Sellevision (9 page)

Then Peggy Jean read her E-mail messages. A few of them asked about the watch she was wearing on a recent broadcast. A couple of them were book recommendations, one of which she made a note of (she’d always been a sucker for Western romance novels). And one of the E-mails was from Zoe.

To: [email protected]

Fr: [email protected]

Subject:Too good for me, huh?

I get it, Peggy Jean. I’m no fool. Go ahead and hide behind your hairspray and your clumpy mascara. But make no mistake: your utter selfishness has not gone unnoticed. And sure, while the hair on your earlobes may be gone, you are still a HAIRY BITCH with a mustache—and the only reason I didn’t mention the mustache thing to you before is because I, unlike you, am a person who cares about the feelings of another person.

You snotty, fake woman: You just wait: That “hubby” of yours is going to open his eyes one morning very soon and see this bleach-blond, artificial cow sleeping next to him and he’s going to go out and find himself a REAL woman who UNDERSTANDS THE CONCEPT OF BODILY MAINTENANCE, who doesn’t require a complete stranger to tell her to pull herself together. And who doesn’t sound like a logger. Fuck you and your screwy hormones.

Go to hell,

Zoe :(

“
A mustache?
” Peggy Jean cried, then immediately retrieved the compact from her purse and checked her reflection. What she saw was shocking: faint—but present—hairs along her upper lip. She snapped the compact shut and tossed it back into her purse.

How could she have missed them?

Oh, and the awful, putrid tone of that letter! How could this Zoe person say such horrible things? And yet, she’d been right about the mustache. And what was that about sounding like a logger? Peggy Jean had sung soprano in high school. Was her voice actually changing, becoming deeper? Was Zoe right about
that
, too? Peggy Jean immediately picked up the telephone and dialed her physician. Something was definitely wrong.

“Dr. Stewart’s office, may I help you?” said the voice on the other end of the line.

“Yes, I need to speak with Dr. Stewart.” Peggy Jean drummed her fingers on her desktop.

“I’m sorry, she’s with a patient right now. May I take a message?”

“This is
an emergency
,” Peggy Jean exploded. “
Please.
”

The receptionist sighed and placed Peggy Jean on hold.

A few moments later, Dr. Stewart came on the line. “Is something the matter Peggy Jean? Are you okay?”

“Dr. Stewart, did you get my test results back yet?”

“Test results?” the doctor asked.

“Yes, my test results, you know, for my hormonal condition, my
female problems?
”

The doctor chuckled. “Oh, now I remember. Yes, of course I got the results back. I told you that I’d call you if anything was the matter, and everything is, of course, perfectly fine, so I didn’t call.”

“But it can’t be fine, something’s wrong!” Peggy Jean’s voice cracked with panic. “I have an actual mustache now, it’s spread from my ears to my face.”

“Peggy Jean, I really can’t speak right now, I have a patient. But let me assure you that everything is normal with your blood work, there’s nothing hormonal the matter with you.”

In other words, Peggy Jean thought, whatever was wrong with her was going to remain untreated, left to take its own disastrous course. “Well, what am I supposed to do? I’m not imagining this, you know? My fans are noticing, I’m getting
letters
from them.”

“Peggy Jean, I’ve already explained this to you; we
all
have little hairs. I have little hairs,
you
have little hairs, even movie stars like Kathy Bates have little hairs. It’s just part of being human. Now good-bye, I must go.”

Dear God
, was she as hairy as Kathy Bates? “Wait, Dr. Stewart?” Peggy Jean pleaded. “Please, then, at least give me a little something to calm my nerves. I’m just very confused and upset.”

“Peggy Jean, please. Take up yoga or get a massage. Now if you don’t mind . . .”

“I can’t take up yoga!” Peggy Jean cried into the phone. “I’m on live television
constantly
; I don’t have time. Please, I can’t be anxious on
television
.”

The doctor was silent for a moment. “Okay, Peggy, here’s what I’ll do: I’ll phone in a prescription—just a small one—for Valium, and you can pick it up at CVS, okay? And remember, they’re just for anxiety attacks.”

She was flooded with relief and gratitude. “Yes, yes, good, thank you. All right then, good-bye, Doctor.” After Peggy Jean hung up, she replied to the hateful E-mail.

To: [email protected]

Fr: [email protected]

Subject: Re: Too good for me, huh?

While Peggy Jean does read all of her E-mail, it’s impossible for her to reply personally to each and every person. Therefore, she has asked me to write you on her behalf and thank you for your kind words and for taking the time to write. Peggy Jean hopes that you continue to enjoy Sellevision and she looks forward to shopping with you in the future.

It then occurred to her that Zoe might not be a stranger at all, but one of the other hosts. A disgruntled host. Perhaps a host who had been recently fired?

Max had always acted strange around her. What was it about him? He was so . . .
happy
. Happy-go-lucky Max. Peggy Jean bit her lip. It made sense. Max
was
homosexual, after all. And those homosexuals were constantly holding angry marches or demonstrations and carrying picket signs. Not to mention those red ribbons they always wore.
Blood
-red ribbons. They were so confrontational. Peggy Jean shivered as a chill went down her spine. The sad but true fact of life was that not everybody was a good Christian. She would have to give this “Max/Zoe thing some more thought.

W

hat the hell are you telling me, Howard? Hmmm?” Leigh was blinking back tears, arms folded tightly across her chest, bold Stampato bracelet layered on her arm with a sterling Greek Key two-inch-wide cuff.

