Taken (3 page)

“Holy crap, McAdams! I don’t hear from you for twenty-four hours and your whole life has gone whack-job crazy!” Ashley says on video chat. “I mean honestly, what in the world are you going to do?”

I sigh and shrug my shoulders. “I don’t have a choice. This is what’s happening. Welcome to crazy town, party of one. Well, technically two, Brandon’s stuck in this shit show just as much as I am.”

“Planning and executing
any
wedding in less than a month would be a stretch, but a celebrity wedding? Forget it. Not to mention the fact that Brandon is barely ever home. How are you guys even going to film anything if he leaves at four in the morning and doesn’t get home till practically midnight? Last time I checked, bakeries, florists, and dress shops keep slightly different hours.”

“I don’t know. Kira said we will work around it and it’s her deal to figure all that out.”

Is it too early to start drinking? I pictured this entire conversation being a lot more helpful, and a lot less panic attack inducing.

“Who is this Kira woman? What are her credentials? Is she even qualified to do any of this?”

“Ash! Slow down. Listen, I know it’s a complete disaster. I really don’t need your help identifying all the reasons why.”

“But this is—” she pauses. “All right, I’ll stop. You’re right. It’s not helping. What can I do to help?”

“Well, for starters, I was hoping I could convince you to be my maid of honor.”

“Oh my gosh! Of course!” she says. “Are you sure Valerie won’t be upset? I mean, she was supposed to be your maid of honor…you know…last time.”

“Oh, that’s right, I forgot to mention that apparently she is in labor and my mom was so frazzled on the phone, I didn’t even tell her about the show or anything.”

“So wait, your family still doesn’t know about the engagement?”

I shake my head.

“Wow. This just gets better and better.”

“Tell me about it.”

“Will they even be able to come to the wedding? I mean she won’t be able to fly, will she?”

“I guess not,” I say. “I hadn’t really thought about it to be honest. Does that make me a terrible person?”

“Maybe a little bit,” Ashley says. “Totally kidding. This whole thing sounds like a logistical nightmare. I don’t know how you managed to get out of bed this morning. I would have probably hidden under the covers all day.”

“A luxury I simply cannot afford. I have to go shopping to get everything I need for the photo shoot on Thursday for my cookbook.”

Ashley slaps her hand on her face and shakes her head back and forth. When she re-emerges she says, “Charity, I think you’re going to pop.”

“It’s highly possible.”

As soon as I get off the call with Ashley, I get ready and go to the grocery store. Brandon is at work on the set of the movie, hopefully keeping his mouth in check. Last night before bed, he went on a rant,—which is weird for him, as ranting is more my department. He went on and on about all the things he wanted to say to the studio head honchos. I advised him to just play nice, keep things cool, and go about it business as usual. The only reason we are going through all the hoopla with the show is to preserve his reputation and movie career, so there is no use in undoing it all with a hotheaded rant on set.

I wander down the aisles, doing my best to tune out the chatter in my busy brain, and to turn my attention to everything I need in preparation for my big photo shoot. A mixture of nervousness and anxiety were already ever present in my thoughts about how it would all work out; whether Emelia, the photographer, would be inspired by my desserts and baked goods; how the pictures would turn out; and what would happen once the cookbook was in print. But now, there is a whole new layer of emotion, knowing it will also be captured on video and put out for the general public to see and judge.

I shake out of those thoughts and go back to shopping, regularly consulting my extensive list as I go along.

It takes about an hour to gather everything I need, and I find myself waiting in line at the checkout. It’s very crowded at the front of the store, so I busy myself by double checking my list, not wanting to attract any attention in case someone should recognize me. It occurs to me that being on a reality show will only make it harder to go places unrecognized, and will feel like ripping away the last remaining shred of privacy over my life.

I get closer to the checker and look up to see the assortment of magazines and candy bars they always stock near the cashier booth. Normally I ignore them, but something catches my eye.

“Brandon Hart Engaged One Day After Street Brawl: His Bold Statement of Love in Light of the Scandal”

Oh. My. God.

Apparently, the shit storm is more of a monsoon. And here I am, without so much as an umbrella. Or shovel.

Ninety-nine-point-nine percent of the time, the tabloid talk is trash. Why, oh why, do they have to—at least halfway—get it right this time? I can just imagine the conversation with my mother now. She always calls when she sees something like this, to confirm with me facts versus fiction.

