Your Perfect Life: A Novel Read online

  I was terrified to go to bed with John tonight. I couldn’t remember being that scared since I had to interview Charlie Sheen during his warlock phase. What if he wanted to have sex? Rachel assured me there was no way in hell that he’d want to kiss me, let alone have sex with me. But she quickly added that if for some odd reason he did try, to tell him that I had my period. I smile as I remember back in college when he’d cover his ears like a little kid any time Rachel or I would even say the word cramps. Some things never change.

  After the girls went to bed, I’d run up the stairs and locked myself in the bathroom. When I came out, John was already asleep or pretending to be. Either way, I was relieved. It gave me a chance to study the document from Rachel. I crawled into bed and pulled out my phone, scanning through the list of instructions she’d emailed, the subject line reading “How to be me.” She’d included everything, down to when trash day was. As I read page after page, I was amazed at the sheer number of things Rachel is responsible for. You can do this, I told myself.

  • • •

  The alarm went off like a fire alarm a few hours later and I hauled myself out of bed. How does Rachel have the energy to get up so early after a sleepless night? I splashed cold water on my face, threw on a T-shirt and jeans, and scrolled through Rachel’s checklist: wake up the girls, prepare Charlotte’s bottle, smile if she shits.

  “Audrey, get up!” I push her motionless body. “You’re going to be late for school.”

  “Get out of my room!” she yells with a fierceness that startles me.

  Is this how she treats Rachel? My protective instinct takes over. “Hey! You do not talk to your mother like that. Get your ass up right now, young lady!”

  The word ass seems to snap her to attention. “Geez, stop freaking out. You’re such a spaz!” But at least she gets out of bed and heads into the bathroom. Mission accomplished. Now I just have to figure out what to put in Sophie’s lunch. But before I can, I hear Charlotte’s cries.

  “Rachel!” John calls out from the bedroom. “The baby’s crying!”

  Duh.

  I run into her room, hoist her out of the crib, and awkwardly change her diaper, resisting every urge to call for someone, anyone, to help me. I think it may be on backward, but decide it will have to do. “Shush, shush, I’m getting your bottle right now,” I mumble as I carry her down the stairs and make a mental note to Google “how to change a diaper” later.

  John saunters into the kitchen as I’m trying to make Charlotte’s bottle with my left hand, my right wrapped tightly around her. “Coffee?” he asks, watching me as I spill formula onto the counter. A little help, please?

  I perk up. At least he’s offering to get me the caffeine I desperately need. “Why, yes, thank you. Venti bold with sugar-free vanilla, please,” I answer as I attempt to lower Charlotte into her high chair, her chubby legs refusing to bend.

  He starts laughing, still watching me as Charlotte kicks the tray, clearly not wanting to sit in the damn chair. “I’m not offering. I’m asking if you’ve made any. And when did you start drinking Starbucks?”

  My patience wears thin. “The other day,” I snap, but collect myself quickly, looking around for the coffeemaker. Clearly Rachel does this for him each morning. Does everything around here, it seems. And when did she become so subservient to him? “And I guess that’s where you’ll be going this morning if you want coffee. I’ve got my hands full here.” I make a wide sweeping gesture with my hands for dramatic effect.

  “Fine, but you don’t have to be rude about it.”

  I sit down at the kitchen table and look up at him. “I’m sorry, I’m just feeling really overwhelmed. I need help.”

  “Well, that’s a first. You never seem to want my help when it comes to the kids.”

  “Really? I don’t?” I ask. Why doesn’t Rachel ask for help? Why does she think she can do it all herself ? No wonder she doesn’t have time to get highlights.

  John puts his hand on my forehead. “Are you feeling okay? You’ve been acting really strange since the reunion. Are you still thinking about that award?”

  I stand back up and smile brightly. “No, I’m fine, I promise. Just tired, that’s all.”

  We’re standing face-to-face and for a second I wonder if he’ll kiss me. Isn’t that what husbands do when they’re concerned about their wives? But he turns away and grabs his briefcase by the door. “See you tonight.”

  “See you tonight,” I echo quietly as he walks out the front door.

  “Hey.” Sophie comes bounding down the stairs dressed in a skirt so short it barely covers her butt.

  “You’re not thinking of actually wearing that to school, are you?” When did my sweet little Sophie start dressing like a whore? I know Rachel warned me about this, but I thought she was just exaggerating.

  “What’s the problem? Aunt Casey wears stuff like this on her show all the time.”

  “She does not! I mean she may wear a few short things that she can totally pull off, by the way. But she’s an adult and you’re a child.” I think back to the minidress I wore to the reunion wondering if I really did pull that off.