Howard, sitting at his desk, was trying to explain the meaninglessness of the two American Airlines round-trip tickets from Philadelphia to St. Barts that the travel department had just delivered to him. The skin on his face was smooth and moisturized from an afternoon facial. Explaining the trip he was taking with his wife had turned out to be more complicated than he had anticipated. But what did he think? That Leigh would wrap her arms around him and say, “I understand, darling”?

“Leigh—honey—it’s not what it seems like. I swear—I’m going to bring up the divorce the moment we get back, maybe even on the plane ride home.”

Leigh was still standing across from him with her eyes trained on the ceiling.

“Look, Leigh, I love
you
, it’s you that I love. It’s just that if I don’t take this trip with her, it’ll make everything worse. She’s liable to explode and contest the divorce. But giving her a chance to relax, beforehand—it’s a strategy, Leigh, that’s all it is—a strategy.”

“This is just so . . .” Leigh was struggling to maintain her composure, struggling hard not to simply pick the onyx-handled letter opener up off his desk and plunge it into his neck. “. . . I feel, I don’t know,
used
. This is just not what I want for myself.”

Rising from his chair and going over to Leigh, Howard—gently, slowly—placed his hands on her shoulders.

She looked away from him.

“Leigh, I mean it when I tell you that this is for the best, it’s for us. Trust me, please? Don’t give up on us, Leigh.”

“So how long are you going to be away?”

“It’s just for a week, baby, that’s all—a week.”

“And you swear that you’ll tell her after?”

Wrapping Leigh in his arms, he held her tight. “Yes, yes, I promise with all my heart . . . a heart that no longer belongs to me.”

She relaxed against him.

He made a mental note to ask his personal trainer about the whole fiber vs. carbohydrate issue, and what it really meant in terms of fat.

D

on, the Good Morning Show host, was angrily storming down the hallway in Peggy Jean’s direction.

“Don, what’s the matter? Are you okay? What is it?”

“Oh, hi Peggy Jean, no, I’m fine, it’s just that . . .” Flustered, he made the gesture of a handgun with his index finger and thumb, aimed it at his temple, fired. “
Pow
.”

“Now don’t even joke about that, Don.”

“Sorry. Anyway, I’m in the kitchen set doing a Creative Cooking thing, right? And I’m in the middle of presenting that nineteen-inch Stick-Not frying pan, and the omelet that I’m making, which is supposed to like,
glide
out of the skillet, sticks, and then starts to burn and it’s all black and smoking and I’m scraping at it. Then the plastic handle catches fire. It was just a disaster; they had to cut away to a Yanni promo.”

Peggy Jean sighed. “Oh, Dan, I’m sorry, how frustrating. It’s happened to all of us.” Though nothing like this had ever happened to her
personally
.

“My
mother
was watching!”

“Well, I’m sure she’ll understand. Live television doesn’t always go smoothly,” she said. Then she noticed that the bald spot on top of Don’s head was shiny. She thought it must create a hot spot on camera. But now was not the time to mention it and perhaps suggest Propecia.

“No, she won’t understand. Ever since Nancy left me for her personal trainer, my mother has been convinced that my daughter is malnourished. Now she has her proof that I can’t cook and am an unfit parent.”

Peggy Jean touched the sleeve of Don’s shirt reassuringly.

“I’m not kidding, Peggy Jean. I guarantee you my mother will be on the next plane out here.”

“Oh, Don—all I can think to tell you is, let go and let God.”

“Gee, thanks, Peggy Jean,” Don said sarcastically, shaking his head.

“You’re welcome,” Peggy Jean said earnestly.

As she turned and walked away she thought to herself that helping other people, even if only to give advice, really did lift one’s own spirits. And when she reached her office, she was smiling.

Until she sat at her computer and saw that she had received yet another E-mail from Zoe.

To: [email protected]

Fr: [email protected]

Subject: Re: Re: Too good for me, huh?

I’m getting a little sick and tired of your fucking form letters. You treat me like shit, I treat you like shit. Deal? Deal. It’s called having a taste of your own lousy medicine. Mustache cunt.

Zoe

Peggy Jean immediately looked away from the computer screen, horrified, and checked her watch. Less than an hour had passed between this E-mail and the last.
Less than an hour
. Her finger trembled as she brought it to her upper lip, touching, feeling the
hairs
. Thank God she’d phoned Dr. Stewart.

Peggy Jean sent her standard reply and then drove straight to the CVS pharmacy. She picked up her prescription and a bottle of Jolen Creme Bleach.

six

“H
ow wonderful to see you, Peggy Jean. Just take a seat and I’ll let Claude know you’re here.”

Peggy Jean made herself comfortable in one of the black leather petite Le Corbusier chairs of the salon. The air was filled with the scent of narcissus blossoms and ammonia-free semipermanent hair coloring. Setting her emerald green faux crocodile handbag on the floor beside her, Peggy Jean picked up one of the magazines off the glass-topped table in front of her and began leafing through the pages.

A moment later Claude’s assistant, Mia, arrived with a tray on which was a tiny cup of espresso, some milk, and two little blue packets of Nutrasweet.

“Oh, Mia! You’re a doll, thank you so, so much,” Peggy Jean gushed.

Mia set the tray down on the table. “He’ll just be a few more minutes, he’s finishing up a comb-out.”

Peggy Jean tore open one of the blue Nutrasweet packets and sprinkled half of it into her espresso. Then she added just the smallest drop of milk. She thumbed through the magazine, pausing occasionally to smell the scent-strips attached to the perfume ads. She enjoyed many of the fragrances, especially Gucci’s Envy, but her own Giorgio was still her favorite. Coming across a picture of Michelle Pfeiffer in the magazine, Peggy Jean wondered if she should maybe have reverse-highlights instead.