INT. LIBRARY DAY
Richard is looking directly at the camera. Behind him are some nondescript bookshelves and a small low table with a lamp. He is about thirty, wearing a suit and tie.
CHERYL (O.S.)
So tell us, Richard, are you in this for love?
RICHARD
Well, let’s just say I don’t need any women in my life right now. I just passed the bar and I’m starting my law career. I need to be able to focus on my career.
CHERYL (O.S.)
So you came on the show for the prize money?
RICHARD
Oh, no, no. I didn’t mean to imply that at all. What I said was I don’t
need
any women in my life.
CHERYL (O.S.)
I’m sorry, I don’t follow.
RICHARD
(
waving his hand around
) Well, there’s clearly a distinction between need and want.
CHERYL (O.S.)
Right. So you would
like
a woman in your life, is that correct?
RICHARD
(
patronizing smile
) Now, what man wouldn’t like a woman in his life?
CHERYL (O.S.)
(
laughter
) Okay.
RICHARD
What I’m saying is that I’d like a woman in my life that will, shall I say,
complement
my career.
CHERYL (O.S.)
All right, can you tell us in plain English and avoid all the legalese: Are you on the show for love or money?
RICHARD
(
a baffled expression on his face
) Love, of course.
• • • • • • • • •
T
he light pouring through the blinds in the trailer was enough to wake the dead. My head was pounding and I was angry with myself for staying out late. What was I thinking? And what had I accomplished?
Absolutely nothing, except now my body was betraying me every time I saw Scott or Edward—going all tingly and giddy and bubbly girly.
Ugh! I’m like a teenager!
I rolled out of bed and showered quickly, then presented myself in the makeshift makeup tent. Ophelia was already there waiting for me, arranging the brushes on the counter and plugging in the hair iron. She did my makeup in short order, stopping only to comment on the dark rings around my eyes.
“You need more sleep,” she said. “There’s only so much I can do with concealer.”
When she was done with my hair and makeup she assisted me into a one-shouldered, emerald-colored gown. It had a tulle overlay that softened the underlay, which had a metallic sheen. The dress was gathered at the left hip and had a flared skirt with a dramatic train. It was stunning.
Ophelia handed me shockingly high matching stilettos.
I felt like Cinderella stepping into the shoes—well, actually like one of her stepsisters, because I couldn’t get my toes in past the heel.
Ophelia grabbed my ankle and tried to shove my foot into the shoe, demanding, “Aren’t you a size seven?”
“Yes.” I grimaced as she succeeded in squishing my foot into the shoe. I couldn’t feel my toes and the arch of my foot was so badly compressed I feared standing up. “Uh, this isn’t going to work.”
She frowned and glanced at her watch. “We only have a few minutes. Come on.” She tried to jam my left foot into the other shoe.
“Ouch!” I said.
“You only have to wear them for a minute. I’m not asking you to run a marathon in them!”
“I can’t even stand!” I said.
She shook her head in disgust, clearly biting back what she wanted to say.
She reached for the walkie-talkie that was on the counter and squawked in a panicked voice to Kyle.
“The shoes make the dress!” she said.
She was right. Because of the flare on the skirt and the dramatic train, you had to have stunning shoes. It was as if the dress had been made to feature the unrealistically high, torturously tight stilettos.
Kyle’s voice chirped back something inaudible, but Ophelia seemed to understand, because she muttered, “Okay, okay.”
She leaned down and, reaching into one of her large duffel bags, pulled out a long, sharp object that glinted against the light, my cop brain instantly registering the weapon as a knife.
Oh, my God, is Ophelia working with Teresa?
I sprang to my feet and grabbed her wrist as she straightened, using her own momentum against her to roll her onto the floor. She fell face-first, the knife clattering out of her hand as she screamed.
I grabbed for the knife at the same time as I jammed my knees into her spine. The gown ripped at my back and the small room filled with the sound of tearing fabric.
“What are you doing?” she wailed.
“What are
you
doing?” I demanded.
She turned her head to the side and I could glimpse the look of horror mixed with fear on her face. “Oh, God! Don’t kill me! It was you, wasn’t it? You killed that poor man in your dressing room!”
