Waking Up in the Land of Glitter (12 page)

“Oh, kitten. Forgive me. Don’t worry, I’ll find something soon. A buddy of mine is launching a Web site to sell kick-ass
World of Warcraft
LARP memorabilia. High quality. I told him I’d go in with him. Hey, can I grind a scoop of French Roast when you’re done?”

“As long as you tell me how you define ‘LARP memorabilia,’ ” Chloe inquired smugly. “I’m intrigued.”

A wild sparkle danced in Ezra’s blue eyes as he sat up on the kitchen counter to explain. “Live Action Role Play. Cool shit—you
know, like costumes the characters wear in the game—metal plate armor, chain mail for dudes, bikini mail for chicks, pewter
swords of Azreoth. You can’t even find stash like that on eBay. Slick, huh?”

Oh yeah, ladies would be crashing their computers for a bathing suit made from jump rings. Chloe didn’t need his money, but
she was tired of him living off of hers.

“Good for you,” she said, tightening the belt on her crisp taupe linen robe. She ignored him and went to work on her guilty
pleasure piece of machinery: a fifteen-hundred-dollar Jura Capresso Impressa S9 One Touch Automatic Coffee and Espresso Center.
One of the few items under her roof that was not taupe. She didn’t smoke, rarely partied, had no time to enjoy the thrill
of a shopping spree, and her sex life compared to the excitement of the Sunday-night lineup on the Weather Channel. A high-maintenance
girl needed some kind of joy. Hers was one hour at the gym every day and custom gourmet coffee. She chugged espresso like
pirates drink rum.

Ten minutes later, Chloe sat at her vanity bedroom throne and activated the daily two-hour primping process of transforming
her face from “reality natural” to “camera-ready natural.”

“I found it,” Ezra muttered from the doorway.

“Found what?” she said, tapping $110-per-ounce Crème de la Mer skin cream on her cheeks.

“My DVD. It was just where you said it was. I don’t know why I doubt you. Thanks!”

Chloe replied through the reflection in the mirror. “You’re welcome. I can’t talk now. I need to get ready for work.”

“Why are you so negative? Aren’t you excited for your new gig? All the networks will be covering it and you’re the main star.
Betty O’Hara must be crying in her craft room right about now.”

Chloe stopped with the face cream. “Ezra, I guarantee, Betty Oh! is not crying. You know why? She is still the national spokesperson
for the craft industry association. She doesn’t even need the CraftOlympics anymore. She’s outgrown it. Plus, she’s married
to a great guy and they have two beautiful kids. Everything else to her is icing on the cake. The woman is happy; therefore
everything I grasp and sweat for plops in her lap like a cherry on a banana split. She could trade in her glue guns for stuffed
porcupines and she’d still be the be-all, end-all to the public. If I could have one ounce of her career—”

“Chloe, you’re hosting the National CraftOlympics. Again, it’s a big deal. Can’t you be happy for once? You weren’t like this
when we met. As soon as you decided to conquer the craft world, it was like you forgot how to have fun. Come to think of it,
I haven’t heard you laugh since… I can’t even remember.”

“You know why I don’t like to laugh.”

Ezra whipped out his iPhone to check for new e-mail. “So what if you snort? It’s cute. All I’m asking is for you to lighten
up a bit before those frown lines set in.”

“I’m fine,” she said, allowing half a smile.

Really, she wasn’t fine. The exhilaration of the hosting job wore off knowing it came by way of putting out for Mark Jefferies.
The thought of that man naked made her shudder. She had to do it though; otherwise she would be stuck at KPDM forever.

Ezra removed his specs and cleaned them with the bottom of the “Karma: It’s your choice” T-shirt he’d thrown on over a pair
of jeans. “I can go update your iPod if you want. Make you a new playlist? The Pinker Tones have a new disc out. Can’t you
at least try to be upbeat?”

“No, really. I’m fine. Go do whatever it is you do while I’m gone.”

“Thanks! Love ya,” he said. He attempted to kiss her mouth, but Chloe pointed at the hair removal cream above her lip.

He shoved one hand in the pocket of his wrinkled jeans and the other he used to graze his greasy black faux hawk. “Hey, um.
Do you mind if I take the Beemer tonight? Me and the boys, we’re gonna go down some Bronsons at the bar, and check out what’s
on the clothesline. Do you mind?”

“Can you speak English?” Chloe asked.

“I’m going with friends to drink beer and gossip.”

