Girl Before a Mirror (18 page)

“Okay.”

“It was Chuck. Chuck Holloway? That's who I had that date with and that's who I've been texting,” Sasha says. She breathes. “So go ahead. Tell me I'm terrible. But you know what? You don't even have to! I know I'm terrible. I was looking at those rules last night or this morning, I don't know, it's been kind of a haze, but I wasn't doing any of that. I wasn't doing anything in Helen's book; I wasn't even doing anything from the romance novels that I say I love. Nothing. And there I was talking to you about how you should do this and ‘well, in romance novels that means that,' and I was the one who was going behind your back with the villain!”

“The villain?”

“Yeah. I mean, if this were a romance novel, wouldn't Chuck Holloway totally be the villain of my story?”

“Him tricking you to his apartment would make a pretty good argument,” I say.

“I know, but I told myself—lied to myself, really—that I should be flattered. He'd gone to all that trouble just to go on a date with me. Wasn't it romantic?”

“No. No, it is not.”

“No, it is not,” Sasha repeats. “It's creepy.”

“Not for nothing? If you take a scene or relationship out of a romantic comedy and put it into real life, though? A lot of it? Creepy.”

“Right?”

“Oh, absolutely. I can see why you liked him.”

“He was funny.”

“I can see that.”

“He'd been flirting with me for months before he made his move. I thought it was cute. What I was texting about in the elevator—remember?”

“I think so,” I say. I absolutely remember and it's been killing me.

“A girlfriend of mine who still works at the club where I used to run the coat check said he'd been playing the same old line on another of the waitresses there. This time he was going on and on about how smart she was and how she could totally come work for him and . . . well, basically all the same stuff.”

“Oh, sweetie. I'm so sorry.”

“Me too. I'm pissed that it took something like that for me to see it. Like . . . what if I'd never found out? Am I really not able to police myself? You know what I mean?”

“I think you're being a bit hard on yourself.”

Sasha flounces off to the bathroom and calls out, “I should have known.”

“Sasha, you're not the bad guy in this scenario. Chuck is. It's not a bad thing that you're a romantic. It really isn't.” She walks out of the bathroom and steps into her stiletto heels, grabs her
glittery clutch, and motions for me to head out. I stand and follow her out of the room.

“You're sweet, but it kind of is. Because I'm a romantic with a self-esteem problem. Which means I build romance novels around losers. All they have to do is show up and I fill in the rest.”

“Join the club,” I say, as we rush down the hotel hallway.

“I was thinking about your ‘Thunder Road' story,” she says.

“Oh?”

“I think I need a Time-Out, too,” she says. “Because you're right, it's not a bad thing that I'm a romantic. I just need to stop falling for the villain. Because right now? I'm the poor girl that gets shot jumping in front of some loser as he holds the hero and heroine hostage, you know what I mean?”

“I think I do.”

“Aww, you finally speak romance novel,” she says. I can't help but laugh and, oh my God, it feels amazing. It's so needed.

In the elevator, Sasha looks at herself in the silvery reflection of the closed doors and couldn't be less impressed with what she sees. She is quite literally the most beautiful woman I've ever seen in real life. And like a lightning bolt, it hits me. I finally get what we're trying to do with the Lumineux campaign.

I remember when Sasha and I were back in D.C. and I had one of those green drinks that I'd started drinking. I felt very smug and noble touting the beauty of cold-pressed this and four-times-the-vegetables that and “it really should be in a glass bottle, but . . .” When Sasha asked me about it, I insinuated that she should drink them, not because they're healthy and she's healthy and everything's great, but because
something was lacking in her diet and the juices would “fix” things. That's what we do in advertising. We're the frenemy who makes you feel just bad enough that you'll reach for our product to fix you. Sure, you're passable, but with this? You could be perfect. For now. And this tactic works like a charm because it mirrors how we women communicate with the people we call friends. How many times have I sat across from someone who “meant well” and been shamed into trying some new exercise program or cleanse or makeup or salon treatment?

That's what's at the root of Helen Brubaker's success. She doesn't make women feel lacking in any way. Hers is not a dating book based on how you can change yourself to best ensnare some low-hanging fruit. No.
Be the Heroine
is a phenomenon because it finally does the one thing women have been waiting for: it respects them.

“If you think you need a Time-Out, then . . . I trust you,” I say, as we step out of the elevator and make our way through the lobby. Sasha just looks at me. Brow furrowed. Her mouth opens and closes as she stops and starts several sentences. I say, “You know what's best for you, so . . .” Sasha's eyes narrow. I give our ticket to the valet.

