Flash Point (16 page)

Alex said quietly, “Porn has nothing to do with this. On my old show nobody died.”

Myra wasn’t listening. She watched Kaylie as half the crowd swung their gaze to her voluptuous nakedness, allowing the man with the bullhorn to seize their attention long enough to prevent more deaths.

Myra said, “Too bad she’s not a player on the show.”

Alex said with sudden harshness, “You know about her—she’s been phoning both of us nonstop. She’s fifteen. Underage.”

“A shame,” Myra said. She drummed her long manicured fingernails on the tabletop. “Really a shame. I think we might have auditioned the wrong sister.”

Seventeen

W
EDNESDAY

WHEN AMY REPORTED
to work on Wednesday, the front of the TLN building showed no sign of yesterday’s mob. Amy felt heavy-eyed, having watched TV news far into the night. Over and over again came grainy shots of Kaylie, captured on a hundred cell phones held up in windows or on the edges of the crowd. Kaylie herself had not come home, phoning to say excitedly that “some people from the protest” were putting her up for the night. Before Amy could object, Kaylie had clicked off.

Violet met Amy by the employees’ entrance to TLN. “Hey, you don’t look so good, One Two Three.”

“I’m fine.”

“If you say so.” Violet offered no comment about Kaylie, for which Amy was grateful. Instead Violet said, “So tonight’s the second half of our great debut. Can I watch again at your place?”

“Sure.”

Inside, the security guard consulted a tablet. “Ms. Kent, Ms. Sanderson—you report this morning to Room Five-forty-six.”

Amy said, “What’s Room Five-forty-six?”

“Fifth is a studio floor,” the guard said. “I don’t know what the room is.”

It turned out to be Hair and Makeup.

“Well, well,” Violet said. “Are we under orders to get makeovers? Just so long as nobody cuts my hair.”

The room was full of actresses being worked on for various shows. Amy recognized none of them, but then she didn’t watch the melodramas that were TLN’s staples. A small man with a head as bald as an egg rushed up to them.

“Ah, yes, Amy and Violet. I’m Enrique. Let me see. . . .” Experimentally he lifted a hank of Amy’s barely combed hair. “Tragic, really tragic. When were you last shaped?”

Amy demanded, “Did Myra order a haircut for me?”

“That and more. Much more. You will leave here a different person, my dear. And a far prettier one. You, Violet—you’re not doing too badly already but those brows—no, no.”

“Bring it on,” Violet said. “Just don’t touch the hair.”

Enrique called an assistant, who led Violet away. Enrique said to Amy, “I will do you myself—you practically need an
intervention
. This way. I see hours of work ahead of us. Can I get you some tea? Mineral water?”

“Coffee, please.” She felt resigned, even though she didn’t really like being fussed over. This was what Myra had ordered. And it was better than reviewing more children’s learning games.
Put the bug on the rug
.

“Coffee—no, no. Bad for both the complexion and the teeth. Perhaps that is why yours so badly need whitening.”

Amy, who thought her teeth were sufficiently white, settled for mineral water. Then she settled in for eight hours of being fussed over.

The first five hours were the worst. Amy’s hair was washed, colored, frosted, cut, blown out, all of which involved multiple products with multiple odors both good and bad.

Put the messes on the tresses
.

Her brows were waxed, her legs were waxed, and only because she adamantly refused was she spared a bikini wax. Her teeth were whitened. A facial mask was troweled onto her skin and the greenish stuff, which smelled of some sort of vegetable, hardened and tightened until it was ripped off.

Pull all trace from the face
.

“Aaahhh,” breathed Enrique. “See how much better!”

To Amy her skin didn’t look all that different from before, but she smiled obligingly at Enrique.

He said, “You begin to look presentable. Now, makeup. Clothilde!”

A woman rushed over. Heavyset and dressed in shapeless black, she had the most penetrating gaze that Amy had ever seen. Clothilde took Amy’s face in her hand, forcefully turned it this way and that, and said doubtfully, “Well . . .”

What did that mean? Amy said, “I don’t really wear very much makeup except maybe a little—”

Clothilde ignored her. She and Enrique launched into a product discussion, most of which sounded unintelligible. Amy resigned herself anew, except for the occasional frown when Clothilde applied yet another layer of something.