No wonder he couldn’t function as a credible adult. “Nah, go on ahead, have fun with your
Bronsons
. But you better fill the gas tank.”

Raised in the upper crust of Los Angeles, Chloe had one younger sister, an intrusive mother, and a workaholic lawyer father
who died from a heart attack at fifty. As valedictorian and sorority queen of her graduating class, Chloe sparkled as the
jewel in her mother’s society crown. Especially when Clive Diaz, a noted California Realtor, fell loco in love with Chloe.
No sooner had she opened her diploma for her master’s in journalism than he asked for her to take his name. She accepted,
because that’s what girls like her did. But eventually she ditched her rich fiancé for an entry-level field reporter’s position
in Phoenix. Add in a mooch for a live-in boyfriend and mamita went on a rampage.

Every morning, Chloe woke to a call from her mother, begging her to move home and give Clive another chance. And every morning,
Chloe hung up pissed and depressed that her mother refused to take an interest in her profession, much less her feelings.

Truth was, Chloe regretted Ezra moving in, even if he did somewhat help build her reputation. Two years back, Chloe featured
his father’s invention on the news and he introduced the two. Ezra pitched the seemingly limitless opportunities of the booming
home décor industry and Chloe took the bait. She actually hated crafts and anything D-I-Y. She preferred to B-U-Y. The motivation
was strictly career-oriented, her mission was to be the Rachael Ray of
something
by age thirty. If crafts paved the way, so be it.

Her muse came in the form of Betty O’Hara, a former KPDM morning anchor, busy mom, and “a crafty Heloise for the now generation”
according to the press. Early in her career at the station, Betty fit daily craft demonstrations into her morning newscasts.
From pumpkins to pillows, the frugal mom worked her magic. Within months, her popularity surged among viewers—young, old,
male, female, rich, and not so rich. She preached the gospel of crafts as a way to not only save money, but also to inspire
individuals to express their creativity. Thanks to her clever, classy, but never costly, design ideas, her fans did as they
were told. They adored the way she punctuated the end of every segment with “Oh!,” which led to her nickname of Betty Oh!
That catchy moniker, combined with her comical personality, landed her a book deal and national TV show. As soon as Chloe
learned arts and crafts raked in thirty billion dollars a year, she absorbed every aspect of Betty O’Hara’s success to use
as a platform for her own.

With the help of Mark Jefferies; her inventive assistant, Frances; and a weekly segment, Crafty Chloe emerged—ready to follow
in Betty’s embossed footprints and conquer the universe one rhinestone at a time, likely with Ezra tagging along for the ride.

She wished he could be more like that musician she met at that coffeehouse, or Theodoro Duarte, the artist she interviewed
Saturday. Both exhibited kindness, honesty, strength, and even a dash of sexy mystery. It was refreshing to talk with men
who weren’t whiny wimpsters, like Ezra. That night with Theo was the most insightful conversation Chloe’d had in months. She
dabbed her foundation on her makeup sponge, and as she smoothed it over her skin, she replayed the memory from two nights
ago:

The last patron had left Sangria. Chloe didn’t intend to stay the entire evening, but so many prominent local arts figure
attended, she used the time to network and toot her horn about hosting the CraftOlympics. Next thing she knew, the place had
cleared out. She and Theo collapsed on the remaining upright chairs as the crew cleaned around them. His paintings were a
hit, no surprise. Chilled from the alcohol, for once she turned off her work mode and allowed herself to have informal dialogue
with another human being. Not for a story, not for her career, not for any reason other than camaraderie. Their small talk
began with chuckles about some of the guests and their off-the-mark interpretations of Theo’s work, and the discussion soon
weaved into more meaningful subjects.

“I can tell you love your job,” Theo said, removing a silver bracelet from his wrist.

Chloe shrugged and crossed her legs. “You want to know the truth? I don’t. It’s a difficult business. I’m only twenty-eight
and they treat me like I’m forty. It’s a requirement to look like a camera-ready Jennifer, twenty-four/seven.”

“Jennifer?” he asked, confused.

“You betcha. Lopez, Aniston, or Garner. For a woman like me to succeed, it’s all about a wrinkle-free forehead, lots of sass,
ganas, and mucho overtime. I’m not even thirty, and I already have Botox brochures in my desk.” It was supposed to be a joke,
but Theo didn’t laugh.

“Why do you stay?”

