4 | Taylor
Taylor
Suffering through an interview while hungover is not the way I’d like to spend my Sunday morning.
I’ve been guilted into going on a talk show to promote giving blood because the country’s bank is going through a shortage.
In my own research, I’ve learned the problem is more their lack of blood drive volunteers and less of finding people to donate.
But if I ask people to volunteer, I’ll be seen as an out-of-touch one-percenter who believes everyone has the time in their day to work for free.
Everything has to be a dumb political give-and-take.
I hate morning news, and I especially hate Steven Lachamp, the smug, floppy-haired anchor who has interviewed me a couple of times before. I understand this is his work, but I wouldn’t classify him as a prestigious journalist. He’s more of a snake with verified Instagram account.
Something about doing television always puts me in a bad mood.
First, the audio guy micing me up asked if I’d go to prison if I killed someone.
I don’t understand why people think I’m above the law.
Then, I had to pretend to be unaware of the silly makeup woman’s feeble attempts to flirt with me.
Now, I’m sitting under hot lights next to my oncoming adversary, waiting for a camera light to turn red.
Being on TV every once in a while is a necessary evil.
The goal for my public image is to be forgettable, but I don’t want to seem like I’m trying to be forgettable.
People will think I’m hiding something if I’m never seen.
Boring appearances like these remind everyone I exist, but not in any sort of attention-grabbing way.
Steven always ignores me before interviews. I think it’s to throw me off. I watch him furiously type on his phone as a lowly intern feeds him iced coffee through a straw. And people say I’m spoiled.
Steven swats the servant away. “How are you feeling after last night?” he asks me.
I shift in my chair. Of course, he knows I was at a wedding. Before I can respond, he puts a finger to his lips, then points to a woman in a headset counting us down. Douchebag.
Steven puts on a saccharine smile. “Welcome back St. Claire. As promised, we have our Prince Taylor here to talk about the ongoing blood crisis. Thank you for coming in today, Your Highness.”
“It’s good to see you again, Steven,” I lie.
I know he knows calling me Your Highness is more than unnecessary. He’ll take any opportunity to piss me off.
“Now, before we talk about the importance of donating—” Before? “I think it’s only fair to mention the picture making its way around online.”
A vertical photo pops up on the monitors. It’s Melina and I dancing. Thankfully, her back is facing the camera.
Great. I’ve been set up. I keep my expression unfazed even though I am, in fact, fazed.
This country goes feral every time I’m seen with a person of the opposite sex.
My brother is with a new woman practically every week, so much so that no one bats an eye anymore.
But because I happen to value privacy, everyone gets all up and arms over one blurry picture.
How long has this been online, and why didn’t anyone fucking tell me?
“I was at a wedding.”
Steven adjusts his obnoxiously trendy tortoise-shell glasses. “Yes, it looks like you’re having lots of fun.”
His statement is intentionally vague, an attempt to fish for details without asking a real question.
Journalist, my ass. I should’ve considered the consequences when Julien asked me to dance with her.
The guests were told on the invitations to refrain from using their phones, but what’s that going to stop?
I could blame my decision on the alcohol, but I wasn’t drunk at that point.
Melina just seemed so mad at me before. A part of me wanted to win over the person making the website for my passion project.
(And maybe feel up a woman in a slinky bridesmaid dress. Two birds with one stone and all.)
“Steven, if you don’t mind, I came here to talk about—”
“Could you at least give us a name?”
“You know I’d love to, but for some reason, it’s escaping me.” My joke comes out more passive-aggressive than intended. Somewhere, my publicist is cringing.
Steven forces a laugh. “Right, how often can one donate blood?”
Thank Christ. “About every other month and—”
“And when was the last time you donated?”
That’s the second time he’s cut me off, but I’ve known Steven long enough to predict his methods of disorientation.
“A couple of days ago, actually. I’m O negative.”
I just gave out my medical information on live TV. Very cool, Taylor.