  Sophie rolls her eyes at me. “Mother, I told you, I am not a child anymore. I’m fourteen!”

  “Well, child or not, you’re not wearing that skirt to school. Go up and change right now.” I look at the digital clock on the microwave. “You guys need to leave soon or you’re going to be late.”

  “You are so uncool!” She huffs out of the kitchen. “I wish you were more like Aunt Casey! I want to be just like her one day.”

  Oh, if you only knew.

  Fifteen minutes later, I’ve pushed both girls out the door, wearing semiappropriate clothing, having eaten a somewhat nutritious breakfast, and with only three meltdowns between them. How have I only been awake for an hour?

  Charlotte crawls over and pulls up on my legs. I pick her up and scroll through Rachel’s checklist on my phone. “When exactly do I get a shower, Charlotte?” And I swear I hear her laugh at me.

  CHAPTER 8

  * * *

  rachel

  I stare up at the GossipTV offices, petrified to go inside. I begged Casey to let me call in sick, but she told me it was not an option, unless, of course, I wanted to be responsible for getting her fired. With frightening detail, she described to me how cutthroat the television business is, that even though she’s been hosting the show for three years and it brings in the highest ratings for the network, there’s always some twenty-one-year-old with fake boobs waiting to steal her spot. In her case, it’s a bitchy little tart named Fiona. The insecurity in Casey’s voice threw me off as she described how far she’d gone to prove she wasn’t replaceable, once even hosting the show with a stomach flu so bad she had to run to the bathroom between every take.

  How can I do this? How do I pretend to be Casey Lee? She does this every day, while I haven’t read from a TelePrompTer since college. What if showing up and trying to do her job is actually worse than if I’d called in sick? Won’t her cohost see right through me? She warned me Dean Anders is a total a-hole with a short man’s complex who looks for any opportunity he can find to steal her spotlight and bad-mouth her to the executives. It’s rumored he’s sleeping with Fiona too. Just that fact alone makes my stomach hurt.

  “What are you doing out here?” I recognize Casey’s assistant, Destiny, a dead ringer for Beyoncé, tapping on my car window. “I’ve been texting you for the last thirty minutes,” she says as she yanks the door open. “Ryan McKnight cheated on his wife with some stripper on their anniversary! They want you to record a couple of teases about the shocking new details we’re going to reveal on the show tonight.” She rolls her eyes dramatically.

  My head is spinning. What’s a tease? I struggle to think. And who’s Ryan McKnight? Isn’t he in one of those boy bands?

  “Why would anyone care if he cheated on his wife? Isn’t he washed up?” I ask.

  “Um, yeah, until he wasn’t! Until he go
t a part in that indie film and won an Oscar and is now an A-list actor who vacations with Clooney.”

  I stare at her blankly. I really had been in a sleep-deprived haze since having Charlotte.

  “Girl, what’s wrong with you?” Destiny stares at me long and hard.

  I take a deep breath as she gives me a once-over. She knows I’m not Casey. I’ve already blown it.

  “Oh, I know what it is. You’re not caffeinated, are you?” She shoves a Starbucks coffee cup in my hand and I obediently take a sip. “Come on. We’ve got to get you in hair and makeup and go over the script.”

  I reluctantly follow her, my heart pounding in my chest as I think about what lies ahead. Now’s probably not a good time to reveal I have stage fright. It’s been more than sixteen years since I’ve been in front of a camera, and I’m certain it won’t be just like riding a bike, like Casey promised it would.

  • • •

  The next hour is a whirlwind as makeup is caked on my face, script after script is shoved at me (there’s a new color for every revision!), and getting my mic pac put on is more invasive than a full-body pat-down at LAX. About ten minutes before I have to go on camera I sneak off to the bathroom to try to calm my nerves. Luckily I’ve been to the offices before so I know my way around.

  “I look like a man in drag,” I say to the mirror.

  “Don’t be so hard on yourself.” A tiny blonde walks out of the stall. I know instantly she must be Fiona. “It’s normal for older women like you to have to wear more.”

  Women like me. My heart sinks for Casey. She warned me that Fiona is a bitch, but I had no idea it was so blatant or hurtful.

  She smiles, revealing a set of teeth so straight and bright white that they look almost as fake as her boobs.

  I stare at Fiona as she fluffs her platinum hair in the mirror and I decide I’m not going to let anyone talk to my best friend like that. I don’t know what Casey would do in this situation, but I know what I would do. “Well, maybe if you’re ever on camera, you’ll know what it feels like,” I hiss, and walk out of the bathroom, momentarily forgetting all about my stage fright.

  • • •

  “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.