Posted on Wednesday, 25 July 2007
Elizabeth Bennet could think of many fun ways to spend a blustery winter’s afternoon in the middle of January.
Auditioning for American Icon was not one of them.
Neither was balancing a semi-crazed woman reduced to the state of a hormonal teenager while standing on the frozen sidewalks of New York City in an endless line of people in similar states of mind.
Elizabeth had asked for a nice, relaxing weekend-free from college, free from work, and free from all of the stress and cares attached.
She had gotten this.
Finally, she understood what Hamlet had meant when he railed at the cruelty of fate-or something like that. Maybe she was not a Shakespearean hero… but wasting an afternoon on the brink of hypothermia was just as tragic.
"Grace, you must calm down!" she reminded her friend for the fortieth time that day, not that Lizzy was entirely sure; she had lost count well into the afternoon.
Grace, teetering dangerously on a pair of designer heels, had been alternately practicing lyrics and babbling about her ‘chance in a lifetime’ to anyone who would listen. As Lizzy and a nearby streetlamp were both her captive audience, they had been the victims of these discombobulated speeches.
Normally, Grace was calm, collected, and perfect; a paragon of virtue. At the mere mention of American Icon, however, she had transformed into an overeager schoolgirl, complete with airy-headedness and high-pitched giggling.
"I feel like I have come to the I-don’t-have-anything-better-to-do-than-freeze-my-butt-off-in-pursuit-of-my-fifteen-minutes-of-fame conference," Lizzy muttered to her sympathetic friend, the streetlamp.
"This is the best thing that has ever happened to me!" Grace declared simultaneously.
"Except that it hasn’t happened to you yet," Lizzy pointed out, with one of her trademark happy-to-burst-your-bubble expressions, "and, judging by the size of this line, it never will. Face it, Grace, we have a better chance of taking over the world than making it to auditions."
Grace starred at her friend with a look of pure, unadulterated suffering. She had been enduring Elizabeth’s quips for a lifetime, but the ones made during the past two hours had been enough to test even her patience. After all, nothing came between Grace Fairchild and American Icon. Nothing.
Suffering had made her temporarily abandon her lyric-practicing and incoherent ‘happy’ babbling. For a moment, she shrugged into the ‘old Grace’. "Elizabeth-please," she begged, assuming a slight air of drama, her lips folded in a pleading line, "support me. You are my best friend."
"Oh, am I?" Lizzy asked, unable to resist teasing. She playfully arched an eyebrow. "And here I was so certain that you had pledged your undying devotion to that bell-hop you were shamelessly flirting with this morning. And what about your FSU sorority sisters?"
Had Grace been able to, she would have soundly whacked her friend, or at least snorted. But Grace was far too polite and well-mannered to cause a scene. She would not step down from her pedestal of goodness for anyone, least of all Lizzy, who often considered it her job to provoke her unprovokable friend.
"Lizzy," she said, in the tone of a woman wronged. It took all of her strength not to grab her wayward friend by the arms and firmly shake her. "I have had a great time in New York. Inviting me up here was unbelievably generous of you. I think everything has gone just splendidly…" Grace often had the alarming tendency to sound like a 1950s housewife… "I have done everything you wanted without one complaint. I sat through five Broadway shows, a Good Morning America segment, and a Columbia lecture on global warming. All for your sake." She gazed at her best friend pleadingly. "Please. Humor me. Just this once."
Elizabeth resisted the temptation to roll her eyes. Considering that Grace had a point, however, she resisted. Mulling over her choices, she decided to execute a beautiful sigh. It had no effect on Grace, however. Her once-intelligent friend was somewhere over the rainbow again, roaming about the golden fields of giddiness. It was too much, Lizzy decided. She had not bargained for this.
When Grace Fairchild-her best friend from grade school-had first called her up from somewhere in the wilds of Florida, Elizabeth had enthusiastically invited her up to New York to spend the end of the Christmas holidays.
What could go wrong? She had asked herself, with customary Elizabeth Bennet assurance. Her best friend in the entire universe, an empty dorm room at Columbia, all of New York to explore…
How wrong she had been.
Grace’s arrival had been last minute, and the weather unpredictable, but there was something magical about New York in winter that just made everything seem…right. Elizabeth, just getting over a rough relationship, was so glad to see her pseudo-sister, she had even bothered to clean her dorm-room.
