Size 12 and Ready to Rock (5 page)

“I don’t want to.” Tania keeps her arm where it is. From what little I can see of it, her face seems to have gone as olive green as the walls in the hallway outside the elevator.

“Keep it together, baby,” Jordan says, putting his own arm around his wife’s diminutive frame and looking down at her tenderly, though the only part of her he can possibly see from where he’s sitting is her elbow and maybe her knees. “I know what we went through tonight was ugly. But you heard what they said at the ER. With time and our prayers, Bear’s going to be all right. And until then,
I’ll
protect you. And the baby too, when she comes. I’ll never let anything happen to either of you, I swear it. Not while there’s a breath left in my body.”

I can hardly believe what I’m hearing. Someone named Bear was shot in front of Tania? And they’re making her talk about it on camera, in the penthouse of Fischer Hall?
Why?

“That’s good, Jordan,” Gold Rolex says, from the shadows. I can see by the glint of her watch that she’s holding a cell phone to her ear. “But can you do it again, and this time, Tania, can you take your arm down and look at Jordan?”

The bulbs in both tripods go out, plunging the room into darkness. Someone screams.

The room isn’t plunged into
total
darkness. Numerous Tiffany lamps belonging to Mrs. Allington continue to blaze on side tables, and there are fairy lights sparkling outside on the terrace, so there is
some
light to see by.

But the sudden contrast in lighting is startling, and it takes a moment for everyone’s vision to adjust.

“What the—” cries Christopher.

“I thought that take was really good,” Jordan says, commenting on his own performance in front of the camera. “Are you guys going to be able to use any of it?”

No one is paying any attention to him. Everyone is running around, trying to figure out what happened. The production assistant is swearing at the camera operator.

“I told you we should’ve gone with the softbox,” she says. “These light banks throw a fuse every time in these crappy old buildings.”

“Excuse me,” I say, again and again, my voice rising in pitch and volume until finally I have the full attention of everyone present. Then I hold up the extension cord I’ve pulled from the wall outlet. “It wasn’t the fuse. It was me. I believe the appropriate phrase is . . . cut.”

Chapter 4

Tania Be Me

I ain’t Christina, wagging my thing

I ain’t Beyoncé, flashing my ring

Who am I? You want to know?

Who am I? Just watch the show

I ain’t no Katy, bouncing my bling

I ain’t no Fergie, flinging my fling

Who am I? You want to know?

Who am I? Just watch the show

Who am I? Just wait and see

Who am I?

Tania be me

“Tania Be Me”

Written by Larson/Sohn

Cartwright Records Television

Theme song to
Jordan Loves Tania

“In order to ensure the safety and privacy of all residents,” I say, “filming is not permitted in any New York College residence hall without proper authorization.”

Surprisingly, this is a sentence I utter several times a week, most often to Gavin, who is an aspiring Quentin Tarantino. But the policy on not filming in the building has nothing to do with privacy issues. I’ve actually been called to more smoke-filled floors because of gel filters left on too long over onboard flashes (whatever those are) than I can count. And don’t even get me started on the number of students trying to pay their way through college making amateur pornography films.

“Well?” I ask when everyone simply stares at me. “Does anyone here have proper authorization? Because I didn’t see any paperwork about this . . . this . . . what
is
this exactly?”

Everyone begins speaking at once—everyone except Tania, who’s lowered her arm now that no more lights are glaring into her face and is looking at me as if she’s never seen me before . . . which is ironic, since I walked in on her once with her face in my ex-boyfriend’s crotch.

Hard as it was after that—having to move out, find a new place to live, and start over, not to mention the endless sleepless nights questioning how I could ever have been so stupid since, after all, I was with Jordan for
ten years
—Tania actually did me a big favor that day: she freed me to find my new life . . . and Cooper.

Of course, neither she nor Jordan knows this, because Cooper and I haven’t exactly announced to his family the fact that we’re dating, much less getting married.

Now doesn’t seem like the best time.

