As Seen on TV (22 page)

“I guess not everyone agrees that TRS should be going after the eighteen-to thirty-four-year-old market,” Mia explains.

Carrie shakes her head. “But publicly criticizing your net
work’s own television show isn’t the best marketing campaign, right, Sunny?”

“That’s true,” I say.

Poor Betty. While the girls are waiting for the car, I head off to find the ladies room.

I push open the door and see Betty facing the sink, staring at herself in the mirror.

Her eyes look tired.

I begin retracing my steps.

“You don’t have to go,” she says.

I enter and let the door swing closed behind me. I stand next to her, at the sink beside her.

“You’re very articulate. You shouldn’t be wasting your time on a moronic show like that.”

“I…” I have no idea what to say to her.

While filling her cupped hands with water, she smiles at me. Then she splashes the water on her face and pats herself dry with a paper towel. Her cheeks look saggy and wrinkled, like she spent too many hours in the bath.

“Good luck,” she says, leaving me alone with my own reflection.

After a two-hour nap, I rewind and watch the taped interview four times in a row. Fine, she was a bitch…but I was great! I looked great, I sounded great…I was simply great.

I’m on my way to meet Miche for lunch in midtown, when I’m startled to see my father through the Kenneth Cole window, trying on a jacket. I go into the store and approach him. “Dad?”

He looks shocked to see me. “Well, hello there, stranger,” he says, kissing me on the cheek. “What are you doing in my neck of the woods?”

“Meeting a friend for lunch.”

“You were right near my office and you didn’t call to say hello?”

I did call to say hello. But I spoke to his secretary. As usual. I even speak to Carrie more than I speak to him. I’ve actually
started speaking to Carrie at least once a day. She’s growing on me, kind of, like coffee. The first time you try it, you can’t possibly understand why anyone would ever drink it, never mind every single morning. Eventually your intake increases to three to six cups a day.

I wonder if my dad will marry Carrie. It’s been over three months. Maybe he’s serious this time. Maybe it will bring me closer to him.

“I should have left a message,” I answer. I didn’t realize he had so much free time. Does he usually go shopping in the middle of a workday? Nothing to consult today?

“Who are you meeting? Steve?”

“I’m meeting Steve after lunch, actually. I’m going to drop by the restaurant. But first I’m meeting a friend from the show—Michelle? Have you met her?”

“The redhead?”

“Yeah.”

“Carrie’s mentioned her, and I’ve seen her on the show, but we’ve never met. Where are you going?”

“To Comfort Diner.”

“Why don’t you let me take you girls out for lunch?”

A whole lunch with Dad? “You don’t have to do that.”

“My pleasure. Call your friend and tell her to meet us at Le Soleil instead. Now, what do you think of this jacket?”

An hour later, Michelle and I are drunk on Chardonnay and my dad is amusing us with stories about his wayward clients. “So I told him, shredding documents is not a good idea.”

“Very funny,” I tell him, giggling. I think I’m a bit drunk.

“Michelle thought it was funny,” he says.

“She’s just being nice,” I say, finishing off another glass. I look at my watch. “Do you always take two-hour lunches?”

He waves his hand in dismissal. “Don’t worry. I’m going to charge the whole day to the client anyway. But my secretary must think I’ve been kidnapped. I told her I was going to get
a jacket and pick up a sandwich.” He looks at his watch. “Are you still planning on meeting Steve?”

Does he mention Steve to everyone? I’m suddenly a bit concerned about his loose lips. “Hey, Dad, you know you’re not supposed to talk about Steve in public, right? No one knows I have a boyfriend. I told Michelle, so you didn’t just blow my cover, but watch it, okay?”

Miche comes to my father’s defense. “He didn’t categorize your relationship with Steve as romantic. If I hadn’t known, I wouldn’t have guessed.”

“Right,” my dad says. “Steve could be your brother or something.”

“Exactly,” Michelle says.

“You should come check out his restaurant, Dad. You can bring clients there for lunch.”

His mouth curves into a condescending smile. “Manna? I don’t think his restaurant is quite right for my clients.”

Well, excuse me.

“Anyway,” he continues. “I’m sure you don’t have to worry about the Steve issue,” he says. “I doubt the producer would care, frankly.”

“Carrie would kill you if she heard you say that,” I say.

