As Seen on TV (28 page)

“I
love your sweater,” I say to the tall, long-nosed woman standing next to me in the elevator. It’s a gray three-quarter-length Nicole Miller knit. I just bought the exact same one last week. She’s wearing hers buttoned, but I prefer mine undone.

“Yeah? Wanna hear a secret?” She leans toward me. “I found it in the lost and found. There was a ton of fantastic stuff in there yesterday. It’s cute, huh?”

As soon as she says “lost and found,” I have an epiphany.

I’m going to kill him.

When Pinocchio gets off the elevator, I watch to see what apartment she gets into so I can track her down later. 4D.

Irate, I unlock the door to the apartment. “Steven? Steven?”

He might have already left for work. Even though it’s only noon, on Friday his schedule is completely erratic. Sometimes he goes in early, and sometimes he stays even after the restaurant closes for Shabbat when he has some peace and quiet.

I’m just getting home from meeting Carrie for a quick strategy-discussing lunch. She wouldn’t tell me what the upcoming events are, but she congratulated me on the excellent relay skills I displayed last week.

“What did you expect? I knew every one of those events from camp.”

Carrie raised an eyebrow. “You don’t say.”

Without going into detail, she advised me to focus on being extra nice for the camera so that if I make this week’s cut, the viewers would prefer me over my opponent in the final episode. “I don’t think you’ll have a problem,” she said and then took another bite of her delicious lox-and-oozing-cream-cheese sandwich.

Why did she have to eat that in front of me? Haven’t I told her I’m watching my weight? How was I supposed to enjoy my dry lettuce while she was practically moaning with pleasure?

She chewed, swallowed, then said, “The viewer identifies with you. Michelle is too high up on her pedestal, and Brittany is too much of an alcoholic. Just keep being your everyday average fabulous self and you won’t have a problem. And your single self.” She leans into the table and whispers, “Did you go shopping with Steve this week?”

My empty stomach dropped to the bottom of my body like a falling elevator. “Yeah. Why?”

“Don’t worry. It’s not a big deal, but you almost got nailed.” She reached into her purse, and pulled out a folded piece of newspaper.

“Listen: ‘Sunny Lang, one of the remaining competitors on TRS’s
Party Girls
was spotted modeling bathing suits for an unidentified male companion. Has Sunny, who was recently linked to Matt Rowler, found a new boyfriend?’ It’s from Page Six.”

My first thought was: I made the gossip column? My second: new boyfriend? “Oh-oh.”

“It’s okay, I spoke to Howard already, and promised it
was just a male friend, a gay male friend who helps you shop. He doesn’t want to hear about any boyfriend, got it?”

Yikes. Steve’ll love that. “Thanks.”

“No problem. But no more public outings with Steve until this is all done, okay?”

Relieved, my stomach ascended back to its previous upright but still starving position.

“So,” she asked. “Have you spoken to your dad lately? He’s been a little out of touch.”

When I uncomfortably shook my head, she shoved her three-thousand-grams-of-fat sandwich at me in an attempt to ease the awkwardness. “Want a bite? It’s heavenly.”

I shook my head, pissed that she could be so insensitive about my diet, and stuffed my mouth with lettuce.

And now here I am, still hungry and still pissed. “Steven, where are you? Steven!”

“In the kitchen, making breakfast. By myself. Because my girlfriend who claims to love me keeps deserting me.”

My clothes had better be in the bedroom closet. I rummage through my carefully hung-up pants and shirts. Nope. Behind the door. Nope. My favorite black pants are missing. My Helmut Lang pants from Stark’s! I storm into the kitchen. “Steven, what happened to the dry cleaning I asked you to pick up?”

He cracks an egg onto the frying pan, then kisses me on the cheek. “I picked it up.” He cracks another egg.

He’s dead. So dead. “Yeah? Where is it?”

“It’s…” In midcrack his face turns white. “Oops.”

“What oops? Where are my clothes?”

The egg yolk drips onto the counter from its half-broken shell. “You’re going to hate this.”

“Where are they?”

“I picked your clothes up yesterday, just like you said.”

“Yes, but what happened to them between the cleaners and the apartment?”

He grins, sheepishly. “I think I left them in the elevator.”

