Diary of an Ugly Duckling Read online

  way around. Camilla Jejune’s the producer. Shamiyah

  works for her. The whole show was Camilla’s con-

  cept, and she’s the one who did all the leg work to

  bring it into being—not an easy thing, no matter

  who you are—and until last year, Camilla Jejune

  was a nobody. I guess that could explain why she’s

  so protective of it. A real micro-manager, if you ask

  me. She’s gotta okay every contestant personally.

  Make sure each one of them has a concept that will

  sell the show to the network . . . and hopefully kill

  all the competition in the ratings.”

  Audra blinked at her, stuck on an earlier thorn in

  her words. “B—but I thought Shamiyah was the

  producer—”

  “She’s a producer. The show has three or four of

  them who work on creating the package for each

  woman featured as an Ugly Duck. Shamiyah’s your

  producer. But Camilla’s the executive producer—or

  one of them anyway.” She sighed. “Lots of people

  have the title ‘producer’ on these programs. Camilla’s

  the executive producer who does the work.”

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  “I don’t know anything about television. I’m a

  classic movies chick myself.”

  “The titles of the producers should be the last

  thing on your mind, honey,” Carla said, swabbing a

  streak down Audra’s arm with a cotton ball.

  “Oh yeah?”

  “Yeah,” she gazed earnestly into Audra’s face. “I

  just hope you’re not sensitive to criticism.” She

  shook her head again, before gazing at Audra with a

  look of such intensity the odd, nervous feeling of

  grave importance fluttered in Audra’s belly again.

  “Why?”

  The woman hesitated, and then sighed. “I’ve only

  had to sit through one of these kinds of sessions . . .

  and”—she paused again, her eyes finding Audra’s—

  “they really know how to take people apart, body

  part by body part. It’s a little creepy—like sitting

  down with Dr. Frankenstein while he assembles his

  monster . . .” She shuddered until she felt Audra’s

  eyes, wide and nervous, fixed closely on her face.

  “But of course, instead of a monster what they end

  up with is a beautiful woman. Right?” she added,

  struggling to resume her former brightness. “Now

  let’s find a good vein and draw this blood.”

  Chapter 9

  “So which one was it? The Atkins or South

  Beach?”

  Shamiyah thrust a deli box of salad greens into

  Audra’s hands, along with a massive bottle of water.

  “Never mind, this should work with either one,”

  she continued before Audra even could process the

  words.

  “You’re talking about my diet, right?” Audra said.

  “I really wasn’t following any particular plan. It’s

  not like I’ve been living on salads or anything. I

  just . . .” and she stopped short, not sure that she

  wanted to admit that she really had only given up

  candy bars and Oreos, along with the late-night

  habit of snacking to the dramas of Betty, Joan and

  Barbara. “Cut back. Started lifting a little weight—”

  “Well, girl, you better like salads, because if you

  come on this show, that’s the bulk of what you’re

  gonna be eating for a good three months—”

  “Just salads?” Audra spat. “I’m down with the

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  slice-and-dice plastic surgery, but salads every day?

  That’s near inhuman! What about jerk chicken?

  What about fried chicken and macaroni or—”

  “Just salads.” Shamiyah said with such finality

  that it made Audra’s heart sink. “Remember what I

  told you? About being willing to do anything?”

  Shamiyah’s eyes searched Audra, assessing her sin-

  cerity again.

  Audra nodded slowly.

  “Just salads,” Shamiyah repeated, then glanced

  toward the door, an edge creeping into her voice.

  “They’ll be here in a second . . . and a few of them

  won’t like seeing you eating, even if it’s only a salad.

  Hurry up, all right? Have you got the pictures from

  the fashion magazines? The features you like?”

  Audra nodded, pulling a wad of ripped pages

  from her back pocket. “I got ’em. But I gotta tell you,

  Shamiyah, I don’t see how I could ever look like any

  of those girls. But I brought a picture of my sister

  Petra—” Audra reached for her wallet, flipping to

  the wedding photo of Petra and her husband. “I re-

  ally think—”

  “It’s okay,” Shamiyah said, not even glancing at

  the picture. “They probably won’t ask you for that

  input today . . . but making sure you’re prepared is a

  part of my job. Now, hurry up!” She glanced at

  a sporty wristwatch in a candy apple shade of red.

  “I swear, she’s fanatical about time . . . and we don’t

  have much more of it.”

  When the salad and water were consumed,

  Shamiyah seated Audra at the head of a long table,

  so dark and highly polished that Audra could see

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  her reflection in its gleaming surface. At the other

  end of the room, a large-screen plasma television

  hung from the wall, a small laptop computer rest-

  ing on a stand just beneath it. Audra glanced

  around the rest of the room, but for the most part it

  looked like a conference room she might have found

  anywhere—nicer than many, but still just a confer-

  ence room.