Miche takes another sip of her wine. “As long as the media doesn’t find out, no one cares what you do with your personal life.”

“Exactly,” he agrees. “Although I think you’re broadcasting a little too much of your personal life as it is.”

I feel my cheeks redden. “What is that supposed to mean?”

He looks intently at me. “That whole women’s issue was a bit embarrassing.”

I sink into my chair. My face must be bright red. My father saw me get my period on TV.

“I didn’t do that on purpose,” I grumble. Why do I suddenly sound like a ten-year-old?

He shakes his head. “Your outfits have been a bit much, too. Couldn’t your shirt have been a little less revealing?” He
reaches into his pocket for his money clip and pulls out five hundred-dollar bills. “Here,” he says. “Why don’t you go buy yourself something classy?” He turns to Miche. “More wine?”

I keep my mouth clamped shut, even though I’m fuming. As usual, here’s my father being a control freak, trying to use his money to shape the people in his life into what he wants them to be.

I will
not
let him turn me into my mother. I take the money to avoid making a scene. I’ll give it to Steve for rent.

“No, thanks,” Miche says. “I think I’ve had enough.” She looks at her watch. “Can you believe? It’s already three o’clock.”

I take a deep breath and turn to Miche. “What are you doing for the rest of the day?”

“Passing out, I think. I’m not in much shape to do anything but sit on my couch.”

“I was supposed to go to Steve’s,” I say, “but I should just go home and sleep.” I’m too angry to do anything but go home and fume.

The bill comes and my dad slips his credit card on it without even looking. What does he care? He’s just going to charge it to his client. “I think that’s a good idea,” he says. “I don’t think Steve would appreciate his drunk girlfriend showing up and scaring all those religious fruitcakes.”

Is a man who forced his ex-wife to convert allowed to make obnoxious comments about religion? “Thanks for lunch, Dad,” I say through tight lips.

I say goodbye to my dad and Miche and head to Grand Central. With each step I try to calm myself down. Maybe he’s just worried about me. Trying to protect me. He cares about me and wants what’s best for me, right?

I find a seat on the subway and close my eyes. When I open them, the woman sitting next to me is staring. I wonder if I have food on my face. Do I look like a drunk? Is it that obvious?

“Hey,” she says. “It’s you! Wow! From TV! I love
Party Girls.
You’re, like, my favorite actress.”

My spirits lift instantly. I’ve been recognized. Recognized! On the subway!

“Thanks,” I say in my most calm, nonchalant and friendly voice. I chat with my fan until my stop.

“You’re awesome,” she says as I get off at my subway stop.

I’m awesome. She watches me through the window. I wave. Someone recognized me. Hurray! I smile all the way up the stairs and up to the light. That was the best feeling ever. She loves me.

I decide to keep walking into Soho to see if anyone else recognizes me. I smile at everyone as I pass. Does she recognize me? It’s possible. I think he recognized me. I love this city.

I spot a flower shop and decide to send Carrie a bouquet of flowers. Why not? She deserves it. All this is because of her. I spend the next twenty minutes picking out the perfect bouquet of roses and arrange to have them delivered.

I pick up
Vogue
and
Personality
to read, and by the time I start walking home it’s already dark. The paved sidewalks sparkle as if they’re covered in body glitter and I think, I can’t believe how lucky I am. I smile to myself all the way back to my apartment.

When Steve gets home, he is pissed.

“What happened to you?” he asks, arms crossed, standing in the doorway.

I’m lying across the couch watching TV. “Sorry, I was tired.”

“We had plans, Sunny. I was expecting you. I told everyone you were coming to meet me. Everyone was expecting you. I reserved a table all night for us to have a nice dinner.”

“Sorry to disappoint
everyone.
”

“No, Sunny, you disappointed me. I don’t care what everyone else says.”

“What did everyone else say?”

“The ones that watch the show found it a bit weird that one, you pretend you’re single on TV, and two, you ditched our plans.”

I hate that. What gives his friends the right to judge me?

He shakes his head. “I don’t care what everyone else says. I care that you stood me up.”

“I was exhausted, okay? Unlike you, I was up at six.”

“So why didn’t you call?”

What is it with men trying to control me today? “I forgot. I’m sorry.”