“So you think I should?” Sasha finally asks.

“I can definitely say that my Time-Out changed the trajectory of my life.”

“I want that. I want a new trajectory.”

“Then there's your answer,” I say, as the valet brings around our car. Sasha is quiet as we drive to the conference hotel. She's elsewhere. That makes two of us. She spins her cell around in
her hands and has taken to reading passing signs for Phoenix businesses out loud. We pull up to the conference hotel, valet our car, take the same escalators up, up, up, and—

We are met with every kind of rendition of gangsta/gangster one could imagine. Women in 1940s garb with plastic tommy guns next to B-boys and super 1980s break-dancers with clocks around their necks and a few flappers here and there. One thing is for certain: this is the night everyone went all out.

“Why are you not more mad about the Chuck Holloway thing?” Sasha asks.

“I don't know. It's in the past and . . .” I stop. We're threading through the crowd, winding our way back into the Silver Ballroom.

“And?” Sasha asks, pulling her black dress down a bit.

“And you're my friend,” I say.

“I am?” Sasha asks.

“Yeah,” I say.

“Why am I crying?” Sasha asks.

“I don't know, but . . .” I realize I'm a bit misty-eyed as well. “I feel like I'm seven years old or something.”

“I feel like we've been in Phoenix forever,” Sasha says, pulling a tissue from her glittery clutch.

“Me too.”

We crane our necks to see which of the doors is unlocked as the crowd of gangsta women begins to line up for tonight's festivities.

“Anna?” Sasha says. We try a couple of doors. Locked.

“Yeah?” A single door on the far end of the hallway opens and Ginny Barton peeks out. She motions for us.

“You're my friend, too.” I smile at her as we hurry toward Ginny. We squeeze past her and she slams the door behind us.

The ballroom has been transformed. Rows of chairs fill the room awaiting the horde of women who gather just outside. The stage is done up just as it was the night the contestants were announced; their banners still hang from the rafters. Conference volunteers bustle around the room with chairs and placards and headsets and clipboards all while garbed in full gangster regalia. There is no sign of the contestants. Probably backstage primping.

“Thank you for coming; it's quite crazy here,” Ginny says. She then offers an answer, a direction, and a nod to three volunteers asking three different questions. Ginny is wearing a beautiful fringed silver dress right out of the 1920s, her curly brown hair tamed with a sparkly headband and accented with a large white feather at her temple.

“Everything looks amazing,” I say, taking it all in.

“We didn't dress up,” Sasha says, stating the obvious.

“Don't you worry about that,” Ginny says, giving Sasha a maternal pat. Sasha softens.

“Exciting night,” I say.

“It is, indeed,” Ginny says. Sasha gives me a look. Exciting night? I just shrug. Not all my material is going to be revolutionary.

A harried volunteer. And another. A quick sound check. A lighting check. Another emergency, another fire to put out, and Ginny scans the room for anything else that needs her attention. Sasha and I are hovering. Droolingly hovering.

“Ms. Dayal is already at the judges' table along with Mr. Grant. If you could,” Ginny says, motioning for us to join them.

“Oh, right. Okay, good luck tonight,” I say.

“And you,” she says and is off to open the doors. “I'll join you as soon as we let everyone in.” Sasha and I make our way to the judges' table, which is situated on risers right in front of the long walkway extending from the stage. Sasha slows as we near the judges' table. Ryder.

“This is where I used to have to slink up here. But now?” Sasha motions for us to climb the stairs to the judges' table. I oblige her. The volunteers at the base of the steps check our badges and wave us on. I grab the cold metal handrail. Sasha's shoulders are back, her head held high. “Hey, Ryder.” A little wave, a hair flip, and Sasha slides into her seat. Ryder can only shift in his chair and check his phone. I settle in next to Preeti, letting Sasha take the seat at the far end. Sasha can't stop smiling.

“I've got to admit, this is all very exciting,” Preeti says. The room quickly fills with costumed, excited women streaming into their seats, ready for the show. The ambient music thumps and pulsates just below the growing din. Groups of women pose for photos, explosions of laughter dot the room, and the strobe lights whip and move around the ceiling. This is like nothing I've ever seen.

