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She wasn’t kidding. It’s lit like a forensic laboratory, meticulously revealing hidden secrets in the shadows. Two modern arm chairs are positioned so the seats form one side of a square. Will and I will have our knees virtually touching. I notice three cameras with operators—one pointed toward each chair and a third to capture the two of us together in conversation.
“She needs make-up,” the cameraman facing me says, as if I’m not worthy of addressing directly.
“I’m right here and I’ve chosen to go without.”
Will walks in at that moment. “You’ve chosen to go without what?” And then he sees me and apparently, it’s obvious, since he scowls and points right at my face. “You can’t go on like that.”
“Excuse me, but yes I can,” I argue. “I don’t recall signing a contract committing me to having to wear make-up to be in the presence of the great Will Power.”
He closes his eyes and presses fingers to his temples. He looks tired, despite the make-up that he’s clearly wearing.
“Fine. Whatever.” He turns to the cameraman who has me in his frame. “Joe, can you work with this?”
“Of course, Mr. Power. Just give me a minute to put a gel on the lens.”
He looks at his watch. “We go live in fifteen. I’ll be back in twelve minutes. Seriously, Catherine, you’ll be a lot more convincing from your soapbox if people aren’t distracted, Googling what diseases make a person look undead.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“Your funeral,” he deadpans as he leaves the room.
While the camera crew busy themselves with whatever they’re doing, I close my eyes and silently repeat the three messages I’d like to deliver. My phone vibrates and I pull it from my pocket.
ERIC
Break a leg! I know you’ll be amazing.
CATHERINE
Off to a good start. I’ve pissed off the entire crew and Will since I refuse to wear make-up. Ridiculous.
ERIC
Why?
CATHERINE
I don’t do make-up. You know that.
ERIC
Bad call, IMO.
CATHERINE
Not asking your opinion.
ERIC
Wrong battle. Focus on your goal.
Istare at his message and question my decision.
What if Eric’s right? I hate that he’s made me second-guess myself. A little voice in my head whispers, You know he’s right. You’re being pig-headed. A kinder voice pipes up, Think of it like sunscreen, but to protect you from the glare of the lights.
I click off the message app and notice the time. Seven minutes until we’re live. Dammit. I let my camera guy know he should remove the gel.
I knock on the door to the make-up room, then try to push it open. It’s locked. I knock again. Wait. Knock harder.