Chloe removed her necklace, opened her evening bag, and dropped it in. “Because I know I’m good,” she said, snapping the clutch
closed. “When I’m in front of that camera, a rush hits me because I morph into someone people admire. I know in my heart I
deserve something big. My dad even saw it in a dream when I was in high school. He told me I was on every television set in
the country and people loved me. I laughed about it until he passed away on my nineteenth birthday. Now that I look at the
big picture, I guess you could say I’m trying to make his dream come true.” Chloe felt a strange tingle in her nose and sniffled.

“I’m sure he’s proud of you. You’ve accomplish more than a lot of other people I know,” Theo said.

Now that Chloe had started, she couldn’t stop. “I’ve put up with so much bullshit. I’ve made blunders and now I’m on a quest
to do it right and do it fast. I’ve been asked to host this huge craft convention that is coming to Phoenix. My life is going
to upgrade and it won’t come a moment too soon.” Chloe kicked off her heels, walked to the buffet table aftermath, and half
filled two cups from a straggler champagne bottle. She handed one to Theo and downed the other.

“Do you know they call me Craft Bimbo?”

“Who?”

“Everyone! They whisper it behind my back at work, people on the street, craft haters everywhere. That’s why I need to prove
myself. To make them all eat their words.”

“I’ll admit I’ve rolled me eyes at TV people before.”

“Ha! You mean at me, don’t you? I can tell by the polite expression on your face. You are an awful liar.”

“There’s something about media people. They seem so phony, like they have to overdramatize every emotion and it comes off
as fake. But I promise I won’t roll my eyes anymore. At you.”

“Gee, thanks,” she kidded.

She walked back to the bottle and gulped what was left of the bubbly.

“So here is where Craft Bimbo came from. It started the summer before I graduated from college, when I worked at the station
as an intern. There was this wild annual holiday party, everyone acting like fools, you know? I was young and shit-faced stupid.
I got drunk and screwed the CEO of the station. We didn’t even go to a hotel. We did it right there on the cook table on the
main set! Get this—the
same
table where I demo my craft segment each week. Can you believe that? And now, every week when I stand there and affix ribbon
to colored card stock, I relive that night in my mind. It’s revolting. He’s bald and fat now.” She refused to share that she
still slept with the ogre on occasion.

“So what happened?” Theo asked, as he watched her mope back to her chair.

“Of course, word leaked out. I moved home to L.A. with my mom and made wedding plans with an egomaniacal realtor who had big
bucks. All I wanted was for my mom to be proud of me. To her, catching a man with a bottomless bank account equaled success.
I couldn’t go through with it. On the day of my wedding, out of the blue, Mark—that’s the CEO—called my cell and offered me
a job at the station. I took it as a sign from the universe. So instead of walking down the aisle, I bolted for the airport.
Because of my dad’s dream, you know?”

Theo nodded. “That’s cool.”

She shook her finger at him. “Hold on, guy—it wasn’t any easier when I came back. Everyone at the station knew the truth.
When Mark promoted me three months later, they assumed it was my ‘cook table connection’ and not my talent. First it was ‘News
Bimbo.’ And when the crafts came, well… here I am, the resident Craft Bimbo. Hey, can I have the last sip of your champagne?”

“You don’t need it. You’re driving home, right?” Theo crumbled the cup, aimed for the trash, threw it, and missed. “People
are cruel. They’ll latch on to gossip so quick, it’s not fair. It makes them forget their own shit. Don’t you have any friends
to hang with?”

“No. But I did join a committee to help me prep for the CraftOlympics. I was chosen as the host of the whole event.”

“Hey, congrats!”

Chloe smirked out of one side of her mouth and noticed that his cup landed near the same trash bin where Star stood before
storming off.

“Hey, Theo… what was up with your amiga tonight? The La Pachanga girl. What is her story?”

“Estrella.”

“I thought her name was Star.”

“It is, but I call her by her real name, Estrella,” he said. “Yeah, you walked in on a pretty intense moment. We used to be
tight, now we’re not. It’s complicated.”

“She’s an odd one. Reminds me of that chick in
Ghost World
, always trying to stand out,” Chloe said acerbically. “I wanted to grill her about the Happy Face Tagger ordeal, but I kinda
felt sorry for her.”

Theo stood up abruptly, pulled his keys out his front pocket, and swung them around his finger. “She’s the most genuine person
you’ll ever meet. Listen, it’s been nice to get to know you, Chloe. Best of luck with your career.”