He sits beside me on the couch. “Well, I’m still unhappy. I think you were a little selfish.”

“So be unhappy.” I get up and storm into the second bedroom, my new office, and close the door behind me.

Not everyone thinks I’m a horrible, selfish person. Lots of people out there think I’m fabulous.

I search for my name on Google. Then on HotBot. Then on MSNsearch.

“Sunny Lang” Results 1-100 of 10,089. Search took 0.83 seconds.

“Sunny Lang Party Girls” Results 1-100 of 7,964. Search took 0.81 seconds.

“Sunny Erin Michelle Brittany Party Girls” Results 1-100 of 696. Search took 0.79 seconds.

On the community board there’s even a thread this week called:

Poor Sunny (25 messages).

And most of the messages say nice and friendly things like, “She’s so funny! I wish I knew her in real life—We could be friends!”

So there, Steve. Some people like me.

Most people anyway.

I know I shouldn’t take these biting comments personally, since the other girls get the same kind of love/hate treatment.
But…didn’t her mother ever tell her that if she has nothing nice to say, to not say anything at all?

As my eyes grow heavy staring at the computer screen, a nagging concern tiptoes into my mind. Why do I care more about strangers’ opinions than what my boyfriend thinks?

I log off the computer. The living room TV is no longer on. I open the bedroom door and see Steve already in bed, lights off, covers wrapped around him, facing toward the window, away from the door. I climb in beside him and squeeze my hand in between his waist and arm, so we’re spooning.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper.

His back rises and falls with each breath.

He gently rubs his knuckles against my palm.

We fall asleep, my chin nestled between his neck and shoulder, my hand in his.

S
ince Saturday night, I’ve called Michelle a million times, and even left two messages on her machine but she hasn’t gotten back to me. Once she even answered and said she’d call me right back.

On Thursday afternoon, when I get home from the disheartening job interview at the furniture company, there’s finally a message from Miche.

“Hi, baby!” she says. “Where have you been? I miss you. Want to go shopping? Call me on my cell.”

I should spend the rest of the afternoon looking for more jobs. But they all look so boring.

Who wants to work in furniture? I think I need to explore jobs in more exciting industries. Like TV maybe.

I call Miche back and tell her I’ll meet her at Stark’s.

A few hours later, after spending many of our
Party Girls
dollars, we continue up Fifth Avenue, stopping at every store. I’m exhausted, but Miche wants to keep going.

How much can one person buy? Why does someone want to buy so much anyway?

“Did I tell you I had an interview this morning?” I tell her at the corner of Forty-ninth Street.

“Really? For what? Another role?”

Another role? Maybe I’ll become an actress. Am I nuts if I want to become an actress? I like being on TV. Or movies, maybe. Why not? “No. But I’m thinking of auditioning for some roles, maybe. When this is done, of course.”

Miche nods. “You’d be good at it.”

At one store, she rolls her eyes at me when the salesperson advises her to try on a knee-length skirt.

“That cut is so last season,” she says and hands it back to her. “Fuck!” she says.

“What?”

“My tip just broke. Damn.” She holds up her hand and a piece of her index nail is missing. “I need to get this fixed.” She whips out her cell phone and makes an emergency appointment. “Do you want to do your nails while we’re there?” she asks me.

I nod. Why not? They could use a new coat.

In the cab on the way over I ask, “Why do you need tips? What are they made of exactly?”

“It’s a special nail-strengthening acrylic gel applied to coat the surface of the nail.” She shrugs. “My nails are brittle underneath and I want them to look nicer. Why not, right? It’s only a hundred bucks.”

“How often do you need to do it?”

“Every month or so.”

Every month or so? That’s a fortune. What a waste of money. I fan my fingers out. “Do you think I need to do it?”

She shakes her head. “You have nice nails. Once you start with acrylics your natural nails will never look the same.”

I wonder what her nails look like underneath. Probably like Darth Vader’s face at the end of
Return of the Jedi
when he takes off his mask. White, pale, frail. Unable to survive on its own.

Is all this the dark side? The celebrity, the clothes, the spotlight?

Have I joined without even noticing?

Once you turn to the dark side, can you ever go back?

