tell Cash I can’t be on the show,” Edie had said, making it sound so easy. “He won’t mind,” she’d assured. “To tell you the truth, I had to talk him into it. I was excited about it at the time. He didn’t even seem interested in the prize money.”
“Aren’t you?” Marley had asked, thinking about how she, herself, could use the money to start her fitness center.
Edie had hesitated. “Yeah,” she’d finally admitted. “But I don’t think I should go on the show. I mean, like I said, Cash and I don’t really seem to be clicking….”
Marley could see why Edie kept hanging on. The guy was gorgeous. But why was Cash still interested if there wasn’t any chemistry? When the elevator doors opened onto a hallway packed with people, there was no more time to ponder the question. Another woman in a green blazer and slacks, positioned at the elevator, said, “You are?”
“Mar—uh, Edie Benning.”
Just as she glanced around, looking for Cash, she felt a surprisingly strong hand close around her upper arm and when she glanced up, she was staring into the face of a tall man with short dark hair named Trevor Milane, whom she recognized as the host for the reality show. Not that Marley had actually seen a full episode of Rate the Dates, only ads for it, many of which were on public buses. Before she could introduce herself, the man, who looked astonishingly like Pierce Brosnan said, “Where have you been? Don’t you know our show is nationally televised? Oh, it doesn’t matter, just get back to costume.”
The hallway was so crowded, Marley could barely move, much less find a costume department. “I came to cancel,” she managed to say. “I need to find Cash Champagne.”
“Cancel?” Trevor growled, thrusting harried fingers through his dark hair as he spun abruptly and half dragged her down the hallway, wending around studio workers, his grip firm even when she tried to shake it off. “Keep dreaming, sweetheart,” he said gruffly, still pulling her along. “We air live, and there’s no time left.” He raised his voice. “Contestant six finally made it,” he called, his gravelly voice now turning magically soft in a heartbeat, the deep baritone almost as sexy as Cash Champagne’s. It was as if he’d said, “Open sesame.”
Double doors opened on the studio, and Marley’s jaw slackened as she stared into the insanity beyond. People were ducking and circling each other, carrying everything from legal pads to technical equipment; the same line of people she’d seen in the lobby were now being marshaled into studio seats by more women in green slacks and blazers.
Nearer, someone gasped and said, “Thank God she’s dressed.”
Someone else groaned. “Red will blend with the backdrop.”
Just as Marley realized they were talking about her suit, another disembodied voice hit her ears, saying, “Less than six minutes until airtime!” Her mouth still feeling like cotton, she started to ask for water, but her attention was diverted by still another voice, adding, “Trevor says to change the swivel chairs on stage to blue, not red. Otherwise, she’ll blend.”
Blend? God forbid. Reaching, Marley grabbed the first arm she could, the crowded space near the doors so thick with people that she wasn’t sure if the eyes into which she stared imploringly were really connected to the arm she held. “Look,” she managed to say. “It’s sounds as if you’re close to airtime, but I need to cancel. Uh…you said you had alternates. I was told to be here at six—”
“Exactly. Why weren’t you?”
She stared at Edie’s watch. “I was. I am. I mean—”
“Five until airtime!” said the voice.
“It’s seven o’clock, Ms. Benning. You’re an hour late,” someone else said.
Marley was pulling the watch to her ear. Sure enough, it had stopped. Her heart thudded in panic. She couldn’t appear on Rate the Dates, no way. “I need to find my…uh…date. His name’s Cash Champagne. There’s been a mistake.”
“Four minutes!”
How could time be flying so fast? Surely a minute hadn’t passed! As Marley drew a sharp breath, Edie’s coat was whisked from her shoulders. “Please,” she managed to say, fighting rising panic. “I need that coat.” Edie would kill her if she lost it.
No response came, but a bottled water was thrust into her hand. That she could use. Gulping, she felt the cool water slide down her throat as a sheet on a clipboard was put in front of her, and someone said, “Here, Edie. If you’ll just sign…”
Even though she thought it was rude to make contestants sign for drinks, especially water, she scribbled her sister’s name, took a deep breath, and said, “Thanks. I was thirsty.”
“Take these, too,” someone said, handing her a health bar just as a hand came over her shoulder.
“Two-sided tape,” another voice said behind her. “I’m attaching it to your blouse. It’ll hold the microphone.”
“Microphone?”
“At least she blow-dried her own hair,” someone said.
“According to the initial interview, she has natural curls.”
“That skirt’s too short, though. She can’t go on in that.”
“I’m not going on,” Marley said, beginning to realize that it was pointless to protest.
“Three minutes,” someone shouted.
“Your skirt’s really short, so make sure your knees are pressed together, Ms. Benning.”
The idea of exposing her panties to America sent another wave of panic through her system. Marley craned her neck toward the elevators, wondering if she should run. “Where’s Cash? I’ve got to talk to him.”
“All couples want to talk before the show,” another woman soothed. “But in just a minute, you’ll see him onstage—”
“No! I just came to—”
A woman moved quickly in front of her, unwrapped the health bar, tore off a piece and pushed it into Marley’s mouth, leaving Marley only one option—to chew and swallow, at least if she wanted to talk again. “Atta, girl,” said the woman. “For most contestants, eating right before you go on the air helps. Now smile. Let me check your teeth.”
This was becoming more surreal by the moment. “Please,” Marley managed to say. “I’m not going to be on your show. Now, if you don’t mind, I really have to talk to someone in charge.”
The only response was a comb. Someone behind her dragged it through her hair, then re-shellacked the locks with another wave of thick hair spray. Even worse, she felt someone grasp her hand and start to apply nail polish to Edie’s press-on nails, saying, “It won’t dry this close to airtime, but you can just rest your hands on your thighs.”
Was the woman out of her mind? Marley never painted her nails, so she was hardly practiced about how to let them dry while she was on TV. “What was wrong with them?” she asked.
“The color’s wrong for your suit. And this will make them look less like press-ons.”
“Please,”