Kyle appeared in the doorway of our tent. He was holding a pair of pink bunny slippers that sported a pair of wide eyes on the front that matched Kyle’s own wide eyes. “What . . . what’s going on?” he stuttered.
“Don’t just stand there!” Ophelia yelled. “Tackle her! She’s going to kill me.”
I looked from Kyle to Ophelia. “I’m not going to kill you. You were going to attack me with a knife!”
“The knife was for the shoes,” Kyle said.
“What?”
Ophelia laughed, a loud, stress-releasing cackle. “I wasn’t going to attack you. I was only going to fix the shoes.”
“With a knife?” I asked.
Kyle’s face crinkled in disappointment. “We didn’t have another pair in your size.”
The adrenaline that had surged through my body dissipated, leaving me feeling shaky and stupid.
“There’s been a lot of
mishaps
, for lack of a better word, on the set,” I said. “I jumped the gun when I saw the knife.” Still clutching the knife, I rolled off Ophelia.
“Well,” Kyle said, “I can’t blame you for that. I know cops, even ex-cops, get jumpy, but please, Ophelia wouldn’t hurt a fly.”
But people had been hurt, and I knew someone was behind it. I didn’t believe that Aaron’s fall was an accident or that Pietro had committed suicide. And who was more likely to be responsible for the incidents than a person with access to everything, like a makeup artist or hair stylist? Which made me think again . . .
Where was Teresa/Florencia?
Kyle handed me the bunny slippers, then scooped Ophelia off the floor. He assisted her into the makeup chair and then picked up one of the stilettos. Studying the back of the shoe, he said, “We’re going to give it a slight modification for the shot and then we won’t film your feet again. You can use the slippers.”
Film the elimination scene in bunny slippers?
Part of me was relieved that I wouldn’t have to wear the torturous shoes for long, but the other part of me felt ridiculous. How would anyone ever take me seriously?
Kyle stuck out his hand and I sheepishly gave him the knife. He sawed the back of the designer heel, creating a gap in the seam. Ophelia watched with a sour expression, massaging her elbow.
“Did I hurt you?” I asked.
She shook her head, her voice suddenly full of pride. “No, no. I’m fine.”
“I’m sorry,” I muttered.
She gave me a slight nod, letting me know my apology had been accepted but that we weren’t exactly on buddy-buddy terms.
Kyle handed me the modified shoe. “Try this on for size.”
I slipped it on. “I can get my foot in, but it’s still tight. I mean, I can’t walk.”
“You can walk to the set in the slippers.”
I felt a breeze through my open dress. “Uh-oh.”
Kyle made a pouty face. “What now?”
“My dress is ripped.”
Ophelia sighed. “If you hadn’t attacked me—”
I held up a hand. “Listen, you should never pull a knife on someone without their knowing—”
“I wasn’t pulling a knife on you. Don’t say it like that.”
Kyle inserted himself between us and made a circle with his finger. “Turn around, girlfriend, let me see the damage.”
I bit my lip and turned around, mentally calculating the days I had left on the set. “Maybe I should just get another dress with shoes that fit.”
“No time,” Kyle said. “You’re late as it is. I can fix this with duct tape.”
Ophelia got out of the makeup chair and made a big show of reaching for her duffel bag. “I’m just getting out a roll of duct tape, ma’am, okay? No need to jujitsu me to the floor.”
“Oh, stop it,” I said.
“Well, I don’t want you to think we’re going to tie you up with it or anything,” Ophelia said.
A chill danced up my spine. I couldn’t afford to like or trust these people.
Liking and trusting the wrong person was a mistake that could cost me my life.
I stiffened while Kyle fixed the back of my dress, then I stepped into the bunny slippers, all the while watching both Ophelia and Kyle.
“Let’s go. I’ll walk you to the set,” Kyle said.
I motioned to the door of the tent. “After you.”
• • • • • • • • •
K
yle escorted me into a room set up to look like a library. Volumes of leather-bound books lined two mahogany bookshelves that were propped behind two gold chairs. Kyle vanished into the background and I suddenly felt alone and out of place even with all the crew members humming about.
Alone and vulnerable.
