I shook my head, dumbstruck.
“Ghastly. Only lasted two episodes past the pilot. Took them a long time to get over the scars of that one. So there definitely have been losers. But the winners all have one thing in common, other than perfect styling.” She stood back to inspect a sleek twist she’d just pinned at the nape of my neck. “The winners,” her eyes on mine, “were the real deal. No faking, no positioning, no begging people to like them. Just themselves—the good, bad, and woefully unattractive.” She spun me around in the chair and handed me a mirror so I could see the back of my head. “Lucky for you, you’re gorgeous and you have great bone structure. But beyond that, just be yourself. Try to forget anyone is even watching.”
She shrugged.
I clenched both arms of her styling chair, waiting as her disciple for any other bits of sage advice. She offered just one more.
“And listen: no matter how bad you’re feeling, never ever cry in front of Margot. On-camera crying is a gold mine for ratings. But off camera, she will stop listening and won’t respect you again. She sees tears as weakness.”
“That won’t be an issue,” I thought, relieved I could check one thing off my list. I hadn’t cried in public since watching Where the Red Fern Grows during Mrs. Hoffman’s end-of-year party in fourth grade. I’d been horrified then, and I remained horrified at the thought of letting all that emotion and control seep out of my eyeballs. If Margot wanted no tears, no tears would I provide.
I held back a coughing fit as Lolo sprayed my hair with industrial-strength shellac. Just be yourself, I thought, as a man with remarkably neat eyebrows tsked and then attacked my face with a tackle box full of makeup.
Forget anyone is watching, I thought, as I reentered the pastry kitchen and watched the Hobart mixer work an oversized whisk into coffee buttercream frosting.
“Forget anyone is watching,” I muttered as I piped a border of whipped cream along the edge of a Key lime tart.
“No way,” Tova said, and I looked up to see her directing a feline smile at one of the cameramen. Her black curls fell prettily under her chef’s cap and shone under the lights. I noticed a carefully drawn bright red lip, jarringly glamorous against her plain white chef’s coat. “Forget they’re watching?” She batted curly eyelashes. “The watching is the best part.”
I pushed a stack of dirty sheet pans into her muscled abdomen. “These need to be scrubbed, and the dishwashers are backed up. Go to it, sis.”
She pushed her lips out in a sultry pout, eyes still on the cameraman. “What if I miss something good?”
Ignoring that concern, I narrowed my eyes at her. “Tova, where did you go to school? And where did you work before coming to Thrill?”
“Indian Paintbrush Community College. It was awesome and super cheap. And I worked at Spago before this.”
I stood still, a sharp pulse of awe pushing aside the community college issue. “Spago? Wow. So you worked with Sherry Yard?”
She smiled at the cameraman as she dunked the sheet pans under the running faucet in our deep sink. “Oh, the dessert lady? Absolutely not. She’d never let a hostess anywhere near her part of the kitchen.”
I realized the camera dude had trained his lens on my face, and I quickly pulled my mouth shut from its gaping position. A Spago hostess! A very pretty, well-endowed, lusciously lipped Spago hostess! An Avery hire, and blessed, I was sure, by Margot and Vic. Oh, well, I thought. She’s all I have. She cried out from her spot by the sink and then showed the cameraman her fingers, scalded red from the hot water. If she had been paying attention to her job and not the cameraman—and that was a big if—she would not have sustained first-degree burns. My first day in front of the cameras, and my B-Team sidekick was whimpering about her acrylic nails.
This was going to be a very long day.