Mike, Mike and Me. Wendy Markham

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СКАЧАТЬ as I watched the show taping from behind the scenes, I could see Janelle’s eyes glazing over and realized that she wasn’t even listening. And sometimes, when I had a clear view of the guest’s eyes—or more specifically, the guest’s magnified pupils—I realized that they’d ingested—and/or smoked—something stronger than Jolt Cola and cigarettes as a pre-greenroom pick-me-up.

      But like I said, I was still enchanted by my job. Despite the inept host and the competitive late-night time slot—opposite Arsenio Hall’s new hit show—J-Squared was doing fairly well, so far, in its ratings. It didn’t hurt that the week before the pilot aired, Janelle eloped with Caleb DeLawrence, her former costar.

      Naturally, the tabloids were all over the marriage, proclaiming the madly-in-love and stunningly beautiful newlyweds king and queen of daytime television. Almost immediately, the Star had Janelle trying to get pregnant, the National Enquirer had her well into her first trimester, and the Globe had her on bedrest expecting triplets, with Caleb hovering at her side, massaging her swollen feet.

      Meanwhile, backstage at the show, an infinitely juicier rumor had it that the marriage was a publicity stunt. Supposedly, rugged heartthrob Caleb had a male lover and so did Janelle—only hers was married to a conservative congresswoman up for reelection in November.

      At first, I didn’t believe any of it. After all, whenever Caleb was on the set, he and Janelle were nauseatingly lovey-dovey. Then I caught a reluctant glimpse of Caleb with his purported lover when he thought they were alone in the wardrobe room one night. I may have been a small-town girl who had never knowingly met a gay man before Gordy, but even I knew that straight men didn’t ruffle each other’s hair. And they sure as hell didn’t kiss, which my best work friend and fellow production assistant, Gaile, swore she’d seen them do.

      Whatever. I mean, Janelle’s sham marriage was the least of my concerns that summer. I was preoccupied with dreams of—okay, plans for—my own matrimonial future with Mike.

      The day of his arrival from California plodded along. The taping seemed to take forever, and when it was over, Gaile caught me looking impatiently at my Swatch.

      “You’ve still got an hour to go before we’re off work,” she pointed out as we carried tubs of dirty dishes and utensils from a cooking segment to the kitchenette backstage.

      “I know, but I thought I could cut out early and get a head start on a cab to the airport.”

      “What are you going to do when you get there and have a couple of hours to kill?”

      “I don’t know…read?” I was in the middle of a Danielle Steel novel the hopelessly sappy Valerie had forced on me.

      “You could read,” Gaile agrees. “Or get drunk in the bar. That’s what I always do in airports.”

      I laugh.

      “I’m serious. Then I don’t have to worry about plane crashes.”

      “Why did you have to bring that up?”

      “Sorry. Don’t worry, he’ll be fine.”

      I scowled at her. “That’s easy for you to say. Why did I have to go and rent La Bamba last weekend?”

      “La Bamba?”

      “You know, that movie with Lou Diamond Phillips as Richie Valens. You know…the day the music died.” I sing a few bars of “American Pie” for her.

      Apparently, Gaile has no idea what I’m talking about.

      “Never mind,” I say, giving up. “So, will you cover for me?”

      “You’re going to stick me with all these greasy pans?”

      “I promise I’ll clean the whole stage on my own the next time Janelle has that animal guy on the show.”

      Gaile tilted her cornrow-and-turban covered head, considering it. “I’ll take grease over piles of monkey shit any day,” she concluded. “Deal.”

      “Thank you!” I squealed, giving her a hug.

      She laughed. “You knew I’d do it, Beau.”

      “No, I didn’t.”

      “Sure, you did. You always get people to do what you want.”

      I bristled at that until I saw the twinkle in her brown eyes. Still, I asked, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

      “Nothing bad. Just that you’re a little bit spoiled, girlfriend.”

      “Spoiled? Me?” I feigned shock, but I’ll admit it: This wasn’t the first time I’d ever heard that. People were always saying it when I was growing up.

      I guess, when you’re the youngest child of four—and the only girl—you grow accustomed to people doting on you. Back home, I was the princess.

      Here in New York, I sometimes had to remind myself that not everyone was going to drop everything to cater to my needs.

      Then again, people often did. Especially men.

      “I’m going to go change my clothes,” I told Gaile.

      “What did you decide on? The red or the black?”

      “The red,” I told her. “What do you think?”

      “I think that it’s the least blah out of two blah choices.”

      I rolled my eyes and grinned. When it came to fashion, Gaile was anything but blah. She’d jumped wholeheartedly on the currently hot Afrocentric-garb bandwagon, decking herself out daily in exotic headdresses and flowing robes. The contrast of bright-colored native fabrics against her ebony skin was dazzling, but if you asked me—which she never did—her jewelry, invariably made of bones, tusks and teeth, made her resemble a one-woman archaeological dig.

      And if I asked her—which I frequently did—my jewelry and my wardrobe were in desperate need of pizzazz. But whenever I tried to follow Gaile’s fashion advice, I wound up feeling as if I belonged on MTV with an all-male, eye-liner-wearing backup band.

      “Let’s face it,” I told her now. “I’m a blah girl, Gaile.”

      “You’re gorgeous and you know it.”

      “Well, I have blah clothes. What can I say?”

      “You don’t have to be blah.”

      “Yes, I do. I have to be blah. Blah is my style.”

      We deposited the tubs of dishes on an already cluttered countertop, next to a basket of bagels that had been sitting out since this morning, and half a dozen red-lipstick-stained, half-filled coffee mugs. Janelle was a caffeine hound, and she refused to drink out of the foam coffee-service cups. Only real porcelain—and just-brewed, steaming hot coffee—would do. As soon as the contents of her mug grew lukewarm, she pushed it aside and had an assistant—often, me—bring her a fresh cup.

      But for today, I was finished with catering to Janelle’s every whim and cleaning up after her. Thanks to Gaile, I was free.

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