I guess I should be grateful that she at least checks with me before calling every aunt and uncle I have west of the Mississippi and telling them every time the ’news’ says I’m married, pregnant, or secretly an alien from another planet.

I haven’t been in the Hollywood game that long, but it wouldn’t appear that way, given the vast amount of articles and pictures of me there are, readily posted on the internet.

Luckily, I am pretty sure my mom is still tied up at the hospital with Valerie, and hasn’t had a chance to go out anywhere that carries magazines of this sort.

I try to ignore my feelings of rage and frustration over being left out of the loop during the birth of my very first niece. Instead, I focus on the task at hand—getting my overflowing cart of groceries, paid for, bagged, and hauled out to the car. I slam the back door of the car just in time to feel my phone buzzing somewhere in the bottom of my purse.

Speak—or think?—of the devil…

“Mother! What a nice surprise.” I squeeze my eyes shut tight, just waiting.

Silence.

I pull the phone back and check that the call is connected. “Hello?”

“I’m here Charity. I just don’t know what to say to you.”

Well then why are you calling?
I—barely—refrain from saying.

“Is everything all right with Valerie and the baby?” I ask, ignoring the angry person chattering in my head, egging me on to have a full-on rage moment.

“Valerie is fine. She is back home resting. It was false labor pains.”

“Oh, well that’s good, I guess.” I get into the car and lean my head back.

“I was at the grocery store today and saw something very disturbing.”

“The price of butter?” I ask, briefly considering the three pounds of it, melting away, in the back of my car.

My mother sighs dramatically, and I quickly regret my attempted joke.

“Okay, Mother, I have a feeling I know what this is about. And in my defense, I tried to call last night but couldn’t get a hold of you. I figured you and Dad were with Valerie, so I didn’t leave a message.”

“I know that often these stories are overinflated, so I normally pass them by, but Charity, they have pictures of you wearing an engagement ring. It’s pretty hard to imagine that is made up. And what is all this about a fight? I feel so left out.  You don’t include me, or anyone else, in anything since you made this wild decision and ran away from home!”

“See, right there, that’s exactly why I don’t tell you things!” I say, pointing my finger at the steering wheel for emphasis. “I am a grown woman, therefore it is impossible for me to
run away from home
.” I pause to roll my eyes, because, really?

“I know you don’t approve of my decisions, and think I am making a big mistake. I can’t make one move without your criticism. Why would I open myself up to that over and over again?”

“I’m your mother, Charity. It’s my job to worry about you.”

“But I don’t need you to worry about me. I need you,” my voice breaks. “I need you to just be happy for me. That’s all.”

There is a long, borderline uncomfortable, silence.

“Are you happy?”

“Yes, Mom, more than I can even explain.”

She’s silent again for a beat before she says, “All right, dear. Then I’m happy for you.”

Somewhere inside me a dam of tension breaks and an instant flood of relief courses through me. I smile through the sweet, sappy tears that make their way down my cheeks. In some ways, until this moment, I don’t think I even knew how much this family drama was weighing on me.

“Thanks Mom.”

“Of course, dear. I only worry and want you to make good choices because I want you to be happy. That’s a mother’s job.”

An hour flies by as I catch her up on everything that has happened lately—the house in Seattle, the wedding plans, the TV show, and, of course, the details of Brandon’s ever-so-sweet proposal. By the time I finally pull out of the grocery store parking lot, I’m sure the butter in the trunk is a nice puddly mess, but it doesn’t bother me at all.

“I’m not ready for this,” I say into Brandon’s shoulder as we lay in bed.

Ready, or not, Thursday morning has arrived and in a few short hours, our home will be overrun with a camera crew, producers, a director, and half a dozen assistants.

For once, I am glad I left LeeLee back in Seattle with Ashley. I can’t even imagine how much damage she would do slipping and sliding through the house. Boxers aren’t normally a hyperactive breed, but she breaks the mold, in a big way.

“What if we just shut all the blinds, lock the doors, and pretend we’re not home,” Brandon says, his half-asleep voice muffled by the arm he has flung across his face.

I snuggle closer against his chest and ponder his suggestion.

What’s the worst that could happen? He gets fired from his movie, we move back to Seattle, finish our house, and live off savings. Sounds just about perfect to me.

He mumbles something and starts to stir. My little fantasy life bubble pops and I know it’s time to get up.

