Here If You Need Me

By Cindy Bokma

Barrett Greer has always longed for the glamour of Hollywood. Unfortunately, she's stuck at a boring job, engaged to a man she doesn't know if she loves, and is unsatisfied with her lackluster life.

A chance meeting with a celebrity grants Barrett her wish to have a rich-and-famous best friend and see how the other half lives. She soon discovers, though, that life is not perfect in the world of fame and fortune.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Cindy Bokma
• Release date: Oct 6, 2011
• ISBN: 9781452425245

Cindy Bokma

Cindy is originally from New Jersey. She currently lives in Southern California with her family. Find her beauty blog at http://hellodollface.com and her book blog at http://cindyreads.com

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Here if You Need Me

by

Cindy Bokma

~

Published by Cindy Bokma

at Smashwords

~

Copyright © 2011 by Cindy Bokma

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Chapter 1

At eight o’clock on Monday morning after a venti non-fat decaf soy latte with a single Sweet n’ Low, I had even less energy to begin my work than when my alarm went off at seven.

Unfortunately, I would have that same dragging, drooping feeling on Tuesday and quite possibly until five o’clock on Friday when I would walk out the door and be a free woman until Monday when the process would repeat itself.

As I began to lower my head into my arms for a five minute nap, a memo floated down on my desk, a slip of paper that could only mean one thing: a meeting. Maddie Thorton, editor of Ladies Monthly, where I currently served my employment sentence, loved to hold meetings just to remind us that she was the boss and every single detail had to be done to her liking. She was all khaki pants and chambray button-down, but underneath the loafers and frosty blonde hair, she was a barracuda, known to make grown women, and the occasional man, cry.

I worked in a cubicle at the far end of the office, tucked away where I could spend time reading fashion magazines and indulging in various tabloids without being bothered. I spent a lot of time scanning the internet for celebrity news. Just like shopping and sizing myself up in the mirror, it was a harmless hobby.

Glancing at the pink slip, I noted that I had fifteen minutes until the conference. I used my time wisely and got a mug of bitter coffee from the break-room, chatted with the girls in advertising, then went back to my desk to check email. Aside from fashion news and advertisements for porn and penis enlargements, there was nothing of interest in my box. I logged onto eBay to bid on some Kat Savage concert tickets. One hundred and sixty dollars was a small price to pay for third row seats. Worth every penny I would drag my best friend Nicky along, and we would get crazy and pretend we were five years younger.

Let me fill you in, in case you’ve been living under a rock or on a planet where leg warmers are still in vogue: Kat Savage was a talented, gorgeous pop star with hair as soft and fine as spun gold. She had big brown eyes and a wide smile filled with bleached white teeth. The only problem was, lately she was looking—how shall I say it? Trashy. Her normally glowing skin was pallid and haggard, dark shadows circled her eyes, and her usually glossy hair was dry and limp. Each time I came across a photo of her in the magazines, my heart broke. Sure, that breakup with Trevor Lake was devastating. I mean, he split up with her via an interview on Entertainment Now. And if I hadn’t been sitting on the couch sharing a pint of Ben & Jerry’s with my Maltese, Johnny Depp, I would have read about it a day later when I received my US Magazine in the mailbox along with Celebrity, Star, and The Gossiper, and I would have found out with the rest of the celeb-obsessed world. But as luck would have it, I saw it first with my own two eyes, live via satellite.

Trevor announced to the world that he and Kat were over. He said it wasn’t working out, but later on during the same show it was revealed he was dating Floria, an Italian model with a slight mustache and huge boobs. During the next two days, Kat cried out, her face twisted in pain and a soggy tissue in her hand, for Trevor to take her back. She staged an exclusive interview with a reporter from Entertainment Now and begged, on-air, for Trevor to come back to her. It was pathetic. Enjoyable to witness the drama but pitiful for Kat. For some reason, seeing her so vulnerable made me like her even more. Maybe it was because I felt so sorry for her.

When Trevor didn’t respond, she stumbled around Los Angeles in a broken-hearted stupor, wearing grimy tee shirts and scuffed Ugg boots. Her hair was dry and parched, and her skin was riddled with blotchy acne. Each photo in the tabloids featured her with a cigarette hanging from her chapped lips. And there was nothing I could do to help. Seeing her like that made me want to offer my services as a stylist as well as a friend. I could turn that girl around and give her a makeover, if given the chance. But how could I, a lowly writer for a wretched magazine geared towards middle-aged women, get in touch with one of the most famous singers on the face of the earth? That was what I pondered as I sat at my cubicle on Monday morning. We had one small thing in common, so tiny and unimportant, yet each time I checked the alumni website, I hoped for an email or an address so I could send her a note of support.

