Induced Personality Alteration
“And remember – look into the camera.”
“And don’t trip over the cables.”
“And smile!”
“But not too much.”
“I’d like to thank the jury for allowing me to get this far. I’ve always had a very normal life,” I recite, my eyes closed, as Lou tells the make-up artist how to apply my blusher.
“Okay, but with more emotion. More feeling,” says Tim, thinking aloud.
“We could spread a rumour that they messed up her botox,” suggests Lou.
“Oh…” I wilt.
“Don’t listen to him, he’s always got to make everything into a disaster. It’s fine, believe me, it’s fine. It just needs a touch more naturalness. The public needs spontaneity, otherwise they can’t identify with you.” Unlike Lou, Tim takes a less drastic approach, but I know he’s thinking exactly the same thing: I’m hopeless. I’m just no good at this stuff, I’ve never spoken in public in my life. In school drama classes, they always made me play a rock or something!
“I’d like to thank the jury for allowing me to get this far,” I say, trying again and staring at my reflection in the mirror. “I’ve always had a very normal life. I have a normal job, I do normal things…”
“Hey, you. You can’t come in here. Take all that stuff away – wardrobe is supposed to go to the other room,” shouts Tim suddenly at a bellboy who has appeared in front of him holding a box in his arms. I turn round too, and that moment of distraction is all it takes for me to forget everything. My mind’s a complete blank. And after I spent all night repeating that stupid speech to myself!
“It’s getting even worse, if that’s actually possible,” shouts Lou, adding his voice to the racket backstage. Believe me, you’ve never known real chaos until you have been behind the scenes of a TV show at least once, it’s an absolute nightmare! They split us into three groups, putting us in three different rooms full of make-up stations and in order of our scheduled appearance. Mirrors, steel hangers with our dresses on them, lights, cables, technical staff, make-up artists, hair stylists. A frantic coming and going of dozens of panicky girls trying on evening dresses, stockings and wigs. And in the background, the loudspeaker announcements, which from time to time call one of us onto the stage or – more rarely – call one of the staff to the director’s booth. And the most frightening part is that it’s all so fast and you can’t afford to screw it up because we’re going out live nationwide.
“Lou, I can’t do it. I’m not going to make it”. I throw myself down in a chair, followed by Phoebe, the make-up artist with her deadly sable brush full of face powder. “Wai… wait a minute,” I say, trying to stop her as she dabs me all over with it.
“Sam, we don’t have time so keep still and shut your mouth!” orders Lou. “Phoebe, darling,” he says, suddenly adorable again, his hands joined in prayer and a Bambi-like expression on his face. “I’d love it if she were just a little less shiny here,” he says, pointing to my cheekbones. “Powder it. Right now!”
“Is it too late for me to pull out? Is it?”
“Yeah. You can’t pull out now. Don’t panic,” he says, as though it was that easy! He’s not the one going out there in front of the whole world. “It’s all very straightforward, you’re blowing things up out of all proportion for no reason – and if you keep blowing things up out of all proportion,” he puffs out his cheeks, “you might just explode!” Suddenly his shoulders slump and he shakes his head. “This is no good. No good at all.”
“You’re telling me…”
“Sam, we have to stay focused on the goal. Go over your speech again, and this time,” pleads Lou, his eyes raised to the heavens, “try and say it as though you actually believe it for once.”
“But I don’t believe it!”
“Of course you do.”
“No I don’t – listen to this.” I recite a couple of lines, trying not to disturb Phoebe’s attempts to cover up my shiny cheekbones. “I’ve always dreamed of feeling free to be myself.”
“So? Isn’t that what we all dream of?”
“No, because I’ve never wanted to be myself, I’ve always wanted to be like one of those gorgeous models in the Victoria’s Secret ads.”
“Oh God, how awful!” He goes white. “All those tacky plastic feathers…” He covers his face with his hands. “I don’t know how they do it – I loathe feathers.”
“He loathes feathers,” whispers Tim, imitating Lou’s horrified expression.
“Lou, all this has nothing to do with plastic feathers!”
“Exactly, especially because that’s not the spirit of this contest! Beautiful Curvy is a show with a very high budget – if we want feathers, we can afford the real thing!”
“Right, okay… listen to this bit,” I say, ignoring him and going on to the second line. “I decided to sign up for the contest because I think that all women can identify with me, from the housewife to the student. Real, normal people who are beautiful in their simplicity.”
“And what’s the matter with that?”
“Just for starters, I didn’t decide to sign up for the contest!”
“Pfff – details…”
“And the idea that there are people out there who want to identify with me freaks me out a little.”