I rush through getting ready, grateful that it’s my food being photographed today and not me. Brandon and I have spent the last two days doing photo shoots and interviews in preparation for all the promotional materials that would be blasted out over the next couple of weeks leading up to the premiere of our new series. Parts of it were fun, but it also felt a lot like work. Every day started with two hours spent in hair, make up, and wardrobe. Then we did pictures for three hours—and don’t get me wrong, I love kissing Brandon, but three hours of staged cuddling and kissing for a room full of strangers is a little weird—followed by the interview circuit which brought up a whole ton of awkward questions that seemed to vary depending on the source.

The people from the bridal magazines wanted to know about the dress, the cake, the venue. The people from the women’s magazines wanted to know when we planned on having babies, where we would live, and what my beauty routine would consist of before the big day. The celebrity journalists wanted to talk about who would be invited to the wedding, why we are choosing to do a reality show—that was a sticky one—and as expected, they wanted to talk about the incident. And then, of course, there was the token freak show who shot off a rapid-fire line of questioning about our sex life. I’m talking down to the nitty-gritty. Luckily, our PR rep—AKA babysitter—shut that guy up quickly. I think some of the interview screeners might have been fired over that one…oh well.

Two full days of that and I am already wiped out. The sad thing is it’s only the beginning. As the show starts to air, there will just be more and more interest, which means more pictures, more interviews, and more awkward situations.

I give the bed one last, longing look, before finally turning away and going downstairs to the kitchen to set up. 

Somehow, in all the chaos, I still managed to get everything ready for my food photo shoot today. I stayed up until some ridiculous hour two nights in a row to mix up and bake as much as I could. However, a few things need to be made fresh today in order to get the best pictures. So I carefully consult my list and set about getting ready, glancing at the clock every two minutes, like a junkie waiting on my dealer to get my next fix.

“Cherry, you have to relax,” Brandon says. “It’s all going to turn out and be amazing.”

I nod and resist the urge to bite my nails—something I haven’t done since high school—and resume pacing in front of the oven.

“Come here.” He holds open an arm from his place on one of the bar stools along the breakfast bar that is attached to one section of the long kitchen counter. I go to him and stand in between his legs. He wraps his arms around my waist and pulls me into his chest. I rest my head on his shoulder and let out a slow exhale. “Are you worried about the show? Or the photo shoot? Or something else entirely?”

“All of the above,” I answer, my mind rolling through the stress of all these things individually.

“Aha, option D. Well talk to me. What’s going on in that pretty head of yours?”

I always laugh a little when he asks me questions like that. Little does he know that if I were to
actually
tell him everything in my head, he would probably pass out from sheer information overload. Or have me committed…

I’m still sorting through how exactly to phrase things, when the doorbell rings. I lift my head and Brandon and I lock eyes for a moment. Neither of us speaks, but it seems as though words were exchanged and we have an understanding. He leans down and kisses me slowly, both of us savoring this final moment of privacy.

The doorbell rings again and an oven timer goes off in harmony with it, snapping us back to the present.

“Ready?” he whispers to me, our foreheads resting together.

I fight the urge to say no, and nod instead. After he gives me another kiss, we untangle ourselves. He heads to the front door and I go back to the oven.

***

The next hour is an absolute nightmare, as everyone rushes to get ready. Kira is a frantic mess, ordering the crew around to set up the equipment. I struggle to finish my baking, while simultaneously being attacked by makeup brushes. Apparently, I am not allowed to do my own makeup for this ’reality’ show.

People, the
reality
is that
this
is
how I wake up every day.

Emelia, the food photographer that Brandon hired, arrives in the middle of the chaos and I am instantly embarrassed. Months ago, when we first made the arrangements, I imagined how I would set up the kitchen with open cookbooks on the counters, fresh flowers in scattered vases, and a basket of beautiful fresh fruit. The finishing touch would have been a wonderful pot of spices simmering on the stove to give the house a delicious smell.

Right now, the kitchen smells mostly like Kira’s way-too-strong perfume mixed with the scent of the ten men that make up the camera and sound crew. I’m going to go out on a limb and say their production van doesn’t have air conditioning.

No wonder she wears so much perfume.

However it smells, Emelia is a true professional and jumps right in with her assistant to set up their camera equipment.

Brandon stands off to the side of all the hoopla and almost seems out of place, which is unnerving; I don’t know that I’ve ever seen him look that way before. He always seems to blend into his surroundings like a chameleon. He’s just as at home in his sweats watching a football game on TV as he is in a ten thousand dollar suit on a red carpet.