What’s wrong with this man? I shake my head in disgust. “You left my clothes in the elevator?”

“It wasn’t on purpose.”

“It’s never on purpose, is it?”

He cracks yet another egg and continues making his breakfast. “I’m sure nothing happened to your stuff. I bet the bags are in the lost and found.”

“They were in the lost and found, Steve. I just saw a woman wearing my Nicole Miller sweater.”

He laughs. “Oops.”

“Why are you laughing? Look at my face, Steve. I’m so not laughing. Maybe you don’t care about what happens to your clothes, but I care about mine.”

He stops laughing. “They’re just clothes, Sunny. Who cares? What the hell has happened to your priorities?”

Why is he making me feel bad? He’s the irresponsible one. “I’m going to the gym. By the time I get back, you’d better have sorted through the lost and found and located as many pieces of my clothing as humanly possible,
and
have figured out how to get the rest of my wardrobe back. My very expensive wardrobe. Start with 4D. She has my sweater.”

His eggs sizzle as I stomp out of the kitchen.

I hate working out. Really I do. I especially hate this Stairmaster. It kills. And it’s so boring. Why don’t they make these things with built-in televisions or something?

Pump, pump, pump.

Since the relay race left me totally out of breath, I’ve been here for two hours every day this week, trying to get into shape.

Also, if I’m going to start auditioning for roles, I have to look perfect.

Carrie was a little surprised when I told her this morning I wanted to get into acting.

“I can’t really see it,” she said. “What happened to your business development jobs? I thought you’ve been interviewing.”

I shrugged. “I prefer the television industry. I like being in
the public eye. Will you keep me on as a client? Start sending me to auditions? If I don’t win the show, I mean.”

She agreed.

When my forty-five minutes are up, I head over to the weights, and pass the pool on the way.

I haven’t swum in forever. But there’s no time. The Stairmaster is a better workout than swimming, isn’t it?

The pool is open twenty-four hours. Maybe one night I should trade in sleep for a swim.

All week, I’ve been unsuccessfully scanning the room for Karen Dansk from Women’s Network. When
Party Girls
is done, I’m going to call her. Why not? She said I should call her if I need anything. Maybe she can get me a role on a new sitcom.

Also, I was warned I’d be expected to sport a bathing suit this week. The impetus for the Page Six fiasco was me telling Steve I was heading off to Stark’s to buy a new one and he insisted on coming with me.

“What do you think of this one?” I asked, modeling a red string bikini as he sat on the changing room floor, playing with threads in the carpet.

His eyes popped out of his head as if attached to Slinkies. “Are you insane?”

“What’s wrong?”

“You…can’t show that much skin on television. It’s a G-rated show. Try on this.” He passed me a one-piece black suit.

“It’s so boring.” I said. I don’t even recognize the label. Swimfun. I’m not wearing something from designed by Swimfun. What’s Swimfun?

“It’s practical. You need something sporty. You don’t want your top flying off in the middle.”

We settled on a one-piece black Calvin Klein suit. It was sexy, covered what Steve deemed to be enough skin, and…well it was Calvin Klein.

Steve has been acting all weird-ed out since the L.A. dis
cussion. I’ve caught him staring at me oddly more than a few times, as if he’s trying to figure me out.

Wait a second. Did he lose my clothes…on purpose? To make a point about my clothes? How he thinks I’m putting my new self before him?

I’ll kill him if he did that on purpose.

Especially if I need to get all new clothes. Maybe Miche will go shopping with me. Yeah right. I’ve been trying to make shopping plans with Miche all week, but she didn’t call me back until yesterday, when she wanted me to come over and watch a movie. Of course I went. I’m not sure why I keep running to her every time she deigns to allow me the honor of her company. Of course when I was there, we laughed all night, and I forgot I was angry with her for not returning my calls right away.

“She sounds a lot like your father,” Steve had commented Wednesday night when I complained that I hadn’t heard from her. “She uses people.”

“You don’t even know her,” I said in defense. “She’s just busy.”

I knew he was right. She did remind me of my father. I was always calling him for plans, too, and he never called me back right away, either. Since I’ve moved here, I’ve called him at least twice a week to say hello, to make lunch/dinner plans. I speak to his secretary more than I speak to him.

