“– So, how about today? We’re over in the Dogpatch, and you’re local, so maybe you can just motor on over and chat with Helen. We tape at eleven and the segment will run this afternoon. And you can talk about how to evaluate a Trophy Husband. How to assess a Trophy Husband. Like he’s a bottle of wine, a new car, a mink coat, not that I’d ever wear fur, obviously.”
“Uh…”
You see, I want to tell him, I’m retiring from Trophy Husband hunting. I’m hanging up my hat. I don’t want a trophy, I don’t want a boy toy, thank you very much. I have a boyfriend, a delicious boyfriend, who went down on me on his Qbert machine, who wrapped his arms around me and practically sang my favorite song to me, who told me he wanted to go out with me from the first day he met me. A boyfriend who doesn’t want anyone else to have me.
But Tristan’s merely asking me on the show as an expert, right? He’s not asking me to talk about my quest. He wants to know how to appraise boy toys. I can do that. I can help other women who’ll come after me. I’ll just postpone today’s blog til the afternoon, and I’ll go get ready for Helen’s show now.
Besides, I still have fight in me. I haven’t gone soft. I won’t let a little peaceful easy feeling with Chris make me forget there’s still a battle with my ex, and I’m not through getting even.
“I’d love to be on the show.”
Chapter Eighteen
A town car arrives at my house an hour later, after I’ve touched up my makeup and picked out a new outfit, a perfect one for TV.
I spend the next thirty minutes on the drive pecking away at my phone, trying to whittle through the mess of email and Facebook and Web messages that have accumulated this morning. Viewers are still following the contest and want to know what’s going on and why there’s no report today. It’s going to have to suck when I pull the plug this afternoon. But they’ll be cool with it, right? I’ve always had a good relationship with my viewers. Everything will work out fine, everything will work out fine, everything will work out fine...
Then I see a text from Chris. Hey, where’s your video? Can’t wait to see it…
My stomach plummets. He’s been waiting for my blog. There’s probably a part of it that must feel like closure to him, like the final end of one relationship – my relationship with a contest – and the start of a new one. With him.
But that finality won’t come until later.
I hit his number, exhaling as I wait. I feel like a heel as he answers.
“Hey.”
“Hey.”
There’s an awkward pause and I’m sure he can read my mind and know that I haven’t pulled the plug yet. “So, what are you up to?”
“I’m about to be on Helen’s show,” I say, and then I explain how it’s my last hurrah, and then I’ll bow out gracefully.
He doesn’t say anything. The silence stretches through several blocks.
“Chris?”
“I’m here.”
“Are you mad at me?”
He pauses and sighs, and in that sigh I hear the resignation and the frustration. “No. I just was hoping this would be over. I was hoping after this weekend that I’d have you to myself.”
“But you do,” I say and I wish I could hide the desperation I suddenly hear in my voice. “You do have me.”
“Yeah, maybe it seems that way to you. But to me, it still feels like you’re involved with some kind of crazy pursuit. With some kind of revenge thing you have going on. And hey, look. I respect the need for closure. I’m totally fine if you need more time or whatever to deal with stuff,” he says and lets his voice trail off.
Stuff. Like my ex. Like all the baggage I bring. Have I not fully dealt with it? Yet, that’s why I started this contest in the first place, right? Because I wanted closure with Todd. But how much more closed can our relationship be?
I sigh and try to explain. “I just want to make a point. That’s all. I want to prove that women can do what men can do.”
“I know, McKenna. I know,” he says in a soft voice, but one tinged with resignation. “I know this is a point that’s important. And what I’m saying is when this point is no longer important to you, that’s when you should call me again. Goodbye.”
Then he hangs up, and I am surrounded by an all-too familiar feeling of being left. Of being alone. I clench my jaw because now I’m mad at Chris, and besides, if I don’t call upon these seemingly endless stores of anger in me, I’ll probably break down and cry.
And I don’t want to ruin my mascara before I go on TV to make a point.
* * *
The car pulls up to Helen’s studios and the chauffeur opens my door. I thank him, then reach for my pirate girl bag, keeping my chin up and my focus on. The security guard buzzes me in. I show my ID at the desk and sign the guest register.
A tall, handsome and immaculately dressed man in pressed khaki pants and a pink polo shirt greets me. His hair is light brown and his face is full of freckles.
He reaches a hand out to shake mine briskly. “McKenna Bell, I’m Tristan Quinn. So glad you could be here.” He holds a clipboard in one hand and gestures with the other to the hall. I walk alongside him down an air-conditioned hallway. Photos in blond wood frames line the walls every few feet. Each one features Helen with a different guest. Singers, actors, even other Web show hosts.
I wonder if their stomachs were tied in knots before they taped as well.
* * *
I can hear Helen chattering with the audience from my backstage post. Tristan is positioned next to me. He grips his clipboard tightly. He wields that thing like a weapon, ready to brandish it at any moment. He’s methodical, organized. He points to the stage and places his hand over his ear, his gesture to make sure I’m listening.
“I’m really excited about our final guest. Her name is McKenna Bell, The Fashion Hound, but you probably know her better as a woman on a mission.” Tristan taps me on the shoulder, holds up his hand and begins counting down with his fingers. “Her video blog with fashion tips is a huge hit, and it’s taken off like crazy in the last month since she started her own sort of reality competition online. She’s looking to land a Trophy Husband. Let’s say hello to McKenna Bell.”
As Tristan points to the stage I walk out, the bright lights on me, a smattering of applause from the audience. Helen shakes my hand and we sit down on her white couch as the cameras keep rolling. She’s wearing white slacks and sneakers, a long-sleeve button-down and a black sweater vest. I’m wearing my favorite poodle skirt, Mary Janes, and an emerald green fitted tee-shirt with my silver heart necklace. I ignore the fact that my shirt is the color of Chris’ eyes.