonde hair and a spray tan that gives her a year-round glow, making her stand out compared to her guests.
Her husband Dennis is in his late forties, salt-and-pepper hair and a clean-cut face.
His teeth might be the whitest teeth I’ve ever seen; they’re almost fluorescent.
Dianne is the shark of the two of them. They’ve been married a few years, and the rumor is, that on her part at least, it was strategic.
She wants to move to a national show, striving for fame across the entire nation.
She has the typical look the national networks go for, and I have no doubt she’ll do it.
She’s determined enough. I’m just not sure she’ll bring Dennis along for the ride.
He’s the calmer of the two. He’ll push guests into answering things they don’t want to, but he’s not a bulldog about it.
He rarely shows his teeth in that respect. Unlike Dianne.
I’ve been working on the show for just under two years, and I’ve spoken to a lot of people who have called in.
It started with good intentions. The only sideshow of the segment was me and my TV nickname, Dr. Angel, something I despised but tolerated as it increased the chances of people seeking out help through therapy.
However, in the last six months, with ratings going down across all networks, people just aren’t tuning into morning TV shows.
Who knows why; maybe it’s the economy, maybe it’s the content.
But the producers are scrambling, and it’s led to some shock-factor, clickbait-style problems that have viewers tuning in from all over the state.
Chyrons such as “My dog loves to lick my privates” and “I fell in love with my sister” or even “My husband can only get an erection with nipple clamps” grace the viewers' TV screens.
It was meant to draw in viewers like the old freak shows did at the circus.
People love to watch a train wreck after all.
I give Dianne my best smile, pandering to her question.
I need the people of Seattle to believe this story.
I want Lottie to be happy, and I want Mia to have a private life that remains private.
I know that sounds counterintuitive, but if we give off a boring couple vibe, the media will soon lose interest. Best to tackle this head-on and control the narrative.
“I am, as a matter of fact. Her name is Mia.” I give my best smile, which Dennis returns. Dianne focuses in, like a predator locking onto its prey.
“And you work together?” she asks sweetly.
“Yes, we’ve worked together for a few years. She’s my receptionist.”
“Classic workplace romance,” Dennis adds, chuckling before taking a pretend sip of his empty coffee mug.
“Late nights at the office?” The audience laughs, and I can see the producer giving them a thumbs up out of the corner of my eye.
I give my best TV laugh, smiling at the hosts. “It’s new. We’ve been friends for a long time, but I’m very happy with where things are going.”
“There does seem to be a little drama though. Perhaps a love triangle?” Dianne presses.
“You were seen just recently with Dr. Charlotte Buckingham putting her into a cab outside of one of the most sought-after restaurants in Seattle. For our viewers who haven’t heard of Dr. Buckingham, she’s as famous as our very own Dr. Angel. ”
“Dr. Buckingham and I have been friends for a long time. And Mia was at that dinner.” My tone turns more serious.
I had anticipated these questions when I agreed to finally talk about my love life.
However, we didn’t confirm we would discuss the situation that happened outside Neon last week.
The images had circulated on social media, and it didn’t look good on Mia.
Dianne looks like the cat that got the cream. “Oh yes, we have those photos too.” She points to the screen, and I know this is being displayed on about a million television sets in the Pacific Northwest right now.
Displayed on the screen is Mia, snarling, a finger jabbing into my chest as I hold my hands up in surrender.
Her long black hair is billowing around her.
As if the very force of her wrath somehow affected the weather.
Fuck, she looks so goddamn pretty. Her skirt is so short, her legs toned and long.
Despite the fact that she looks like she wants to start a brawl worthy of my brother’s hockey team, she’s stunning.
But even I can see the issues that come with this.
Sure, the images have been circulating on social media but this is statewide television.
A million people watch this show every morning.
I glance toward Mia, who is standing behind one of the camera crew, clutching her trusty iPad to her chest. It’s hard to make out her face under the bright studio lights, but I see her take a step back.
