Your Perfect Life (7 page)

• • •

“Five, four, three, two . . .” The stage manager points to me and I freeze. Suddenly all eyes in the studio are fixated on me.

“Is something wrong?” A man wearing a headset—I decide
he must be a producer—steps out from next to one of the cameras and walks over to me. I’m momentarily taken aback because he’s not acting rude and aloof like almost everyone I’ve encountered so far today. Even the production assistants have an attitude!

“I’m sorry. I was waiting for the . . . one?”

The studio erupts in laughter and my face burns with embarrassment.
I knew I couldn’t handle this,
I think as I stare at the crew members’ contorted faces, my humiliation growing. Suddenly I’m fourteen again, with a strand of toilet paper a mile long sticking to my pink pump as I walk into the freshman formal dance.

“We hardly have time for jokes,” Casey’s cohost, Dean Anders, says loudly, not bothering to hide his irritation. I look down at the box he’s standing on, shocked at how much arrogance he has for someone so short.

The producer shoots Dean a pleading look. It’s clear he’s been in the middle of this before.

“You ready to go again, Casey?” the producer asks.

The crew members, no longer laughing, now seem irritated. I hear one of the cameramen mutter under his breath, “We’re going to end up in overtime and lunch will be cut short.”

“Want a bottle of water?” Destiny calls from the side of the stage.

I nod.

“Don’t forget a straw. Her lipstick will take thirty minutes to fix if she drinks directly from it,” the makeup artist says curtly.

I take a long drink, smiling at the makeup artist through my straw. The smell of the lunch from the craft service area wafts onto the stage—
is that lasagna?
—and I notice the same cameraman sigh as he looks in the direction of the food.

I hand my bottle of Fiji to Destiny, the makeup artist blots around my mouth, the hairdresser pulls a comb from her fanny pack and expertly whisks a stray strand away from my face, and the stage manager counts me down again. “Five, four, three, two . . .”

I stare at the blinking red light and start to read what’s on the TelePrompTer. “Welcome to
GossipTV
. I’m Casey Lee and . . .” Suddenly the words on the screen are moving faster than I can read them and I stop, looking down at the black piece of tape on the stage beneath my feet, or my mark, as I was reminded by the stage manager when I stepped over it before we started taping.

“I’m sorry,” I say quietly, trying to ignore the crew’s glares.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Dean chides. “I’ve told you people a hundred times that I should read the intro copy.”

I stare at the dozens of video monitors surrounding me, some with the
GossipTV
logo plastered across them and others filled with video of the celebrities I read about in the script they gave me this morning. In the largest screen in the center is footage of Ryan McKnight performing on stage at one of his concerts. What am I doing here standing on this set, playing TV announcer? I knew I couldn’t pull this off. The hundreds of lights hanging above me are hot and overpowering and a bead of sweat rolls down the side of my face. The makeup artist runs out and blots it with a sponge and the producer pulls me aside.

“You okay?” He seems genuinely concerned. I study his face. He appears to be about my age and he’s cute with blond hair and kind brown eyes. Casey’s never mentioned him.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Just a little out of it today,” I reply, resisting the urge to scratch my nose.

“Do you need to take five?” he asks slowly and I can tell he’s hoping I’ll say no.

I look at Dean staring at me smugly from on top of his box, a different makeup artist applying something to his eyes—is that eyeliner? And think of Casey. I can’t give Dean the satisfaction of watching her screw this up. “No, I’m ready, I’ll get it right this time.”

I close my eyes and visualize myself reading the TelePrompTer flawlessly. The stage manager counts me down again. “Five, four, three, two . . .”

“Welcome to
GossipTV
. I’m Casey Lee and we’ve got the freshest scoop coming your way. Tonight, we’ll reveal the shocking new details on Ryan McKnight’s steamy night with stripper Ashley Jones. What she says
really
happened in that hot tub.” The words start to flow and before I know it, I’m finished.

“That’s the Casey we know.” The producer smiles at me.

“Hey, Charlie, should I run these scripts down to the booth for tonight’s show?” a young kid, probably an intern, asks shyly.

So Charlie’s his name. I look at his hand. No wedding ring.

“Nice job. See you later when we tape the show,” Charlie says as he walks out of the studio.