“They do put on quite a show,” I say, scanning the judging sheets in front of me. The different categories and criteria are both elaborate and quite scientific—especially for judging something like “beach bod,” which is an actual category I'm supposed to be the expert on. As the sound in the room builds, Ginny joins us at the judges' table and settles in next to Ryder. The feather on her headband hangs over him like a question mark, tickling the top of his head. He has no idea what it is and keeps waving away what he thinks is an annoying fly. It's amazing.

“Welcome to Mr. RomanceCon!” Helen Brubaker's voice rings throughout the Silver Ballroom like a bell. She appears through the silver lamé curtains wearing a phenomenal ball gown. She holds up a hand as she settles in behind the podium and the ballroom shushes into silence.

“Ladies? Are you ready?”

The entire Silver Ballroom erupts in
Yes!!

“Then let's get to it.”

And the ballroom falls into blackness as the opening chords to Joe Cocker's version of “You Can Leave Your Hat On” kicks in.

I hear Preeti gasp.

“Oh my God,” I say, as the silver lamé curtains open to reveal seven silhouettes.

Seven men. In 1940s-style suits. Fedoras tilted. With their backs to the audience. My mouth drops open. I hear Sasha dissolve into giggles next to me. Preeti scoots her chair closer.

A spotlight. Colt turns around.

A spotlight. Blaise turns around.

A spotlight. Tristan turns around.

A spotlight. Billy turns around.

A spotlight. Jake turns around.

A spotlight. Josh turns around.

A spotlight. Lantz turns around.

The women in the audience go crazy, and I can't wipe the smile from my face.

As the song continues, this quickly becomes a number one might see in Vegas or at The Naughty Kitty. Jackets come off slowly, fedoras are whipped into the audience, and suspenders get lusciously pulled down broad shoulders.

“But I thought the idea was to leave their hat on?” I whisper to Sasha as a fedora hits the judges' table and falls into the crowd
below. She laughs. Now shirts are unbuttoned and peeled down muscular arms to reveal bulging biceps and oiled-up chests and and and . . . The expertise among the contestants and their ideas of come-hither dancing cover the entire spectrum. For men like Billy and Blaise (hahaha), it comes down to how fervently they thrust their crotches at the audience. AT THE AUDIENCE.
AT
!
THE!
AUDIENCE!
For men like Colt and Tristan, it's your basic hot guy dancing. No rhythm, but looka this bicep and looka this six-pack and whaddaya think of this, though . . . aaaand thrust. Jake and Lantz actually look like they're having a good time, dancing and playing to the audience. I do love a man who can dance. And then there's Josh, who just looks kind of embarrassed, fumbling with his clothes and oh, did taking off my shirt reveal an incredible body? Sigh . . . This ole thing? And that's why he's the favorite. He's Lewis Carroll's snark. He's the elusive unicorn. He's the guy who's model-hot but doesn't know it. Although he
did
sign up for the pageant in the first place. So . . .

The song comes to an end and the men are all standing on the stage in various stages of undress. The crowd goes wild.

Right then, Helen Brubaker walks out in front of all seven men, her eyes flicking over every inch of them with an arched eyebrow and a crooked smile. She's now dressed in a beautiful one-shouldered, floor-length black gown. And the diamonds. Oh my God, the diamonds. The spotlight finds her and the men retreat backstage for the next phase of the pageant.

“Welcome to the final night of RomanceCon! You all look amazing,” she says, shielding her eyes from the bright spotlight to take in the audience fully. “While our seven handsome contestants get ready for their next event, I want to introduce the judges who have the unenviable task of choosing just one of
those luscious men as Mr. RomanceCon. And this year, the stakes are even higher. The winner of tonight's Mr. RomanceCon has the opportunity of becoming the newest spokesman for Lumineux brand shower gel!” The crowd oohs and aahs, building to a crescendo. Preeti beams. “Our first judge is a face you will happily recognize. He's graced over one hundred covers of some of your favorite books and was last year's Mr. RomanceCon. Mr. Ryder Grant!” The crowd cheers as Ryder stands up, waving to the crowd, blowing kisses, and holding his arms up like some kind of prizefighter. And yes, now he's kissing his biceps. I can't. “Next to Mr. Grant is our esteemed League of Romance Novelists president, Ginny Barton!” Ginny stands and waves to the crowd. “Don't you look lovely, Ginny!” Ginny blushes and sits back down. “Next to President Barton we have our esteemed guest from Lumineux Shower Gel herself. She confided in me that it was her mother's love of romance novels through a very trying round of chemo that turned her on to the genre.” The crowd reacts with awwws and applause. “Mrs. Preeti Dayal from Lumineux Shower Gel.” Preeti stands and the crowd applauds. “She's in remission now, yes?” Preeti nods, getting choked up as the crowd's applause swells. Sniffling, she sits back down next to me and I smile at her. “And finally we have our two Mad Women, in charge of the Lumineux campaign. Coming to RomanceCon in search of a spokesman was their brainchild: Ms. Anna Wyatt and Ms. Sasha Merchant.” I am beyond thankful that she introduced us together. The crowd applauds us. Sasha and I stand and wave, and it finally hits me how big a deal this is. The sea of women out there is bigger than I ever expected, and seeing them all together is overwhelming. I look over at Sasha and I can see that the moment is hitting her
in much the same way. She looks at me and smiles, and I can't help but smile back. We sit down again, situating ourselves back at the judges' table.