I try to catch his eye to see if I can tell what he’s thinking, but there are too many people rushing around in front of us. I’m not even sure I know what they’re all doing.

“Charity! Brandon!” Kira says. “Ready to begin this adventure?”

“Absolutely,” Brandon says with a dazzling smile.

Thank goodness the man can act.

“Excellent.” She fishes around in her bag and pulls out a large envelope. “I have been dying to show these to you!”

I take it from her and open it cautiously. I pull out the shiny pages from inside and see that the contents include pictures from our photo shoot the day before, including the one selected to be our main image. The graphics and name of the show are printed on it:

’Hollywood Sweethearts: Brandon and Charity’

I have to admit, the picture they selected is really sweet and romantic. Brandon must agree because he reaches over and takes my hand.

“Oh! You two are just so cute!” Kira squeals. “So what is the plan for today?”

Is it just me, or shouldn’t she know the answer to that question?

“Charity has her food photography session today,” Brandon says.

Did she not see the platters of food everywhere or the photographer—who’s clearly too well dressed to be part of her crew?

Honestly, where did Roger find these people?

“Right, right, right.” She swipes the photos away from me and places them back in the envelope. “Well I will let you get started with that. The crew is all ready to go. So just…pretend we’re not here.”

Brandon nods along; I realize he’s used to being around cameras, and this probably won’t be too hard for him. Great, now I’ll be the awkward one.

“And then once you have that done, we will do some of your ITMs.”

“ITMs?” I ask.

“In the moment,” Kira replies, without missing a beat. “That’s where you will have a chance to speak directly with the camera. A narration, if you will. We will do those every day so you can tell your story through this process.”

Well that part sounds pretty good. One of the things we had been assured of, repeatedly, is that we would have control over the way our wedding story goes and that we would still be the ones making the choices about the wedding itself, even though there is now a team of people making most of the arrangements on our behalf.

Emelia’s assistant comes and tells me they’re ready as soon as I am. I take a deep breath, Brandon gives my hand a final squeeze, and I go back to the kitchen to begin the shoot. I proceed, doing my best not to notice the cameras or the extra eyeballs on me, witnessing every single thing I do.

To my surprise—and relief—the photo shoot is perfection. Emelia is super easy to work with and I became so engrossed in the process, I almost completely forgot about the three additional cameras on me the whole time. And the best part is that when we took a break from filming, everyone ate up everything I made and couldn’t stop raving about how good it tasted. Even Taylor perked up long enough to devour one of my chocolate tarts. So I got a final confidence boost, and fewer calories left around the house for me to eat, which is especially important now that I am less than a month away from wearing my wedding dress—in front of an audience of millions of people.

As soon as Emelia leaves, my phone starts to buzz on the counter top. Per the producer’s instructions, all calls are to be answered on speakerphone, in order to show both sides of the conversation on the show.

As I lift the phone, a little flutter of panic hits me when I see my mom’s name on the screen. I am halfway tempted to set the phone back down, but I also know we just got back on speaking terms, and sending her directly to voicemail wouldn’t go over well.

“Hi Mom.”

“Oh Charity! I’m so happy to catch you! I know how busy you are today.”

Oh dear God, no…she’s using her phone voice. This
cannot
be good.

I try to keep everything neutral. Face, voice, posture. Neutral.

“Yeah, it’s good to hear from you,” I say.

“Sooo…after our little chat yesterday, I had an idea that I want to run by you.”

Oh no! Did I just wince? I did
not
just wince on camera.

“Well, as you know, I’ve coordinated my fair share of weddings by now and what I was thinking, is that given your time limits, you really need someone with much more experience in these things to help you. I’ve been meaning to come visit you anyways, so I was thinking I would come down as soon as Valerie has her baby and is all settled, and I can help you get everything on track.”

My mouth opens and closes, and I’m pretty sure I look like a fish blowing bubbles, but for the life of me, I can’t think of anything to say.

We just got back on speaking terms less than a week ago, so it’s not exactly the ideal time to shoot down her offer to help. However, the idea of throwing her into the mix of the wedding/TV show/daily life in the spotlight seems like a worse idea than shark diving without a cage.

“I—um—well…” I babble—hoping some plausible excuse will magically come forth—but my eye catches the camera and I don’t want to be the bitch who told her mom “stay away from my wedding” on national television…

“Charity? What do you think?”