The Wig, the Bitch & the Meltdown Page 11

  Pablo didn’t dare get up from the safety of his seat on the sidelines.

  “I bet Beyoncé wished she had that beat Keisha.” Sasha jumped in.

  “Why, thank you, Sasha,” Keisha interrupted and smiled. “Us girls need to stick together.” She stuck her tongue out at Miss Thing and closed her eyes as De La Renta stepped in to touch up her makeup.

  Sasha whispered in Miss Thing’s ear, but her audio was still being transmitted to all the production crew’s headsets—including Pablo’s. “She gotta certain beat all right. Did you see her ass jiggling in those outfits? Looked like two pigs fighting under a blanket.”

  Hearing them on their mics, Pablo accidentally swallowed the mint Mentos he was sucking on and began to sputter and choke.

  “God don’t like ugly,” Keisha said, her eyes still shut as De La Renta applied more liner. Maybe she did possess magical powers?

  “Places everyone,” the AD yelled. “We’re back in 3, 2, 1.”

  “What’s our criteria for judging the models?” Miss Thing asked. “I mean they were barely onscreen. It was all Keisha.”

  The silence in the studio was deadly. By now Pablo had figured out how most things worked on the show and in post—the hours of footage that they’d shot were organized into some semblance of order, and the real story was crafted. It didn’t matter what the cameras shot; the show was made in editing. Flipping coverage between the different camera angles the editors created the “moments” Keisha wanted on TV. The rest was garbage. No gag reel. Nothing.

  When season one hit the airwaves, a harsh lesson was learned. Keisha had hoovered up all of Pablo’s good lines, adopted his hashtag gesture, and he noticed that she now tilted her head like he did when he was talking to the models. The most talented person on the show, full of hilarious impersonations and witty one-liners, Miss Thing got slashed and burned in the editing room. Keisha degraded the cross-dressing runway coach to a babbling buffoon and ensured nothing of real substance came out of his mouth. There was only one star of Model Muse, and that star was Keisha Kash. No one else.

  * * *

  Keisha got an evil little glint in her amber eyes that spelled trouble. The kind of trouble the network would love. “Get some male models to surprise the girls,” she told Pablo.

  “What do you have up your sleeve?”

  “I thought we could stir things up. Models aren’t nuns, you know.”

  That was for sure, Pablo thought. He’d spent his entire 24-hours in South Beach looking at venues for the open call, while she got her “toes” tickled.

  “And tell The Wine Barn to send over a case of red and white.”

  “How about I get us some product placement, and fund this party for free?” He called the marketing department of Interboro, an alcoholic drink that packed a punch. By the time he’d gotten off the phone, they were committed to delivering four cases—two to the models’ apartment on Canal street and two to Silvercup for the wrap party in a few weeks.

  “That’s what I like about you, Pablo—you’re so thoughtful and always thinking ahead.”

  “A drunk crew is a happy crew.” He hoped she’d heard him.

  “Oh, and make sure the boys are willing to get naked too,” she added.

  Season two’s models were housed in an actual apartment rather than a hotel like they’d been in season one. It was thoroughly rigged with cameras and microphones—like the CIA, only more fun. Almost every night after work, Keisha and Pablo would retire to Keisha’s couch, with a pint of ice cream apiece, and watch their own private reality show—unedited. So they could see the live feed from the apartment as five gorgeous hunks arrived carrying two cases of Interboro, followed by two Steadicam operators.

  “Hey, girls!” Sexy Guy #1 said, “Keisha’s really proud of all the hard work you’ve done over the past few weeks and sent some refreshments.”

  “OMG. Party!” the models’ screeched.

  “Why do girls squeal?” Pablo plugged his ears and turned to Keisha. “It’s really annoying.”

  Sexy Dude #2 opened a can and handed it to one of the girls. Keisha smiled and leaned back to watch the shenanigans she’d set up. And there were shenanigans. One of the girls put on Spotify as their hunks—permission to strip approved—began handing out instant mixed drinks. Music blared. Another girl began dancing and the rest joined in, showing off their back-up moves from the music video. “OMG, we had to listen to Keisha’s track over and over. It was the worst song ever,” someone blurted. Another girl caught her eye. She shut up.

