23
2 DAYS TILL WRAP, SEASON SIX
CENTRAL PARK WAS partially in bloom. Pink blossoms carpeted the paths. Birds were singing. Spring in New York was when the city was most magical and added to the enchantment the models would experience. Today, they were on a Cinderella style carriage ride through the park. It was times like this, however short lived, that made the reality of their borrowed lives worthwhile, and was a relief from their grueling schedule. Wearing hoodies covering their faces, the three model finalists were slipped through the back entrance of Tavern On The Green, while a pre-announced press op and social media lovefest was in full hoopla out front, under the restaurant’s faded red awnings.
Posing for journalists, Keisha and the judges smiled and took selfies with shrieking fans gathered ten deep for the rare public, group appearance. Ideally nestled amongst mature oaks and maples in a cul-de-sac at 67th Street and Central Park West, the world-famous restaurant was the perfect Manhattan location to film the new segment that Keisha had created for the finale episode. She planned to use it in future seasons, as well. It was important to have a recap of all lessons the contestants had experienced together and for the judges, especially Keisha, to share their wisdom and advice with their models—muse or not. It also would allow the Supermodel host to pontificate about everything she’d done for the final three. Keisha was all about product placement—she was the product; her show was the placement.
The network had negotiated its deal with Tavern On The Green—free meals and shooting venue, in exchange for on air placement. And the on-camera talent were expected to do their due diligence and make an appearance to help promote the classic tourist attraction as a celebrity hot spot. In truth, no star (A-list or Z) would be caught dead eating at Tavern On The Green, unless it was written into their contract. The food was great but it wasn’t trendy anymore, and hadn’t been for thirty years. For one thing, they didn’t serve BBQ ribs and corn bread. It was too bad for Keisha that Virgil’s didn’t have the right aesthetic or enough space to shoot the sentimental scene.
“I wonder how much the restaurant is paying for this airtime?” Miss Thing asked. “Keisha never does this shit.”
“Oh, she’s getting her cut and a free meal.” Sasha waved to their adoring crowd. “She’s in heaven.” They clinked their heads together like champagne glasses and smiled for the fans.
Pablo held back, smiling semi-demurely and checking his watch every two minutes. He felt nauseous standing with his arm around Keisha’s waist, but the network had requested the two of them stand as a pair, and slightly apart from the judges, so fans and paparazzi could snap double shots of them alone. Judy Garland and Mickey Rooney of Fashion, the network’s new “dream team.”
Keisha whispered to Pablo like a ventriloquist, holding the perfect Supermodel smile. “What’s wrong with you?”
“I’m just afraid I’m gonna be late, that’s all,” he said.
“Late for what? First, you don’t return my calls and now you’re acting all strange?”
I’m not acting strange you sad, lonely, idiosyncratic—you’ll have to look that one up—backstabber. “Doctor’s appointment. I don’t feel good. It might be flu.”
“Ewww.” Keisha took a step away from him. “You can’t be sick. You have the final runway show to produce and host later tonight.”
“I know.” He lied, “I was trying to head over to my doctor and—”
“That’s it, everyone,” Keisha interrupted, barking at the crowd. “Harper.”
“Sorry. Right here…Behind you.”
“Get me some antibacterial wipes. Pablo’s sick.” The germophobic Supermodel strutted past the rest of the judges towards the double door entrance of the restaurant. “And seat Pablo as far away from me as possible,” she whispered to Rachel who was standing at the threshold. “I really can’t afford to get the flu right now.”
Who can?
Followed by two Steadicams, Keisha and the judges walked through the lush décor of the downstairs bar and into a glass walled room that looked out at the green splendor of Central Park. Wait staff dressed in their black and whites bustled in and out of speckled and then sun-drenched light, pouring champagne into glasses and carrying platters of hors d’oeuvres. Beth had already loaded her plate with grilled shrimp and petite pigs in a blanket. Elyssa and Nichole were grazing more demurely. Wide-eyed with the excitement of dreams about to come true, the girls gave the cameras all the material they needed for the show’s Cinderella storyline. After what they had been through, they needed some sweetness in their lives.
A tower of fruits de mer, raw oysters, shrimps and clams formed a nest around an ice sculpture of Keisha as Venus Rising, a la Botticelli, from a scallop shell. The models stared at the ice Goddess, which Pablo had ordered for the event a while back. That was a mistake. The deific Supermodel had fallen from grace, as far as he was concerned. But then goddesses had a notoriously bad reputation when it came to their treatment of mere mortals. The sculpture worked on so many levels, from the first night he’d met the Supermodel hiding behind the catering racks in that cold, slush-filled alley to her present day coldness. Had she changed so much since that fated night, or had she always been a malignant narcissist?
