Chronicles of a Lincoln Park Fashionista (4 page)

He lifts his camera back up, turns the light on, and follows me to the pantry.

“So we have lots of food storage space,” I say, opening the door. And then I realize I’m showing him a pantry with no food in it, as I haven’t made it to the store yet. Well, that’s not true. There’s my box of Peanut Butter Cap’n Crunch and Sasha’s bottle of Grey Goose vodka, which I’m sure screams “mature adult” to the TV audience. GAH.

“Yes, I see you have
lots
of storage space,” Deke says dryly.

“Uh”—I slam the door shut and smile at the camera—“Let me show you my bedroom and bathroom.”

Deke follows me down the hall, back to my bedroom. I feel more comfortable here, showing off my pristine room, which I spent all day Sunday cleaning. I open up my closet and reveal my summer clothes and shoes. Then I move into my bathroom, which is crammed full of products.

“What’s all this stuff?” Deke asks. He’s standing close behind me, and the hot camera light warms my skin in the tiny space.

“Why, this is my summer fragrance collection,” I say, getting more relaxed in front of the camera. “I believe scents are seasonal, so my bath products are, too. Like sun tea scented shaving cream and Philosophy Margarita shower gel. Have you ever smelled it? Oh my God, it’s just like a margarita. My perfume is Sake by Fresh. It’s divine—like peaches and white flowers.” I instinctively pick it up to spritz some on. But I hit the pump too aggressively, and it comes out in a big spray, which douses my neck with fragrance.

Deke instantly starts coughing as my perfume overwhelms the small space around us. Oh, shit. Is he having an allergic reaction to peaches and white flowers?

“Oh! Are you okay?” I ask as his coughing fit continues.

“Fine,” Deke sputters, putting the camera down. “I’m . . . fine,” he struggles, coughing again.

Crap! I’m about to run to the kitchen to get him some bottled water when Sasha barges in.

“I’m ready for taping, Mr. Cameraman.”

I look past Deke, whose coughing fit has finally subsided—
thank God
—and see Sasha still in her robe. Deke stares at her, then back at me with a creased brow.

“Uh, Deke, this is Sasha Green, my roommate,” I say slowly, wondering why Sasha isn’t dressed. “Sasha, this is Deke Ryan, videographer for the First Class Travel Channel.”

“Well, I’m about to ask Avery a roommate question, so you can fire up that camera,” Sasha says, smiling at him.

“Sure,” Deke says, putting the camera up on his shoulder and turning on the light. “Go ahead.”

I watch as Sasha undoes her robe, letting it fall open to reveal Sasha in a minute string bikini. I gasp in horror as she ditches the robe dramatically on to my bed, tosses her hair back, and appears seductive for the camera.

“Avery, I was just wondering if I should wear this bikini when we go to the beach next Saturday,” Sasha says, leaning forward so her ample boobs are about to pop out of the teeny triangle patches that are holding them up. “Or if I should wear a thong bikini instead.”

“Cut,” I say, panicking. “Deke, stop the camera!”

“No, keep going,” Sasha instructs him.

“
No!
This isn’t
The Bachelor
,” I turn to Deke, mortified. “Please give us five minutes, okay?”

Deke sighs heavily and puts down his camera. I can see he’s getting exasperated, and a wave of embarrassment washes over me.

“Oh, and Deke? I have some suggestions for background music when you show my footage,” Sasha says knowingly. “So if I can get your e-mail address from you before you leave, that would be fantastic.”

Oh my God. I’m so mortified that I want to die.

“Right,” he finally says, a look of major annoyance on his face. “I’ll be out in the hallway. I have to make a phone call.”

As soon as Deke leaves the room, I spin around to face my roommate.

“Sasha, what are you doing? You’re going to look like an idiot on national TV,” I yell.

“No, I’ll look like a girl with a hot body, that’s what I’ll look like. Avery, we can market ourselves via TV exposure. And I know my body in this bikini definitely gets attention. Didn’t you see that Deke was checking me out?”

“What?” I ask, incredulous. “He wasn’t checking you out. He was shooting you because he has to.”

Sasha snorts. “Whatever. I have my sights set higher than him anyway.”

Anger flickers through me. That is such a Sasha thing to say. And I’m not going to let her get away with it.

“Deke is a
professional
. He’s taking this seriously, as am I. And you will not go around parading in a bikini on a documentary. They’ll cut this footage, Sasha. This isn’t a reality-hot tub-girl-in-bikini kind of show.”

Sasha gets a hurt expression on her face, as if I’ve just ruined her life with this news flash. “Fine. Then I’m not coming out for the rest of the time he’s here, and you can shoot your reality without me.”

Then she grabs her robe off my bed and storms out of the room, slamming the door shut behind her.

I breathe a sigh of relief. I’ve succeeded in saving Sasha from making a fool of herself on national TV. Now I’ve just got to convince Deke to cut that footage.