Grace, dazzled by Columbia, New York, and everything in general had been appropriately awed.
Things, however, soon began to take a downward spiral, and it had started with Lizzy.
Lizzy was infamous for being obstinate; her stubborn rants against everything from the hideous color of school-buses to the incompetence of her dorm-mates (who were, thankfully, absent) were infamous. So it came as no surprise to Grace when Elizabeth insisted upon personally guiding her around the Big Apple without a map.
As a junior at Columbia, Lizzy had long abandoned her laid-back Louisiana heritage in favor of the brisk New York way of life and considered herself an expert on all things NYC. But as much as she had tried, Elizabeth simply could not hide her down-home Southern roots-which included an understandably bad sense of direction. Thus, the two girls had spent much of Grace’s stay wandering aimlessly about the sidewalks of New York, either lost or hopelessly lost.
Then It had happened. Grace had had an idea.
Lizzy adored Grace. She really did. But once Grace latched onto an idea, she could be as stubborn as Lizzy-and that was when Lizzy wished her friend would leave on the next flight to Florida, far, far away from New York.
This particular idea was the worst Grace had had in years. Worse than the time she had convinced Lizzy to go to the spa with her; worse than the time she had forced Lizzy to buy a bubble-gum pink dress with matching shoes; worse even than her karaoke rendition of Britney Spears’.
She wanted to audition for American Icon.
"This is a once in a lifetime opportunity," Grace had cried one evening, after a particularly exhausting day of aimless walking. She waved a brightly colored flyer with big, bold, splashing writing at Lizzy over the dinner table. They were eating take-out. Elizabeth did not cook. Sure enough, it was an American Icon audition flyer.
"Where did you get that?" cried Lizzy, seizing the flyer as though it were illegal contraband.
"Your mail," Grace lied. In reality, she had picked it up during one of their aimless walking sprints in Times Square.
Lizzy looked skeptical. "My mail?" she repeated.
Grace flushed. "Yeah. You know…"
Lizzy decided not to push the matter. She crumpled the paper in her hand, much to the distress of Grace. "Lizzy!"
"I’m sure you already have the date and times memorized," Elizabeth had retorted, rather sharply.
This was true. Grace blushed, as though she had been caught doing something horrible.
"And were you not aware of the fact that it is illegal to read others’ mail?" Lizzy questioned, although her tone had become more playful. She was attempting to lure Grace into forgetting about the entire business.
"It was a flyer," Grace pointed out lamely, wishing she had not lied. However, Lizzy had never understood her obsession with American Icon, so she certainly wouldn’t understand Grace’s crazed devotion to the show and would have laughed to hear Grace tell her she had picked it off the bathroom wall of a dingy tourist shop in Times Square.
Grace was, without a doubt, American Icon’s number one fan. Last year, when the new show had been doomed by the critics before its first airing, Grace had decided to give it a shot.
It had been love at first sight.
The transformation from girl-off-the-street Marianne Dashwood into superstar sensation Mari Dash had been enough to completely enthrall her. When Mari had stood on stage during the season finale and snatched the crown from slick Harry Crawford, Grace had actually cried. And when American Icon was declared the number one television show in America, despite the harsh reviews and relatively unknown beginning status, Grace had felt as though she had been the one to launch its popularity.
Grace was sure that, if given the chance, she could be that girl on stage; American Icon would launch her career into superstardom. And Lizzy-of all people-should have understood. They had been in choir together; had taken lessons from the same vocal instructor. But, where Lizzy regarded singing as just a hobby and eventually dropped it, Grace regarded it as her calling in life.
So, Grace Fairchild-a calm, sweet, wonderful person-had been reduced to blackmailing her best friend in the entire universe into accompanying her to auditions. Driven to desperation by her friend’s stubborn unwillingness, she accomplished this devious deed by threatening to sell Lizzy’s prized collection of Beatles records on Ebay.
So, there Lizzy was, standing on the frozen sidewalks of New York City, about to audition for American Icon, the number one show in America. And she was not happy about it.
Not at all.
As a matter of fact, she had begun to wish that she had not invited Grace Fairchild up to New York in the first place. It was too late for such thoughts, however.
Whether she liked it or not, she would just have to brave the line and audition.
Fate, she decided, had it in for her.
Despite Lizzy’s pessimistic predictions, she and Grace eventually did make it through the line. Even more surprisingly, after they had registered and gone through preliminary auditions, they had been ushered into a small and prettily painted ante-chamber, away from all of the other contestants.