“Ugh.” Pablo gagged.
“You look pale,” Mason said.
“I don’t feel well.” At least, he was telling the truth. Thinking about what he’d put up with over the past few years was making him physically sick. “I just need to get outta here and over to my doctor’s office.”
Across the room, standing in front of the glimmering ice Venus, Beth’s eyes almost bugged out of her head looking at all the seafood.
“What are those?” she purred.
“You’ve never had a raw oyster?” Elyssa seemed shocked.
“I come from Wisconsin. We only have cream and cheese.”
“OMG. They are amazing. Come to think of it,” Elyssa burst out laughing, “Kayla told me her boyfriend said they taste like sex.”
“They’re so good.” Beth and Nichole slurped one up.
“Or maybe she tasted like the oyster.”
“Yuck.” Beth gagged, but kept eating anyway.
“I’m still getting over the fact that she has a boyfriend,” Nichole said.
Camera C pushed in for a close-up of the models chowing down at the raw bar, while Camera A captured reaction shots of Keisha and Camera B followed the judges.
“If you guys can have a seat,” Rachel suggested. “We can start with Keisha’s greeting. We need to wrap out of this location, taillights, by 1 p.m. sharp.”
“Settle.” Bill’s voice carried across the room.
Keisha took her position at the head of the table, looking like a radiant and slightly disturbed schoolmarm. “I feel so fortunate to find myself here at the end of this season, looking at three beautiful faces, which I’ve made even more beautiful over the past weeks. I feel like a proud mama about to send her children out into the world. Even though only one of you will be a Model Muse.”
Keisha droned on about her days as a model and preached about her endless contributions to society, as a leader of women’s empowerment. Pablo watched as heads began to nod. Rachel and De La Renta were practically leaning on each other taking a nap. At least the models looked rapt with attention. Innocent of the larger ruse, they played for the cameras looking truly inspired by their superstar role model.
Sasha cleared her throat and stood up, cutting into Keisha’s moment. “Listen girls, as the world’s highest paid Supermodel, lemme break it down for you. Don’t fool yourselves. At the end of the day, you’re still selling your tits and ass—for a check!”
“Amen chile’,” Miss Thing chimed in. “And remember to walk the walk, don’t talk the talk. No one cares what a model thinks.”
Keisha glared at both of them.
“Ladies.” Mason stood up and gave a little bow in their direction. “We just want to make sure that you are all prepared for the scrutiny you will face in this business.” He shifted the tone. “Having a strong mind and sense of self, will serve you in the long run.”
Keisha smiled condescendingly at her faithful Brit. The three contestants kept their sweetest smiles pasted on their faces, hip to the fact that the scene being played out was not about them. For Elyssa, it was about having a little precious time with her mentors. For Nichole, it was about righteous retribution for, after fighting her way to the top, shaming Keisha on camera. For Beth, it was about having a decent meal.
“Thank you, judges.” Keisha cut them all off. “It’s been a long road and my finalists are here: the daughter of a brave woman who lost her battle with breast cancer, our trendy tattooed work of art, and our first plus-sized model.” Beth’s face contorted as the cameras focused on her. The look on her face was not even slightly attractive. Her mouth twisted. Her eyes bulged and watered. Suddenly she lurched forward and projectile vomited all over Keisha.
Beth fell to the floor, rolling around gasping for air and groaning.
“Yuck!” Keisha screeched and spat at the model. “Yuck. Get it off me.”
“Medic!” Rachel screamed. One of the wait staff ran over to perform a Heimlich maneuver.
“Get me the Medi-Kit. She isn’t choking,” the waiter yelled at one of his coworkers. “She’s going into anaphylactic shock.”
“How do you know?” Rachel yelled at him.
“I’m pre-med,” he fired back.
Beth’s lovely face was turning blue.
“Is she allergic to oysters?” Nichole asked.
Another waiter ran into the room pulling out an EpiPen from the emergency medical kit and raced to the thrashing model’s side.
The waiter pulled Beth’s skirt up.
“What are you doing to her?” Rachel was beside herself with panic.
“Saving her life.” He stabbed her in the thigh, twisted the pin and held it against her leg. “One one-thousand. Two one-thousand. Three one-thousand.”
Silence engulfed the cast and crew as they watched poor Beth’s distorted face and ballooning neck. Nichole had tears streaming down her face. Elyssa hugged her.