“It looks like our men are ready for round two already. Contestants vying for Mr. RomanceCon are always known for their stamina,” Helen purrs. The crowd hoots and hollers. Preeti laughs and I can only shake my head. “As you know, Mr. RomanceCon has to master a lot of different looks on some of your favorite romance novels.” The large screen at the back of the stage begins to flash with various romance novel covers. And for each the crowd goes wild. Helen walks us through different plotlines of these novels for each cover: “They have to be warriors. Earls. Rakes. Cops tortured by their past. And the doctors who help those in need. They're single fathers. And cowboys. They are the undead. Those who battle the undead. Werethis and werethat. They must embody royalty from a time in the not-so-dystopian future and then breathe life into those who mean to start revolutions against royalty from a time in the not-so-dystopian future. They are your heroes.”

The men appear in tuxedoes and stand in a straight line that stretches across the front of the stage. Helen announces that the contestants will be asked questions submitted by the women of RomanceCon.

Colt's role model is his father, a rancher who works the land and is still married to his mom after thirty years. He taught Colt what it meant to be a man, Colt says. Something he hopes to pass on to his son. Aww.

Tristan says that “the everyday” inspires him. When Helen asks what he means by that he rambles on about simplicity and Buddhism and the silence of meditation and then we're maybe
touching on aliens and how there's something bigger than us out there but it's spiritualism and his dead grandmother and maybe he had a dream about her and now he's talking about being a light-bringer and we all have a light inside of us. A smattering of applause as Tristan smiles and waves, thinking he's inspired everyone into silent awe.

Jake says the worst thing that could ever happen to him would be to lose his mother. He gets choked up and the entire ballroom clutches their pearls as we sniffle along with him while he talks about what a force his mother is and how she keeps him grounded and taught him what love is and then he makes a joke about her being immortal and everyone laughs through their tears. He smiles and steps back into line with the rest of the men with a single tear adorning his impossibly beautiful face.

Blaise sees himself running an empire a year from now. An empire built on romance novels and cover models and maybe some costume design because his wife is clearly a genius and he views himself as a modern-day Renaissance man. Helen asks him what man from the Renaissance is his inspiration and Blaise stumbles through his answer of “all of them” and “you know, bits of everything from everyone of all time periods and then some from modern-day guys, too, maybe.” A round of applause and Blaise steps back in a confused haze.

Helen asks Lantz how he thinks he can improve on his personality and he just laughs. “What can't I improve on, right??” And everyone laughs with him. He runs his hand through his reddish-blond overgrown tangle of hair and then thoughtfully brushes his scruff of a beard for a few seconds. Both of these things are really bringing home this whole log cabin, pioneering spirit thing. He looks like he should be on the outside wrapping
of some paper towels. Maybe we've got a bit of a dark horse here in Mr. Lantz. He winds through how life is all about curiosity and humility; knowing that you don't know anything is the best place in the world to be. And it's like we're all Team Lantz now. Until Josh ambles up to stand with Helen. The pitch-black hair and the piercing blue eyes I can see from here. The broad shoulders all contained in a finely tailored tuxedo. It's almost too much. Almost.

“Well, goddamn,” Sasha mutters just next to me. I nod.

“Agreed,” Preeti says next to me.

Josh is asked if being sexy has a negative connotation. Preeti leans over and says that that's a really good question. I nod in agreement.

“That's a really good question,” Josh says, and I look over at Preeti. She gestures that she and Josh are clearly of the same mind, and I laugh. “I think sexy is negative only if it's the only thing about you. I'd be a total hypocrite if I argued that being thought of as sexy, however uncomfortable I am with it, is somehow a burden to me. Come on.” The crowd laughs. “But if that's all you are? I mean, that's what leads to old dudes in red Corvettes trying to pick up on girls half . . . not even half—a third their age. If you don't know or value that there's more to you than being sexy . . . I don't know, that just feels sad to me. So, my official answer is being sexy is only negative if you think that's all you have to offer.”