A stout and somewhat harried assistant had informed them that they would proceed to the celebrity judges’ room.
"We what?" Lizzy had exclaimed incredulously, while attempting to keep Grace conscious.
"The celebrity judges’ room," the assistant had repeated, in a vaguely annoyed tone, "you obviously did something to either stand out or impress the recruiters; the next step is the judges’ room."
"Okay," Lizzy had said, wondering whether she and Grace had stood out in a good or bad way.
Grace could not speak. Her face registered nothing other than blank surprise. "What am I going to do?" she managed to croak, as they followed the assistant and several other contestants down a narrow hallway. She had obviously not expected such good luck.
"Sing," was all that Lizzy could recommend. It was obviously good advice; Grace shut up immediately.
The wait outside of the judges’ room seemed longer than the line they had endured earlier. Minutes stretched by like hours, as Lizzy struggled to comfort Grace. When-after what had seemed like days of waiting-Grace’s number-232-was called, Lizzy gave her a gentle push in the direction of the door.
"You are going to do great," she promised, as Grace took several wobbling steps in the direction. With a huge sigh, she turned the handle and disappeared into the room. Lizzy could not hear anything, and, after a few moments of futile attempts at listening through the key-hole, she reclaimed her seat next to a man with brilliant red spiky hair.
It did not take long for Grace to re-emerge. Lizzy could see automatically that she had succeeded; her cheeks were flushed and her eyes brilliant. Brandishing a sheet of paper, she enveloped Lizzy in a hug.
"I made it!" she cried ebulliently. Lizzy, however, did not have much time to celebrate with her friend, as her number was called next. The assistant, impatient to keep the line moving, urged her to the door. Shunning his assistance, Lizzy boldly turned the handle and stepped inside.
The room was much smaller than she had expected; a hardwood floor was set up in the middle of the room, with an ‘American Icon’ backdrop of soft blue situated behind it. Several cameras occupied the far corners of the room, manned by people with baseball caps emblazoned with the ‘American Icon’ logo. Some potted plants had been scattered throughout, as though to provide a touch of atmosphere. The judges’ table, erected directly opposite the hardwood platform, was a long, narrow affair. Behind it, in all of their glory, reclined the three celebrity judges.
Lizzy was not familiar with all of them, although she thought they all looked vaguely familiar. The smiling, cheerful man with the light brown hair and dancing eyes she recognized as Richard Fitzwilliam, one of the leading producers at a fashionable Hollywood studio. The polished dark-haired woman beside him was very obvious Caro-international pop sensation. But the scowling, ridiculously gorgeous man beside Caro she could not place. He looked tremendously bored, however, and starred at Lizzy with barely concealed contempt. Obviously, he thought her paltry efforts to become the next American Icon were worthless. Lizzy immediately took offense, although she doubted her motives herself.
"Just sing, okay?" he said, in a clipped British accent, "and then we’ll discuss matters."
It was a strange way to begin an audition, but Lizzy did not argue. Unphased by the cameras, she began to sing. Her voice, soft and melodious, held a depth unlike that of Grace Fairchild. There was something very soulful and deep about it-a rich tonal quality that captivated the listener. The most interesting quality of Lizzy’s voice, however, was not its intensity-it was the fact that she knew how to restrain its power. The lyrics of the music came alive as she sang them, caressing each word.
The song selection, as she well knew, was a tad nostalgic and rather melodramatic, but Casablanca had always been a great favorite of hers and she and Grace had watched it the night before. It had been the first thing that came to mind when the producers had shoved her into the room.
This day and age we're living in
Gives cause for apprehension
With speed and new invention
And things like fourth dimension.
Yet we get a trifle weary
With Mr. Einstein's theory.
So we must get down to earth at times
Relax relieve the tension
And no matter what the progress
Or what may yet be proved
The simple facts of life are such
They cannot be removed.
You must remember this
A kiss is just a kiss, a sigh is just a sigh.
The fundamental things apply
As time goes by.
And when two lovers woo
They still say, "I love you."
On that you can rely
No matter what the future brings
As time goes by.
Moonlight and love songs
Never out of date.
Hearts full of passion
Jealousy and hate.
Woman needs man
And man must have his mate
That no one can deny.
It's still the same old story
A fight for love and glory
A case of do or die.