It is one thing to have it over social media, but this is a step over the line. I’m blindsided, and so is Mia.
“Dianne.” I turn back to the host. “You of all people should know about photos being taken out of context. You’ve had your fair share of public mishaps that were easily explained away when the details of the situation were provided. Now, I’d appreciate it if you took that photo down.”
Dianne smirks, she’s got her story and I’ve learnt my lesson. I’m not trusting this fucking show again.
“The man has spoken, team. Let’s leave these lovebirds to it,” Dennis intervenes.
I loosen the muscles in my jaw, unclenching as I give Dennis a small nod of appreciation.
Once they’ve moved on, I have to wait for a commercial before I can leave the set.
I know the camera isn’t on me anymore, so I use the opportunity to look back to Mia’s position behind the cameraman, but she’s gone.
◆◆◆
I finally found Mia at the coffeeshop outside the studio.
I’d searched around the building before finally accepting that she had left without me.
I still have makeup caked on my face, but I’ve learned to live with it over the years.
Keeping a supply of makeup remover wipes in my office desk, my car, my bathroom.
The thick foundation could be scraped off with a trowel, but Mia insisted I use something properly.
At least before seeing patients in the afternoon.
Mia usually attended these filmings with me as she helped scope out the callers and prepare advice.
It wasn’t particularly difficult or taxing.
I used to come on my own, but on one particular morning a few years ago I’d overheard her telling my patient Austin she’d been desperate to see a TV set.
So I’d asked for assistance, and honestly, her presence was useful.
Comforting, even. So I kept asking her to come until she naturally assumed this was part of her role.
I tap my card on the pay point and wait for our coffee. Mia is quiet. She’s barely looked me in the eye since I found her here. I silently curse Dianne. She knew that putting the photos up wasn’t part of the deal, but she’s got a firsthand interview regardless and milked it for all it was worth.
I glance at Mia, who’s holding our table.
Her hands are tucked into her sleeves, and her eyes are fixed on something out the window.
A few patrons are pointing at us and whispering to each other behind cupped hands.
I was used to the too-long stares, but I’d realized I hadn’t given much thought to how this must be for Mia.
She’s been photographed with me, of course, but she’s never been this exposed.
I slip into the booth, sliding Mia’s cup toward her.
“Thanks.” She takes a tentative sip before warming her hands around the paper cup.
“Are you still okay to do this?” I ask.
Her shoulders hunch a little more, and I can see her squirm in her seat. Clearly, that’s a no.
“I said I would.”
“That wasn’t what I asked Mia.” I try to soften my words, but she looks pissed off anyway. As if my very asking her for coffee was the equivalent of a cat shitting on her car windscreen.
“It’s fine. Can we just get this over with? Let’s do what we need to do.”
I’ve never seen her like this. Her lips are flat, pulled tight like she’s trying to hold in how she really feels, like she might snap at any moment.
Her eyes are darting around looking at anyone who even glances in our direction.
She’s shifty, on edge. She could bolt at any moment and I can’t do a goddamn thing to stop it.
I didn’t think Dianne’s comments were right, but they certainly weren’t any worse than what had already been said on social media.
Perhaps the reality of it has kicked in.
“You’re going to need to look like you’re enjoying my company. Just a little,” I try to joke.
Her eyes flash with something akin to pure loathing, but she quickly masks her fury with a tilt of her head, cradling it in her palm as she leans her elbow on the table.
She slaps on a sickly sweet smile and reaches her free hand across the table, intertwining her fingers with mine.
“Is this what you want, Alfie?” Her voice is as sweet as caramel, and it makes my tongue stick to the roof of my mouth.
The feel of her palm is soft but rigid. She’s not comfortable.
I know this. I know I’m fucking everything up.
And after that shitshow at the studio. How do I even begin to explain that? I swallow hard.
“Is it?” she presses. “You just do whatever you want, don’t you?”