“Hold it,” Cooper shouts over the general din, glaring from his brother to Christopher and back again. “How do you two even know each other? Who’s the ambulance for?
Who got shot?
”

It’s the woman with the expensive gold wristwatch who answers, letting out an extremely colorful expletive as she comes striding toward us, her Louboutins clicking noisily on the parquet.

“Excuse me, but who are you?” she demands, her eyes shooting angry sparks at us. “I’ll have you know you’re interrupting a very important shoot for CRT—”

“Stephanie, it’s all right,” Christopher says, seeming resigned to the situation. “This is Jordan’s brother.”

The woman in the gold Rolex halts in her tracks. “His brother?” Her eyes widen as she stares at Cooper. “Wait . . . you can’t be
Cooper
Cartwright?”

“The one who wouldn’t join Easy Street,” Cooper says. He’s looking extremely annoyed. “Yes, I am. I don’t do pimple cure commercials or teen mass hysteria. So maybe now someone can explain to me how exactly my brother got someone else’s blood all over him? And what the hell is CRT?”

“Oh my God,” Stephanie says, her demeanor completely changing. Besides the wristwatch—which looks enormous because her wrist, like Tania’s, is so bony—and the Louboutins, she has on a sleeveless red sheath dress that is so tight in the skirt that she hobbles awkwardly over the cables strung across the floor to get to us. Still, she manages, every inch of her being the harried television exec, from the vein that’s begun suddenly to throb in the middle of her forehead (her chin-length bob has been swept back with a tortoiseshell barrette, so the vein’s easy to spot) to the BlackBerry she has clutched in her left hand.

“Stephanie Brewer,” she says, holding out her right hand to shake Cooper’s. “Executive producer, Cartwright Records Television. I can’t tell you what an honor this is. Cooper Cartwright, the one Cartwright I haven’t met! I’ve heard so much about you.”

“I can only imagine.” Cooper barely glances at Stephanie as she pumps his hand. “Dad bought a
television network?
” he asks Jordan.

“Cable,” Jordan says with a shrug. “We didn’t sign either Adele or Gaga, so Mom told him we needed to do something.”

“Mom’s idea,” Cooper says, with an eye roll. “Figures.”

“I want you to know how much I adore working with your father,” Stephanie Brewer is gushing. “He’s one of the reasons I chose Harvard for my MBA. I wanted to walk in the footsteps of the great Grant Cartwright.”

“I’ll try not to hold it against you,” Cooper says drily.

Stephanie’s smile wavers only slightly. “Thanks,” she says, blinking with confusion.

“So who got shot?” Cooper asks.

“Oh, of course,” Stephanie says, finally dropping his hand. “I’m so sorry. It was Tania’s bodyguard. He was taken to Beth Israel for stitches and X-rays after he was struck by a bullet earlier this evening—completely at random—as we were filming in front of Christopher’s club on Varick Street. He’s expected to make a full and complete recovery—”

“And the cops let all of you leave? They didn’t hold any of you for questioning?” Cooper is shocked.

“Of course they questioned us,” says the girl with the braids. I was guessing from her clipboard that she was the production assistant. “At the scene. What could we tell them? One minute Bear was standing next to us, and the next he was on the ground, and Jordan and Chris had his blood all over them.”

“Exactly. The thing about a
random shooting
is that it’s
random,
” Christopher says. “None of us saw anything. It wasn’t a drive-by. The shot seemed to come out of nowhere.”

“The police think it might have been teenagers,” Stephanie explains, “playing with a gun on a nearby rooftop. So far they haven’t found anyone.”

“It’s not like any of
us
shot him,” Jordan protests. “Bear’s our friend.”

“I can tell.” Cooper is scowling. “Such good friends that you stuck around the hospital to make sure he’s all right.”

“Jared, our field producer, stayed with him,” the camera operator says.

“Yeah,” grunts the guy with the boom. “With the assistant camera operator to get footage of them putting in the stitches.”