Beth gasped for air.
A collective sigh of relief cascaded around the room.
“Everyone, give her some room.” The waiter pressed her eyelids open and shone a flashlight into her pupils. Took her pulse.
Rachel was shaking. “Ohmigod, you saved her life.”
From the top of the stairs, emergency medics came racing in with a stretcher.
“I expect a good tip,” the waiter chuckled.
“You know? A good model who can hold down her oysters and her Flaming Hot Cheetos is hard to find,” De La Renta quipped.
Rachel cornered him with her eyes. “Not funny, Switzerland.”
An hour later, the producers were still trying to decide whether to finish the shoot in the restaurant or just skip the whole set up. Sitting in a private office downstairs in the restaurant, Joe paced and fumed. Keisha was sitting in a white chef’s uniform and kitchen clogs. “I’ll need new wardrobe if we do a reshoot,” she told Joe.
Rachel was talking to a physician on the phone and shaking her head. She put the doctor on hold and turned to the team. “This is Dr. Bernstein. He can speak to us now that I’ve gotten her HIPAA statement, but the prognosis isn’t good.”
“What the hell does that mean?” Joe cussed.
“They’ve got her on IV fluids now.”
“Fuck fluids. We need to know if we can at least get her back for final judging tomorrow.” Joe snatched the phone out of her hand and pressed speakerphone. “Dr. Bernstein? This is Joe Vong, executive producer of Model Muse.” He sounded unnervingly polite.
“What’s that?” the voice echoed from the phone.
“It’s one of the top reality shows on television.”
“Was this some kind of TV stunt?” He was not impressed.
“Not at all,” Joe assured him. “Can you catch us up with the latest on Beth?”
“She had an allergic reaction to shellfish, but she has also developed Vibrio Vulnificus.”
“Got it. But can we get her back by tomorrow morning to resume shooting? I can push it to afternoon, if that’s better.”
“Vibrio Vulnificus is an infection that can cause severe blistering, skin lesions.”
Dr. Bernstein continued. “Many people with this virulent infection require intensive care or limb amputations. Fifteen to thirty percent of infections are fatal.”
“What exactly does that mean for us then?” Joe sounded panicked now.
“It means she’s covered with derma layer vesicles and we’re evaluating whether we need to amputate her left leg or not.” Dr. Bernstein sounded resolute.
Joe went ballistic. “Fuuuuuuuck.” Rachel grabbed her phone quickly and put it on mute. “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! This season is cursed.”
“You know,” Keisha said, excitedly, “if we keep her as the winner, this could work for us. We’ve never had a plus-sized model win…but imagine the headlines for a plus-sized amputee.”
“She has blisters all over her fucking face and body,” Joe reminded her.
Pablo was horrified that he’d once believed Keisha was sane. She was unhinged and deranged. What could possibly be swirling around in that pretty head of hers?
“I think we need to use this situation to our advantage and swap out Beth for Kayla,” Rachel suggested as she got off the phone with the doctor.
“Right.” Joe snapped his fingers. “We can play out the scene tonight at the girl’s apartment before the final runway. Keisha, you’ll deliver the news that Beth isn’t coming back. And surprise, Kayla’s back in the competition.” Joe sounded relieved now.
“The underdog fights her way back and wins the competition.” Keisha pondered the narrative. “I like it. We’ll just do a plus-sized winner next season.”
“Hello? What about Nichole?” Pablo asked. “Social media is gonna hate her losing. Do you know how many girls have lost mothers to breast cancer around the world?”
Joe sighed. Keisha glared at him.
Pablo took a long hard look at everyone in the room playing each other like puppets. They were all fully aware of what was at stake, but no one had the balls to say it out loud. Kayla had them all by the short and curlies.
“If Kayla doesn’t win, she’ll definitely go public with a sex scandal,” Pablo laid it all out for the bunch of spineless pussies. “If she does win, she may go public at some later date. Model Muse is fucked either way and is gonna take a hit. So, let’s just do the right thing, for once.”
“I thought you had the flu,” Keisha sneered.
“Well, I have something.” Pablo stood up and left the team alone in the restaurant office. They could decide their own fate. Nothing else was going to ruin his day. He had an appointment with destiny on the red carpet of the Primetime Emmy Awards.
