Gina looked at herself in the full-length mirror in the grubby women’s locker room at the Southside Boxing Club and winced. “I can’t do this,” she wailed.
“Sure you can,” Lisa said. She poured some vodka into the carton of orange juice she’d bought at the Starvin’ Marvin convenience store, swished it around, took a sip for herself, and handed it over to her sister. “Take a belt of that,” she said. “It’ll make you feel better.”
“The only thing that’s going to make me feel better is to wake up and find out that this whole morning has been nothing but a bizarre nightmare,” Gina said, but she took a gulp of the screwdriver, then two more gulps, and then another.
“I look like an idiot,” she said, for the tenth time that morning. When she’d arrived at the boxing club at nine o’clock, she’d been positive she’d driven to the wrong place. The address Deborah gave her turned out to be a nondescript prefab metal building in a warehouse district two miles from the Hartsfield-Jackson Airport. But moments after Lisa and Gina arrived, Deborah and Scott drove up in Scott’s car.
“Wait until you see your outfit,” Deborah had squealed, running over to Gina’s car and brandishing a pink plastic garment bag.
Now that she was dressed, she was sure she was in a nightmare.
The white satin tank top had “GINA” emblazoned in six-inch flowing script on the front and back. But the shorts were worse. Much worse. Hot pink satin, and instead of baggy ones, like you saw on boxers on television, these appeared to be two sizes too tight.
“Whoa,” Lisa said when she’d seen how they fit. “Crotch cutters. Are you sure you don’t have them on backward?”
“I’m positive,” Gina said, near tears.
“Put the robe on,” Lisa urged. “At least it’s the right size.”
The hot pink satin robe was barely thigh-length. And it had “KID
FOXTON” embroidered across the back.
“Gina? Let me see how you look,” Deborah said, sweeping into the locker room. “Oh!” she exclaimed, clapping her hands. “It’s just right!”
“It’s too tight,” Gina said, taking another sip of the screwdriver for courage. “And too short. I’m not having my picture taken in this rig.”
“But sweetie, it’s all set,” Deborah said. “Joel’s in the ring setting up his lights and cameras, and Mr. Adelman’s assistant just called from the limo. Their plane landed, and they should be here any minute.” She looked at her watch. “Val Foster called too. She said they’re stuck in traffic, but she expects to be here shortly.”
Her gaze swept Gina up and down with practiced measure. “I think you look absolutely adorable. And once you get some makeup on, you’ll feel much better.”
“I’m wearing makeup,” Gina said. “D’John stopped by my condo this morning and did my hair and makeup.”
“Oh,” Deborah said, tilting her head. “Of course! You go for that natural look, don’t you?”
Behind Deborah’s back, Lisa bared her teeth and made clawing motions with both hands.
Before Gina could repeat her objections, there was a knock on the dressing room door. “Gina, are you about ready?” Scott asked. “The photographer wants you to come on out so he can get some light readings on you.”
“One minute,” Gina called. She looked at Lisa. She looked at Deborah. And she looked in the mirror again. No amount of vodka would make her feel good about what she saw there.
She took a deep breath. “I’ll wear the robe,” she told Deborah finally. “But I’m not taking it off.”
“But—”
“Not under any circumstances,” Gina said, her voice steely. “Do we understand each other?”
“Fine,” Deborah said with a nonchalant shrug. “As long as you understand that I can’t guarantee any of the big newspapers or magazines will be interested in using these photos. The whole concept of the boxing match—the fight between you and Tate Moody—depends on costuming and the set.”
“I get that,” Gina said.
“Mr. Adelman loved the idea,” Deborah said, turning to walk out of the dressing room. “I’m sure he’ll be disappointed that you’ve decided not to fully cooperate.”
The Audi’s tires kicked up a dust storm of gravel as it made the turn into the Southside Boxing Club parking lot on two tires. Val pulled into the parking space next to Gina Foxton’s Honda, which was parked next to a charcoal gray Mercedes, which was parked next to a black Chevy Blazer with a prestige tag that read “JSTJOEL,” which was parked next to a black Lincoln Town Car with smoked-glass windows.
“See,” Val said, gesturing at the row of cars. “Gina is here. Her people are here. The photographer’s here. The network people are here. Everybody’s here.”
“Fine,” Tate said, opening the door and unfolding himself from the front seat. “Now we’ve called roll. Can we get this thing over with? I’ve got a show to shoot.” He opened the Audi’s back door, and Moonpie hopped out, trotted over to the Honda, and promptly relieved himself on one of the rear tires.
“Good boy,” Tate said, patting the setter’s head. “Piss on all of ’em, right, Moonpie?”
Val shot him a backward glance as she sprinted toward the gym’s door.
Inside, she approached the knot of people standing around holding clipboards, cell phones, and BlackBerrys. “Barry!” she exclaimed, grasping both the producer’s hands in hers. “And Zeke,” she added, turning to the assistant, who today was inexplicably clad in head-to-toe green camouflage. “So good to see you. Did you have a nice weekend?”
“Where’s our boy?” Adelman asked, giving Val a nodded greeting. He looked meaningfully at the thin gold watch on his wrist. “The photographer wants to get started with the shoot. And I’ve got a conference call to the coast in half an hour.”
