Page 1 of Making It While Faking It
Exit Stage Left
TREASURE GROVE
6 HOURS LATER
Isit in the back seat of the Grove family chauffeured car, staring into the lobby of the Grove Family Bank Tower past sparkling-clean glass windows. My flight landed in Teterboro less than an hour ago. It felt like forever since I’d flown on a Grove family private jet. My dad couldn’t travel with me. He flew onward to London to handle Grove Industrial Tech, better known as GIT, business. I’m relieved that we parted ways. I wouldn’t know what to say to him during a five-hour flight to New York City.
On the flight over the Atlantic Ocean, I constantly worried about the deal we brokered going south before the wheels of the airplane touched ground. But I made it to my final destination, and as far as I’m aware, the deal is still on. I can already feel the money gracing my fingertips.
The driver opens my door, and when I have two feet on the sidewalk, he says, “I’ll be waiting for you, Miss Grove.”
Before I can say there’s no need to wait, my attention is hijacked by a tall, strapping man wearing an impeccable suit. For some reason, I can’t look away from him. His gait resembles that of someone who descends from royalty. And it’s not his neatly trimmed five-o’clock shadow, perfectly formed forehead, sharp cheekbones, and kissable lips that steal my attention either—it’s his confidence that demands to be noticed.
As if sensing me staring, the man stops and turns. I suspend breathing when our eyes meet. His face looks… oh my God. I gasp a quick breath of air. It’s him—my new fake fiancé and soon to be husband.
6 HOURS AGO
That was brutal.
The pressure in my head builds toward explosion as I flee the live set where an actual TV show is being filmed. Several of my emotions battle each other for the top spot. I’m embarrassed, angry, fed up with this whole ordeal, and plain old sad. Pinching the bridge of my nose, I force the tears that want to come gushing from my eyes to stay put. I refuse to give Liam Caruso, our jerk director, the satisfaction of knowing he made me cry. He’s been on a mission to break me ever since day one, and maybe he finally has. It’s too soon to tell.
The morning air is chilly, but storming off the set generated a lot of body heat, so I’m too hot to feel the cold. I’m walking so fast that I’m practically running. I glance over my shoulder. The makeshift wooden wall built around a dirt pit that’s supposed to be the inside of medieval manor is in the distance. Finally, I’m far enough from the scene of the crime to slow my pace and catch my breath.
“The horses are famished, Father—are you certain they can take the journey?” I whisper in the accented voice of my character.
I have such a horrible English accent. And damn it—it’s “make the journey,” not “take the journey.”
I stop at the edge of a wooden floor built between two long rows of star trailers and lift my face to the opaque gray overcast. My eyes flicker closed as I groan in misery. In my head, I hear my dad’s voice asking if I’m ready to take any responsibility for Caruso blowing up and kicking me off the set.
“Okay,” I whisper against a refreshingly mild wind. I messed up my lines.
Before botching “make,” I said “Mother” instead of “Father.” And before that, I said “hamished,” which isn’t even a real word, instead of “famished.”
A wave of nausea overcomes me, and I groan as I bend over and grab my knees. Breathing deeply, I really concentrate to keep down the bagel and cup of black coffee I had for breakfast this morning. I wasn’t hungry. I haven’t been that hungry since arriving in Iceland. As soon as the airplane landed and after a foreboding helicopter ride over fields of desolate glaciers, I lost my appetite. I don’t want to be here. I never even wanted the part in this new TV show, which is sure to be a flop, but I certainly need the part.
I squeeze my eyes shut and pinch the bridge of my nose again.Don’t cry, Treas.Thinking about my misery and what’s at stake if I don’t finish out my obligation to this television show always makes me want to bawl like a baby.
The sobering truth is that I’m not a good actress. I also own up to that fact that I would’ve never landed the role of Raylene Preen, the king’s favorite daughter who will eventually get her head sliced clean off in episode four, if it weren’t for the worst kind of nepotism. I’m engaged to internationally famous actor Simon Linney, and it’s because of him that I got the role. That’s why everybody around here thinks I’m a spoiled heiress who’s making a mockery of their thespian profession. And nobody thinks that more than Caruso. But I am by no means spoiled or rich, not anymore at least. It’s been the better part of ten years since I received any money from the family trust.
I sigh as I stop pinching the bridge of my nose. It’s time to think my way out of my mere definition of hell on earth. I was on the verge of ending things with Simon before he proposed I take a part inMarked by the Sword, thereby ending my cash flow problem. I bought a restaurant. I made it popular. One would think that popularity meant making a lot of money, but that’s not true in my case. I’m approximately one month away from being forced to close the doors of my restaurant, The Chest of Chelsea. Everything is expensive to maintain in my restaurant, even Nya Jones, the real reason why my restaurant has become so popular. She’s a high-priced celebrity chef that I hired to be my head chef.
Although Simon landed me my current gig, my contract is with Jaycee Wilding, the executive producer. I have no more than five lines total, but so far, all the trailer promos have included images of me, Treasure Grove, as Raylene Preen. They want my twenty-six million social media followers, the bulk of which I acquired before opening my restaurant, to watch their show.
My social media followers are foodies in their late twenties and thirties, and these people are the movie’s target audience. So far, I have been paid one of the three million dollars owed to me for my role as Raylene Preen. I used that money to keep my restaurant afloat for the remainder of this month. I’ll be paid another one million upon completion of my last performance, which is supposed to be next Friday if there are no more scheduling delays. Liam Caruso has a problem with time management. Regardless, that money will float my restaurant for another month. My final payment is to be released no more than twenty-four hours after the pilot episode is aired, given that I have made the seventy-five posts toutingMarked by the Swordto my social media followers. I’ve already hired someone to do that.
“But I can make Jaycee a better deal,” I whisper.
I have many famous friends with millions upon millions of social media followers. I can ask them to post about the television show as a favor to me. But first, she’s going to have to double my pay and cut my time in Iceland short. “Like today,” I say to the chilly air that’s making me colder by the second. I want to be out of this godforsaken hellhole with its twiggy fields of wild grass and nothing to see but prairie land for miles on out.
I sigh with dread as my fiancé’s face fills my head. I’ll have to persuade Simon to let me go.
In the end, he has all the power. If he tells Jaycee to tell me to fuck off, then she’ll say in her unaffected businesslike voice, “Treasure, I’m sorry, but you will have to fuck off.” Because in these parts, the big star, Simon Linney, the fiancé I probably should’ve never said yes to, the man I really want to break up with, has all the power. And Simon can be a capricious and selfish prick.
So I cross my fingers and look up at the sky. Blue is breaking through the white clouds. Maybe that’s a good sign.
Eyes lifted high in prayer, I say, “Give me luck, God. Please, get me out of this desolate prairie.”
Just When I Need Him