The lights were blinding me as I tried to look past them to see Kyle; I assumed he was still in the room clutching my high heels.
One of the techs approached me to connect my microphone pack. When I turned around so he could secure it, he laughed.
He patted the duct tape. “One doughnut too many, huh?”
I stiffened. “No! I . . . uh . . .”
He chuckled. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to offend you. I mean, you’re, like, a size two or something.”
I laughed and the residue of the anxiety I’d felt in the hair and makeup tent disappeared. “No, I’m not offended. Let’s just say the dress isn’t really suited for jujitsu, and, for the record, I’m nowhere near a size two.”
He indicated the gold chair. “You can have a seat. They want to work on the lights next.”
I sat and waited for the magic to happen all around me, pondering the events in the dressing room.
Surely I had made a mistake.
But . . . if Teresa was out on parole and living as Florencia . . . and she wanted revenge on me for putting her behind bars, then it was realistic to think she could have help.
Could Ophelia be working with her? How well did they know each other? I’d have to dig deeper.
As I sat there ruminating, the rest of the crew entered the room, including Cheryl, followed by a cameraman. She took one look at my bunny slippers and turned beet red. “What’s going on?” she asked.
“We had a wardrobe malfunction,” Kyle said from the back of the room.
At least, it sounded like Kyle, but actually all I could see was a bright light in my face.
Cheryl shook her head. “I’m not going to film her feet in this scene, but she’ll need shoes for the elimination scene.”
“We have that covered,” Kyle said.
Cheryl nodded. “Okay, Georgia, this scene is real simple. Harris is going to come in and have a chat with you and then we’ll reveal our special guest.”
Cheryl disappeared into the light and Harris Carlson entered the room. He took the other gold seat across from me. The man never ceased to amaze me: He hardly glanced over at me but as soon as Cheryl called “Action,” he came to life and beamed a radiant smile at me as if we were lifelong confidants.
“Georgia, I know this has been quite a journey for you,” Harris said.
“It has indeed,” I said. Even if the audience was privy to only half of what we’d been through.
“You’ve had quite a few exotic dates, from rock climbing to taking in a carnival to visiting L.A.’s Museum of Contemporary Art.”
It was strange to listen to him give a litany of my dates, but I realized he was providing a recap for viewers who might be tuning in to the show late. Also, I imagined they’d splice scenes from our dates into the promos and he was basically providing the voice-over for those commercials.
“That’s right,” I said.
“You’re getting to know the men a bit more now. Nathan is a champion surfer; Edward, a handsome doctor; and Scott is a
New York Times
bestselling author. It’s turning out to be quite a competition. Is there one in particular who’s a forerunner for your heart?”
“They’re all great guys,” I said, fearing I was coming off a bit stiff.
“Right,” Harris said. His expression basically confirmed that I was completely wooden, not to mention I could tell he thought I was hopeless.
He turned to the camera and spoke into it. “We know that with many contestants, there comes a time when they wish they could get some good old-fashioned advice from someone they know and love. And that’s the reason why”—he swung toward me—“we have a surprise guest. Someone is here to help you through these difficult and life-altering decisions.”
Harris Carlson stood and gestured toward the door. My dad entered the room. I sprang from my chair and rushed into his arms.
“Dad!”
Harris Carlson introduced my dad to the camera and then left, presumably to forage in the break room for chocolate croissants or an éclair at the food cart.
Cheryl said, “Keep rolling.”
Dad squeezed my hands. “Hello, peaches.”
We separated and sat in our respective chairs.
“I’m so glad you’re here, Dad,” I said.
Dad was dressed up for the camera. He wore slacks and a sweater vest that made his blue eyes sparkle. I knew he was handsome, but ordinarily he wore jeans and a work shirt with suspenders. Dressed up as he was, he was breathtaking, and a little part of me prickled as I spotted Cheryl studying him and licking her lips.
Dad didn’t seem to notice the attention; instead, he steepled his fingers and smiled warmly at me. “I understand you’re meeting some interesting young men.”
“Uh, right,” I said. “There’s Richard, who’s an attorney.”
Dad nodded. “I see.” He cocked his head, waiting for me to say more.