Diary of an Ugly Duckling (13 page)

to deepen even further. “I don’t think Dr. Bremmar

does
that
. It’s somewhere in the foot, right?” She

smiled and continued before either Shamiyah or

Audra could respond. “Can I get you ladies some-

thing? Espresso? Latte?”

“Double skim latte sounds great to me,” Shamiyah

DIARY OF AN UGLY DUCKLING

103

breathed. “You’re a
life
saver, Maisy. Just a life saver!

Audra?”

A Snickers bar would really hit the spot
, Audra

thought, but she decided against saying that out

loud in this company. Instead, she shook her head,

“No, thanks.”

“We also have all kinds of fruit juices,” Maisy

tempted, as though it were specifically in her job de-

scription to make sure every guest had a cup of

something. “Papaya? Kiwi? Guava?”

Audra grimaced. “No, thanks,” she insisted and

watched the girl’s face crumple in disappointment.

“Are you sure?”

“How about just a bottled water?” she said to

keep the girl from feeling like a failure, and watched

a smile twitch Maisy’s lean face again. “Okay, so

that’s one double skim water”—she slapped herself

on the forehead—“Double skim water! I mean,

latte—and a water.” She nodded. “When you finish

with those”—she nodded at the forms—“Room One

is the first one on the left. Go on in, she’s expecting

you. I’ll be back in a flash with your drinks.”

“Thanks, Maize,” Shamiyah said, already pulling

Audra down the hall. The second they were out of

earshot, she murmured, “You can do those forms

later. And don’t mind
her
. She’s nice enough . . . but

she’s not here for her brains. She’s a walking
adver-

tisement
for Bremmar and Koch’s work. Nose, eyes,

chin, boobs, lipo—you name it.”

Audra nodded. “I suspected as much.”

They stopped outside a door upon which a silver

1
had been affixed. Shamiyah lay her hand on the

knob, then paused, staring hard into Audra’s face.

104

Karyn Langhorne

“I’m not supposed to tell you this,” she said at last,

“but I really want you to have this chance, Audra.

The rest of the candidates won’t do this step until

we bring them here in three weeks. We’re doing this

now for you, because, of all the tapes we got from

African-American women—and there weren’t that

many, I’m sorry to say—yours was
absolutely
the

best
.” She lowered her voice. “But these docs,

they’ve got real
concerns
about whether they can

make your transformation work. The only way I

could convince them to consider you was with this

advance consultation to work out the . . . details. But

you can
never
tell anybody about it and . . .”—she

leaned closer, her eyes intent—“it will
really
help if

you show them that you’re willing to do whatever it

takes.
Whatever
it takes,” she repeated. “Okay?”

Whatever it takes.
The words echoed in Audra’s

brain, sounding suddenly dark and dire, as if some

kind of shadow had suddenly engulfed this sunny of-

fice space. In the movies, this moment would have

been accompanied by music so tense and ominous

that Audra shivered a little, just imagining it. For a

second, running back out into the California sun-

shine and finding her away aboard the next flight

back to New York seemed like the wisest course, even

if she had to walk all the way to the airport. But then

she imagined herself a finished swan of a woman, as

pretty as Petra, able to silence her mother’s criticisms

with a single bat of a perfectly mascaraed eyelash.

She closed her eyes, carrying the fantasy further,

imagining herself running into Art, Penny and Es-

meralda Prince—his long-haired, long-legged, fat-

free Esmeralda Prince—and heard herself saying:

DIARY OF AN UGLY DUCKLING

105

“Art? Art Bradshaw, is that you? It’s me, Audra

Marks!” and watching their mouths fall open in

amazement as she tossed her hair, and struck a pose

for their admiration. She could almost hear him

stuttering out his “hello,” could almost see the ex-

pressions of interest and desire competing on his

face. In the fantasy, the two of them walked on to-

gether, chatting about old times while poor little

Essie stood on the sidewalk with her vapid little

mouth hanging open in surprise and disappoint-

ment.

“Okay,” Audra said grimly. “Okay.”

Shamiyah’s small bosom heaved in relief and she

ran a café au lait hand through the wiry strands of

her kinked-up hair. “Great. Sisters in Lala Land—or

anywhere else for that matter—really need to stick

together, Audra. Remember that.”

Nurse Carla was another athletically thin woman,

with red hair and a real-looking nose, but suspi-

ciously plump lips. She greeted Audra warmly, then

commanded her to strip to her underwear “for the

examination and the photos.” Audra did as she was

told, glad she’d brought her newest matching pair of

skivvies. The examination part made sense—but

photos?

“What are these for?” she asked as the nurse used

a digital camera to take front, side and rear views of

her body, then close-up profiles of her face at several

different angles.

“The doctor uses them in a software program to

get an image of what your body can look like after

surgery.” Carla snapped the camera again and

106

Karyn Langhorne

again until Audra felt like some kind of super-sized

model doing an underwear shoot. “They’re also our

before and after shots. We’ll send copies to Shamiyah

and the other producers of
Ugly Duckling
. No doubt

they’ll be a part of the package when your show

airs,” Carla replied.

“You sound like you know quite a bit about this

TV stuff.”

Carla laughed. “Drs. Bremmar and Koch consult

on about half a dozen of these makeover shows. It’s

a solid half of their business!”

“And the other half?”

Carla shrugged. “Celebrities and celebrity

spouses.”

Shamiya had said as much. Audra wondered if

she would recognize the names of the stars if she

heard them. “Like who?”