The world will always welcome lovers
As time goes by.
Oh yes, the world will always welcome lovers
As time goes by.
She finished and glanced at the judges expectantly. It had been a shock when one of the producers had escorted her into the waiting room to see the judges; only the truly good and bad were allowed that privilege, but Elizabeth could really care less. She did not believe singing was her true calling-just something she enjoyed in the shower or the privacy of her own home. Had Grace not thrown such a temper tantrum, she would not have been standing in the room to begin with.
‘That was amazing,’ the enthusiastic tone of Richard Fitzwilliam jolted her out of her thoughts, ‘your voice is so mellow…so rich. I cannot believe you’re an amateur. It sounds like you have years of experience.’ His gaze was full of admiration. ‘You have some soul…and definite potential, besides that."
Instead of the usual squeal, Lizzy merely blinked. She had not expected praise.
‘It was good,’ muttered pop-tart Caro, who had been filing her nails the entire performance, ‘I mean, for an amateur and everything.’ She glanced up from her task and surveyed Lizzy from beneath heavily shadowed eyes. ‘Not that I couldn’t do better, of course.’
Although Elizabeth was not familiar with Caro-whose numerous hits were mostly high-pitched pop songs with clichéd lyrics-she was not entirely sure that she would be able to f
Darcy had been surveying her papers. He didn’t bother to look at her when he asked, in a semi-bored tone, ‘Columbia, eh?’
‘If you are asking if I attend Columbia,’ Elizabeth said, ‘then yes, I do. If you are asking if my name if Columbia, then no, I’m afraid it’s not.’
‘What are you majoring in?’ he asked, undaunted.
‘I’m an English major. Pre-law.’
‘And you are how old?’
Elizabeth gave a falsetto laugh. ‘A lady never tells.’ In reality, she was rather irritated.
‘Come on, you can’t be that old.’ He looked up from the paper to cast a glance in her direction.
‘Well, appearances can be deceiving,’ she snapped back, waspishly, biting back a stronger retort. She was not about to admit that she was twenty-one and endure some stinging retort about her immaturity for Icon. And she was quite sure that such a jerk would make it…despite the fact that there were sixteen year olds auditioning.
He returned to the ledger, scanning it.
‘What is your name again?’
‘Can you not read?’ she asked, half-jokingly, "it’s on the paper.’
‘I know.’ He glanced at the camera. ‘It’s for the benefit of the camera.’
‘Oh,’ she shrugged, ‘Elizabeth Bennet.’
‘And you’re from?’
‘Lemongrass, Louisiana.’
He glanced at her sharply and she gave him a syrupy smile in return. ‘Yes, as in Louisiana." She enunciated the term with zeal. "That means I’m from the South. And, in case you were wondering, I can also read, count to ten, and tie my shoes."
His face remained impassive, although a spark of annoyance appeared in his eyes. "I never meant to imply…"
"I’m sure you didn’t," Lizzy returned, still maple-syrup sweet, "but just in case you were wondering, I thought it would be best if you knew the extent of my abilities."
Darcy stopped surveying the paper and, instead, focused his attention upon the feisty contestant standing before him. His gaze was hard and laced with irritation, although he kept his voice steady. "Why are you auditioning for Icon?" he asked, repeating the same question he had asked ten million times throughout the day. The producers had demanded it. Nothing like good, old-fashioned redundant ‘because I want to be the next American Icon’ answers to boost ratings.
"Because my friend forced me into it," Lizzy replied promptly, "now, any other questions, or is the interrogation at an end? I thought you were looking for the next American Icon…not America’s most wanted.’
Richard laughed and Caro stopped her nail-filing for a brief second. Darcy
‘Your voice is too serious for your age. Your sarcasm is faintly annoying, and your tendency to roll your eyes during every word that I utter is scarcely any more endearing. In short, Miss Elizabeth Bennet from Lemongrass, Louisiana, I do not think you have what it takes to be the next Icon.’
‘Alright, fair enough,’ said Elizabeth, pretending not to care that his words stung. She even managed an indifferent laugh. Inwardly, however, she was fighting what she considered a revolting urge to cry.
Richard, meanwhile, was starring aghast at Darcy. ‘You can’t be serious!’ he exclaimed, gazing blankly at him over Caro’s perfectly coiffed head, ‘are you really going to turn away the best singer we’ve had all day?’
