Diary of an Ugly Duckling by Langhorne, Karyn (general ebook reader .txt) 📕

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

DIARY OF AN UGLY DUCKLING

111

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 your 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