Catwalk (7 page)

I’m just returning from the bathroom where
I encouraged Paige to drink (not absorb) a cup of coffee that I set in front of her. She had been just standing there like a zombie, staring blankly at the mirror. I wonder if she needs something stronger than caffeine to shake the effect of those sleeping pills.

Fran is still sorting through the clothes that I ironed and hung last night. She holds up a pale blue jacket and skirt. (Chanel, as I recall, which I think is supposed to be pretty impressive.) “What do you think?”

I frown slightly. “It’s really nice. But it just doesn’t quite scream Paige Forrester to me. I think it’s too serious for her.”

“I meant for you, silly.”

I just shrug. “Yeah, sure.” I want to tell her that I’d rather be wearing my camera girl outfit and hanging back behind the scenes, but I suspect that she, like me, is fed up with drama this morning.

“You go use my bathroom,” she says as she hands me the suit and some shoes and things. “Get dressed and ready and
I’ll deal with Paige. And put on some makeup too, Erin. You look really washed out. Some blush and lip color,
okay
?”

“Okay.”

It feels kind of surreal as I’m getting ready. Maybe it’s lack of sleep, or jet lag, or being a strange place, or whatever. But I go through the paces, doing as Fran told me, putting on makeup the way that Paige has shown me. I’m just finishing up and thinking I didn’t do too badly when I hear someone at the door. Thankfully, it’s room service.

“Oh, good,” Fran says as she emerges from the bathroom, where I can hear Paige complaining loudly about something. “We could desperately use that food right now.”

Fran takes care of the bill and I go to check on Paige. But as soon as I see her, I can tell all is not well. Her hair, though dry, looks strangely limp and stringy and slightly greasy. Her left cheek is swollen and the bruise is somewhat camouflaged by makeup, but the total effect isn’t exactly right. Like maybe she has jaundice or something.

“Look at my hair,” she cries. “It’s ruined.”

“What happened?”

“That stupid shampoo and conditioner!” She glares at me as she picks up her lip liner and attempts to line her lips, although she seems to be coloring outside of the lines today.

“But it’s your brand, Paige, and it was—”

“The wrong formula. In case you haven’t noticed. I don’t need extra conditioning to tame my natural curl. Anyone can see that I need the sleek, shiny, bouncy formula.”

“Oh…” And the truth is, I
can
see. She needs it and she needs it now.

She points to her face. “And this foundation is so wrong.”

“Maybe you can change it at the ABC studio,” I suggest.

“That’s what Fran promised.”

“And Fran wants you to drink this.” Fran says as she hands Paige a glass of orange juice.

So, in between shoving food at her and trying to improve her appearance, which is a challenge, Fran and I take turns at keeping Paige (who is still sluggish) moving in the right direction.

“Do you think we should just cancel?” I ask Fran quietly as we wait for Paige to finish her mascara, which is looking kind of smudgy and scary.

Fran just shakes her head. “You know what they say about publicity.”

“Any publicity is good publicity,” I repeat without conviction.

“And besides,” Fran brightens, “we still have you. If all else fails, you better be ready to jump in and take over for Zombie Girl.”

I feel myself getting ready to argue and balk, but then I remind myself I’m here in New York not as a tourist, which sounds like fun, but as an employee. It’s not like I can refuse to work.

“Fortunately we’re less than a mile from the studio,” Fran says as she’s ushering Paige from the bathroom. “And there should be a car down there waiting for us.”

As we’re getting ready to leave, Paige picks up a piece of pastry from the room service tray. She begins munching on it and is totally oblivious to the fact that it’s crumbling down the front of her black-and-white Michael Kors dress. But I figure this is something we can straighten up later—when we’re straightening up everything else (like her hair and makeup, which even I can see look pretty bad). As Fran gathers her bag
and things, Paige leans against the doorway with drooping eyelids and I’m tempted to grab another cup of coffee, thinking she can drink as we ride, but images of Paige wearing coffee stains on top of her Danish crumbs stops me.

“I’m going to meet
Diane Sawyer
,” Paige says in a dreamy voice as she crosses her legs and leans back in the town car.

“Well, I’m not sure who’ll be interviewing,” Fran admits as she checks her BlackBerry.