Today’s second epiphany: I don’t think my father’s ever called the apartment. Does he even know the number?

I’ve seen him three times since I moved here. The first two were Carrie’s idea. Granted, the last was his. But only after I bumped into him when he was buying a jacket.

Fantastic. Let’s tally up. Family. My father is avoiding me. My only other family member, my sister, keeps harassing me with her “Purity tampons are destroying the world” diatribes, so I never call her back. The worst part is she’s most likely right, so as well as being a terrible relative, I’m personally responsible for the probable illness of millions of women.

Now friends. Miche never returns my calls. There used to be Millie. But I haven’t been very good at keeping in touch, and the truth is whenever we do talk, our realities are too different now to really relate. There’s Carrie, of course. But does she count as a friend when our relationship often feels like it’s based on barter? She gives me heads-up about the show, I give her heads-up about my father. How can I truly trust someone whose presence is based solely on circumstance and need? There’s Brittany. But she’s too dumb for me to ever bond with. Of course, there’s Erin. But I can’t imagine she’ll ever speak to me again after Saturday.

“I want Erin off,” Miche had said in the VIP room, eyes gleaming. “She’s a vile sketch-ball and I want to dump that Cosmo right over her head.”

I didn’t have the stomach to spill a drink over anyone’s head, never mind a girl who was about to have her dreams crushed.

After Miche soaked her, the crowd went wild.

Erin was drenched, her outfit stained, her hair tinted pink. She spun around and stabbed her finger at Miche. “You enjoyed that, you bitch, didn’t you?”

If the cameras weren’t there I think she would have punched Miche in the face.

“Omigod, what a freak,” Miche said, squeezing my hand.

Erin didn’t say goodbye, she just stormed off. Dirk tried to follow her with his camera, but she kneed him in the groin.

Poor Erin. I should call her and make sure she’s okay. Although she probably wants nothing to do with me.

And now men. Steve. My boyfriend who has become highly possessive and loses my stuff on purpose.

Not that I don’t deserve it. I forget plans. I’ve reshuffled him to the bottom of my priority list. I’m always bitchy. I won’t admit to anyone that he exists. And I’ve been fantasizing about another guy.

I’m the worst live-in girlfriend ever.

The worst part is I don’t even feel bad. Shouldn’t I feel terrible for the way I’m behaving toward him?

Matt and my e-mails have increased to once a day. Nothing crazy or explicit or technically cheating. But flirty enough to make me delete them as soon as I hit Send, and then delete them from my Deleted file.

I think I hate myself.

After finishing with the weights, I change in the locker room and walk back home. Taped to the wall of the elevator is a poster that says, “Have you seen me?”

Underneath are drawings of women’s shirts and jeans and men’s boxers. Underneath the drawings is the following message:

Help! I belong to a nice lady whose silly boyfriend accidentally and very regretfully left me in this elevator on Thursday night. You may have found me in the lost and found basket. If so, I would sincerely appreciate if you could bring me back to my owner. Please call 555-1676 and help me find my way home.

 

I can’t suppress a grin.

Why is it that I’m so mean and he’s still so sweet? That’s it. No more Matt e-mails. No more bitchiness. Steve is adorable and I’m going to treat him like he deserves to be treated.

When I open the door, the lights are off. Steve isn’t home yet, but my gray Nicole Miller sweater is spread diagonally across the bedspread, arms crossed.

There’s a message on the machine from Carrie:

“Hi, hon. Listen, Howard wants to shake things up a bit tomorrow. Instead of you girls getting ready at the Bolton Hotel, he wants to take some footage of you getting ready at your own apartments, now that there are only three of you.” She pauses. “I tried to talk him out of it, but no luck. Apparently some of the viewers have written in about wanting to see where you live. They’re all confused about why we film you at a hotel. I’m not sure what you want to do—
I had to tell him you lived downtown, but I said I didn’t know the exact address. He was just happy all three of you live on the island so the crew doesn’t have to do too much traveling. Do you have a friend’s place you can use? I’d tell you to use mine, but Howard knows where I live. Let me know.”

I guess it’s convenient for them that we kicked Erin off. She lived all the way in Brooklyn.