“Um, okay, so like, Joyce, I just wanted to tell you how much I loved you on Three’s Company and I think you’re a really great actress and I was just wondering if you have any plans to return to TV?”
“Aren’t you sweet, Michelle, thank you so much. To answer your question, Joyce’s Choice is keeping me pretty busy. However, I’m about to start shooting a drama for the Lifetime network about toxic shock syndrome, which I think is important because it hasn’t gone away. So that’s gonna air sometime next year . . . keep your eyes open.”
“Oh thank you, Joyce, I will. I can’t wait!”
“Okay, we’re down to less than one hundred kits now, so they’re really moving fast. If you can, please use Automatic Tele-Order by calling the alternate number you see on your screen. The phone lines are very busy right now,” Bebe said.
On her producer’s cue, she said, “Michelle, we’re just about to sell out, so we’re going to have to say good-bye, but thank you so much for calling and sharing with us today.”
“Thanks for having me,” Michelle said. “I hope you both have a wonderful, um, life, I guess. Okay, good-bye.”
“Bye-bye,” Bebe and Joyce said in unison, just as a SOLD OUT graphic appeared over the Joyce’s Choice Get Started Kit banner on the far lefthand side of the screen.
“That item has sold out, so congratulations to everyone who purchased it. I think you’ll be very happy. Up next: Joyce’s Choice Crows Away! under-eye gel. But first, coming up on Sunday, Don from the Good Morning Show will be talking with author and trend forecaster Faith Popcorn about her brandnew programmable popcorn popper that lets you pop tomorrow’s popcorn today! If you’re a busy snacker, you won’t want to miss this presentation.”
Both Joyce and Bebe smiled into the camera, waiting for the cutaway to the FuturePop Popcorn Popper.
“God, I have a pathetic existence,” Max said as he watched Don demonstrate the appliance. Enough was enough. As he turned off the television and went to his hall closet for his leather bomber jacket, Max made a promise to himself: In two weeks he would either have a great new job or a great new boyfriend. Max had believed in Creative Visualization ever since they did Shakti Gawain incense holders on the show and she had made an appearance.
He wondered if Shakti did personal consultations.
C
hecking the hosts’ schedule for the week, Trish noticed that she had mostly midday slots and only a few prime-time jewelry showcases. Peggy Jean was still hogging the limelight. And Leigh certainly wasn’t hurting for hours.
At first, she had believed that her trip to London was just the beginning of her rise within Sellevision. Now it seemed things had reached a plateau. Things, she thought, were just not moving fast enough.
In her office, Trish checked her E-mail. She was not pleased to see that she had fifty-seven E-mails from viewers. Eight less than she had received after her last on-air appearance two days before. Fewer quality hours, fewer E-mails. Even her Price Waterhouse fiancé now seemed like a compromise. Maybe her father was right, maybe Steve was too short, too meek, too poor, and too, well, ordinary for her. Maybe she was settling.
After reading her E-mail, Trish decided to give a quick call to Peggy Jean at home. One of Peggy’s little boys answered, and Trish said, “Hi, is your mom home?”
The little boy dropped the phone on a tabletop and screamed, “Mom, telephone, I’m going outside.”
A moment later, Peggy Jean picked up the receiver. “Hello?”
“Hi, Peggy Jean, it’s Trish.”
“Oh, hi, Trish, how are you?”
“I’m fine. Listen, I just wanted to ask you something. I’m at the office and I was just reading over my E-mails, and I got a kind of a weird one.”
Silence, then, “Go on . . .”
“Well, what was that person’s name? The one who was sending you all those nasty notes?”
“Zoe, her name was Zoe. Why, Trish, tell me—did you get one too?”
“Shoot, that’s what her name was. I knew it was a Z name. No, mine is from some person named Zonda.”
“Oh, no. Mine is Zoe, definitely Zoe.”
“All right, I just couldn’t remember the name, that’s all. Anyway, it’s nothing, it’s not offensive or anything, just a little strange. Sorry to bother you at home.”