The crowd applauds. And swoons. And throws panties. And we might as well just pack this whole thing in now. Sasha looks over at me with an “Are you kidding me?” face. I nod. I know. I know. I hear Preeti sigh next to me.

And up walks Billy. I would not want to follow Josh. Helen
asks Billy what makes him fearful. It's a good question. Jake made us swoon with what he feared most. This is a real opportunity to get us on his side.

“What makes me fearful. So . . . scared? What am I scared of? I mean, bears, right? Gotta go with bears. Sharks maybe?”

Is that . . . I begin to laugh, thinking that Billy has just made an awesome joke and now he's going to launch into his hidden fears and . . . nope. He's walking back to the line of men with his hands in the air as if he just naaailed it. Helen just . . . the look on her face is priceless.

The men are excused and Helen presents the romance novel award winners from earlier today. Applause and short but sweet thank-you speeches from the authors. Fans show their support from the audience as we grade the formal wear/Q&A and pass our ballots to the conference volunteers. The stage goes black once again.

The opening chords kick in to Lady Gaga's “Bad Romance.” Sasha nudges me and I whisper, “They'd have to, right?” She laughs.

The contestants are now in swimsuits. The women in the audience are on their feet and dancing along with the contestants. Each man presents himself to applause with a combination of dancing, thrusting, and flexing, given his personality. And, of course, Blaise is wearing a Speedo. I mean, I'm thankful there's no dance number in this portion of the pageant; I can't begin to think about Blaise and that tiny Speedo and any sort of crouching or bending over.

The contestants retreat again to more costume changes as we judge and pass our ballots to the conference volunteers once more. Helen takes this time to unveil the date and theme of next
year's RomanceCon. The crowd goes wild again. I know everyone already hates that we all have to leave tomorrow and return to real life. A flash. Real life. I have to leave tomorrow. Lincoln. A breath as the announcements and applause mute around me. What am I going to do? I can't . . . I can't leave with nothing. I have . . . I have to figure something out. I have to . . . The entire room falls into blackness and just the banners that hang overhead are illuminated.

The music kicks in—it's the kind of epic music used in movie trailers, and it's perfect. The men stream out onto the stage in the costumes from those same banners now spotlighted high above us. Fireman. Steampunk dirigible captain. Mr. Darcy. Undead loverboy. Scottish rake. Sexy gladiator. And cowboy. They really are those romance novel heroes come to life. The spotlight hits Jake in all his fireman hotness as the music thumps. He steps forward as the crowd hushes. He walks across the stage, and conference volunteers step forward and quickly dress him in a suit and tie, and he strikes a pose as a businessman. Then conference volunteers shift some of his clothing and add a badge and an overcoat, and Jake hits another pose, absolutely becoming the tortured cop. The crowd is riveted.

“This is really cool,” Sasha says, leaning over.

“How are they doing this?” I ask.

“Totally amazing,” Sasha whispers back, our eyes focused on Jake, who's now becoming a small-town doctor with every intention of healing his next patient.

Each contestant goes through this same gauntlet, showing just how versatile he can be in the characters he must portray on these covers. How it's not the clothes, it's the stance and the tilt of a head and a narrowed eye and a furrowed brow that makes the
character come to life. It's fascinating to now know these men a bit and see how personalities come through. As the last man hits his pose in the last vignette, Helen bids them adieu once more. We hand in our scorecards to the waiting conference volunteers and the board of the League of Romance Novelists will tabulate the final scores.

The men are presented once again in clothes that they've chosen—which range from jeans and cowboy boots to a tailored suit to something that looks like a crushed velvet . . . is that an ascot? Come on, Mrs. Blaise. Helen is handed an envelope and the drumroll fills the room.

“Thank you so much for joining us, and I have so enjoyed myself at this year's RomanceCon!” The crowd applauds. “Cocktails will be served in the hallway outside, just so the hotel staff can transform this room into the 1940s dance party that will take us into the wee hours of the night. Gentlemen, won't you join me at the front of the stage?”

The men step forward.

“Our second runner-up and the man we all want to bring home to Mom, even though his is immortal: Jake!” Jake steps up and accepts a boutonniere pinned to him by conference volunteers. I applaud. Great choice.