* * *
Marking a special anniversary, the Primetime Emmys had travelled across the country to be held “Live from Lincoln Center in New York City.” Pablo was living the dream. Standing on the carpet, mic in hand, Pablo dazzled in a Tom Ford tux and enough liquid foundation, pressed powder and bronzer to make a corpse look attractive and alive. He looked like the groom on a wedding cake and felt like one too. After the hell of the past few days, heaven was the magenta and fuchsia sunset behind the statuesque grandeur of one of the most glorious performance venues in America, Lincoln Center. It was the golden hour and everything was swept with the rich warm hues a camera loves. Pablo was radiant. Luck was finally on his side, for once. Getting the text from Broyce to fill in as a fashion correspondent at the last minute was the lifeline rescuing Pablo from a nightmare of betrayal and plummeting self-esteem. Unfortunately, someone did have the flu that day.Fortunately, it wasn’t Pablo.
Dishing about the Emmy nominees, the Celebrity-Buzz TV co-host touched her ear so she could hear the cue in her IFB to introduce Pablo. He could also hear the producers giving her the intro line:
“And standing by with Heidi Klum, the queen of reality TV, is our newest reporter, Pablo Michaels from Model Muse. Welcome to the Celebrity-Buzz TV family, Pablo.”
His camera operator held up two fingers, then one and pointed at him.
“What’s going on at your end of the carpet?” the hostess asked.
“Things are amazing here,” Pablo smiled confidently into the camera, “as I’m with arguably the world’s most beloved Supermodel host, Heidi Klum.”
Heidi and Pablo did a fashion, double fake air-kiss without touching each other.
“Tell me, Heidi,” Pablo dished. “Is that Christian Siriano you’re wearing?”
“Of course, Dah-ling! I always support my Project Runway stars.” Effervescent, Heidi winked at the camera. “You know, Christian was one of our first winners.”
“I know.”
“And now he’s a legend in his own right.”
“You really know how to shape a diamond in the rough, and create a true brand.” Pablo laid the charm on thick as organic peanut butter. “Loyalty’s such a wonderful quality. No wonder everyone loves you, and always will.” He smiled at the camera, sending psychic barbs to his former BFF, who he knew had to be watching, most likely in her dressing suite with De La Renta.
“To be honest, Pablo? I was so lucky to have help when I was coming up in the industry. We all did. It’s important, no? To help one another?”
“I just love that.” Pablo shook his head and smiled sweetly at her. “Glamor has a new meaning Heidi, and you’re wearing it. Back to you….”
“You’re out,” the producer said.
Pablo breathed for the first time in what felt like five minutes.
“That was marvelous.” Heidi told him before moving toward the open doors.
Over his IFB he could hear the producers discussing who was coming up the carpet towards him, and giving the handlers instructions for how to space out his next celebrity interview. He loved being kept in the loop on all the different facets of the production, and it felt like he was in six places at once. Why didn’t Keisha like wearing the concealed IFB in her ear? It was a control freak’s dream. Coming towards Pablo now were Zendaya, wearing Versace, Reese Witherspoon, in Chanel, Glenn Close, in Valentino, and Pablo’s favorite star from Game of Thrones, Peter Dinklage, wearing whatever he damn well wanted.
At a brief pause in the celebrity parade, Pablo took the live television moment to give a shout out to, “Tom Ford, who I’m wearing tonight. Tom once eloquently said, ‘Glamour is something more than what you put on your body. It has to do with the way you carry yourself and the impact you have on others.’” Standing next to the multiple Emmy Award nominee and one of the presenters, Pablo took Kerry Washington’s hand and added, “I interpret that to mean, style is the very definition for the way you live your life and accomplish your goals. And you do that so effortlessly. Inside and out, Kerry, you look absolutely gorg tonight!”
“And if it weren’t for you, on Model Muse, I wouldn’t know how to pose in front of all these cameras. You’re the heart of the show.” He almost choked up and cried on live television. Olivia Pope loved him.
Two hours of live TV is enough to exhaust anyone, but Pablo was already running on empty. The adrenaline of the night and the sense he had of belonging, filled him with courage. As the last of the stars waved good-bye on their way into the award ceremony, the producer gave him a thumbs up and twirled the air. “That’s a wrap,” he heard through his earpiece. The Emmy red carpet was officially over. Pablo pulled out his IFB and the sound engineer unhooked all the audio packs.
“You’re a natural,” the producer who’d fed him his lines and celebrity names said. “My boss has already spoken with your boss about using you for more events. You were trending the whole show.”
He hadn’t even had time to check his social feeds, and now eagerly pulled out his iPhone to flip through the Instagram and Twitter responses from designer friends, photographers and fans. His appearance had indeed gone viral on every social media platform. Everyone was on it. His mentor, acquaintances, even his frenemies were posting.