“Hopefully Ryan McKnight will keep his pants on until then,” I call after him. And I can’t help but wonder why Casey has never mentioned the only nice guy who seems to work here.

• • •

Several hours later when I’m back in Casey’s office, I’m surprised at how giddy I feel as I prop my sore feet up on Casey’s oak desk. I lean back in her ergonomic chair feeling every muscle in my body finally start to relax as I look around. Her Emmy is sitting high on a shelf. What it must feel like to have an Emmy! I remember her speech—she let the F-word slip out, but quickly made a joke about not winning an award for social etiquette.

Casey’s walls are covered with dozens of framed pictures of her posing with celebrities. Casey and Jennifer Aniston. Casey and Jennifer Lopez. Casey and Donald Trump. I smile when I notice Audrey and Sophie’s school pictures tacked up on a small corkboard next to her computer. I run my finger over Charlotte’s birth announcement pinned below the photos of the girls and wonder what would’ve happened if I’d told John about my visit to the headhunter. If I hadn’t deleted my résumé off the computer as I thought of the pregnancy test in the bathroom trash can. Would I have my own oak desk somewhere by now? I assumed John would’ve told me to forget it, that the cost of day care would be more than I’d make at some entry-level job. But maybe that’s just what I told myself so I didn’t have to put myself out there again.

I sink back in the chair and close my eyes. I got off to a rocky start during the promo tapings this morning, but I studied the script intently all afternoon and even closed Casey’s office door for a while and practiced reading it out loud several times. I really got into the groove when we taped the show that will air tonight. With each compliment from Charlie and other members of the crew (even that cameraman seemed to come around after we broke for lunch—maybe he was just hungry?), I became more confident. And by the end, I was even ad-libbing a little bit, equal parts irritating and surprising Dean, who clearly wasn’t used to on-air banter with Casey.

I found a rhythm, remembering how I used to read the TelePrompTer with so much ease in college that it would get on Casey’s nerves. Reading the Prompter wasn’t her strong suit and I remember how she struggled with it for two semesters before she finally got it down. Now with an Emmy under her belt, it’s hard to believe she ever had to work at it.

And it felt great getting so much praise and positive attention from the staff and crew. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d even heard a thank-you from someone in my family.

But even so, as I drive over to my house for dinner, I can’t believe how much I miss them. I felt an ache in my chest when I didn’t hear the baby cry this morning. I even missed having to wake up Audrey. I was so homesick I would’ve welcomed a fight with Sophie over what an appropriate bra for a fourteen-year-old looks like. Not to mention the anxiety that kept me up half the night. What if Casey leaves something small on the ground that Charlotte can choke on? Or what if she doesn’t tighten her car seat straps after she buckles her in? And will she make sure that Sophie isn’t turning into a future member of
The Bad Girls Club
?

And then there’s John. Dare I say I actually miss him too? Unless he was traveling for work, I rarely went more than a day without seeing him. And there’s a comfort sleeping next to him in the bed each night. Although having Casey’s California king bed all to myself last night wasn’t so bad either.

• • •

I open the door to my house and hear the familiar buzz of the family chatter in the kitchen. I fight back the tears as I walk in to discover Audrey and Casey laughing in a way I can’t remember laughing with her. And I’m struck by a horrible thought: Is Casey doing a better job than me? Struggling to find the confidence I had just an hour earlier at
GossipTV,
I walk into the kitchen and plaster a smile across my face. It doesn’t matter how I feel. I have to be Aunt Casey now.

CHAPTER 9

casey

I rifle through Rachel’s soft leather satchel to find the checklist I finally printed out because I was referencing it so much. I’d also given Rachel instructions on how to live my life, but mine were verbal and consisted of not much more than the warning, “Just don’t get me fired.” Rachel had taken her instruction list to the next level, even making me practice CPR on one of Charlotte’s dolls. “I’m not an idiot!” I told her, but deep down I did worry that something terrible might happen on my watch.

The weight of being entrusted with the most important people in Rachel’s life is overwhelming. Looking down at the weekly calendar she included in my packet, I find today’s date and see that I have a play date at the park with someone named Hilary and her daughter, Melissa. Okay. I can do this. How hard can a play date be? I wish my life consisted of play dates all day, although I’d prefer to play with a twenty-five-year-old with a baby face, not an actual baby.