“Face still!” Clothilde said. “Did the ceiling twist around like that while Michelangelo was painting? No, don’t you laugh, either! You are a marble statue—you hear me? You are the
Venus de Milo
!”

Who didn’t wear makeup
, Amy thought. She kept her face still.

When Clothilde was done, Amy was allowed to stand up. Enrique rushed over—nobody here seemed capable of moving at less than a run—and he and Clothilde walked around Amy, regarding their results from every angle while she gazed at her reflection in the mirror.

She both was and was not herself. Prettier, yes—that couldn’t be questioned. Her heavy, honey-colored hair now waved in artful, tousled layers to her shoulders, with side-swept bangs and more volume on the top. Her skin, which was not flawless, appeared to be so, and her eyes looked much larger, framed by twice as many lashes as before. The lids shaded from taupe to a subtle blue, deepening the color of her irises. Her teeth gleamed between lips colored rose. Prettier—but a little like a doll.

“I—” she began, not sure what she was going to say. It didn’t matter; Enrique interrupted her.

“Now wash it all off.”

“Wash it off?”

“Yes, of course. For the lessons. You must learn to do this yourself, my dear. I cannot attend to you every morning. I have everyone to do!” His arm swept grandly to encompass the rest of the room, in which no one else remained. Violet and Waverly had left long ago, apparently needing less correction than Amy.

She took off her makeup, put it on, took it off, put it on, while Enrique despaired and Clothilde told her to be Georges Seurat, not Jackson Pollock. “Small brush strokes! Small! Do not just pour the product on!”

When they were satisfied—or possibly just exhausted—Amy was released. She got up from the makeup chair with profound relief.

“Now, do it that way every morning,” Enrique said. “Here is your tote of product and tools. And here comes Serena.”

Serena was a six-foot-tall black woman, the most elegant creature that Amy had ever seen. Amy’s eyes went hungrily over the Prada skirt, top by a designer so “now” that Amy couldn’t even name him, and Christian Louboutin gladiator sandals whose heels added another two inches to Serena’s height. Thin as a model but several decades older, Serena studied Amy and then said, “Size six petite, thirty-four B, twenty-nine inseam, five and a half shoe?”

Amy stood speechless.

“What you’re wearing isn’t too bad”—the jeans and sweater that Violet had picked out—“but we can do better. Follow me.”

For the next two hours Serena had Amy try on clothes in what looked like a vast department store on the eighth floor. Each time anything was pulled over her head, Amy’s entire face was swaddled like a mummy to avoid getting makeup stains on any cloth. Serena did not permit talking, so Amy longed in silence as one gorgeous, expensive outfit succeeded another on her body. Serena sat in a chair and made notes on a tablet as assistants sprang forward to swaddle Amy, clothe Amy, reswaddle Amy, unclothe Amy, rush to and fro with thousands of dollars’ worth of clothing in their arms. The labels went by like a parade of fireworks: Dolce & Gabbana, Zac Posen, Gary Graham, Isabel Marant, Christopher Kane, Ludie Barzak.

Finally, just as Amy didn’t think her legs could support her motionless posture any longer, Serena stood. “All right,” she said in the cool voice that Amy had hardly heard for three hours. “You can dress and go home.”

“And the clothes—”

“Will be delivered to your home tomorrow morning, of course. Here is the list I’ve chosen for you, with the combinations you are to wear to work for the rest of the week. Do not soil them; dry-cleaning is picked up only on Fridays, delivered back Sunday afternoon. Make sure your doorman expects all deliveries and gets them to you promptly, unless your bodyguard has that duty. Good-bye. It would be well if you lost four pounds.” Serena walked out, leaving Amy openmouthed.

Doorman? Bodyguard? What universe did Serena live in?

On the bus home she studied the list. She was apparently receiving eight pieces, which could be mixed and matched. Amy could hardly read Serena’s spidery handwriting without being swamped by disbelief:

Layered silk top (Gary Graham)

Basic white tee (Alexander Wang)

Shirred top (Escada)

Sweater in dull bronze (Vince)

Mosaic-print miniskirt (D&G)

Black denim jeans (7 For All Mankind)

Silk charmeuse pleated pants (Chloé)

Cropped leather jacket (Fendi)

Calfskin sandals (Miu Miu), Manolo B. heels, Prada boots

Could this be true? Would she get to keep the clothes? What if she tore or otherwise damaged any of them? Who would receive the package—Mrs. Raduski hardly qualified as a “doorman.” Had Violet and Waverly received outfits, too? And the boys?