I quickly head back down the hallway and into the living room. The door to the apartment is slightly open, and I head over to it, ready to tell Deke he can come back inside. I push the door all the way open. As I do, I can hear him talking on his cell phone.

“. . . You have to get me off this assignment, I’m begging you. I know I said I wanted to be at home, but I thought I was shooting a documentary. No! This is more like the
Chronicles of a Lincoln Park Fashionista
. This girl has 3,000 bath items. I swear, she is scented at least twenty different ways. And she has more flip-flops and gauzy tank tops than food in her pantry! . . . How do I know what gauzy tank tops are? Because she
told
me . . . Yes, this is what I’m dealing with . . . No, I can’t take it . . . All she cares about is clothes and makeup . . .”

I draw in a sharp breath of air, stunned.

Deke instantly turns around and his face freezes.

I swallow hard as tears of humiliation and anger prick my eyes.

He quickly hangs up his cell phone, shoving it into one of the cargo pockets on his shorts.

“Avery,” he says quietly, “God, I’m really sor—”

“No you’re not,” I cut him off, my voice shaking with emotion. “You think I’m nothing more than a stupid, selfish, spoiled fashionista.” The words are pouring out of me. “That I have nothing of substance to offer anyone.” 

“I’m very sorry you heard that. I apologize.” Deke exhales loudly. “I’m just frustrated, that’s all. This is a different type of assignment for me and—”

“If you were a
real
professional, you’d find a way to handle your frustrations without taking them out on me,” I say firmly. “Just because
I
care about my appearance and you don’t doesn’t make me shallow.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he snaps, his eyes flickering at me.

“You know what it means,” I say, staring holes through the stupid, chipped Bears logo on his T-shirt. “But I’m not going to argue with you about it. I’m going to be a professional, unlike you. I’m going to go back inside, answer your questions, and move past the fact that you’re making all these assumptions about me and you don’t even know a
tenth
of who I really am.”

Then I turn around and head inside. Hurt is stirring within me, but so is determination.

Because I’m going to prove to Deke Ryan that he is 100 percent wrong—about
everything
.

Chapter 4

As I walk up to the Premier Airlines world headquarters, my stomach clenches with an overwhelming sense of dread. Today is Thursday, and I’m stuck with the awful, horrible, incredibly judgmental Deke Ryan for the entire workday.

Which is exactly eight hours too long, in my opinion.

I exhale sharply as I enter the lobby. I haven’t seen Deke since he finished shooting at my apartment on Monday night, which turned out to be horribly awkward and difficult after I overheard him trashing me on his cell phone. Anger instantly flames up in me, as it has done every time I’ve relived that nightmare in my mind.

Which is probably like 127 times in four days. Not that I’m counting.

It’s not like I really care. At all.

Okay, that’s a total lie. I do care.

But who is Deke to judge me, anyway? He’s a stupid videographer. One who can’t even make polite conversation with a stranger. One who thinks a deteriorated Chicago Bears T-shirt is a fashion statement. And since when is it a crime to buy a pink coffeemaker? Or to smell nice?

“Avery!”

I stop in the middle of my mental rant and turn around.

Deke is approaching me, camera in tow.

Oh, fantastic. I don’t even have a chance to get to my cubicle before being in front of the oh-so-superior eye of Deke Ryan and his stupid camera.

I watch as he comes up to me. His brow is creased. His eyes are intently locked on mine. Not that I know him—or yuck, even
want
to know him—but he actually seems kind of worried.

“Avery,” Deke says as he gets closer, “I’m glad I caught you down here. I want to talk to you before we start shooting.”

“Why?” I ask, my eyes taking in the Deke Ryan T-shirt of the day, which happens to be an old concert T-shirt from the rock group The Cult. Hmmm, at least he’s moved ahead to the late eighties and out of the seventies with that selection. But honestly, would it kill him to invest in some new shirts?

“Avery, I’m really sorry about what happened on Monday night,” he says, his blue-green eyes searching my face. “That was inexcusable on my part.”

I swallow. If he thinks he’s getting off that easily, he has sorely underestimated me.

“Yes,” I say, turning around and heading toward the elevators.

Deke stays rooted to the floor for a second. Then he rushes up and falls into step with me as I walk next to the painted wall mural of Europe.

“Yes?” he asks. “That’s all you’re going to say?”

“Yes, your behavior was utterly atrocious,” I say, now moving past the Atlantic Ocean.

“I didn’t say it was atrocious. I said inexcusable.”

“Well, I like atrocious better. I do know what that word means, despite being a fashionista and all, and I prefer to label your behavior atrocious.”

I feel him stiffen beside me as my pointed remark zaps him.

“Fine. I deserve that. But the bottom line is that you and I have to work together. And you have to feel comfortable around me, or you’ll never be natural in front of the camera.”

