Chapter 31
When I was imagining the press stop in Margarita, I was foolishly hoping for sunny days by the shore while ingesting unhealthy amounts of soda and Doritos. So far, the only sand I’ve seen is the kind that keeps getting into my shoes even though I haven’t been to the beach.
I’ve been doing my job, laser focused on accomplishing every task.
I know he arrived this morning. I know which PA went to pick him up at the airport.
I know he’s minutes, if not seconds, from sharing the same space as me again, after three days of silence.
Which is why I don’t allow my eyes to roam.
If I do, and I see him, I don’t know what it’ll do to me.
But the heart cannot be swayed. I turn to look over my shoulder.
Almost by instinct, I find him among the crowd.
My stomach drops, and a shot of electricity shoots across my nervous system.
His back is to me; he’s a full head taller than everyone else.
He’s wearing a brown leather jacket today, despite the heat.
His hair is disheveled. He’s stretching his neck, as if looking for something.
And then he turns, and his gaze lands on me.
He stops moving. The sight of him makes my heart flutter and ache all at once.
It makes my heart clench with longing, despite everything. I still want. I still wish.
Simón starts toward me, but one of the producers claps loudly, breaking us out of our daze.
“Listen here, equipo,” the producer says through a microphone.
“We’re going to split into two teams to make the most of our time.
Irina and Federico, please follow the young man with the orange flag to your side of the set.
Viviana and Simón, follow me. Today is all hands on deck so, PAs, pick a team and ask how you can be of help. Let’s go.”
I follow Simón and my mother, careful to stay well behind.
In my professional opinion, Irina and Federico are the wrong pair to put in an interview together.
Putting aside the fact that they have zero chemistry with each other, they’re always bickering, and Federico never seems entirely awake.
If I’d had to pair the teams up, I would have put Simón and Irina together because he’s charming and good at compliments, which Irina loves, so she would have been more relaxed.
Given the fact that my mother has chemistry with everyone and everything, she would have found a way to make it seem like Federico is brooding and mysterious instead of just boring.
“We need water for Simón and Viviana,” the producer tells us.
“For the reporters as well. They each get five minutes. We’re going to be here for about three hours.
I need someone at the front to receive them and guide them here, I need someone to stay here and guide them out when they’re finished, and I need someone stationed there to replace the water bottle and complimentary bag before the next reporter comes. ”
“Marianto can do the water and bags,” my mother says.
The producer’s attention—as well as everyone else’s—shifts to me. He raises both eyebrows, not in question exactly…more in judgment. Then he sighs and says, “Sure.”
After everything is covered, I’m setting up a water-and-bag station, making a quick calculation of how many I’m going to need if each interviewer gets five minutes and we’re going to be here for three hours.
Twelve sounds low and I know from experience these things tend to last longer than anticipated, so I set up twenty. Just in case.
I take a peek at what’s inside the bag—chocolate, an invitation to the first live show, and a brochure with additional information on the judges and the production.
It’s all in a mini tote stamped with the Talento V logo—two microphones crossed together to make a V, although to me it looks more like an X.
Still, I want to keep one as a souvenir.
“You’re lucky.”
I turn to find one of the PAs beside me, grabbing a water bottle from the case under the table.
“Am I?” I say.
“Yeah,” she says. “You get to sit through the interviews. Maybe if one of the judges quits, your mom will make them hire you for that too.”
I gape at her, stunned.
“Why do you keep saying that?” It’s not the first time this PA’s made that accusation and it’s frankly starting to get on my nerves.
I did everything I could to make sure I didn’t use my mother to get this job.
It’s another reason why I would never be happy in this industry, I would always question whether there was any merit to my achievements.
Irina’s PA snickers, then parts her lips as if to say something, but a loud clap from our producer interrupts her.
“Positions, everybody!”
She rolls her eyes, turning away without a word.
I stand there for an extra second. The wind blows my hair into my face, individual strands sticking to my lipstick.
Swatting it all away, I sigh. What she said isn’t true.
But I will never have to see these people, under these circumstances, again.
Thinking too much about how people perceive me here is only going to make me fall into a deep hole of anxiety that will be impossible to climb out of long after I’m gone.
When I face the set, I find Simón watching me with concern.
The producer says something I can’t hear and Simón’s eyes shift from me to him, then back to me.
He looks like he wants to walk up to me, clenching and unclenching one hand as he balances on his heels.
I force myself to look away and focus on sitting at my water-and-goody-bags station and pretending I don’t exist.
For the next three hours, my life consists of handing out the totes and trying not to feel jealous.
Most of the interviewers are women, their ages ranging between eighteen and thirty.
Every single one looks like she came straight out of Miss Venezuela—long, tanned legs clad in a minidress or shorts or a skirt; long, silky hair that belongs in a shampoo commercial; the face of a Victoria’s Secret Angel.
My mother, having been exactly this about twenty years ago, beams. They’re all like the daughter she never had.
But I’m a rational person. That’s not why I’m jealous.
I’m not even jealous about the fact that they all ask Simón about his relationship status.