  Or it would have, had it not been for the light

  poles dotting the carpet, angling their theatrical

  lighting implements toward the table from every

  conceivable vantage point.

  “Are there going to be cameras?” Audra asked,

  raising her eyebrows in surprise.

  “Is this Hollywood?” Shamiyah shot back and this

  time there was no mistaking the anxiety in her

  voice. “You read the papers you signed, right? We

  tape just about everything—”

  “But I thought this was preliminary?”

  “If you’re willing to do what they want, it won’t

  be,” Shamiyah said cryptically, then took a seat far

  away, leaving a gap of at least a half dozen chairs be-

  tween them.

  Cameras. Audra let the idea sink in. Somehow,

  from what Shamiyah had said, she hadn’t expected

  there to be cameras at this extremely preliminary

  stage . . . but then, as Shamiyah had also said, this

  was Hollywood, and Ugly Duckling was a television

  show.

  “Most of this footage probably won’t get used . . .

  but you never know,” Shamiyah said as if she real-

  ized the coldness of her earlier comments. “I’d

  rather have it than wish I had it, you know? Besides,

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  you signed the papers.” She shrugged her shoul-

  ders. “We own your image and y
our story now . . . at

  least for a while.”

  Audra nodded like she was in the know, even as

  another creepy feeling, like a footstep on her grave,

  crept down her back. Even the image of her trans-

  formed self wasn’t enough to dissipate it. She shud-

  dered in spite of herself, searching for an anchor to

  banish fear and root her in the present moment.

  “Why are you sitting way down there?” Audra

  asked, focusing all of her attention on the other

  woman. “Did my deodorant quit or something?”

  She sniffed at her pits, tossing a smile at Shamiyah.

  “I know it’s been a tough morning, but Carla did

  douse me in a pool of water just before I came back

  up here.”

  Shamiyah smiled and opened her mouth like she

  was about to answer, but then the door opened and

  the sound of other voices filled the room.

  The first to enter was a smallish, wiry-looking

  white man with dark hair on both his head and his

  chin, and a white lab coat over a dress shirt and tie.

  His lips quirked into a quick smile as he spotted Au-

  dra at her place at the top of the table, but he said

  nothing, just quickly took the first seat on her left.

  Three more lab-coated professionals followed: a

  blonde woman who looked more like a TV soap-

  opera version of a doctor than most of the actual

  ones Audra had met, then a gray-haired older man

  with a tough action-hero physique, and last, a

  stocky, barrel-chested black man whose shaved

  dome of a head instantly reminded her of Art. All of

  the white-coated figures looked familiar . . . but it

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  113

  was the black man who locked eyes with Audra in a

  protracted stare, as if he could see through to her

  skeleton.

  She didn’t have time to explore that feeling, how-

  ever, because following the white-coated figures was

  a whole crew of others. A rangy, muscular woman

  wearing the kind of crop top that only a woman

  with a flat six-pack of a stomach could carry off

  swept in, fussing with a straight mass of shoulder-

  length black hair. She was followed by another trim

  woman, her short, gray hair worn close to her head,

  who seemed more interested in the sheaf of white

  paper in her hand than her fellow human beings in

  the room. Two more women followed her: a petite

  brunette woman wearing a pair of expensive-looking

  eyeglasses and a sober blue suit who smiled at Au-

  dra as she took a seat by Shamiyah on the left side of

  the table, and a Hispanic-looking woman with a

  mass of henna-colored hair streaming down her

  back. She carried a thick clipboard jammed with pa-

  per and was talking a mile a minute to someone be-

  hind her. That “someone” turned out to be not just a

  single person but an army of young-looking men

  and women holding devices of all kinds. Two black

  professional cameras rested on the shoulders of two

  of the men, while two others carried some kind of

  sound devices that looked like sophisticated ampli-

  fiers. A set of young women carried what appeared

  to be microphones dangling from a couple of long

  silver poles. To her surprise, there were several

  younger men holding nothing at all, and what ap-

  peared to be a small army of young women holding

  little black boxes Audra did not recognize until they

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  plopped themselves in front of each of the white-

  coated figures and proceeded to open them, reveal-

  ing a bigger collection of makeup, makeup brushes

  and makeup paraphernalia than Audra had ever

  seen outside a department store in her life.

  “Shamiyah!” The Latina shouted the name, an

  edge in her voice that made Audra jump in surprise.

  The woman sounded like a furious drill instructor

  on a bad hair day. Shamiyah popped to her feet like

  an automated soldier, an expression of out-and-out

  fear on her face that didn’t jibe with her earlier

  confidence.