I come to a dead stop in front of the East Coast and turn to face him. “I see,” I say angrily, glaring at him. “You don’t really want to apologize because you might have hurt my feelings. You want to apologize because you’re afraid your stupid work will suffer.” 

Employees move all around us, scurrying off to different departments to go to work. I faintly hear murmurs of conversation and women’s heels clicking against the tiled floor. But I’m so pissed off that Deke Ryan is the only person existing in the universe to me.

Now he’s the one who looks pissed off. His eyes flicker angrily in response.

“Not true. I
am
sorry about what I said. And I’m asking you to forgive me for it. But I’m not going to drop down here on the floor, on my knees, and beg you for forgiveness. So do you accept my apology or not?”

Wow. That’s the most Deke has ever said to me at one time. Yet his words are very to the point. And I can tell by the intense expression on his face he means them.

“Okay,” I concede, “I accept your apology.”

Not that this means I still don’t think you are rude, judgmental, and wear bad shirts,
I add silently.

“Good,” he says.

I clear my throat as we draw near the elevators. “Just so you know, I think your approach to this is correct. It’s best that we have a minimal relationship. All business. I’ll act like you don’t exist whenever you are around me.”

“Works for me.”

I punch the elevator button in frustration. Why did he agree to that so quickly? Shouldn’t Deke want to know the
real
me, especially after he hurt my feelings the way he did? And shouldn’t I know more about him, too?

Whatever. It’s not like I care. I’m not
supposed
to get to know him anyway. I’m supposed to pretend he’s not here. And I will do just that.

We ride the elevator in silence. Once we get to my crappy little cubicle, I put on the mic and transmitter, while Deke tests the audio levels. Then he checks the lighting and puts the camera on me as I get ready for work.

“Tell me exactly what your position is,” he says, shooting me from my right side.

“I’m a marketing department assistant,” I say, booting up my computer. “We have many different departments within marketing—like promotions, social media, frequent flyer, field marketing—and I help out all of them. I guess you could say I’m a floater.”

I key in my password and log on to the electronic timesheet on the Premier Airlines internal website.

“What are you doing now?” Deke asks.

I bite my lip. Oh, shit, is this what my day is going to be like? Answering boring questions all day long? Does America really care that I’m doing my time card? If I weren’t so poor—and wanting that Burberry raincoat so badly—I never, ever would have agreed to this torture.

“I have an electric timecard I have to punch in and out on,” I explain, clicking on the time stamp button. I want to add that it’s a little big-brotherish, as the boss can see if I’m even ten seconds late, but keep that thought to myself. I’m going to prove to the world—and Deke Ryan—that I’m a serious, intelligent career woman.

Now it’s silent. I clear my throat and check my inbox, seeing that I have new e-mails from Hannah, a friend I met in Premier Airlines new-hire orientation, my best friend Bree, and one announcing the latest products at Sephora.com. I glance at Deke, who is zeroed in on my computer. Then I quickly click out of my e-mail, as there is absolutely nothing work related in my inbox this morning.

“How do you start your day?” he asks.

I freeze. Okay. So I can’t tell the truth here. I can’t say, “Well, I get a cup of coffee, check my Connectivity account, and see if Nordstrom has anything good on sale before I even think about beginning my day.”

Especially because I’ve already clocked in to be paid for working.

“I make a to-do list,” I say triumphantly, impressed with my ability to think on my feet.

I reach down and slide open my lower desk drawer, ready to take out a legal tablet, when I reveal nothing but a big pile of
In Style
magazines that have the pages tabbed with Premier Airlines supplied Post-It page markers.

Crap. I quickly slam the drawer shut and glance up at the camera.

“Uh, can we start over?” I ask, embarrassed beyond belief.

Deke lowers his camera for a moment. I begin to blush furiously when I see that he’s grinning at me.

“But I’m not here, remember?” he says, raising his eyebrow. “As
you
said, I don’t exist.”

Oooh! I really want to take my stapler and throw it at his head.

But deciding that would get me kicked off the documentary
and
fired, I instead take a pen out of my orange University of Illinois mug and scrounge up a small memo tablet. I begin my to-do list:

TO DO:

Make copies of marketing press clippings received from PR department and distribute.

Get digital color proof from Rebecca.

Proof copy.

Oh God. This does not sound like the to-do list of a career woman blazing the ladder. I only have three things to do today? Three stupid tasks that are intern-level work?

Deke’s about to ask about it. I can feel the heat from his camera on my skin. He’s reading this list over my shoulder through his lens. He’s going to call me out, I know it.

“Avery,” Rebecca calls out to me.

Thank you, Jesus. I glance up and smile happily at Rebecca, as she’s about to save me from total humiliation. I discreetly take my to-do list and turn it face down and out of sight from Deke’s camera lens.

