Prologue
POP STAR LIVE! – AND THE WINNER IS . . .
It doesn’t matter who wins. It doesn’t matter who wins.
I say it, but I know I’m kidding myself. Twenty-four million votes say it matters. A big, fat contract at KCM Records to the winner — worth a million bucks, minimum -– says it matters. Lurking backstage, I split my attention between the only two men who’ve seen me naked in the past two years. Well, with the lights on, anyway.
One onstage, one in the front row.
I’m as caught up in the drama as anyone else in the country. More, maybe. I’m part of it. Me. Jules Vernon. People magazine’s Face Behind Reality TV.
What a joke.
“And, finally, the name we’ve waited all these long weeks to hear. America’s new POP STAR LIVE! is . . .
Chapter 1
Concussion by sauté pan.
How it all started.
“I need SEA SALT, you moron. Not salt with a freaking UMBRELLA on the box. SEA SALT! I am a chef, an artiste. Not a short order cook at your local diner. Is my publisher hiring the mentally challenged, now?”
“Er, your list didn’t specify. . .”
“Of course it didn’t specify. What kind of idiot would have to be told that you cook asparagus quiche with sea salt? You, Julia, are a media escort. Your job is to make my life easier. I don’t ask for Evian water. I don’t ask for Belgian chocolate or white roses. I’m not some freaking prima donna. I must have the right ingredients to do this demonstration on live television. I don’t want all of Dallas to think I’m the kind of peasant who cooks with TABLE SALT.”
[NOTE TO SELF: Bet she didn’t learn to use the word peasant when she was growing up in New Jersey.]
“It’s, um, Jules, not Julia. And I’ll try to find sea salt. But if you have to, could you make do? We only have seven minutes until your demo, and . . .”
When I woke up in the hospital, they said she’d smashed her sauté pan into my head. And then (like this fact was in any way important to my concussed brain) she’d gone on to do the segment. Isn’t that great? What a trooper! Even with the stress of braining her media escort with a cast-iron instrument of death, she’d made quiche on live TV. And look, she even sent flowers.
Bitch.