As our car slowly inches down the jammed avenue, Paige closes her eyes and I suspect she’s actually sleeping. Honestly, I think we could probably walk faster. But about twenty minutes later than planned, we are finally at the studio.

After waiting several more minutes, we’re met by a girl named Cleo. She has us sign some release forms, gives us a short tour, and finally takes us to the greenroom.

“But what about makeup and hair?” I quietly ask Cleo as Paige sits down in what looks like a far-too-comfortable overstuffed chair.

“Oh, there’s no time for that,” she informs me, glancing at her clipboard. “You girls are going on in exactly nineteen minutes.”

Fortunately, Paige now seems oblivious (thanks to her sleepiness) about her appearance. And equally fortunately, there isn’t a mirror in this room. So I’m hoping maybe we can get through this without too much ado. Besides, I tell myself, the interview will probably take all of three minutes, five minutes tops. TV always changes the way you look anyway. And Paige is a very photogenic girl. Usually, anyway. I glance uncomfortably at Fran now. She’s frowning at Paige, who has her head leaning back and looks as if she’s about to start snoring again.

“What exactly were in those pills anyway?” I hiss at Fran.

“Never mind that,” she hisses back. “We need to fix her up more.”

So Fran and I use what little we can find in Fran’s bag, doing our best to make Paige look like Paige. But it seems a losing battle. Sure, we fix her smudged mascara and sloppy lip lines, but she just doesn’t look like herself. Perhaps more worrisome is that she’s not acting like herself. Even as the sound guy is helping us to get wired, I feel like I need to explain to him that, really, Paige has not been drinking.

“Time to head out,” Cleo comes in to tell us. She peers curiously at Paige, who still looks barely awake. “Is she okay?”

“Yesterday was pretty stressful for her,” I tell Cleo as we head down the hallway.

“That’s right.” Paige nods sleepily. “I’m not over it.”

“Robin Roberts will be doing your interview,” Cleo says as she reaches for the door. “Time to be quiet now.”

Paige frowns. “Not Diane?”

“I really like Robin Roberts,” I whisper quickly. “She’s cool.”

With her hand still on the door, Cleo looks questionably at Paige. “Now they’re getting ready to break. You girls know how to do this, right?”

“Absolutely,” I assure her.

“Three, two, one,” she whispers as she opens the door.

And suddenly we’re being escorted out to the chairs where Robin is standing off to one side talking to a producer and going over her notes. Paige is set up in the chair which I assume will be opposite Robin’s and I sit next to Paige. As the break continues, I silently pray. It seems like an unusually long break—or else it’s just nerves—but suddenly they’re doing a countdown and just like that, Robin slips into her
chair with a bright smile directed at the camera. She focuses on the teleprompter and launches into a monologue about airport security and the need for it.

“But sometimes security goes too far. And when a young lady is knocked to the floor and arrested for carrying perfume, you have to ask yourself, how far is too far?” Robin turns to Paige now—and so do I…and my sister is fast asleep.

Robin laughs. “Paige? Paige Forrester?”

I elbow Paige and her head snaps to attention. “Wh—what?”

“I must say this is a first.” Robin chuckles. “I don’t think I ever had a guest fall asleep on me before. I guess I need to watch out for that boredom factor.”

Paige literally looks like a deer in the headlights now. And I know I need to jump in. “My sister is still recovering from yesterday’s incident,” I say quickly. “It was very traumatic. Then, as a result of our interrogation, we missed our flight and our luggage was lost. And Paige was so stressed that she couldn’t sleep well last night and—”

“And this is Erin Forrester,” Robin says warmly, “Paige Forrester’s sister and costar of their new reality show
On the Runway.
Erin, how about if you tell us what happened yesterday.”

So, thankful for Robin’s diversion away from Sleeping Beauty, I go into a fairly detailed description of the airport security incident, about the less-than-three-ounce rule and how the Prada was barely over that. “And I couldn’t believe how it went down,” I continue. “Out of nowhere these two burly guys jumped Paige from behind. I mean, they actually tackled her and knocked her to the ground. See that bruise on her cheek—it’s where her face hit the floor. They could’ve broken something. Even her neck. Or her back when this one
guy pinned her down with his knee like she was going to hurt someone.”

“They actually pinned her to the ground?”