@MissThing: Pablo on the red carpet wearing Tom Ford—Muse over #KeishaKa$h!
@Sasha_original_Supermodel: One of the nicest people I know. Go Pablo! #RealTalk I’m loving your hot buns on the red carpet. :-p
@MichaelKors: Remember when? xx #PabloMichaels #RP using the Repost App: @MissThing - Pablo on the red carpet wearing Tom Ford—Muse over #KeishaKa$h!
@MrJayManuel: For a split second I thought I was looking at a younger me on the E! Red Carpet. 
You killed it tonight! xo
@MasonHughes: Are you sure you are not British? Suave and Sophisticated = Pablo Michaels. #TomFord #MensFashion #DapperStyle #CreativeDirector #ModelMuse
A slew of individual comments populated below the selfie Pablo had posted from the red carpet just before they went live:
@MrTorontoDude: Husband material!
@SouthernBoy_123: You look sooooo good! I could eat you!
@OscarJamesHair: Yassssssss! The hair’s on point!
@CoutureMaster_the3rd: Hitting us with the drip…Boy you can dress!
@ElizabethTheWriter: (DMV Intercom) Now serving…Exquisite!
@c_h_e_t_t_i_girl: You are EVERYTHING!
Pablo felt high, but the negative chatter in his mind kept his feet firmly planted on the ground. This isn’t real love. It’s social media. They don’t even know who you actually are. They probably don’t even like you. You could still end up with nothing, then what are you going to do?
He quit his Instagram app and looked at his phone. His mom and dad, both on the line, had even called and left a message. And then a dose of #KeepingItReal from Joe Vong and De La Renta popped on top of his several text messages.
Joe Vong TEXT: Killing it at the Emmys doesn’t give you an excuse to be late for final judging. CU 2morrow.
De La Renta TEXT: Mother having a SHIT fit!!!!! Grab some food later? You need me. TRUST! It went down over here! :-p
* * *
Pablo sat huddled with De La Renta in one of the luxurious curved velvet booths inside the Lincoln Ristorante adjacent to David Geffen Hall, where the Emmy festivities were taking place.
“She thought I knew.” De La Renta slurped on his second Mojito. “Child, my head would’ve gone into a guillotine if you’d told me you were doing that gig. Thank you for keeping a bitch in the dark.”
“Oh, I know. And you can’t lie.” Pablo pulled at his tie and unbuttoned the top two buttons of his dress shirt.
“Don’t I know it.” He sucked up the last of his drink and waved at the waiter for another one. “But did you notice that Jay Manuel tweeted you while you were on the Red Carpet?”
Pablo smirked. “I did.”
“That’s all you gotta say? Isn’t he, like, your hero?”
“I guess he’s something like that.”
“You guess?” De La Renta glared at Pablo with a curious look. “Now I’m starting to think Mother wanted you to have silver hair for a reason.”
“Speaking of, she didn’t see me being on Celebrity-Buzz TV as a good thing for Model Muse?”
“What? She looked like Medusa tryin’ to turn your face to stone through the TV. She saw it as, and I quote, a slap in her face,” he parodied.
“Of course, she did.”
“She called Broyce. Claimed you were using her celebrity to elevate yourself. And tried to fuck your contract.” De La Renta made a face.
“Broyce is the one who got me the gig.” Pablo took a bite of his goat cheese and pomegranate salad.
“He’s one cool dude. He told her the network sees you two as its new ‘dream team.’” De La Renta tried to mimic Broyce’s smooth delivery, “‘We’re thrilled he got this Celebrity-Buzz TV exposure. It’s great for ratings. Their EVP’s already offered him a permanent position as fashion correspondent for the whole award season.’”
Pablo’s face immediately lit up at Broyce’s support.
De La Renta went on. “She tried to throw you under the bus, though. Claimed you weren’t ready for the runway shoot we just wrapped.”
Pablo sputtered. “Bullshit. I finished my prep, days ago.”
“Girl, please. Even Joe Vong was on your side. He suggested we have Miss Thing do the intro setup and host the runway challenge for a change.” De La Renta was now chomping on a brown breadstick. “I mean, shit, isn’t that what the beast does for a living?”
Pablo couldn’t believe his ears. “I bet that went over well with Mother.”
“You should’ve heard her. I made Pablo and I can break him,” he mimicked.
“Oh really?” Pablo paused. “If I learned anything tonight, it’s that there’s a whole entertainment world out there for me to conquer.”
De La Renta looked at him. “She’s comin’ for you, Boo. You betta be ready.”