The driver jumps out and opens my door, helping me out of the opulent cabin. I’m not even on my feet long enough to admire the gorgeous estate before a harried looking guy dressed in black slacks, a white dress shirt, and square black glasses rushes up to me.
“Emily?” he asks, giving me a cursory lookover and then offering his hand as I nod. “I’m Nate, Meredith’s assistant.”
I take his hand, flashing a friendly but nervous smile. “Nice to meet you, Nate—”
“Let’s get you inside. They’re waiting on you,” he says, cutting me off and turning away.
My heart pounds in my chest as my anxiety rises. “Oh, sorry . . . am I late?”
Nate turns and looks at me, smiling sarcastically. “Well aren’t you polite? No, you’re not late. We’re just on a timeline. Move it, toots.”
Okaaaaay. Looks like I’m going to have to exercise my behavioral skills I reserve for misbehaving children. That is, if I don’t want to end up going off and ruining whatever this is.
I know this is Hollywood and that things work and move differently here. But damn, have some manners.
Don’t complain now. You always wanted to know what it was like to see how things were behind the scenes. Now you’ll get to find out.
I keep my smile plastered on my face as Nate speed-walks into the house. I try to keep up through a twist and turn of hallways and two flights of stairs, but I find myself having to jog or risk getting left behind. By the time we make it to where we’re going, I’m nearly out of breath.
Rapping on a huge frosted glass door once, Nate slides it open, inviting me in with a wave of his arms. Before I can say a word, he’s shut the door behind him with a whispered, “Good luck, toots.”
Silence envelops me and my skin pricks as my eyes fall on the group of people seated at a large table in front of me. I look from face to face, my heart pounding like a battering ram. I recognize several from the Skype call, but there’s a few new faces too, and almost none of them look happy to see me.
They’re staring at me. Hard. The silence is so thick, I swear they can hear my heart beating out of my chest. Finally, someone speaks. “Well, she isn’t just a photo-only star.”
“That dress is horrendous, though. What is that, five years ago?”
“I’d say seven. But Wardrobe can work that out.”
The comments go on, leaving me feeling like a side of beef again before an impeccably dressed woman with a sharp grey side-bob rises to her feet and silence drops over everyone. I recognize her immediately. Meredith. She walks around the table, her heels clicking against the hardwood floor, and fixes a friendly smile on her face.
“Emily, my dear,” she greets in a no-nonsense voice. She might be trying to sound friendly, but I suspect she eats baby seals for breakfast with the ice she’s got in her eyes. “So good to see you again. I trust your flight was excellent.” She pauses dramatically, as if waiting for my response.
Not trusting myself to speak, I softly nod, trying to calm myself.
Her smile grows wider and she gestures to a chair on the opposite side of the table. There’s a stack of papers in front of it. “Please, have a seat. We have a lot of ground to cover.” The tone of her voices makes it clear that I’m not to interrupt and any questions are simply rhetorical.
I sit as commanded, looking at the stack of papers. It looks like I’m about to sign my entire life away. “Uh . . . what is all this?”
Meredith glances at the group of men and women, a silent exchange passing through them. Then she turns around and claps her hands. “Ah, yes. First . . . contracts. We’ll need you to sign stating that you are, in fact, who you say you are and the information you provided in all interviews and paperwork is true and complete. We don’t want any surprises.” Her voice drops low on the last sentence. A part of me feels slightly disappointed. I’m a woman of my word and I told them I had no secrets. But I have to remind myself that she doesn’t really know me. Who knows how many people have said the same thing but then turned out to be anything but?
I stare at the contract for a moment, my heart still pounding. I was sent mock copies to go over before I came, but now that the real deal is right in front of me, it feels surreal.
Sweat beads my brow as I feel the weight of eyes on me, and I quickly scribble my signature on the dotted lines on each page that requires my name.
When I’m done, Meredith gestures and someone takes the papers and slides some more in front of me. “Next is the NDA. What we’re sharing today and what will occur throughout filming is all hush-hush until after the season airs and promotions are complete.” She taps the table. “Sign.”
I gulp as I look down at the dotted line. But there is no use fretting. I came all this way. No way I can leave without finding out the details.
I quickly sign the next few pages, and for the next fifteen minutes, it seems to go on and on. Waivers and contracts, agreements for media usage, licensing of my image—I have an image? On and on and on until I feel like I’m on autopilot.
When I get to the one agreeing to be on the show, I pause, something occurring to me. “Before I sign this last one,” I say, a moment of clarity striking in the whirlwind of papers, “can you finally tell me what this is going to be about?”
I swear I’m going to wilt under Meredith’s stern gaze, but I hold steady. She had to expect it. Who’d sign everything without even knowing what they’re committing to?
Meredith exchanges glances with the producers. They each silently look at each other, long, dramatic pauses that draw out the moment long enough to make me want to pull out my hair and scream.
Finally, they come to a silent consensus. Meredith gives me a warm smile, proudly announcing, “The show will be the hottest new reality show. We’re honored for you to become our first matcher.”
I frown in confusion. “A matcher?”
Meredith’s smile grows wider. “Yes. The show will be a romance format. You know, like The Bachelorette? Similar, but our version is going to be called Matchmaker.”
Hayden
“Move your arm down just a little,” the photographer orders as several blinding shots go off in my face. Frances is a skinny French guy with a bald head and hawk eyes. He pauses once, motioning at me with a hurried gesture.
Moving my hand down my stomach, I do as he says, all while trying to keep my pose. I’m wearing a towel balanced precariously around my waist, so there’s not much to it, but I’m careful not to let it fall. Something tells me Frances would like that a little too much.
“Yesss, yesss,” he hisses admirably in his French accent, moving around me like a snake and snapping multiple shots. “Perfect . . . pretty boy.”
I ignore him and zone out the sound of his voice, keeping my facial expression frozen and hard. He talks too much for my taste and seems to dig my physique in a way that makes me slightly uncomfortable. But it’s nothing I haven’t dealt with before. I just want to hurry up and get this over with.
For the second time today, I wonder how I ended up here, doing modeling jobs for second-rate labels. I had everything going for me in high school. I was practically destined for the big leagues. Everyone was convinced that I’d be the next big thing, the next baseball legend. Then the unexpected happened. A long fly ball, an outfield fence that was a little too low, a bad landing . . . and I was sidelined by an injury that wiped away my dreams of a sports scholarship to play ball. But a chance encounter with a scout a few years ago got me out of my small town, which was the real goal anyway, so I guess posing for some pictures isn’t all that bad. It’s damn sure not baseball though.