Carla just shook her head. “We never tell,” she

said lightly, then lowered her voice a little. “Out

here, just about everyone has a ‘little work done’ . . .

but no one admits to it. This office is the repository

of some of the best-kept secrets in Hollywood, be-

lieve me. Okay, Audra,” she said in her normal tone

again. “Hop up on the scale, then we’ll do the blood

and urine work. Then we’ve got to get downstairs to

the pool—”

“Pool? Why?”

“To test your fat-to-muscle ratio, of course. How

else are we going to figure out exactly how much

weight you have to lose?” She grinned. “You don’t

actually think we just use one of those silly height-

weight charts, do you?”

“Uh . . . no . . . of course not,” Audra mumbled,

DIARY OF AN UGLY DUCKLING

107

not wanting to admit that that was exactly what she

had thought.

“Then hurry up. You’re meeting with the other

experts at noon—”

“Other experts?”

“Didn’t Shamiyah tell you?” Carla’s reddish hair

bobbed from side to side again. “Between the show

people like Shamiyah and Camilla, the fitness peo-

ple and the doctors, you’ve got a whole baseball

team!”

“Camilla? Who’s that? Shamiyah’s assistant?”

Carla barked out a short, bitter laugh. “The other

way around. Camilla Jejune’s the producer. Shamiyah

works for her. The whole show was Camilla’s con-

cept, and she’s the one who did all the leg work to

bring it into being—not an easy thing, no matter

who you are—and until last year, Camilla Jejune

was a nobody. I guess that could explain why she’s

so protective of it. A real micro-manager, if you ask

me. She’s gotta okay every contestant personally.

Make sure each one of them has a concept that will

sell the show to the network . . . and hopefully kill

all the competition in the ratings.”

Audra blinked at her, stuck on an earlier thorn in

her words. “B—but I thought Shamiyah was the

producer—”

“She’s
a
producer. The show has three or four of

them who work on creating the package for each

woman featured as an Ugly Duck. Shamiyah’s
your

producer. But Camilla’s the executive producer—or

one of them anyway.” She sighed. “Lots of people

have the title ‘producer’ on these programs. Camilla’s

the executive producer who does the work.”

108

Karyn Langhorne

“I don’t know anything about television. I’m a

classic movies chick myself.”

“The titles of the producers should be the last

thing on your mind, honey,” Carla said, swabbing a

streak down Audra’s arm with a cotton ball.

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah,” she gazed earnestly into Audra’s face. “I

just hope you’re not sensitive to criticism.” She

shook her head again, before gazing at Audra with a

look of such intensity the odd, nervous feeling of

grave importance fluttered in Audra’s belly again.

“Why?”

The woman hesitated, and then sighed. “I’ve only

had to sit through one of these kinds of sessions . . .

and”—she paused again, her eyes finding Audra’s—

“they really know how to take people apart, body

part by body part. It’s a little creepy—like sitting

down with Dr. Frankenstein while he assembles his

monster . . .” She shuddered until she felt Audra’s

eyes, wide and nervous, fixed closely on her face.

“But of course, instead of a monster what they end

up with is a beautiful woman. Right?” she added,

struggling to resume her former brightness. “Now

let’s find a good vein and draw this blood.”

Chapter 9

“So which one was it? The Atkins or South

Beach?”

Shamiyah thrust a deli box of salad greens into

Audra’s hands, along with a massive bottle of water.

“Never mind, this should work with either one,”

she continued before Audra even could process the

words.

“You’re talking about my diet, right?” Audra said.

“I really wasn’t following any particular plan. It’s

not like I’ve been living on salads or anything. I

just . . .” and she stopped short, not sure that she

wanted to admit that she really had only given up

candy bars and Oreos, along with the late-night

habit of snacking to the dramas of Betty, Joan and

Barbara. “Cut back. Started lifting a little weight—”

“Well, girl, you better
like
salads, because if you

come on this show, that’s the bulk of what you’re

gonna be eating for a good three months—”

“Just salads?” Audra spat. “I’m down with the

110

Karyn Langhorne

slice-and-dice plastic surgery, but salads every day?

That’s near inhuman! What about jerk chicken?

What about fried chicken and macaroni or—”

“Just salads.” Shamiyah said with such finality

that it made Audra’s heart sink. “Remember what I

told you? About being willing to do anything?”

Shamiyah’s eyes searched Audra, assessing her sin-

cerity again.

Audra nodded slowly.

“Just salads,” Shamiyah repeated, then glanced

toward the door, an edge creeping into her voice.

“They’ll be here in a second . . . and a few of them

won’t like seeing you eating, even if it’s only a salad.

Hurry up, all right? Have you got the pictures from

the fashion magazines? The features you like?”

Audra nodded, pulling a wad of ripped pages

from her back pocket. “I got ’em. But I gotta tell you,

Shamiyah, I don’t see how I could ever look like any

of those girls. But I brought a picture of my sister

Petra—” Audra reached for her wallet, flipping to

the wedding photo of Petra and her husband. “I re-

ally think—”

“It’s okay,” Shamiyah said, not even glancing at

the picture. “They probably won’t ask you for that

input today . . . but making sure you’re prepared is a

part of my job. Now, hurry up!” She glanced at

a sporty wristwatch in a candy apple shade of red.

“I swear, she’s fanatical about time . . . and we don’t

have much more of it.”

When the salad and water were consumed,

Shamiyah seated Audra at the head of a long table,

so dark and highly polished that Audra could see

DIARY OF AN UGLY DUCKLING

111

her reflection in its gleaming surface. At the other

end of the room, a large-screen plasma television

hung from the wall, a small laptop computer rest-

ing on a stand just beneath it. Audra glanced

around the rest of the room, but for the most part it

looked like a conference room she might have found

anywhere—nicer than many, but still just a confer-

ence room.