  “Yes, Camilla?”

  “I thought I told you to arrange the chairs so that

  the cameras can get the entire panel at once—”

  “I tried but—”

  “I don’t want to hear that! I want to see the chairs

  arranged so the camera can pick up the entire panel

  at once!” Camilla nearly shouted, snapping her fin-

  gers with impatience.

  “But—” Shamiyah began again until Camilla shot

  her a withering look. Shamiyah folded her lips.

  “That’s my fault,” the black-haired doctor said

  mildly, rising. “I asked if we could hold this meet-

  ing here because my schedule is so tight . . . but the

  table’s not long enough for us to get that kind of

  shot, Camilla. Do you think we can figure out an-

  other way to get what you need?” His eyes flickered

  around the room again. “I see you’ve got two cam-

  eras, so, maybe we can station one guy at each end

  of the room and—”

  “Thanks, Alan. I’m sure we’ll figure something

  out,” Camilla gave him a warm enough smile, shot

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  115

  Shamiyah another evil glance, then addressed the

  production crew. “Maybe if we can station cameras

  at both ends of the room?” She offered, repeating the

  good doctor’s suggestion verbatim. “Don’t worry

  about the images on the TV, we can edit them in

  later. And for the most part, let’s not worry about

  shooting the subject. If we use this footage at all, it

  will be for the segment when the panel of experts

  discusses the necessary changes, so what she says

  won’t matter—”

  “Camilla!” Shamiyah hissed, jerking her head to-

  ward Audra.

  Camilla stared blankly at her like she had no idea

  what Shamiyah’s problem might be.

  “Uh . . . this is Audra Marks,” she offered in a

  prompting sort of tone as if to remind the woman

  that her “subject” had a name.

  Audra prepared her face for greeting . . . but the

  woman never even turned in her direction.

  “I know who she is,” Camilla said, taking the first

  seat on Audra’s right and leaning back to allow a

  young makeup artist with blue dye spiking her hair

  to do her thing. “We’ll tape an introduction when

  she arrives for surgery,” she muttered as the girl dot-

  ted and dabbed and swiped colors over her face.

  “That’s supposed to be our first meeting, and it’ll be

  more authentic that way.”

  “But—”

  Camilla waved her fingers in impatient dismissal.

  “She’s just here for us to look at today,” she snapped.

  “If she doesn’t agree to the proposal, we’re not go-

  ing to take her anyway, so—”

  “So, the sooner we get on with the discussion

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  process, the better for a
ll involved,” interrupted a

  sonorous male voice.

  The entire table seem to turn as a group toward

  the speaker. Audra knew without having heard it

  before that the voice belonged to the black doctor.

  “You’re absolutely right, Dr. Jamison,” Camilla

  said, using her deferential tone again. She shoved

  the makeup girl aside and tossed her mane of

  thick hair again before opening her notebook. She

  snapped her fingers, shooing the makeup crew out

  of the room, and summoning Shamiyah to her side

  in a single gesture. Taking her cue, Shamiyah pro-

  ceeded to dole out several small folders to the men

  and women seated around the table as though she

  were the secretary, and not a producer in her own

  right. Audra watched in confusion, feeling once

  again that nagging uncertainty, but she kept her

  mouth shut.

  “I trust you’ve all had a chance to review the data

  from the examination, but we thought it would look

  good to have the folders on the table, in the event

  any of this footage makes the final cut.” She glanced

  at the young man kneeling beside the amplifier de-

  vice. “How’s sound?”

  “I need a quick vocal of everyone to be sure,” he

  muttered, sounding like he, too, was eager for this

  session to begin and end.

  “You heard the man.” She glanced at Audra, look-

  ing her full in the face for the first time since she’d

  entered the room. “Say something.”

  “Something.”

  Laughter filled the room, cutting some of the

  tense atmosphere Camilla’s attitude had created.

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  117

  “That’s it, Audra,” the doctor to her right—whom

  Audra had decided must be Alan Bremmar, one of

  the plastic surgeons whose offices these were—

  chuckled. “I, for one, really do hope this works

  out. It’s always nice to work with women with per-

  sonality.”

  “Yeah, but once you make me beautiful, I won’t

  need a personality anymore, now, will I?” Audra

  quipped. “Like I said on the tape: The uglier you

  are, the more personality you need—”

  “We are not rolling yet, people!” Camilla inter-

  rupted, her eyes flashing angrily. “If we could just

  do the sound check? Please?” And she glared at Au-

  dra like the whole thing was her fault.

  “Fine,” Dr. Bremmar said good-humoredly

  enough, as though the woman’s shrewish rudeness

  meant no never mind to him. “I suggest we check by