  Pablo looked over at Keisha to see if she had heard the reproach. She stabbed her ice cream.

  “What’s wrong with you?” Sexy Guy #4 asked the one girl who seemed to be holding back.

  “I’m just homesick.”

  “You’re not from New York?”

  “I haven’t even seen the city. All we do is go back and forth to different studios where we may have to sit in a closet and not speak to each other, or we’re locked in here or driving around Manhattan in a stretched Hummer.”

  “Shit.” He drank some of his Interboro Gin & Tonic. “I love your accent. Where’re you from?”

  “North Carolina, where thanks is a three-syllable word. You from here?”

  “Chicago.”

  “What do you do for a living?”

  He looked at her and puffed up his chest. “I mostly work fancy catered events where they want model type waiters, but I’ve been shot for GQ and recently did a spread in Vogue with Gisele Bündchen.”

  “You model?”

  “Don’t sound so shocked.” He handed her another G&T. “Erik.”

  “Mandy.”

  “Come on, Mandy. Let’s go out on the balcony. It’s too loud in here.”

  As they trailed away from the camera, Keisha looked over at Pablo and winked. “Love at first sight.”

  The party was getting raucous now and most of the guys had pulled off their shirts. The girls were stripping off their layers too.

  “What a bunch of sluts.” Keisha laughed hysterically.

  “Hey, where’d Mandy go?” one of the girls shouted as she grabbed Sexy Guy #1’s belt buckle and pulled him toward her. “She’s missing all the fun!”

  The Steadicam began moving down the hallway to the rooms of the girls. One or two were making out, but no Mandy. He turned left down the hall.

  “Ohh…Baabeee,” a southern voice moaned.

  “Fuck, you’re hot,” Erik said.

  The bathroom door was slightly ajar. The cameraman pushed it open and there in the shower, behind a steamy clear vinyl curtain, were some very fine male buttocks thrusting between some very pale, long legs wrapped around his waist.

  Pablo burst out laughing.

  “Mandy?” Keisha dropped her ice cream and screamed. “She wasn’t supposed to fuck the guy.”

  “They aren’t nuns! You said so yourself.”

  “They shouldn’t be sluts.”

  “Since when?” Pablo rolled across the couch, laughing so hard tears squirted out of his eyes. “Models shouldn’t be sluts?” He roared. “You’re the queen of the booty call.”

  “Stop laughing,” she ordered.

  Of course, that didn’t work. He couldn’t. The more she glared at him and threatened him if he didn’t stop, the worse it got. He laughed so hard he snorted. Waves of laughter cascaded through his body—he hadn’t laughed so hard since he was a kid.

  “What do I do?” the camera operator said into his IFB.

  “Bust them up,” Keisha screamed.

  “Poor kid. She just needs to let off some steam.” Pablo burst out laughing again. “And that shower is certainly steamy.” It took five minutes to get himself under control and even then, all Keisha had to do was look at him and he would start laughing all over again.

  Over the live feed, Mandy’s southern charm vanished and she sounded Hillbilly distinctly. �
�What the hell?”

  “Hey, that’s not cool, dude.” Erik grabbed a towel and, like a true gentleman, wrapped it around himself, leaving naked Mandy to fend for herself.

  “I gotta hand it to you, Keisha, this is gonna make great television,” Joe Vong said over his IFB.

  Keisha made a little told-you-so face at Pablo, who’d finally recovered some composure. His sides ached.

  Keisha looked like a stern housemother. “I’m gonna teach that girl and all girls on my show a lesson they will never forget.”

  “Be afraid. Be very afraid.” Pablo wiped his eyes.

  The next morning, Keisha ordered the Steadicams to follow her into the girls’ apartment at 8 a.m. The contestants had an afternoon call time and looked not entirely Model Muse worthy. They welcomed their Supermodel with a little less glee than they had on the first episode.

  “Where’s Mandy?”

  Mandy came out of her bedroom in her bathrobe. Her eyes had dark circles under them.