In the midst of all her questions, Amy had only one sure answer: Myra Townsend must expect the show tonight to be a success. And if it wasn’t?

Well, the clothes weren’t here yet.

* * *

At eight p.m. Amy, Violet, and Kaylie lined up on the sofa. Gran sat in the old easy chair. Amy had made popcorn, which no one was eating.

“Well,” Violet said, “here goes nothing.”

Kaylie shot Violet a look of dislike. The two had not hit it off well. Kaylie, however, had behaved herself, which seemed to Amy almost as ominous as her refusal to explain where she had spent last night, or with whom, or how she had gotten involved with the anti-merger protestors in the first place. Neither had she said anything about Amy’s makeover beyond a single “Wow.” Violet, to Amy’s eyes, looked exactly the same; either she had resisted being transformed or else had washed everything off her strong-featured face.

Gran, looking drawn but bright-eyed, said, “I hardly know what to expect.”

Neither did Amy. Her chest tightened around her lungs. The show’s atonal music began, strange and menacing, building to the title:

WHO KNOWS PEOPLE, BABY—YOU?

The teenage hosts appeared, briefly reexplained the show’s setup, and then reran the clips of the seven encountering the “homeless” predator in the alley. The girl kept up a running patter that mostly came down to “What did she do?” “What did he do?”

“Annoying,” Violet said.

The list of possible actions flashed onto the screen:

1. Fights—and wins!
   
2. Tries to run—and escapes!
   
3. Tries to run—and is caught!
   
4. Strikes a bargain with the attacker!
   
5. Freezes and cries!
   

“So,” the girl said, somehow making it sound like a threat, “who knows people? You, baby? Let’s see how each of these people
really
behaved.”

Waverly, in a body-hugging silk dress, was thrust out of a door into the alley lined with blue Dumpsters and encountered the “dying” actor bleeding and gasping on the ground. She took a path as far away from him as possible and kept on going. When he leaped up and caught her, she screamed and struggled. Amy felt her breath come faster, remembering her own terror in the alley. But then Waverly stopped fighting and said levelly, “Let me go and I can get you money. A lot of money. A very lot—my father is a rich man!”

The actor paused. “How much?”

Kaylie laughed sourly. “She’s going to buy her way out!”

And she did. Deftly Waverly negotiated an amount and a “safe” way to convey the money. The man negotiated guarantees that she would not call the police: “I know your name, your address, your schedule, and I have friends—screw me now and you’ll never be safe again.” They came to an agreement, and Waverly ran from the alley, graceful even in her Ferragamo heels. The screen flashed: “WAVERLY: Strikes a bargain with the attacker!”

Violet said, “Good thing she’s got such a rich daddy.”

Gran said, “She’s smart but heartless,” which seemed to Amy dead accurate.

Cai was next. Kaylie leaned forward, absorbed, her full lips parted a little. Cai tried to call for help on his cell, which of course had its signal jammed. When the man attacked, Cai, bigger and stronger, easily fought him off, got him in a headlock, dragged him from the alley, and started to call the police as the clip ended. The screen showed “CAI: Fights—and wins!”

“Our do-good hero,” Violet said.

Lynn was up. While the actor still pretended to lie helpless and bleeding on the ground, Lynn went through his pockets and stole his wallet and keys. When he grabbed her, she used her keys on his face and the clip ended with “LYNN: Fights—and wins!”

Kaylie said, “That clip was short. I bet she really maimed him.”

Rafe first tried to assess the man’s medical condition, asking questions and taking vital signs. When the man attacked, Rafe reacted instantly. He was shorter and lighter than the attacker, but much faster. Slipping out from his grasp, he dodged and feinted until he escaped the alley. “RAFE: Tries to run—and escapes!”

Amy watched herself appear on-screen. It was excruciating. She jumped on the Dumpsters, ran over them, almost got away but chose a wrong turn and ended up trapped against the building. “AMY: Tries to run—and is caught!”