“Bear’s
fine.
” Stephanie cuts everyone else off. “His injury did create some unwanted attention from the press and has also put us way behind schedule, in addition to upsetting Tania, as you can see. So now that all this nonsense about not being allowed to film in the building is cleared up, could we please—”

I’m not listening to her anymore, though. Tania—who was named one of
People
magazine’s fifty most beautiful people—looks terrible. Her painfully thin shoulders are slumped inward, her hands limp in her lap, her bony knees knocked. Her normally cappuccino-colored skin tone is yellowed, though whether this is a reflection from the gold of her dress, the suddenly insufficient lighting, or what she’s been through, it’s hard to tell.

I do know jaundice is never a good look for a pop star. It’s especially worrisome for one who should be glowing. Tania’s going into her second trimester. The cover of
Us Weekly
recently crowed that she and Jordan are expecting a little girl.

The baby makes me feel especially protective of Tania, even if its mother has always treated me like crap.

“You still can’t film in here,” I say flatly. “In fact, I need everyone to leave in order to give Tania some privacy while the EMTs take a look at her.”

Stephanie narrows her eyes. “
Excuse me?
” she says.

“Someone called an ambulance,” I remind her. “I’m assuming that wasn’t done to add drama to your show, because it’s unlawful to place a call to emergency services for any reason other than to report an actual emergency—”

The ambulance attendants have been watching our exchange like spectators at a tennis match. “That’s true,” the female EMT says. “What’s this show called anyway?”

The vein in the middle of Stephanie’s forehead has begun to throb again. “
Jordan Loves Tania,
” she says. “We’re hoping it’s going to be CRT’s first hit, and next season’s number-one-rated husband-and-wife-themed reality show. That’s why we certainly didn’t place any unlawful calls to emergency services. We can’t allow any scenes to roll off camera. Jordan’s and Tania’s fans are going to want to share this emotional moment—”

Jordan, still on the couch with his arm around Tania, looks uncomfortable.

“I know you wanted to film them examining her, Steph, but I think Tania would rather—”

Jordan is doing something I’ve never see him do before: putting another human being’s best interests before his own. It’s sort of sweet, especially the way Tania is looking up at him with her humongous brown eyes so weepy and trusting.

Too bad “Steph” has to ruin the moment by interrupting him, waspishly. “Jordan, that wasn’t the agreement you signed. Nothing off camera. That’s what we said. That’s what your
father
said.”

Jordan looks dejected. “Right,” he says. “No, of course, you’re right.”

I see Tania’s gaze drop to the floor in defeat. I’m not surprised that Jordan has failed to stand up for his wife’s rights. Unlike Cooper, Jordan has always done whatever his father told him to—including getting rid of me—and Stephanie has clearly figured this out. All she has to do, apparently, is say the words, “That’s what your father said,” and Jordan snaps to it. I glance at Cooper, and see that he looks as disgusted with his brother as I feel.

Before Cooper can say anything, however, I come to Tania’s rescue. I don’t really want to. I certainly don’t owe either her or Jordan anything. But I can’t help it. Fischer Hall is my island—of misfit toys, as Cooper pointed out—and I don’t like seeing people pushed around on my island.

“Well, once again, too bad,” I say, “because
there’s no filming allowed in the building.
”

Tania lifts her heavy layer of false eyelashes, and I’m reminded of why she’s such a popular performer. It’s not only because she has such a great voice—she does—or looks so great in her skimpy costumes—that’s true too. It’s because her face conveys such a wealth of emotion in a single glance . . . or seems to at least. Right now it’s conveying overwhelming gratitude toward me.

I’m a little confused. Tania Trace has sold more than 20 million albums, topped the charts in over thirty countries, won four Grammy Awards, and now she has a baby on the way with Jordan Cartwright, who’s produced a record number of hits of his own (with his dad’s help, of course). The two of them have their own TV show. She’s a diva. Why she can’t tell Stephanie Brewer
no
herself is beyond me.