“Sam…” he sighs.
“No, I’m serious, Lou. I’m not even able to convince the washing machine to do the prewash, how the hell can I convince thousands of people to look to me for inspiration?”
“Sam, listen…” he says, drumming his fingers nervously on the make-up station.
“Two minutes and you’re on!” shouts a floor manager, walking by.
“Okay, we’ll talk about it later. You’re on in two minutes, let’s go.” He gestures to me to get going, and starts pulling me out of the chair.
“No, Lou, no!” I’m really starting to panic.
“Quit worrying!”
“I can’t!”
“It’ll be fine, just trust me and do what I told you.”
“Come on, Lou, don’t waste your breath. You did what you could, but you bet on the wrong horse,” cuts in Mary Blade Simpson who appears out of nowhere on her eight inch heels, with perfect hair and a murderous look in her eye. I’ve never spoken to him about her, but I know that there’s bad blood between the two of them. An old story, other contests, stuff no one wants to talk about. The only thing I know is that she is preparing Angelina Johnson, one of the favourites according to the press. It’s not the first time she’s taken part in one of these: she was a model herself for years and is a well-known face in the advertising industry. This isn’t a contest, it’s work and not a single detail is left to chance. You can tell from the unbelievable amount of clothes in her wardrobe and the number of people around her. Angelina doesn’t have an image consultant like me – she has a team. A whole team. Six people. Starting with the personal trainer.
“Take your claws somewhere else, Mary,” says Lou threateningly, giving her a nasty look. “We’ve got serious stuff to do.”
“And you only remembered it two minutes ago, Lou?” she replies scathingly.
Mary’s not exactly what you’d call diplomatic – more a concentration of egocentrism, vanity, and hatred of everyone else. And you can tell right away. She’s tall, buff, her hair pulled back tight, always dressed perfectly in expensive clothes. She underlines her professionalism with her collection of scarves. Lipstick, eyeshadow, eyeliner – everything is perfect. Too perfect. She looks like something out of an advert. Made of plastic and always in the right pose, ready for her close up. She’s not Mary Blade, she’s the brochure about Mary Blade: a name, a brand. Maybe that’s how you become a successful person – by giving up a bit of yourself in exchange for a bit of Barbie and a pinch of Tim Burton.
“Listen…” Lou yells at her in exasperation, but Mary is too busy watching the arrival of her latest protégé to pay him any attention. Angelina.
“Oh, there you are,” Mary says, going over to her. “Are you ready?” She sounds too concerned to actually be genuine. It’s a shame for Angelina – unlike Mary, she seems like a pretty cool girl: blonde hair, sweet face, a little frightened looking. I’d have liked to get to know her better, but apparently all the contestants have to hate each other, otherwise there won’t be the necessary competitive atmosphere. We’re not allowed to socialise, only to look daggers at each other and make the odd crack about our respective physical defects. The rest of the time we walk around each other pretending to be the only human beings in the building.
“Yes, I’m ready,” answers Angelina with a smile. What the hell is someone so cute doing with that witch, I can’t help thinking to myself.
“Great,” murmurs Mary, adjusting a lock of Angelina’s hair. “Let’s go, we’ve wasted enough time – the cameras are waiting for us.” And she sweeps away like a real celebrity.
“And then you wonder why her husband left her for a Brazilian waitress?”
“Lou!” I cry, “That’s a really horrible thing to say!”
“Hey, whose side are you on?”
“Not on the side of a cheating husband, that’s for sure.”
“I wouldn’t call it cheating, I’d call it a perfectly justifiable attempt at saving himself. Anyway, get moving, we’re really late!”
“Hold on,” says Tim, reappearing with a phone in his hands. “A call for Sam. It’s from The Chronicle.”
“No time, we’re about to go on. We don’t have time!” says Lou, walking off.
“Okay, forget I said anything,” Tim nods, before answering for me. “Who did you say was calling?” I hear him yell into the mouthpiece in a desperate attempt to be heard above the racket that surrounds us. “Mr Callaghan, I’m sorry, but Sam can’t come to the phone right now. Try calling her tonight on her cell phone. No. No, she really can’t. Yes, I understand that it’s important, but you’ll have to wait until the show is over.”
Oh god – was it Dave?
“Tim, wait…” I say, trying to stop him so he can explain what’s going on, but Lou pushes me forward.
“Sam, it’s late!”
“Okay, I heard you, I’m going! Try not to make me trip over,” I protest, but he reveals himself to be a heartless taskmaster who has no pity for my broken heart and doesn’t stop shoving me forward until we’ve reached the corridor that leads onto the stage.