But that’s in real life—this is television we’re talking about. I’m not sure I want to put my Rubenesque figure on TV in front of thousands of people. I’ve seen the comments Internet trolls write underneath online videos—some are downright vicious.
“No need to be anxious. The focus of the show is really the contestants. You won’t have a lot of camera time.”
Trudy can see I’m still very much on the fence and about to choose the side less preferable to her. “We’re in a bit of a bind here,” she says. “If I’m honest, at this point, it’s either you or we’re going to be pulling grill masters from behind the line at the local Red Lobster. I’ve been—”
“Red Lobster. Yum,” Wavonne interrupts.
Unlike myself, Trudy is not used to Wavonne’s propensity for unsolicited and in-no-way-pertinent-to-the-conversation remarks, so I throw her a “just ignore her” look to let her know she can continue.
“I’ve been... well... because it’s really short notice, and we’d really like to have you on the team, not only can I up your fee, but I’ve also been authorized to make another offer: If you come aboard, Russell will donate ten thousand dollars to the charity of your choice.”
“That’s very generous.” I consider her offer for a moment and let out a sigh. “I guess I really can’t turn that down.” And I guess I really can’t turn that down. There are several charities I have a soft spot for that I’d like to see have that money, and if making that happen only costs me a single workday and the possibility of making a fool of myself on national television, I suppose I can live with that. “I’ll need to make some arrangements to be sure there’s coverage here tomorrow.”
“You’d better make some arrangements for me, too, because there is no way I’m missin’ out on meetin’ Leon and seein’ the filmin’ of a real live TV show,” Wavonne demands. “I’m still bitter over Wendy Williams canceling her tapin’ the day I had tickets.” She looks at Trudy. “I went all the way to New York to see her, and she canceled... said she was ‘sick’. . . I have not watched her since.”
With my eyes I remind Trudy of her right to ignore Wavonne as necessary, and she continues. “Russell would like to meet with the judges this evening at the Palm. Are you available at eight?”
“Yes,” Wavonne announces.
“Trudy said he’d like to meet with the judges, Wavonne.”
“I’m sure Wavonne is welcome to come. Shall I tell him to expect both of you?”
I look at my watch and think of all I have to do to get Sweet Tea ready to open this morning, and all I would have to do to be able to get out of here in time to make an eight o’clock dinner in the city. “Why don’t I host the team here?” I offer. “It’s going to be hard enough to get away tomorrow. I’d really be pushing it if I tried to leave early this evening as well.”
“That might work. Let me make a few calls.” Trudy gets up from the booth and steps away.
“So Halia’s gonna be on TV,” Wavonne says as if I’m not sitting right next to her.
“It appears that way,” I respond, already feeling the nerves.
“Don’t worry, Halia.” Wavonne notices my angst. “I got you. I’ll do your hair and makeup . . . and I’m already tryin’ to figure out what you’ll wear for the tapin’. A little MAC Studio Fix foundation on the face, a touch of Black Vanilla Combing Creme on the hair, some Spanx around that midsection. Halle Berry will have nothin’ on you.” She looks at me and pauses for a moment. “Well, Halle Berry may be a bit ambitious.... Viola Davis will have nothin’ on you.”
“Thanks, Wavonne, but I think I can manage on my own.”
She has good intentions, but I’m afraid Wavonne’s styling help might leave me looking like a contestant on RuPaul’s Drag Race.
“I’ve seen you manage on your own, Halia. If history is any indication, unless there’s some ‘dress like a schoolmarm’ theme tied to the episode, you’d better let me help you.”
I’m about to, once again, decline Wavonne’s offer, but then I see Trudy approaching the table after finishing her phone calls, and I realize that in my closet I have both a tweed suit and black flats that are dreadfully similar to hers. I believe I donned both items when I went to church with Momma a few months ago. Considering that I appear to share fashion sense with a woman who reminds me of a character on a vapid 1960s sitcom with less sex appeal than a Catholic nun, maybe a little (just a little) fashion advice from Wavonne would not be the worst thing in the world.
“Fine,” I say. “But no sequins or rhinestones. And if you start throwing around words like stiletto or miniskirt, the deal is off.”
Chapter 2
“How are we doing on the peach pie?” I ask Wavonne, who just stepped out of the kitchen.
“I think I saw two or three whole pies back there. And there’s plenty of red velvet cake and a few trays of banana pudding.” She notices how fidgety I am. “Look at you all nervous,” she says with a laugh.
“I’m not nervous,” I say, wishing it were true.
“Mmmhmm.” Wavonne says this the same way Momma did when I was a little girl and claimed I had no idea how the crayon marks got on the wall or was not responsible for the missing chocolates in the Whitman’s Sampler she was saving for company. “Naomi Campbell’s more relaxed when police dogs start sniffin’ around her suitcase at the airport,” she adds. “You’ve been runnin’ around here like an anxious squirrel all day. We’re all used to you bein’ a control freak, Halia, but today you’ve been really over the top—hoverin’ over the kitchen staff, checkin’ and recheckin’ stock, fluffin’ centerpieces—and don’t think I didn’t see you over by the windows earlier makin’ sure every shade was hangin’ at the exact same length. You do know they make medications for conditions like yours these days?”
“I don’t need medication, Wavonne. I just want to make sure everything is in order when Russell gets here.”
I’m not usually one to put on airs... really, I’m not. But ever since Trudy said Russell agreed to meet here at Sweet Tea instead of the Palm, a high end steak house where power deals are struck over sirloins and lobsters, I’ve been in high gear trying to make sure we put our best foot forward tonight. Of course, I’m really proud of my restaurant—in the general scheme of things, it’s hugely successful. I have an abundance of regular customers who have been coming here for years, we regularly make the Washington Post’s and Washingtonian magazine’s top restaurant lists, and most nights, even weekday evenings, we have people waiting for tables. But I can’t help feeling like small potatoes in comparison to Russell—the man oversees a national culinary empire and apparently has his own televised show to find chefs to work in his ever-expanding collection of fine dining establishments.
“Well, I hope you’re done... ’cause it looks like he’s here.” Wavonne points her eyes past me.
I turn toward the front door and see Trudy, laptop in tow, and Russell, who I recognize from some photos I’ve seen of him in various magazines, stepping inside Sweet Tea. There’s a third person with them who I’m assuming is Russell’s wife.
As I walk