Michelle and I are standing by the bar, waiting to order drinks, when Matt appears, poof, next to me, and asks me if he can buy me a drink. No sleazy pickup lines. No introduction. One minute I’m standing next to Michelle, anxiously waiting for Steve to show up, and the next minute Matt Rowler, the most gorgeous man in the universe, is standing next to me.

Matt Rowler. At tonight’s bar, Carnival. On camera. Talking to me. Flirting with me. We’re flirting. I am flirting with a celebrity. The
NYChase
star.

“A drink would be great.”

He smiles and his eyes twinkle and I want to run my fingers through his coifed black hair.

“What would you like?” the godly creature before me asks.

“I’ll have the Carnival special, a cotton candy martini, please.” What is he doing here? Not that I’m complaining. “So what brings you here tonight, Matt?”

He smiles coyly. “You, actually. Let’s get a table.”

Me. Me? Detective Derrick has a thing for me. He saw me on television and wanted to meet me. He’s on the same network. He probably called his producer and asked to be on the guest list. I try to appear nonchalant and follow him to a table.

The booths are decapitated seats from old Twister rides. I wonder how many children have barfed all over my seat in midtwirl. He sits down next to me.

Dirk is right across from us, getting this all on tape.

Matt lowers the safety bar, locking us in. I shouldn’t be flirting with him like this. I have a boyfriend.

But it’s my job. I’m supposed to flirt. At the hotel, Howard warned us that we don’t seem to be taking the “single” element of the show seriously enough. He announced an informal competition. Whoever gives out her number, or collects the most
business cards, wins an extra five-hundred-dollar credit at Stark’s.

I assumed I would come in last place for sure. Suddenly my chances are looking a bit brighter.

“So how do you like New York so far?” he asks.

“I like it. It’s busy.” Brilliant dialogue. This is awful. How can I possibly talk to Matt without being tongue-tied? Especially when I know that
Party Girls
will definitely use my most absurd ramblings as clips. “Are you from here?”

“I grew up in Brooklyn,” he says. “I lived in L.A. for a while when I filmed
Close-Knit,
but now I’m back in The City for
NYChase.
”

“You must love being back home.”

“It’s nice to be on a show that’s filmed in New York and not just set in New York.”

I’m not sure how these seats are supposed to work. Turning to look at the person you’re sitting with isn’t that comfortable. “That’s true. Seems like every show that’s supposed to take place in New York is filmed in L.A.”

“It drives me nuts,” he says, “when shows epitomize this city and aren’t even filmed here. Like
Friends
or
Seinfeld
or
Will and Grace.
”

“What drives me nuts is that there are hundreds of cool cities in this country and almost every show is set in New York.” Why am I talking television theory with the hottest man on television? What else should I be talking? Sex?

He shrugs. “Maybe the writers all live in Manhattan and they want to write about the city they love.”

“Maybe the execs are too New-York-centric to even consider there’s any other city worth writing about.”

He smiles and I smile back.

He lifts his knee onto the plastic seat and his leg brushes against mine. “I just bought a bar.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. You should come by sometime. I’ll put you on the guest list. It’s quite a par-tay.”

“Par-tay?”

“Par-tay.”

“Maybe I will. Where is it?”

“Third and Ninety-eighth.” He reaches into his pocket, pulls out a business card and places it gently in my open palm.

Hah! One business card scored! I’ve already seen Erin give out her number to at least five guys, so I won’t win the prize. But at least I participated.

“Ninety-eighth?” I say, jokingly. “I’ve never been that high up. Coming from the village, that’s like nosebleed-land.”

“How long have you been living here?”

“A few weeks.”

“And you’re already a downtown snob?”

“It happens fast.”

More chitchat, and I’m thinking, This is so going to make the gossip columns:
Sparks fly between sexy Matt Rowler and Party Girl Sunny Lang!

Abruptly, there’s a buzzing in my pants.

My crotch is vibrating. I’ve forgotten about the motorized panties. When getting dressed for the show I think I had shocked Steve by putting them on.

“Why not?” I told him.

If I’ve crossed over to the dark side, I may as well live dangerously.

And now here I am. Buzzing in a booth with Matt Rowler. Talk about dangerous. And it feels…good. Really good. Mmm. Matt doesn’t seem to notice and continues talking. He has such nice thick lips. Plump lips. All the better to suck on.