“Wow, that’s the type they keep in ambulances,” Steven says like he cares. “There could be royal blood saving someone’s life right now.”
There better be. It took the nurse twice to find a vein. I could’ve just lied about donating, but that felt a little too unethical, even for me.
“Yes, it very well could,” I say. “When was the last time you donated?”
Steven shifts in his seat. “It’s, uh, been a while.”
Got him.
“You’re not afraid of needles, are you?” I smile so my question doesn’t sound like a threat.
“I am not, but what do you say to the people who are?”
“The bank is really short on volunteers for blood drives, so if anyone can make the time, they would appreciate the help.”
“That’s great to know Prince Taylor.” He looks into the camera. “We’ll be right back with more after the break.” Steven’s grin drops when the studio lights come on. The TV people scatter like cockroaches.
“A gotcha moment?” I ask, craning my neck to locate my private secretary. “That’s a little cheap. Is it a slow news day or something?”
“I’m just doing a job, man.” He fishes a vape pen from his pocket. “I guess you wouldn’t know much about those.”
“Careful there,” I warn nonchalantly. “My team’s been thinking I should stick to digital media. I mean, who even watches network news anymore.”
Steven knows royalty equals ratings, a fabulous predicament I like to think about when having a bad day.
He’s terrible at hiding his, for lack of a better word, distaste towards the monarchy.
Ironically, I couldn’t care less. I’m not blind to the fact that there hasn’t been a need for a royal family since feudalism ended.
That said, I don’t appreciate the disrespect.
And I have had a job. Well, maybe it was more of an unpaid internship.
I worked at the embassy in Washington D.C. in between semesters at university.
“You should have seen it coming,” Steven says.
“That picture was out for at least twenty minutes.” Sometimes, I forget how fast journalists work.
I should hire more PR. “Don’t worry, no tricks after the break,” he promises while exhaling white vapor.
He casually offers me the pen. I put my hand up in rejection. Our relationship truly confuses me.
Thankfully, Steven was honest. There were no tricks after the break, just more trivial conversations to remind me I could be doing something better with my time.
When the camera turns off, I snake the lapel mic out of my shirt and hand it to the first person I walk past. Finally, I spot Alex in the back of the studio.
He must’ve been hiding from me during the break.
I take a breath to rid my speech of expletives. “Why did I just find out about that picture live on air?”
“Sorry,” he says, baring his teeth. “I found out like you did. Looks like it was first posted by a royal gossip Twitter account. I’m not sure how they got the photo.”
Alex Lam is my private secretary, but I feel like that title isn’t all-encompassing enough.
He’s more my right-hand man, life organizer, and taker of my bullshit for the last four years.
In a week, he and his competency are leaving for Vietnam to do something family-related, a fact he reminds me of every day to make sure I won’t forget.
I’ll survive, but it pains me to know I’m not the most important person in his life.
“The press hasn’t found her, have they?”
“Why?” he asks. “Is she someone prominent?”
“Why would that matter? I don’t want people harassing her.”
“No, I don’t think they have.”
Good. The last thing I want is anybody bothering Melina because I asked her to dance with me. My most insignificant actions never fail to domino effect into something huge and stupid.
On our drive to the palace, I assess the damage.
Social media is the worst. We should’ve put a stop to it at Gutenberg’s printing press.
Some of the more disreputable news sites have written full reports on this singular photo.
I never entertain articles like these because they’re always filled with nonsense.
Now that I’m thirty, people who like to speculate about my love life have been itching for me to get married, so it makes sense they would go crazy over a picture like this.
I wince at the shocking number of likes on a comment probably made by a woman-hater who has nothing better to do than masturbate and debase a woman way out of his league.
She could be reading this crap, and it’s my fault.
I hope she doesn’t do anything dumb, like come forward.
Or maybe I should make sure of it.
Julien messages me back the second after I send my text, unusually quicker than normal.
Julien: above a place called maple dry cleaners I think
Julien: on the west side why
Julien: ???