  “You went to sleep with your makeup on?” Keisha sounded more horrified at that than the indiscriminate sex. “Models always take their makeup off at the end of the day. True beauty is not skin deep.”

  Pablo thought of Vinny and the makeup Keisha had slept in every night to make him happy.

  “But that’s not why I’m here. We need to talk.” Keisha pointed to the rest of the girls. “This is between Mandy and me. Go to your rooms.” Like a flock of chickens, the models scurried away. Keisha sat down on the couch and patted the spot next to her. “As I said, we need to talk.” The camera zoomed in on Keisha’s perfect face. “About being sexually responsible.” Mandy’s face was crimson red. “Did he wear a condom last night?”

  Mandy began crying and shaking her head; she whimpered a “No.”

  “Are you on the pill?”

  “No.”

  Keisha shook her head back and forth. “What were you thinking, girl?”

  “I dunno.”

  “I do. You weren’t thinking. We don’t know anything about that guy. He could’ve had any number of STDs, Syphilis or Gonorrhea perhaps. This is New York City, Mandy, you can’t just get laid by any old random stranger.”

  “You sent him over.”

  “Cut that.” Keisha looked at the cameraman and slashed her throat. “Let’s be clear—I sent some refreshments to you girls after a hard day’s work. That’s it.”

  Hanging in the back, behind the camera, Pablo nearly choked. It was so not true.

  “I’ve made an appointment for you to go see a gynecologist. You’re gonna get a blood test and pap smear, and test for STDs. You’re also getting the Morning-After pill.”

  Mandy began sobbing. “I’m sorry. I was just so lonely.”

  “How else are you gonna learn? As a Supermodel, your body is a temple. You have to take care of it.” Keisha was on a Mother Teresa roll now. “That means eating the right food. Never eating sugar. And make sure you’re healthy.”

  “What if I test positive?”

  “I’ll have to send you home.”

  Mandy bawled.

  Keisha looked at her coldly. “I thought you were homesick.” She signaled to the camera crew. “To the doctor’s office.”

  Joe Vong leaned over to Pablo and whispered, “The ratings are gonna explode from this episode.”

  “You can’t follow her to the doctor for a gynecological exam,” Pablo said.

  “Watch me.”

  Of course, most of the saga was cut by the Network censors—Model Muse wasn’t supposed to be more than soft porn, and it was certainly not a doctor show. But Keisha and Joe got enough of the story in the final edit so that Mandy and her nice Baptist family in Morganton, North Carolina, were embarrassed on national television. It was the ratings spike that solidified Model Muse as the reality show to watch.

  * * *

  At around 3 a.m. Pablo’s phone started buzzing on his bedside table. The new screenshot that lit up his screen featured Pablo and Keisha posing against some rocks and sand in South Beach–he looked buff in his Tom Ford swim trunks and she looked like an overstuffed mango in a strapless, orange one-piece. Pablo was proud of how he looked though, and that’s why he chose this new pic of them for her contact photo.

  “What.” His voice was hoarse from long days on the set and lack of sleep.

  “I’m late.”

  “For what? It’s 3 a.m.”

  “My period.”

  His head fell back on his pillow with a thump. “You couldn’t tell me that at breakfast?”

  “I need you to get me a pregnancy test.”

  “Me?”

  “Get a couple. Different brands.”

  “In the morning.”

  “Now.”

  “Keisha, I’m not gonna get up and try to find an all-night pharmacy so you can do something now that you can do just as easily in a few hours. Go to sleep.” And then for the first time in his life, he hung up on her.

  His phone buzzed. He groaned. Answered. “No.”

  “Please.” Her tone slipped up a few octaves into her high pitched little girl voice. “Please, Mr. Pablo.”

  “Ugh, are you worried about T-Rex or South Beach?”

  “South Beach.”

  “You’re telling me you didn’t use a condom?”

  “No,” she whimpered.

  “And you’re not on birth control?”

  “No.”

  “What were you thinking?” He repeated the lines she’d used on Mandy. “I know, you weren’t thinking.”

  “You don’t tell a star football player to wear a condom, Pablo.”