The first order of business is getting Charlotte into this
damn stroller. I’ve interviewed some of the biggest celebrities, clawed my way up one of the trickiest ladders in the world, yet I can’t figure out how to work the buckles on a baby carriage.

After ten minutes, sweat is running down my back and Charlotte is on the verge of a meltdown, so I give up and decide to carry the baby to the park instead. How hard can it be? I put her on one hip, sling her enormous diaper bag over my shoulder, and start to walk the five blocks that quickly feel like five miles. I have to stop and readjust Charlotte and the damn bag—that weighs more than she does—every few feet. “Do we really need to put your entire house in one bag? Is the kitchen sink going in here too?” I had joked to Rachel.

But she was adamant. “Trust me, Casey. Never leave the house unprepared. It’s the first rule of parenting.”

And for the most part, I listened. But not all the items would fit, so I just made an executive decision on what was really necessary for a trip to the playground and I ditched the rest. I can’t even imagine how heavy it would’ve been if it had
everything
in it.

I look around for the woman that Casey described. Tall, thin, with long blond hair. I see a woman matching her description and pick up my pace. I’m about to call out to her when I hear Rachel’s name being called from behind me and I turn to see another taller, thinner, blonder woman walking toward me. She’s wearing a beautiful heather gray wrap sweater and matching TOMS flats.

“Where are you going?” She looks at me like I’ve gone crazy. “We always sit over there.” She points to a grassy area by the slide with her perfectly manicured hand.

“Oh, sorry, Hilary. I just thought I saw someone I knew.”

“You’re such a space cadet,” she says condescendingly. I try not to judge her too quickly. From what Rachel has told me, she’s one of her best mom friends. And Rachel wouldn’t be friends with someone who treats her like crap, right? From my experience in her body so far, she’s got John and the kids doing that.

John. I made the mistake of trying to talk to her about him on the phone this morning, but she wasn’t having it. “Casey, please don’t start judging my marriage. You’ve been there for one day, for Christ’s sake.”

“I’m not judging. I just want to know if he’s going to lift a finger while I’m here.”

“Don’t count on it,” she said, and quickly changed the subject back to how we could get our lives back. After her conversation with the bartender, we were no closer to figuring out how to do this and we were both starting to panic that we might be stuck in each other’s lives—and bodies—for the long haul.

“Remember when Jamie Lee Curtis let her daughter miss their engagement party to go be in that band contest and then her daughter gave her blessing for Jamie Lee Curtis to marry Mark Harmon? That’s how they got to change back.”

“Yes, but this is real life, not some crappy remake of a crappy movie.”

“True,” she replied.

“Plus,” I continued, “what’s the lesson here? Being in your body, in your role as supermom, is just reinforcing why I haven’t had kids.”

“Okay, they’re not
that
bad,” she said defensively.

“Oh really? Does Audrey scream at you like that every morning, or was it just my lucky day? And when did Sophie decide she wants to be the next Britney Spears?”

“She wants to be like you, Casey.”

“Even worse!” We both laughed.

• • •

I sit down on the colorful quilt Hilary spread out and try to relax.
Keep the topics simple,
Rachel warned.

“So how was your reunion?” Hilary jumps right in as she carefully unpacks the applesauce I’m quite sure she pureed herself. “I’m dying to hear every last detail!”

“It definitely had its share of ups and downs,” I say truthfully as I set Charlotte down on the blanket.

She lowers her voice and leans in. “Oh, what did Casey do this time?”

I’m taken aback. Had Rachel talked about me to Hilary? Why would she assume that I’d be responsible for the ups and downs? “Why would you think Casey was involved?”

“Oh, come on. I know sometimes you get frustrated with how obsessed with work she is. A reunion is a place that can bring out the worst in people. Especially a D-list celebrity with something to prove.”

I try to react calmly.
D-list, my ass!
“Well, first of all, since she mainly only interviews A-listers, I’d put her on the B-list at least, especially considering her Emmy win. And I know she’s a workaholic, but she still really cares about me, about what’s going on in my life.” And that was true. Rachel was still the most important person in my life. But did I ever stop and tell her that? Or was I as bad as John and the kids were? Taking her for granted. Even being Rachel for just one day, I was realizing how out of touch I had become with her. And how little I’d been there for her over the past few months. How Destiny had been right, yet again. God, I hated
and loved
that about her.