“No problem,” Peggy Jean said.
“By the way, you were wonderful in Milan. Did you get any sight-seeing in?”
“Heavens, no. You know how draining international travel is. I’m still quite jet-lagged.”
“Well, just try to relax as much as you can before you come back to the office.”
“Yes, I will. And thanks for calling, Trish,” she said and hung up.
Odd, Peggy Jean thought. Why would Trish call her at home? Trish had never phoned her before. She bit into a vanilla Slim Fast bar. It didn’t seem normal for Trish to act so caring toward her. Could Trish be Zoe? Was she capable of such evil? Peggy Jean chewed slowly as she contemplated. Then she threw the wrapper in the trash. The strawberry Slim Fasts were much better than the vanilla, that much she knew for sure.
After speaking with Peggy Jean, Trish went to the host’s lounge to get a cup of tea, a smile fixed on her face.
“S
parkling diamonds, that’s what this is going to look like on your finger.” Peggy Jean was on air, midway through Rings of Romance. “Six stones with a total gem weight of just over one carat, so this, ladies, is a very believable ring. It’s a lot of sparkle, a lot of glimmer. And it has a wonderful diamond presence, but because it’s Diamonelle, you’re paying a fraction of what you would pay if this ring were set with real diamonds.”
Cut to closeup, Camera One of Peggy Jean’s finger showing the ring. “Fifty-three dollars and ninety-four cents is our introductory price on this ring, and it’s item number J-6866. And ladies, let me remind you that you always have a thirty-day, unconditional, money-back guarantee here at Sellevision.”
Cut to medium shot, Camera Three of Peggy Jean. “And that means that for any reason—maybe it’s the wrong size, or maybe you just decide, ‘You know, this really isn’t me’—you can send the ring back to us and we’ll give you a full refund. So if you’ve never tried Sellevision before, this ring could be a really good way for you to discover the quality and the, well, really the beauty of our jewelry.”
The Teleprompter in front of Peggy Jean alerted her to the fact that there was a caller on the line. Zoe, from California.
For a beat, Peggy Jean ignored the message until her producer said into her earphone, “Peggy Jean, we’ve got a caller. Something wrong with the Teleprompter? Her name is Zoe from California and she’s purchasing.”
Peggy Jean smiled into the camera. “And we’ve got a caller. Let’s welcome Zoe from California. Hi, Zoe.”
“Hi, Peggy Jean. It’s exciting to speak with you.”
The caller’s voice sounded muffled. Peggy Jean imagined a filthy dishtowel being held over the mouthpiece.
“It’s nice to speak with you, too. Is this your first piece of Diamonelle jewelry?”
“Oh no, I own many pieces. I just love Diamonelle, I get more compliments than you could even imagine.”
Peggy Jean continued to smile broadly. “That’s great to hear, Zoe. Now let me ask you: What was it about this particular Diamonelle ring that caught your eye?”
“Well, I think it was the fact that, like you said, it’s got a lot of glamour to it, but it’s also really believable because it’s not so big that people would think it’s a fake.”
“Exactly,” Peggy Jean confirmed. “This is a very beautiful, very believable ring.” So far, so good, Peggy Jean thought. Maybe it’s a different Zoe.
“Oh yes, I’m looking forward to wearing it. I think I’m really gonna love it. Especially because I, unlike you, am not a bitch with hairy knuckles, so the ring will look much bet—”
“Shit, Peggy Jean, we’re going to disconnect the caller, stand by.”
The
caller was cut off midsentence with a squelch and then a click.
Peggy Jean began to tremble, visibly. She stared blankly into the camera, mouth open.
“Peggy Jean, are you okay? Peggy Jean?” When her producer got no response, he called out to an engineer, “Get her off, cut to a promo, now!”
eight
“My God, she humiliated me on live television, in front of millions and millions of viewers,” Peggy Jean said, holding back the tears. She and Trish were sitting in Peggy Jean’s Acura in the employee parking lot of Sellevision. Peggy Jean had run to her car immediately after the show when she realized she’d left her purse, which contained her pills, on the front seat.