  “I wouldn’t know. I was looking at venues for an open casting call—for your show.”

  “Will you go now?”

  “No. I’m going to sleep. Tomorrow morning I’ll swing by Rite Aid and grab you a couple brands and bring them by. It’s a few hours, just try to relax.”

  “I can’t…”

  “I’m turning my phone off, Keisha. Good night.” And then, he did exactly what he said he was going to do. He turned off his iPhone and fell back on his mattress. For a moment, he thought he would never get back to sleep. A few hours later, he woke to sunlight on his face. If I left my phone off every night, he thought, I might actually achieve some REM sleep. He hadn’t dreamt in so long. He’d forgotten how good it felt to be swept away and truly slumber.

  11

  COPY THAT

  WITH TWO SUCCESSFUL and lucrative seasons of Model Muse on the air, Pablo was finally able to purchase his first apartment in New York City. Keisha helped him look for something and advised on how to negotiate with realtors. Ultimately, he’d done it by himself. After living in a cramped Hell’s Kitchen railroad flat, Pablo hungered for a room with a view. It was the fourteen-foot ceilings and wall of glass overlooking Seventh Avenue that sold him on the apartment. The moment he walked inside, he knew he’d come home. Now the fun began.

  Like any good designer, Pablo spent hours planning the renovations down to the smallest detail, so by the time season two wrapped, he was ready to decorate. “I’m gonna visit my parents in Illinois,” he lied to Keisha. He needed a serious holiday from Keishavision and needed to use the show’s hiatus to create a safe haven from the chaos of the celebrity world—not playing her beard for booty calls. It was bliss. Peace and serenity reigned supreme in his life and he began to feel like a real human being, again. And a real artist. Every bit of his apartment was an expression of Pablo’s creativity, and his eye for design and beauty elevated the decor. He’d taken a page from Philippe Starck’s modern white loft suites at The Sanderson Hotel in London, but his apartment was all Pablo Michaels.

  Coming through the front door, Pablo wanted his guests’ eyes to be drawn to the ultimate focal wall opposite his bedroom. At first glance, it looked like an architectural detail, but it concealed the components to his Bang & Olufsen home theat
er system, which revealed with the press of a button—or a request from Siri. In front of that was a light grey Minotti sectional sofa and one of the last famous Script Rugs with illegible black writing scribbled across the white fabric. A white lacquer desktop appeared to be floating in space, above clear Lucite legs that had been fashioned to look like cut crystal stemmed champagne glasses. He’d actually splurged on having a custom made Eames Executive chair created for his desk. White, of course. Like the clean palette of a painter, Pablo had created a modern neoclassical vibe to help him keep a clear mind when he wasn’t on the chaotic set of Model Muse.

  With meticulous care and precision, his bedroom was measured and fitted with wrap around, floor-to-ceiling, white ripple fold drapes. Their dramatic flair gave a sense of texture and comfort that he adored. A Lucite framed Ghost Mirror hung over his king-sized bed, creating the illusion of greater space. It was sexy too.

  To his delight, the one-bedroom loft resembled the film set from the movie Oblivion with Tom Cruise. The modernity of the space might’ve been intimidating to some, but Pablo loved it. Pablo savored the feeling of living in what he called an “art installation.” A couple of select artisan-crafted chairs, upholstered in warm orange and grey hues, offset the all-white.

  The evening before they were to return from break, the intercom buzzed.

  “A very lively De La Renta to see you, sir,” Sean, the Irish doorman, announced.

  “Is he dressed to kill?” Pablo asked.

  “I hope not, sir.”

  “Send him up.” As much as Pablo loved his apartment and the location, the old Irishman on the door may have clinched the deal. He loved Sean’s brogue and sass.

  Fluffing the Missoni Home pillows in his living room, Pablo looked around one last time. There was a badda bop rap on the door.

  “Hey Siri, play my chill mix,” Pablo said, dancing toward the door.

  The robotic Siri voice confirmed, “Playlist chill mix now playing.” The silken voice of Cynthia Erivo floated down from the ceiling, emanated from the walls and filled the room.