‘If you’re going to speak to me, Richard,’ muttered Darcy, ‘at least do so without sounding like Dr. Seuss.’ Caro laughed at this, although, by the expression on her face, she really did not understand the joke. It was a very strange laugh-kind of like an engine that hadn’t run since the ‘80s.
Lizzy stood awkwardly for a moment, wondering whether it would be best if she slipped away before the fight became violent. Judging by the looks of Richard, he was quite willing to go on all afternoon in her defense. Although it was nice to have such a champion, she really was not interested in making it onto the show…especially if it meant further acquaintance with Darcy. She made a move towards the door.
"Wait!" shouted Richard, instantly abandoning his spat with Darcy.
‘No, come back,’ Darcy said, a pained look replacing his customarily impassive face. It did not appear that he was very happy about requesting Lizzy to return. ‘I didn’t say I wouldn’t give you a chance-I said I didn’t think you had what it takes. And I’m never wrong.’
‘He never is,’ put in Caro.
‘Well, congratulations’ exclaimed Elizabeth hotly, pausing a few feet from the door, "what an accomplishment. It’s too bad you’re not auditioning for American Icon."
"That’s what’s going to get you in trouble," Darcy informed her.
She blinked at him innocently.
"Your absolutely inability to control your tongue." He folded his arms across his chest and lounged backwards in his chair. His steely eyes surveyed her flashing dark ones.
"You obviously use sarcasm as a protective barrier. But it just won’t cut it on Icon. And, frankly, I’m sick of it."
"Why?" Lizzy asked, "because you realize that you’re wrong?"
"No," he replied stiffly, "because I can’t get a word in edgewise."
"Ah," Lizzy glared at him for one, long moment. "Indeed," she said, with icy emphasis, "but, you know what? I think that is a very good thing." And without further comment, she shoved the metal bar of the heavy wooden door and was lost from the judges’ sight.
Posted on Saturday, 28 July 2007
Elizabeth did not know what had possessed her to accompany the harried assistant back into the audition room, or why she had accepted Darcy’s cold and indifferent apology. Three months later, standing in the capacious American Icon apartment, she still found herself wondering how exactly she had come to be there.
The past few months she felt as though she had been sleep-walking; everything had been a mere distortion in reality-a dream from which she would soon wake. The exhaustive interviews, the vocal lessons, the intensive rounds in which two-hundred odd contestants had been whittled down to twelve she had experienced in a blur. She could not even recall packing or cancelling her semester classes at Columbia or even the stunned expressions of her room-mates when she had broken the news to them. Even the high-pitched and excited screams of her mother-audible even over a telephone wire-had not been enough to awaken her from the dream-or nightmare. Lizzy had lived the past few months in a bubble, but, standing in the tastefully decorated apartment that was to become her home for an undesignated period of time, reality finally began to sink in.
"Lizzy, right?"
A clear, slightly deep voice cut through her thoughts. Lizzy turned sharply to find herself standing face face-to-face with a short young woman who had alarmingly blue hair and an interesting variety of piercings.
"Yeah," she replied, trying desperately to recall the woman’s name. She had not bothered to memorize the contestant register she had been given, as so many others had done. Now, however, she wished that she had.
"Chelsea," the woman said helpfully, already guessing the nature of Lizzy’s hesitation, "Chelsea Lucas. I’m a rocker, in case you couldn’t tell." She motioned at her vivid hair, smiling.
"Oh," Lizzy said, regaining some of her composure. "Already one day into it and already we’re stereotyping ourselves." She smiled. "Feels like high school."
Chelsea laughed. "Save the drama for the cameras," she teased. "So, where are you from?"
"Louisiana. How about you?"
"Baltimore."
Lizzy nodded. "I’ve never been there."
"Good. Don’t go."
"That bad?"
"No. It’s just not worth your time." Chelsea was breezy and matter-of-fact, and Lizzy could already tell that she had a wicked sense of humor. "Now that we have that of the way…wait," she paused and her eyes narrowed, "you’re the one who is best friends with Grace Fairchild."
Lizzy nodded. "Yeah, I am actually."
"Best friends since childhood, right?"
"Yeah," Lizzy replied, somewhat surprised, "Did you find all of this out from the register, because you seem to no more about me than I do."
Chelsea shrugged. "It pays to know your competition."
"I guess I never really thought about it that way."