(Single, if you were wondering. Which he’s stated repeatedly and emphatically.) Or about the little pile of cards and coffee shop receipts with phone numbers messily jotted on them.
No, that’s normal. He’s a handsome, single, talented man.
I would probably be doing the same if I were the one sitting in that cushy chair, asking the questions.
Really, that’s why I’m jealous. I’m not the one in the comfortable chair.
I’m the one in the plastic chair, by the plastic table, handing out water bottles when I have a degree sitting unused at home.
I’m supposed to be qualified enough to get a water bottle and a goody bag.
I hate feeling like this. Because these women deserve it as much as I think I do. And they probably have the good sense of knowing how to keep their jobs. Meanwhile, I’m being accused of being a nepo baby disguised as an assistant. It’s a new low for me.
Daylight is quickly burning out, the once-blazing sun now barely a line over the horizon.
Palm trees rustle, mere silhouettes by this point in the day.
The faint smell of salt water coats the atmosphere.
My skin is sticky, my hair tangled. Mosquitoes are starting to swarm with the temperature drop.
I can’t imagine we’ll be here much longer, and I thank God for that.
The urge to run to the bathroom to check my email about the Ethos job a million times is strong.
“Excuse me,” a female voice says above me.
I look up with a smile. The woman is tall, elegant, dressed in a suit composed of bright green shorts and a blazer.
Her long hair falls in beautiful blonde waves down to the middle of her back.
She returns the smile with a row of perfect white teeth.
She has a card in her hand. It’s not hard to figure out what’s coming. “Didn’t you use to work at Ellas?”
“Uh—” Definitely not what I was expecting her to say. “Yes.”
Her expression goes from hesitant to elated in a matter of seconds. “I thought it was you! What are the chances? I started working three weeks ago. This is my first out-of-office assignment.”
“Congratulations.” I try to make it sound like a dismissal, but she doesn’t leave.
“Thanks, I was so surprised to get the call because Ellas is iconic, but—”
Wait. “You’re doing the column?”
She laughs, waving me off. “No, no. Oh my god, my love life’s a mess. Like I said, this is my first assignment, but I’m in charge of covering events, concerts, premieres…”
I stop listening after that. Eugenia replaced me. Which, fine, I already knew and she had every right to do. But the fact that she also gave my dream job to someone else and sent them here, knowing how much it meant to me, is like a slap in the face.
I’m suddenly nauseous. A mix of emotions bubbles up inside me. Anger, betrayal, and disappointment are all vying for control.
Behind her, I see the crew is dismantling the set.
My mother is standing still as a PA unwires her.
Simón is deep in conversation with our producer, his back to me, as he’s led away.
We’ve wrapped up. This woman—my replacement—was the last reporter.
The sun is gone, the sky is darkening. The hotel staff light up tiki torches to make a wide path from the pool to the beach. And I’m still sitting here.
“Anyway.” The woman clears her throat, flipping her hair back. “I had to say hi, right? Oh—” She holds the card out. “A little birdie told me you could give this to Simón Arreaza?”
I stare at the piece of paper, force myself to take it. I took the others. She’s no different. And Simón is a grown man, he doesn’t need me policing who he gets phone numbers from. I’m not his manager.
I grab it with the tip of my fingers. “Of course.”
She grins. I give her the water bottle and the bag and watch her leave, not missing a single step in her stilettos.
It shouldn’t affect me, but a small sliver of my mind hoped Eugenia would overlook my failure to complete the article.
After all, it was based on my personal life, and the job I aspire to has nothing to do with my personal life.
I hoped that, after all these years, she would give me another shot.
It’s one thing to refuse, but to give the new girl the job I’d been after for so long is…
I shake my head. Don’t think about it. No one is irreplaceable, not in this industry.
It was bound to happen eventually. I was given a task, and I didn’t come through.
I’m gathering my things, ready to go up to my hotel room, when a familiar voice calls my name. She materializes beside me in less than two seconds, here to ruin all my wallowing-in-self-pity plans.
“There’s mi reina,” my mother says, cupping my cheeks.
I wiggle out of her hands. Not the right time.
“Something’s wrong,” she states. No doubts. “What is it?”
“Nothing’s wrong,” I lie.
I was simply reminded that there is always someone better standing in line to get what you want. And that people suck.
“You’re my daughter, Maria Antonieta,” Mamá says. “I know when something is bothering you.”
I shoulder my purse, hugging the leftover goody bags to my chest. The irony to my mother’s statement almost makes me laugh. She was always too busy to notice if something bothered me when I was growing up.
“Is it the breakup?” she asks. “Alejandro?”
I don’t have time for this. “Sure, it’s about Alejandro.” Might as well be. My whole life falling apart began with him anyway.
“I knew it.” She beams. “Mom powers.”
“Right.” If she really had Mom powers, she would have noticed that I haven’t mentioned Alejandro in a while.
She would have noticed me lusting after the man who was just sitting next to her for almost three hours straight.
If she really had Mom powers, she would call me out on my lies, hug me, and tell me we should go get ice cream.
But she doesn’t. When I lie again and tell her I’m tired, she lets me go.