He started laughing. He shook his head and his eyes crinkled up, and I got the feeling that he was possibly in love with me. “Alright,” he said. “Did you print out the questions?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Give me the list, and stand over there, yes, right there, and I am going to start filming you right away. We could rehearse, but sometimes the first take, the unrehearsed take, is the best, and I don’t want to miss out on that. We can splice the best parts together later.”
“Okay. You know what you’re doing,” I said, standing in front of my fireplace.
He picked up the sheet of
questions, cleared his throat, and read number one: “Emma, tell me a little bit about yourself, including your age, occupation, and living arrangements.”
“Are you taping me?”
“Yes.”
“Oh! Okay.” I took a deep breath and smiled, suddenly nervous. “I’m Emma Van Elson, I’m twenty-seven, and I live in Chicago. We’re in my apartment right now,” I gestured around me, “which I decorated. That’s what I do. Interior design.”
“Why don’t you give us a tour?” Pete suggested.
“Well, certainly,” I said, feeling like a cheerful robot. “Here we are in my living room, and this is my office alcove, and my kitchen…” I stood in front of the table, hoping to block the box containing the Spin-Chop-Dryer. It stood out like a tacky, colorful cube in my monochromatic home. “And here we are in the foyer,” I said, “and through that little arch are my bedroom and the bathroom.” I beamed, glad I’d recently had my teeth professionally bleached.
“Let’s check it out,” said Pete, slipping past me, backing down the hall to my bedroom, and waggling his finger at me.
I followed after him, continuing to smile for the camera, sucking in my stomach and keeping my arms from touching my body so they wouldn’t look fatter than necessary.
Pete wiggled his shoulders a little, signaling that I ought to loosen up.
“Oh, sorry,” I mouthed. I pressed my elbows to my side, telling myself that guys liked girls with a little meat on their bones. When I glanced down to check how fat they’d become, Pete stopped walking and lowered the camera. “This is not the Emma I know. Lighten up a little. What’s with the arms?”
“Do they look chubby?”
“Not at all.”
“Am I being too stiff?”
“Yes, just relax. Have fun with this. Pretend this first one is a throw away and just say what you’re really thinking. We can always reshoot it. Just have some fun. Okay?”
“You’re right. You’re totally right,” I said. I took a deep breath and fluffed up my hair.
“So let’s start over from here. Give me a tour of your whole place, and say whatever is on your mind. You need to stand out. The producers aren’t looking for someone who is going to be a good match with this guy. They want good television. There’s a big difference. Flirt like you’re a little bit crazy.”
“Really?”
“This video is your one chance to meet this guy, so make it memorable. And have fun. Remember, we don’t have to go with this one if you don’t like it, so let loose and have some fun.”
“You’re right, Pete. Thank you.”
He pointed the camera at me again. “Action!” he said.
I smiled and started talking. “Hello! I’m Emma. This is my bedroom. It’s pretty large. I think Bellamy would be really happy here. On my bed.” I sat down and patted the spot beside me, raising my eyebrows a few times. “And check out all the closet space. I don’t like sharing, but I would clear off this shelf right here,” I dramatically swept a pile of sweaters onto the floor, “for Bellamy.”
Pete gave me a thumbs up, so I went out into the hallway. “More storage. This is a pretty nice place, don’t you think? And here is my bathroom. This is a genuine clawfoot tub. Speaking of claws,” I held up my short, red fingernails, not my greatest asset, “I’d love to run mine down Bellamy’s back.”
I sauntered back through the archway, over to the fireplace, where I twirled around twice and did the splits. “Here’s my fireplace,” I said, pointing to my crotch.
“What?” Pete asked.
“Shhh,” I said, pressing one of my scarlet fingertips to my lips and winking coyly. I stood up, gracefully I think, and went into the kitchen. There I fluffed a dishtowel and straightened a trivet before turning to Pete’s camera and continuing: “Oh, hello there. And here is my kitchen where I make homemade potpies all the time. All the time. Wouldn’t that be nice on a snowy day like today? A potpie? Ask Bellamy if he likes potpies. I don’t know anyone who doesn’t.” I rubbed my belly and gave a knowing nod. Pete pointed the camera at the window for a couple of seconds, taking in the bleak city sky, and when he turned back to me, I had on an apron and I was holding a wooden spoon in my hand, an angelic smile on my face.