"I’m sure you’ll be glad to have her, though," Chelsea added, with a friendly smile that made Lizzy warm to her immediately.
"It’s amazing that you two both made it this far," she continued, and her voice held a note of admiration, "I mean, think of the odds. Two best friends from Louisiana making it through opening auditions and the Hollywood rounds. You two must be very good singers."
Lizzy shrugged. "I wouldn’t go that far."
"I’m sure you’re only being modest. Besides, I watched most of the audition tapes the producers sent us. I saw your performance. You are really good."
Lizzy felt herself blushing slightly. Grace, however, saved her from having to reply. She walked into the room, escorted by a handsome man with dark skin and mahogany eyes. Trust Grace to snag all the good-looking guys before we are even a week into the show, Lizzy thought to herself, as Grace introduced her friend as Alex Gardiner.
"This is Chelsea Lucas," Lizzy replied.
Chelsea smiled, and everyone exchanged the customary pleasantries, before launching into their audition stories. It seemed the trademark way to begin any conversation at Icon.
"I’ve been searching for my big break for years," Chelsea said, "but record companies have it out for nonconformists. They only want those stupid, manufactured pop songs with the recycled lyrics. Like Caro." She made a disgusted noise in the back of her throat.
"Caro?" Lizzy asked, "does she really call herself that?"
"It’s short for Caroline," Grace explained, almost in defense of the international pop sensation.
"I was a back-up singer," Alex interrupted smoothly. His voice was deep and hypnotic, "at a nice little hotel in Atlanta. It just didn’t work out, though. Having to stand in the shadows while someone else basked in the limelight…got old after awhile." He gave a little shrug. "The manager didn’t much like my independent ideas, though, and showed me the door."
"Ouch," Lizzy murmured, feeling very sorry for Alex.
He laughed. "Yeah. I sure felt sorry for myself. But it made me desperate enough to audition for Icon, so…here I am."
Chelsea nodded in agreement. "Desperation drove me to audition, too."
Lizzy attempted to hide her surprise. She had expected the other contestants to be exact replicas of Grace; photogenic novices who adored American Icon and had jumped at the opportunity to audition. Instead, she found seasoned professionals, fed up with dwindling music careers, with Icon as the only alternative to success that would pay the bills. They, like her, had not auditioned very willingly, and, somehow, this comforted her. Already, American Icon was exceeding her expectations.
Grace had been explaining her devotion to American Icon, and Lizzy’s persistent stubbornness. She conveniently forgot to mention the black-mailing attempts; Lizzy masked her amusement.
… "but we both made it," Grace finished triumphantly, her eyes glowing.
Chelsea looked rather amused, and Alex managed a kind smile. If they could not understand Grace’s excitement, they could at least pretend to.
"But I don’t remember seeing you two during the Hollywood rounds," Lizzy said, cutting through Grace’s continued exclamations.
Chelsea laughed. "I don’t remember seeing anyone during those rounds," she said, "I was too nervous to care about anyone but myself."
"You have a point," Lizzy acknowledged. The Hollywood rounds had been pure torture-day after day after day of ceaseless memorization and performance. It had not been the work load, however, that had been so horrible; it had been a certain acerbic British judge she had come to equate with the devil. As she had struggled and sweated, he had reclined comfortably in his padded armchair, sipping coffee or whatever poison he downed. And when she had performed-alone and solitary-on a stage before two-hundred odd other critical contestants, he had barely looked at her. It was as if she were a mere speck of dirt; unworthy of anything but criticism. And it was criticism that he gave her in abundance. He was notorious for being critical and acrimonious, but his behavior and suggestions to Lizzy had been so acidic and so harsh that they had exceeded the bounds of even his acerbity. Fortunately, Richard had been over-flowing with praise, and Caro entirely too indifferent to manage anything beyond, "It was okay", so, miraculously, Lizzy made it through. The sting of his cruelty, however-the unfeeling words that had humiliated her in front of the entire American Icon cast, crew, and contestant body-remained with her. Lizzy did not often have adversaries, but F. Darcy (no one knew his first name) would be the very first on her list of people she loathed with every fiber in her being. That being said, she disliked him immensely.
A bottled blonde scurried into the room, waving a designer purse as a flag. "We have a meeting downstairs. It’s, like, totally important."
"Lyndi Hartwell," Chelsea said, under her breath, as the blonde dashed out of the room as quickly as she had entered, "one of the most energized and artificial contestants on this show."