“Good morning, Rebecca,” I say brightly.

Rebecca stops and pauses in front of the camera.

“Go ahead,” Deke says, turning the camera on her. “Talk to Avery like you normally do. Go about your workday.”

Rebecca nods, but is now staring straight at the camera instead of at me.

“Well, I was just over here to give Avery a copy to proof, as I’m so completely overwhelmed with my other projects.”

I’m about to throw up. Now Rebecca’s playing the overworked card to a national TV audience.

“Tell it to Avery, not me,” he says quickly.

I stifle down a giggle as Rebecca blinks in surprise.

“Um, sure. Avery, here’s the digital copy,” Rebecca says, handing me the printout.

“I’ll be checking this for color accuracy as well as a final review of information,” I explain to the camera, instinctively thinking that would be Deke’s next question. “Rebecca is working on an arts calendar we are sponsoring and want to distribute in the Chicago area this fall, and this is one of the proofs before production.”

“And I’m just so
saturated
with other projects that I can’t simply take the time to even
blink
at this, let alone
proof
it,” Rebecca declares. “Not that I even have the time to
supervise
Avery on this project, but I really must carve out the time to do it, as Avery is very new with us here at Premier Airlines.”

Now I want to throw my stapler at Rebecca’s head.

“Anyway, Avery, I’m trusting you to thoroughly proof this. Can you handle the task?”

“Yes, of course,” I say, forcing myself to sound cheerful.

“Now I really must run, because I’ve got a
million
other things to do before lunch. Have that back to me ASAP, Avery. I’m on a
super-tight
deadline, you know.”

Rebecca peers gravely at the camera, so the world can see her work-weary face, before dashing out of view.

I sigh, pick up my red pen, and put the proof in front of me. I haven’t even skimmed word one when I hear Rebecca’s peal of laughter from Creepy Spence’s cube.

“Oh, Spence, you really are a riot,” Rebecca declares. “So do you want to go Happy Hour after work tonight so I can give you the scoop?”

Deke lowers his camera for a second. I watch as he listens to Rebecca and Creepy Spence flirt back and forth with each other, with no indication of stopping.

“Hold up. Rebecca is claiming to be overworked, yet she has time to hang out in someone else’s cubicle?” he asks.

I put down my pen for a moment. Deke’s camera is down, so I feel more comfortable saying what’s really on my mind.

“Yes,” I answer honestly. “I don’t think Rebecca would be so ‘overwhelmed’ if she didn’t spend so much time flirting and gossiping.”

“You don’t say?” Deke says slowly. Then he nods. “Come with me for a second.”

“What?”

“Follow me,” he says. “And be quiet.”

Suddenly I feel like Deke is a Navy SEALs team leader and I’m one of his commandoes. He winds around the maze of cubicles, with me following silently behind him. He stops outside of Creepy Spence’s cube and motions for me to stay put along the front wall and out of sight.

I nod, following orders like a good soldier would.

Then I hear Deke approach Rebecca and Creepy Spence.

“Rebecca, could I ask you a couple of more questions for the documentary?” he asks.

I hold my breath. What’s he doing?

“Oh, sure,” Rebecca says. “I’d be delighted to help.”

“Great. Now just look straight at that lens and answer my questions,” Deke says. “Question one. If you’re so overworked that you have to pass stuff on to Avery, how do you have time to hang out over here and talk?”

Oh my God. He did
not
just ask that!

“W-What?” Rebecca gasps.

“I was just curious,” Deke says easily. “I could hear you talking over here for a few minutes, yet you just made some comments on camera about being ‘saturated’ with work. Do you care to clarify those remarks?”

I clamp my hand over my mouth. I begin to silently shake with laughter as I picture the expression of horror on Rebecca’s face.

“Uh, I was just talking with Spence about some work-related issues,” Rebecca says quickly.

“Like Happy Hour?” Deke asks.

I stifle a snort. Rebecca doesn’t respond. And I’m sure Creepy Spence is still sitting in a stupor, staring at Rebecca’s boobs like he always does.

“Uh, you, know, on second thought, this documentary is really about
Avery
,” Rebecca declares. “I really don’t have any other comments for you.”

“Fine,” he says. “I’ll let you get back to
work
then.”

I quickly bolt from my spot and hurry back to my desk, plunking my rear in the chair and picking up my red pen before anyone can suspect anything.

Within seconds Deke is back, holding his camera at his side. When his eyes meet mine, we crack up.

“That,” I declare in a whisper, “was priceless.”

“You should have seen her face,” Deke says quietly, grinning at me. “She’s full of shit. Overwhelmed, my ass.”

I laugh again and so does Deke. And I find the moment to be nice. Maybe I don’t have to dislike him after all.

“Okay,” he says, picking up his camera and turning the light back on. “We’ll pick up where we left off, and remember, I’m not here.”