I lean closer toward him. I think I could just sit here all night and watch his plump, juicy lips open and close and his tongue jut in and out of his mouth, in and out, in and out.

Suddenly the vibrating stops. Turn that back on!

Steve. Right. Steve must be at the bar. Watching me. Watching me flirt with Matt.

Oh-oh.

“I’m going to use the rest room,” I say.

He looks up, startled. Don’t girls he hangs out with urinate?

“No problem,” he says, lifting the safety bar with his rippled muscled arms.

I search the bar for signs of Steve. Just as I’m about to enter the bathroom, I spot him eating a candy apple. In midbite he notices me.

We lock eyes. I try to look away as quickly as I can without laughing. He looks at the ceiling with his best, “Who me?” expression.

Shaking my head and laughing, I slip into the bathroom.

A few minutes later I walk out and scan the room.

My old table has been mobbed. Five scantily clad women are perched around Matt. One is in my seat. He’s laughing and smiling, apparently loving the attention. Well, fine Mr. Superstar, forget about me, why don’t you.

My panties turn on again. I spot Steve sitting at the bar, in discussion with his former roommate Greg, attempting to appear nonchalant.

The seat on the other side of him is empty. I can’t sit with him. What if he forgets and says something too personal and they catch it on tape?

The vibrating stops.

I spot Miche and Brittany talking to two guys and join them.

Miche pats me on the back. “You’ve been busy.”

“Nice score,” Brittany says. “Why’d you leave him? Now’s he’s open to the vultures.”

“You have to play by The Rules dear,” I explain. “Leave the man wanting more.” He does want more, right? Or has he forgotten me already? I look over to the booth and he’s looking at me and smiling. I smile back. He’s so hot.

Steve. Right. Steve. Where is Steve? His bar seat is empty.

“Hello,” he says, suddenly right beside me. “Thought I’d join the group. The men seemed outnumbered.”

I’m going to kill him.

Do I talk to him? Pretend I know him? Pretend I don’t know
him? Why is his hair so long? He needs a new style. He needs a new barber.

He turns the panties back on.

“Hi, I’m Brittany.” Brittany gives him her hand and he shakes it.

“Nice to meet you. I’m Carlos.”

I suck down an escaping laugh. Carlos. He’s Carlos. He must be the most Jewish-looking Latino I’ve ever seen. It’s as absurd as Denzel Washington going by the name of Moishe.

“This is Ben, Anthony, Michelle and Sunny,” Michelle says.

He shakes all their hands first, then grabs my hand and kisses the back of it. “I hope you know CPR, because you take my breath away.”

That was worse than last week’s imagine what I can do with my whole hand.

I hope Matt didn’t see that.

“You’re not allowed to come to work with me anymore.”

Steve wraps his arms around me. “Why not?”

Why not? I elbow him in the stomach. “Because you could have gotten me fired, Carlos. It’s hard enough for me to pretend I’m a wild, single girl, never mind having to pretend on the air that I’ve never met you before.”

“I only talked to you for five minutes.”

“Still. No more.”

He rolls on his back and crosses his arms. “You sure the reason you don’t want me hanging around is so you can spend more time flirting with that loser from
Close-Knit?
”

Ouch. I run my hand over his chest. “I have to flirt with other boys. That’s my job. I’m supposed to be single and dating. If I didn’t flirt with Matt, don’t you think the viewers would wonder why? ‘Why doesn’t she like Matt?’ they’d ask. ‘Is she a lesbian?’ Look, the network sent him to support the show. After the
American Sunrise
debacle, they had to do something.” I run my hands through his hair. “I think you need a
haircut. It’s a bit too shaggy. The style these days is a bit more of a crew cut. Can I make you a barber appointment?”

Steve puts his hand on my stomach and slowly shifts it downward. “Whatever you want. You’re all wet,” he says. “Thinking of Matt?”

“Yeah, that’s it. Or maybe someone made me wear vibrating panties all night?”

His face lights up. “You liked them?”

“Not bad,” I admit.

“You should wear them whenever you want. You can turn them on and off yourself. You could wear them to go shopping, at a restaurant, on the subway—”

I shut him up with a kiss and pull him toward me. He runs his hands down my back and squeezes my butt.

I close my eyes and imagine he’s Matt.

Is that bad?