"Bad combination," Lizzy whispered back, "an energized and artificial." She made a little face. "What is the world coming too?"
They followed Alex and Grace down a wide hallway lined with American Icon paraphernalia enclosed in neat, silver frames. At the end of the hall, above a mahogany end-table and a delicate china vase, a large, black-and-white portrait of the three judges had been hung. Lizzy almost stifled laughter at the idea; it was Big Brother-esque, constant surveillance. When she met the cold eyes of Darcy, however, her amusement faded, and she scowled. In the portrait, his hand dangled above the chair of Caro and his eyes were focused on the camera. What appeared to be a semi-smile hovered over his lips, although, to Lizzy’s imagination, it was both mocking and arrogant. Darcy obviously thought himself too good even to be a judge on Icon.
"Come on, Lizzy," Chelsea interrupted, pulling her along. Lizzy had not realized that she had stopped to observe the picture, "we’re going to be late!" Alex and Grace had already disappeared through the door.
Lizzy followed, casting one, last, furtive glance at the picture, before Chelsea pulled her into a large, brightly-lit living room, where ten of the contestants were assembled on various couches, sofas, and armchairs. Near the mantle-piece, an impassive elderly woman was standing, her lips pursed disapprovingly. Apparently, both Chelsea and Lizzy were late. Quite obvious of this travesty, they attempted to find a seat quietly in the most inconspicuous corner of the room. They ended up sitting next to a suave, charming young man and the bubbly blonde herald on a long, narrow sofa.
"That’s Catherine de Bourg," Chelsea whispered, once they had settled themselves into the deep cushions of the sofa, "she’s a producer and as thick as thieves with Darcy. I wouldn’t dare cross her path."
Looking at Catherine, small and slight but with an authoritative stance and sharp gray eyes, Lizzy did not particularly want to cross her. Nevertheless, she was hardly intimidated.
After taking a mental tally of the contestants, Catherine de Bourg decided to begin. She spoke in a crisp tone tinged with steel, and her voice betrayed her complete dedication to Icon. "You are now under the charge of the Pemberley Company," she said, launching immediately into the crucial subject matter. She did not appear to be a woman much inclined to anything superfluous, "an affiliate of Mark and Novak records. That means that we have total and complete responsibility for the lot of you, and our expectations are immensely high. If you do anything," she paused, glaring at a nervous looking sixteen year old named Kitty, "to endanger the reputation of this company, you will be immediately removed from the Icon premises. No trial. No excuses. Nothing."
A slick, greasy looking man was taking notes in the corner. At first, Lizzy had mistaken him for a contestant, but it was obvious now that he was some form of secretary or production assistant. Large glasses obscuring beady eyes, he appeared to be drinking in every word Catherine de Bourg spoke with almost fanatical devotion.
"This," she said, motioning towards him, "is Billy Collins, one of Pemberley’s attorneys. He will be monitoring every aspect of your daily lives." Billy looked visibly amazed that Catherine had remembered his name, but the shock soon faded and he smiled obsequiously at de Bourg. Lizzy took an instant dislike to him. "If there is one thing we detest at Icon, it is a traitorous contestant who spills secrets to the tabloids. Say anything to the press, and you will be sued nickel-and dime by Pemberley Co." Catherine’s eyes flashed dangerous, and everyone was certain of her seriousness. "We do not condone tattlers, and Billy will ensure that ‘leeks’ do not occur-whether intentional or not."
Lizzy rolled her eyes at Chelsea, who laughed.
"Is there anything wrong, Miss. Lucas?" Catherine asked, fixing her steely gaze upon Chelsea.
"Uh…no," Chelsea replied, turning slightly pink under her scrutiny.
Feeling rather responsible for Chelsea’s laughter, Elizabeth raised her hand.
"Yes, Miss. Bennet?"
"Would connections to the Mafia be considered a danger to the reputation of the company?" she inquired, all attention. It was a childish quip, but she wanted to direct the unwelcome attention away from Chelsea.
Unlike the other contestants, Catherine did not look amused. She ignored her, however, and moved ahead.
"We do not allow much interaction with the judges. They will join you once a week to see how you are progressing, but, other than that, you will see them only during the show, and afterwards, if they choose to stay for the party. Naturally, you will see them at all of the Icon gatherings, parties, and press conferences."