Struggling to not ruin her eye makeup, Peggy Jean confided to Trish, “I’m really scared. I’m being stalked.”
Trish placed her hand on Peggy Jean’s shoulder pad. “Look, she’s just some crazy person who sent you a couple of letters and then got on the air, that’s all there is to it. She won’t get on the air again and I promise you, it’s all going to go away.”
“But it’s not just a couple of letters, it’s many letters, sometimes less than an hour apart. And now phone calls!” Peggy Jean wailed. The Valium hadn’t kicked in yet.
“I know, it’s scary, real people are scary, but that’s the price we pay for being in the public eye. We’ve all received our share of letters from nutcases—a month from now, you won’t even remember this Zoo person.”
“Zoe, it’s Zoe,” Peggy Jean corrected.
“Well, maybe ‘Zoo’ is more appropriate.”
“I don’t know. Maybe you’re right, Trish. I mean, maybe this is just the price we pay for our celebrity.”
“It is, I’m telling you. Of course there is one thing you should be worried about,” Trish said.
“What?” Peggy Jean said with alarm.
“Look over there,” Trish said, pointing across the street at a Krispy Kreme sign being lowered by crane into place on the new store front.
Peggy Jean smiled, relieved. “Actually, that comforts me. It means there will be police officers around.”
“Honestly, Peggy Jean, you have no need for police officers. Now come on, let’s go back inside.”
She had one new E-mail.
To:
[email protected] Fr:
[email protected] Subject: Cut, Cut
You cut me off mid-sentance on live television?
That’s how you treat your FRIENDS???
Oh, nice try with the new frosting job, but sweetheart, let me tell you something: it DOESN’T work. Neither do your hairy knuckles. You are nothing but a RAT.
But I do know what would work for you:
Cut, Cut.
Peggy Jean gasped as she read the last two words: Cut, Cut. Was it a threat? A threat of physical harm? Had this Zoe person finally gone over some edge? “And I don’t have hairy knuckles, you madwoman!” Peggy Jean said through gritted teeth as she tapped the “send” key on her computer. As she did this, she looked down at the knuckles of her right hand, turning them in the light to catch the profiles of hairs.
Yes, hairs.
She took another Valium, washing it down with one of the little bottles of peppermint schnapps from her flight.
A
fter that week’s third Joyce’s Choice program ended and Adele Oswald Crawley’s Indian Pride Fry Bread Extravaganza special came on, Bebe walked back to her office and, upon opening the door, came very close to fainting.
B—
I was trying to remember how many times you blushed over dinner. I lost track after twelve, but figured a “baker’s dozen” might get the idea across. You know, “an eye for an eye.”
Looking forward to seeing you again,
Hoping to see you soon,
Do you believe at love at first sight?
Yours truly,
Unable to stop thinking about you and praying you feel the same,
Eliot
The handwritten card was the most romantic thing Bebe had ever held in her hands. It completely overpowered the thirteen long white boxes, each filled with a dozen red roses, that were stacked on a pile atop her desk. One hundred and fifty-six roses altogether. It was completely overboard. The first thing Bebe did was phone her mother, Rose, in California.
“Mom, I really think I might have met somebody,” she said.
“Oh, dear, that’s wonderful! Did you meet him out shopping?” her mother asked.
Bebe hadn’t thought of exactly what to tell her mother in terms of how they met. She improvised. “We’ve only had one date, but it’s like I made a list of everything I wanted in somebody and he arrived, mail-order.”
“Is he a doctor?” her mother asked. “An executive?”
“He owns a business, a chain of stores.”
Her mother gave a small, delighted gasp. “A chain of stores? Imagine that, a whole chain, how wonderful. Do we have any of his stores down here?”