“Yes. I’m sure it’s all on their surveillance cams. And she was screaming in pain and they wouldn’t even stop holding her down.” Then I hold up my wrists, which still have the red marks from the handcuffs, and explain about that.

“All this for spritzing perfume?” Robin looks stunned.

“Unbelievably, yes. And Paige even admitted that she shouldn’t have sprayed it. But for them to assume it was something toxic seemed ridiculous, considering she’d sprayed it on herself. Who would spray themselves with hazardous materials?”

“It was just Prada,” Paige says in a slightly hopeless way. “Prada Infusion d’Iris…”

“So, Paige?” Robin’s eyes twinkle. “You awake now?”

“Yes. Sorry about that. But it really was a horrible experience.” And then Paige goes on to tell—in even more detail this time—about the strip search and how humiliating and frightening it was. “I asked them several times why I couldn’t have my attorney present, but they wouldn’t even listen.”

“It sounds as if your civil rights went straight out the window once you were taken into custody.”

“Exactly.” Paige nods eagerly. “I actually felt like I was a criminal in some hostile country. At one point, I almost expected them to lock me up in a dark, damp dungeon with only bread and water.”

“And no Prada,” Robin teases.

Paige laughs. “No…definitely, no Prada. In fact, they confiscated my perfume.”

Robin goes on to tell that their producer tried to get some
comments from the security guards on their responsibility for the incident, but they were unwilling to be interviewed.

“I’m not surprised.” Paige nods.

And then Robin reads a quote from TSA that basically says what I was told about how airport security is to keep everyone safe…yada-yada. “However,” Robin continues, “we did discover several cases which are pending in court. How about you, Paige. Will your case wind up in court?”

Paige pauses to consider this. “I’m not sure. I think I would accept a sincere apology from the female security guard who overreacted, along with the news that the thugs who tackled me have been placed on probation. I just don’t like to think that other young women—or anyone—would suffer like I did. It was inhumane.”

Robin winds down our interview, takes the cue that it’s time for Sam to go to weather, then thanks us and shakes our hands. “I didn’t realize it was so traumatic,” she tells us as the sound guy removes our mics. “You girls probably need to go back to your hotel and get some rest.”

I nod. “I didn’t sleep at all last night.”

And just like that, we’re done. Fran meets up with us outside of the greenroom and then we quietly ride the town car back to our hotel. Thankfully the traffic has let up, and this trip only takes ten minutes. We go directly back to our room, where I’m determined to go straight to bed and only bed. And I’m halfway there when I hear a blood-curdling scream coming from the bathroom. My heart pounds like a sledge hammer as I rush to our bathroom expecting to see my sister being held by a crazed assassin with a knife to her throat, but instead she is simply looking at the mirror.

“What is it?
” I demand, clutching my chest and wondering
if I might be experiencing cardiac arrest. Maybe that’s what sleep deprivation does to a person.

“Look at me!” she shrieks.

“What?”

“You let me go on national TV looking like
this
?”

Fran has joined us, and she is standing behind me and giggling.

“We tried to help you,” I attempt.

“You tried?” She turns and stares at us. “What—were you blindfolded or something?”

“Hey, you looked even worse before we cleaned you up,” Fran tells her.

“You’re my sister, Erin, you’re supposed to help me.” She narrows her eyes at me. “Why did you let me out of the hotel room like this?”

Now I’m upset. I mean, I did
everything
I could to help her and this is the thanks I get. “Yeah, maybe we should’ve just locked you up,” I say. “And thrown away the key.”

Paige turns and looks at herself again. “This is truly frightening.”

“It just proves that no one, not even Paige Forrester, should attempt to apply cosmetics while under the influence,” Fran teases.

“I cannot believe the whole world saw me like this.” Now she sounds like she’s about to cry again and, seriously, I don’t think I can take it. I don’t even care.

“You did great on the interview,” Fran assures her.

“Yeah, once you woke up,” I add. Okay, unnecessary, but so was her screaming and accusations.

“And I’m sure anyone watching felt sorry for you. The sympathy factor was running high.”

“Right—they are sorry for my hair and my makeup.” Paige is holding out her stringy-looking hair. “I want to go somewhere to die!”

“Go to bed,” Fran says firmly. “We all just need to chill for a few hours. Then we’ll regroup and figure this thing out.”