"And I was so looking forward to becoming better acquainted with Darcy," sighed Lizzy to Chelsea sarcastically.
Lyndi Hartwell had raised her perfectly manicured hand. "Is it true that Carter Bingwell and Mari Dash are dating?" she inquired, not waiting to be acknowledged.
It seemed almost every female in the room was holding their breath, except Lizzy, of course. She had not the faintest idea who Carter Bingwell was.
Catherine bristled. "Those rumors are quite unsubstantiated, Miss. Hartwell. And, in future, please be so kind as to keep malicious slander to yourself."
Lyndi shrugged. "It was in almost every tabloid magazine," she explained to the room.
Catherine put a hand to her head. She had soon recovered, however, and had launched into a bunch of legal jargon and contract negotiations. Lizzy should have been paying more attention, due to her interest into the legal profession, but she was entirely too tired to care. Instead, she drifted into a light sleep. When she finally awoke, the living room was much darker, and Catherine had concluded her diatribe and was answering questions.
"How long did I sleep?" she asked Chelsea.
"About forty-five minutes," was the amused reply.
Charming on her right could not resist entering the conversation. His eyes were a muddied brown, crinkled with laugh lines. His hair was a very light brown streaked with blonde, and Lizzy suspected that he had had some assistance from a bottle. She could forgive him this, however, because he was-altogether-very attractive, and she was certainly not averse to a little light flirting.
"She’s no fun," he said, motioning towards Catherine.
"Rather draconian," Lizzy replied, smiling.
"I’m Greg, by the way," he said, extending a hand.
"Lizzy," she answered, taking it.
"It’s very nice to meet you," he smiled warmly and held her hand a few seconds longer than necessary. Suffice it to say, she was rather disappointed when he dropped it.
Catherine had stopped answering questions, and Chelsea was already up and pulling Lizzy towards the door. "Chelsea!" Lizzy cried, struggling slightly against the hard grip of her new friend. "I was kind of in the middle of a conversation," she hissed, in an undertone.
"That’s okay, Lizzy," Greg told her good-naturedly, "we’ll have plenty of time to get to know each other."
"Yeah…right," Lizzy returned, admitting defeat and allowing Chelsea to drag her down the hall again. They turned a corner and came to a small office space. Without further ado, Chelsea pushed her in and closed the door.
"What was that about?" Lizzy asked, folding her arms across her chest, "he was quite worth my time."
Chelsea sighed. "I really don’t think that Greg Wickham is a good person, Lizzy," she said in a low voice, "I mean, you should really check out his audition bio."
"Audition bio?" Lizzy inquired, with an eyebrow raised, "as if that would be the besmirker of his character. Besides, everyone lies on their audition bio. I mean, I did."
Chelsea did not appear to be fazed. "He’s been on about every reality show there is," she said. "He only just auditioned for Dancing Fever and last year he pulled a stint on the U.K. version of Icon. Pretty shady, if you ask me."
"No, it just shows he’s desperate for a break," Lizzy said, although her faith in a potential love-interest was beginning to fade.
"Whatever, Lizzy. I just thought that I’d warn you." Chelsea shrugged non-committally. "But I definitely don’t want to ruin any romantic vibes for you." She waggled her eyebrows knowingly. "He is quite good-looking, by the way. Kudos if he’s also a good guy."
"I’m sure he’s just swell," Lizzy replied, laughing, "considering that I’ve met him for maybe a minute and already I’m in love."
"Ouch, sarcasm," Chelsea smirked, "but at least someone is showing interest in you. I haven’t had a date in years." Lizzy would have dismissed this as a joke, if something in Chelsea’s eyes had not seemed unusally…serious.
"Not had a date in years?" she teased lightly, "what are you, a vampire or an anti-social freak?"
"Neither; I’m a workaholic who just isn’t attractive enough."
Lizzy resisted the impulse to be flippant. She resisted, however, because, for the first time in their short acquaintance, Chelsea actually looked serious. "That bad, huh?"
Chelsea shrugged. "Not a day into our first meeting and already I’m blathering like an idiot. Come on. Enough of my problems."
"Dating woes are right up my alley, you know," Lizzy replied kindly, following Chelsea back out the door and down the hallway. "So I’m definitely there for you. Besides, who better to confide in than a relative stranger?"
Chelsea laughed. "I can see that we’re going to be friends."