“It’s a dry-cleaning business, actually. But that’s not the point. The point is that he’s handsome and smart and funny and, I don’t know, I just have a really good feeling about him.”
“Well, everybody needs clean clothes,” her mother said, trying to sound upbeat. “Of course, there’s no reason he couldn’t branch out in the future.”
After Bebe hung up with her mother, she looked over at the mound of boxes, the top box opened. It reminded her of a story her mother told her.
When Bebe was five, she lived with her mother and father in Brooklyn. Her father was a police officer with the NYPD. He worked a lot of nights, and one of those nights was Bebe’s mother’s thirtieth birthday. Because Dad frequently missed holidays, the family often celebrated them later or earlier. But on this particular birthday, a box arrived. Inside the box were three dozen roses. Why, out of all their nine years of marriage, had he chosen this birthday to have a special delivery of roses sent?
It was almost as if he somehow knew that he would be killed that night, in the line of duty.
Bebe didn’t remember her father. But she did remember her mother’s grief, because it lasted for years. And it was only when Bebe was ten that her mother told her of Bebe’s brother, a brother she’d never known because he’d been given up for adoption at birth. Bebe’s parents were newly married and hadn’t expected a baby so soon, when they had so little money. It had been a difficult decision, but one they felt was best for the baby.
To this day, Bebe’s mother still talked about the roses. And she still said the one regret in her life was letting that baby go and losing that piece of her husband. Of course, her other large regret in life was that her daughter was forty-two and not married.
Roses had never been just roses to Bebe. Roses had always been some sort of message from a father that she couldn’t even remember.
A
t the Barnes & Noble superstore five miles from his condo, Max walked the aisles, glancing at books, but truly hunting for a prospective boyfriend. What better place to shop for a smart man than a bookstore? he reasoned.
He saw a handsome young guy in the Fiction and Literature section. Khaki slacks, blue oxford shirt, gold wire-frame glasses. Max paused, leaned forward, and took a book from the shelf, pretending to read as he peered over the top. The young man was engrossed in his own reading. Max studied the man’s face, trying to determine if he could visualize the stranger at some future point in time throwing a Frisbee in the park for the not-yet-born golden retriever puppy the two would have obtained from a reputable breeder in upstate New York. The stranger, perhaps sensing that he was being scrutinized, glanced up from his book and caught Max’s eye. The man smiled at Max, then looked back down at his book. Max managed to glimpse the title: The Bell Jar.
Immediately, Max replaced his prop-book on the shelf and continued down the aisle, walking past the man and making a sharp right.
Pausing in the neutral zone of Books for Young Readers, Max realized he was likely to encounter another Bell Jar reader unless he
devised a strategy. Science Fiction? No, Max did not want a Trekkie boyfriend with a calculator wristwatch. Movies and Television? Just the thought of sitting home on Friday night watching a scratchy old copy of A Streetcar Named Desire with some guy who knew all of Blanche Dubois’s lines made Max feel depressed. Sports? No towel-snapping ex–frat boys, thank you. Photography? Too pretentious. History? Science? Computers? No, no, no.
After eliminating Travel by reason of his own abandonment issues, Max decided that the only two sections of Barnes & Noble that were appropriate for boyfriend shopping were Self-Improvement and Pets.
While pretending to read Feeling Good: The New Mood Therapy, Max spotted a beefy, jockish-looking fellow. The guy had very large biceps, which could come in quite handy when it came time to haul firewood inside. The man scanned the titles of the books and then plucked a copy of Codependent No More from the shelf.
A codependent bodybuilder did not sound unappealing. Except then Max saw that the man was wearing a wedding band. This meant he probably had a wife who suffered from low self-esteem, who was needy and clingy and assumed that every time her husband went to the gym he was really visiting a secret girlfriend. He imagined the wife at home that very moment, wondering where her husband was, doing frantic situps on the living room carpet in an effort to become more attractive to her ripped husband, thus staving off the divorce she feared was almost inevitable.