25
SEARCHING FOR SAGE advice that would make sense of his last four years walking on eggshells, while Keisha the tyrant had controlled him, the unemployed Pablo pounded motivational books. He was trying to take back his life and it was time to try a different approach. Give her problem with being a bully back to her. However, he’d made a few mistakes in walking from the show. One, he couldn’t file for unemployment because he hadn’t been fired. Two, no one was banging down his door asking the reality star to produce runway shows anymore—not that he wanted to do that anyway. Three, because he’d walked from a well-established franchise, there was a question around his loyalty. Doing general meetings with other networks was going to prove difficult. He desperately sought a way to find solace in himself, but he was plagued with doubt.
Leaving Model Muse had seemed like the only power move Pablo could make. Now it seemed foolhardy. How would he ever get a talk show without his celebrity in place already on television? It’s easier to get a job when you have one, than get one when you don’t. Nothing was permanent. Even huge success wasn’t yours to keep. Celebrity was NOT owned—it was rented! And the rent was due every day. Keisha had been right and he hated it. He’d passed on renewing a lush contract for six more seasons of the hit show, lost his platform on TV and given up a ton of money—before securing a new job. Was integrity worth the tough pill he’d had to swallow? He loved working with De La Renta and the models. He’d loved the creativity that he was able to bring to the set and the show; he even loved the long hours. There were a few red carpet events to co-host on Celebrity-Buzz TV, but not enough to fill his enormous energetic drive or enough money to pay his mortgage. He needed something else, a new project. Some way to fulfill his desires and fill his pockets. Through it all, he was finding the holes in himself and he needed to plug them up on his terms.
De La Renta had suggested Pablo write a style book. “Your fan base will eat it up.” That was the last thing Pablo wanted to write. He’d witnessed the demise of too many colleagues who, after a brief launch and a lot of hoopla, were relegated to the dusty old section of the bookstore—or worse, Costco—plastered with 70% off permanently affixed to their glossy covers. Pablo looked out on the abyss of Manhattan from his fifteenth-floor apartment and waited for inspiration. He’d saved his soul by leaving the show. But what the hell would he do without it? Oscillating between pity party and proactivity, Pablo welcomed the interruption of his phone ringing on the living room coffee table.
* * *
Season seven didn’t have an international or even a national open cattle call. Not one judge, producer or peon wanted to pick through tens of thousands of desperate girls again. The show was a bonified success and selecting models was the last thing anyone had time for anymore. Instead, Luciana was back to single-handedly finding diamonds in the rough—much to Keisha’s fury. And that was why the casting team was in the 23rd floor conference room at the network ready to present the new cast of hopefuls.
Keisha chucked her iPhone on the conference room table, impatiently. “I’m done waiting on Broyce. Just show me my cast.”
Luciana obediently clicked a remote to activate the presentation screen.
“Okay. So here are your tired, your poor, your huddled masses,” Luciana started. A pale redheaded girl in a skimpy bathing suit filled the screen. “First, we have Prenilla. She’s our super fair redhead. She barely passed psych eval, but I think there’s gonna be good story here.”
“I asked for an albino this season. Is this the best you can do?”
“Oh come on, she’s a click away! You can give her pink contacts during makeovers,” Luciana snapped.
“And shave her head,” Joe Vong mumbled to Rachel, “to get a new wig.”
Luciana took a deep breath. “Can I continue?”
“Fine. Next,” Keisha sighed.
“So, for our Keisha wannabe, we have Tyranne.”
“Sorry for being late everyone.” Broyce walked swiftly into the conference room and smiled at everyone. “Oh, she’s stunning!” he said of the model whose photo was on screen. Her wheat colored hair and hazel/green eyes made her a true knock out. “She kinda looks like you, Keisha.”
“She does, doesn’t she?” Luciana’s voice dripped with sarcasm. Both Joe and Rachel sank into their seats. Harper was completely transfixed by the doppelganger image.
Like a diplomatic emissary, Broyce stayed standing. “I just need to have a word with everyone before we continue.” His presence was magnetic and authoritative. His voice a baritone that could’ve made him a great hypnotist. “We have some statistical information from research that has had us making some changes upstairs, and I want to share with everyone before we finish seeing the cast. Model Muse has extensive growth with young women between eighteen to twenty-four. That age group also has a racially mixed balance; white females watch just as much as Black, Asian and Latina women. But what I really want to share is the new focus group data.”
Keisha carefully placed both her hands on the conference room table.
“Sixty-eight percent of viewers love Pablo as Creative Director, and 52% answered ‘no’ to the question, would you watch if Pablo Michaels was no longer on the show; 43% weren’t sure and 5% didn’t care. Reasons included: they liked his male energy, his stability, his kindness, his ass, and they especially like the on-air chemistry between Keisha and Pablo.”
“Too bad for them then, since you’re about to show us our new creative director in that file folder of yours, right Lucy?” Keisha’s eyes blazed. “Really, Broyce, what’s the point of this and why wasn’t I made aware of new focus group testing?”
“Well, we did our due diligence and put everyone on tape that you sent over, and,” Broyce looked over at Luciana, who looked down at her computer, “the creative director we found that best fits with the formula of the show is—” Luciana pressed the remote. “Pablo Michaels.”
