caught sight of the floor manager, Roger, in the shadows past the lights, frantically gesturing for Marie to tilt the chocolate fondant up more so the camera could have a better angle. “Up,” he mouthed, lifting his hands in slow motion.
She shook her head. Any more angling and the cake would be all over the floor. But Roger was getting red in the face so she tilted the plate and hoped it would stick until the cameras were off.
I finally get a segment with no fires, short circuits, broken dishes or blood and I am going to ruin it by dropping a cake on the floor.
Roger yelled, “Cut!” and Marie sighed, putting the plate back on the counter. The miniature kitchen set that Soul Food called home was suddenly swarmed with men and women dressed in black, wearing little headsets. They had ninety seconds to clean her set, break it down and get it out of the way for the rest of the live morning show.
There was so little time or room for error. It reminded Marie of being in a kitchen during a dinner rush. Live TV was like jumping out of a plane, and sometimes cooking on live TV was like jumping out of a plane with a possibly faulty parachute.
Marie unhooked her mic, took off her apron and ran backstage, getting out of the crew’s way. Her segment producer and good friend, Simon, was waiting for her in the wings with a bottle of water and a giant grin.
“Great show, Marie!” he whispered.
“Thank you, Mr. Producer,” she said and, feeling a huge gust of affection for him, bent down to kiss his shiny bald head.
Good old Simon. Six months ago he turned his addiction to her lemon bars and lentil salad into a monthly gig on AMSF, the most popular morning show in the Bay Area. Three months ago, they gave her another half-hour slot and now she was on twice a month.
“Coming through!” A woman carrying a giant cat for the next segment came running past them.
Showbiz, Marie decided, is definitely for me.
She felt alive here, fully on top of her game. She didn’t feel like she was pretending under those bright lights. Even when things went wrong, like the grease fire two weeks ago, she felt in charge and in control. If not a little singed.
Almost unconsciously, she touched one of the bracelets she wore on her wrists, tracing the moons that were pressed into the silver. The bracelets were reminders of the lessons she had learned from those times she got more than a little singed by the choices she had made.
The music soared and the lights came up on the main stage where the hosts of AMSF were sitting at their desk.
“That woman could make popcorn sexy,” Rick Anderson, one of the hosts and general all around sleazebag, said, shaking his head. “I think I’m in love.”
Marie rolled her eyes at Simon.
“Well, her food is delicious,” Luanne, the other host, said in agreement. “That cake looked amazing.” The crowd made sounds of approval and Marie felt as if her feet had actually lifted off the ground.
I wonder if I can get a dressing room? Something with a star.
“Let’s go up to my office,” Simon whispered next to her ear. “I have something I want to talk to you about.” Marie nodded and followed him through the backstage maze, up some stairs to his small crowded office with a view of the parking lot two floors below.
Simon’s messy desk dominated the office and a bulletin board covered in colored index cards represented the different segments Simon produced for AMSF. Soul Food was yellow. She smiled and flicked one with her finger as she walked by.
“The show is popular, Marie. Very, very popular.” He smiled at her as he crossed the room to his chair.
“Good,” Marie said expansively. “Great!” She was a little in love with the world right now. Drunk with the taste of success. “That’s what you pay me the big bucks for.” Ha! Nothing funnier than jokes about being broke. Maybe if she made enough of them, Simon would get the hint and give her a raise.
She slid into one of the hard wooden seats across from his desk and smothered a yawn, fighting the exhaustion that was crowding the edges of her adrenaline high. What I wouldn’t give for about a gallon of coffee.
“How’s business?” Simon asked, disregarding her joke.
Marie started to take out the bobby pins that Hair and Makeup insisted she wear to keep her black curls out of the food. She was as hygienic as the next chef, but these bobby pins hurt. “Since Soul Food started going twice a month, brunches are lined up out the door on weekends and we’ve really picked up lunch hours. It couldn’t be better.”
Well, that was a lie, but Simon didn’t need to know about the girl she hired who had been skimming the till for three weeks. He also didn’t need to know about the broken dishwasher.
“You finally getting some sleep since you hired the new baker?”
“He quit.” Simon really didn’t need to know about that.
“Quit? But that guy was so excited.” Simon looked like a little dog when he was surprised. It was cute.
“Apparently, being a baker is exciting in theory but not so much in practice at three in the morning.” Marie shook out the bun her hair had been pressure-formed into and sighed happily.
Marie could have told the kid that baking wasn’t exactly exciting but she had just been happy to get another baker in the door. Nothing ventured, nothing gained, or something like that. “What can you do?”
“So you’re still doing it yourself?” Simon looked sympathetic as he sat down in front of his large window and leaned back in his seat. He probably hadn’t seen 3:00 a.m. in years, if ever. She knew he had to get up early for the show. But 5:00 a.m. was not 3:00 a.m. It was an ugly hour, and Marie had been getting to know it intimately for the last year.
“I am. You want to volunteer?” she asked, trying to keep things light. “We could tape it for the show. I think viewers would like to see my producer make scones.” Between Ariel the thief, the dishwasher on the fritz, her organic milk guy doubling his rates and the sleepless nights she’d been having lately, it was either keep things light or get dehydrated from all the bawling.
“Not on your life,” Simon laughed.
“That’s what everyone says.” Marie tried to push the sleeve of her deep purple chenille sweater up her arm so she could see her watch without him noticing. Simon liked a bit of production with his meetings. Fanfare and other time-consuming things. Normally, Marie didn’t mind obliging him, but right now, time was money and Simon wasn’t paying her enough to chitchat.
“Marie, our viewing audience loves you. People are looking for new gurus of food and style. You make having good taste seem simple and fun, and a little sexy, rather than stuffy or snobby. And of course,” he said, grinning, “your looks don’t hurt.”
What’s this? Compliments from Simon? “You feeling all right?” she asked, narrowing her eyes. Simon didn’t get warm and fuzzy for no good reason. The guy was a television producer. Behind the khaki pants and plaid shirts from the eighties, he was pretty slick.
“I,” he said, spreading his arms out wide, “we,” he corrected pointing at her, “are doing just