“Oh,” she said airily, “Tate’s outside. With Moonpie. We got into heavy traffic, and then, wouldn’t you know it, Tate insisted we stop to get some water for the dog. So hot, today, you know. And setters sometimes get overheated.”
“Can’t have that,” Barry said. “Viewers are very sensitive to any hint of animal cruelty. That’s why we don’t ever show whole fish being prepared on any of our shows.”
“Or lobsters,” Zeke added. “People don’t seem to mind if we roast oysters, or steam clams. But they’re very sensitive to the rights of crustaceans.”
“Crustacean rights?”
Val turned. She hadn’t seen Tate walk up with Moonpie at his heels.
She laughed nervously. “Barry was just saying that TCC steers away from any scenes that might be construed as animal cruelty.”
“Seriously?” Tate asked, looking from Adelman to Zeke.
“Absolutely,” Barry said. “Wendy and I are on the board of Save the Seas, you know. It’s one of our passions.”
“Wendy was chairman of the Party with a Porpoise Ball in May,” Zeke said. “Maybe you saw the photos in Town and Country?”
“Honorary chairman, actually,” Barry said.
“But we raised sixteen thousand, six hundred,” Zeke reminded his boss.
“Have you people ever actually seen my show?” Tate asked. “Vittles is about hunting and fishing.”
“Oh, not really,” Val said quickly. “I mean, yes, technically, in a sense there is some limited talk about hunting, but really, Vittles is about the human connection to the great outdoors. It’s about Tate’s commitment to conservation, and his vision for seasonal, heritage-type cuisine.”
“I kill things,” Tate said flatly. “And then I cook ’em. Moonpie helps. He’ll eat a live shellcracker if you don’t watch him good. That’s what my show’s about.”
Zeke’s face paled. Val fixed Tate with a laser stare.
“People?” The photographer was standing in the boxing ring, his neck strung with heavy cameras. “So sorry to interrupt, but can we get Mr. Moody into his wardrobe? And see about his makeup? I’m losing the light here, people.”
“Tate?” Val said it pleadingly.
“Ready when you are,” Tate said, walking toward the ring. He turned and gave a sharp whistle. “Come on, Moonpie. Showtime.”
Gina squared her shoulders. “I am a network star,” she told herself. “I am a network star. I am a network star.” She knotted the belt to the satin robe, opened the door, and, head held high, glided out.
The first thing she saw was Tate Moody. He and the dog were in the middle of the boxing ring. Moody was glaring at the photographer, who was glaring right back. The dog was sitting on his haunches, ears back, teeth bared. Deborah Chen and Valerie Foster were fluttering ineffectively around the two men. Scott and the men from the network were outside the ring, each talking on a cell phone while holding a BlackBerry.
Tate Moody was not dressed in a satin robe, and he was certainly not wearing any baby blue satin boxing trunks, as Deborah had promised. In fact, he was wearing pretty much what he wore every time she saw him around the Morningstar Studios, which consisted of a pair of faded blue jeans and a golf shirt.
“Hey,” she said sharply, climbing under the ropes and into the ring. “What’s the big idea?”
Moody’s head swiveled around. All the others simply stared at her.
“You see?” the photographer said, gesturing toward Gina. “This is how you were supposed to dress. Your producer agreed.”
The photographer stopped glaring at Tate long enough to smile at Gina. “Just Joel,” he said, offering his hand and flashing dimples under both eyes, which were a bright blue, with unnaturally long, doelike black lashes.
“Gina Foxton,” she said. “I thought—”
“Nice outfit, Reggie,” Tate drawled. “Did you forget the pants?”
Now Scott Zaleski was climbing inside the ring.
“Now, wait just a minute,” he said. “Our understanding was that both Tate and Gina would be dressed in boxing gear for this shoot. Our publicist has pitched this story to the entertainment weeklies this way.” He lowered his voice a little. “That’s what we told the TCC folks we were doing. That’s why they flew all the way down here today.”
“Our understanding?” Tate leaned back a little, hands in the back pockets of his jeans. “I don’t know who cooked up this whole deal, but I never agreed to anything except having my picture taken.”
“Uh, Tate,” said Valerie Foster, tapping him on the shoulder. “Actually…”
“It’s supposed to be a boxing match.” Now Deborah had jumped into the fray. “Why is this such a difficult concept for you people? That’s why we’re in a gym today. That’s why we rented a boxing ring. And why both of you were supposed to be wearing satin boxing trunks. Pink for you,” she said, nodding at Gina. “And blue for you,” she said, turning her winning gaze toward Tate Moody. “Now, be a good sport and get dressed, please?”
“Nope,” Tate said. “I didn’t get any memo about playing dress-up. Wouldn’t have agreed to it if I had. Now, I don’t mind having my picture made. I don’t even mind having it made with Reggie, here. You all can pitch it any way you want.” He looked from Deborah, to Just Joel, to Scott, and then, last, to Gina.
“All right with you?” he asked pleasantly.
“Fine with me,” Gina said.
She wanted to leap into the air and offer Tate Moody a high five. Instead, she fled into the bathroom to change into her own clothes.