Pablo came through the doorway. He’d been watching and listening from the adjacent room, behind the one-way glass wall where executives stood during focus groups.
“What?” Keisha stood up, angrily.
“We’ve been talking internally and the fact is when something works, you don’t change the ingredients. So, we sweetened the deal, coaxed Pablo back to the creative director position and offered him an Executive Producer credit.” The strapping executive placed his broad masculine hand on Pablo’s shoulder. “Not only has he signed on for six more seasons, but we’re working with Dawn Gately, over in development, on a new one-hour talk show for our “dream team” that covers fashion, pop culture, teen anxiety, FOMO, and it will serve as a platform to bring back past Model Muse contestants—like a Housewives Reunion show.”
Keisha looked like she’d swallowed a firecracker and was about to blow up.
“What the fuck, Broyce?” Joe Vong’s voice screeched higher than normal. “You made me the EP of Model Muse. How’s that all gonna work?”
“You’re not the only EP on this show,” Broyce chuckled. “There are five or six of us. And now we have one more.” He then turned to Keisha. “The execs upstairs love everything you and Pablo do for our ratings. A talk show is how we capitalize on you and Pablo, and all the two of you bring to the table. It was the only way to get Pablo to come back.”
“I thought we had an understanding, Mr. Pablo?” Keisha’s creepy girl’s voice uttered, cutting off her superior.
Pablo beamed. He felt in control of her—for once.
She stared into his eyes, innocently, and said, “We weren’t gonna talk through other people, and now you go behind my back?”
“We went to Pablo,” Broyce said. “This is a network decision.”
Keisha looked unconvinced and slowly reached for her iPhone, never breaking her eye contact with Pablo. Her words were slow and deliberate. “Game on.”
Pablo didn’t flinch. He wore his newfound confidence well. And despite all the advice that he’d been given, Pablo couldn’t resist flaunting his newfound power over her. “Certain people in the room should remember I never signed a personal NDA.” He let his gaze drift around the table. “And now that I’m an EP, certain people should tread very, very carefully. You never know what kind of salacious gossip could leak out.”
“Can we have the room? I need to speak with Pablo, alone,” Keisha ordered. Her eyes began to narrow and Pablo knew what that meant. She was furious.
Everyone, including Broyce, hastily exited, capitulating to Keisha’s rhetorical request. As the last to leave the room, Harper, being sweetly discreet as possible, carefully closed the conference room. Good luck, she’d mouthed.
Keisha nonchalantly sauntered around the room, closing all the privacy blinds along the glass walls. Her actions were slow and menacing. Clearly an attempt to intimidate the new executive producer. Pablo played it cool.
“You’re not scaring me with this routine.” Pablo gazed out the conference room’s window. “I’m not Joe Vong. You’ve got nothing on me.”
“Oh really? You think you’re sooooo bulletproof?” She plunked herself down at the head of the table. “Whose voice will the press listen to if I happen to make a statement about your unethical practices around here?”
“Hashtag news flash! Cancel culture is sooooo 2019. I tend to believe people will see right through your lies. Not everyone’s a fan of yours, you know. Hashtag keeping it real.”
“You’re fooling yourself because those naysayers that you think I have would give up everything for a selfie with me, if they had a chance. Real power is forcing those who hate you to love you.”
Pablo broke his gaze from the window and stared directly at Keisha. “Will they love you when they find out how much you manipulate the show to your benefit?”
“That’s reality television. Who’d care?”
“They’ll care when they find out what you did to Mandy when you yourself were petrified of being pregnant, after having unprotected, indiscriminate sex. The hypocrisy alone will chip away at your social justice warrior facade.”
“Puh-lease…”
“Oh really?” Pablo chuckled. “I was foolish to stand by and watch you play Mandy like a puppet. But better yet, it worked in my favor. Bye-bye Miss Keisha good girl.” He felt righteous in admonishing her. “And to think I felt sorry for you, and tolerated you handing me ten urine-soaked pregnancy tests all because you couldn’t bear to look at the results.”
The sun now bounced off the conference room presentation screen, illuminating a physical divide between the standoffish duo.
“You’re showing your ignorance now. If you tried to peddle that story, you’d simply look like a media thirsty employee looking to cash-in on my fame. Mandy made her own choices and I was never pregnant.” Keisha rose out of her chair staring eye to eye with Pablo. “Don’t underestimate the power of celebrity. My fans are tired of gossip, and they’ll fight alongside me as I publicly shame you. You don’t belong to this club, so good luck with summoning any foot soldiers to attack me.”
In an attempt to leave Pablo alone to consider his fate, the gutsy Supermodel picked up her bag and sauntered past her silent adversary.
“Bravo, Mommy Dearest,” he spoke up as she was almost out the door. “You’re finally worthy of the golden statue for playing the part of the wicked adoptive mother. Thank God my real mom isn’t like you”
Keisha turned around without missing a beat and said, “No, your real mother left you the day you were born.”
Bitch. It was clear they were both ready for a fight. Now, Pablo feared that waging war on a formidable force like Keisha Kash might leave him reeling from the poison of her vindictive venom. “At least my real mother isn’t a jailbird,” he barked.
“How do you know, David?”