Kat and I briefly attended the same middle school, she being a just a few years younger than me. For the short time I lived in Texas -humid, hot, horrible years—I knew Kat Savage as Kathy Spendowski. We weren’t best friends but I knew who she was, even back in school she stood out. And to me, that was a good enough link to create a bond. I talked to her once or twice in the bathroom and specifically recall loaning her a spritz of hairspray and a swipe or two of Lip Smackers. But that was so long ago, my hair has since de-frizzed, the baby fat is gone, and my old nose has been chiseled to a perfect upturn. She would never recognize me.

Good morning, Barrett. Arvis Jewell stuck her pointy nose into my cubicle and caught me red-handed. I quickly clicked out of eBay and turned to face her. Arvis contributed recipes to our illustrious magazine. Not the kind of recipes that featured trendy food like mixed greens, pine nuts and a sun-dried tomato vinaigrette, but fattening comfort food such as casseroles including creamed soups, garlic mashed potatoes with heavy cream, mac ’n’ cheese and meatloaf with cheese topping. The test kitchen was filled with canned creamed soups and boxes of Velveeta.

When I looked at the content of our magazine, I couldn’t believe I worked at such a place. I wanted to cry. Sometimes I closed my eyes and pretended I was a famous editor from a fashion magazine instead of a staff writer in a room with poor dÈcor and bad air circulation.

Did you get my Candle Brite invitation? she asked in her horribly monotone voice, peering at the photos tacked to the wall of my cubicle. She pushed her glasses up her pointy nose, looking like a rodent on the hunt for crumbs. Arvis bent closer and examined my picture montage. I caught a whiff of perfume my grandmother might have worn, a cloying odor heavy with an undertone of bergamot. Arvis peered closer at my pictures, squinting and creating a uni-brow across her forehead. A photo of my boyfriend Tony and I, photos of my best friend, a few random photos of Kat Savage torn out of magazines served as my inspiration as I worked at my computer, typing like a trained monkey.

Piled in the corner were last week’s National Enquirer and InTouch magazines with a US Weekly on top of the heap. A Vogue magazine sat at my feet and a copy of last month’s Elle was currently being used as a paperweight. I had just recycled my copy of Bride magazine, and it lay in a bin next to my desk.

So, about the party? Arvis prompted, flaring her Tic-Tac shaped nostrils.

I’m sorry, I won’t be able to make it.

Uh huh, just like when I invited you to my jewelry party last month? Arvis narrowed her small, flat eyes, which were the color and depth of dirt. Her hair was brown, streaked with silvery gray, usually worn in a severe bun that accentuated her unfortunate features. I took in her sweater: a chunky knit with floral appliquÈs. In fact, we featured that pattern last year in the magazine. To say Arvis and I didn’t like each other was the understatement of the year. It had nothing to do with my disgust for her ugly sweaters or her knit vests or even her knee socks and polyester gauchos, rather we had deep disdain for each other since the day we met. She seemed to feed off my constant disgust of her and took a sick pleasure in making an effort to include me in the parties she hosted every week, despite my insistence that she cease the invites. Baskets, candles, home dÈcor, plastic containers, floral arrangements, she always had a party or catalogue ready so she could make money off her associates from the magazine. I thought she was tasteless. She thought I was flighty. Arvis was a wonderful resource for a fashion book I was working on. I had an endless source of do not repeat outfits. I made a mental note to jot down her culottes and knee socks. So not tres chic! I wondered how I could stealthily take her picture to feature as visual for my book.

I’m very busy. Sorry. I shrugged my shoulders. I would be busy sitting on my distressed leather couch with my feet propped up on my coffee-table with my trusty sidekick, Johnny Depp, a pile of magazines and an extra large vodka martini. I could always count on my daily dose of celebrity and fashion to transport me to another, fancier world than my own. And isn’t that the purpose of the tabloids? To provide escape for those of us who lead boring, mundane lives?

Mmmmm. Well, don’t worry. I’ll be having a Western Life Craft party soon. I think you will really love the ceramic cactus. I’ll put you down for one. She spun on her orthopedic wedge heel and walked away, her polyester bottom wiggling like two puppies under a blanket.

Ughhh! I let out a sigh and clicked over to Conversations About Famous People online to see what was happening. Any Hollywood births or deaths I should be aware of? Anyone with collagen injections or botox, any new breast implants or nose jobs? I’d have to check my specially marked celebrity plastic surgery website and see who had gone under the knife recently. My favorite was when celebrities got breast implants and blamed the sudden flesh explosion on a growth spurt.

The light caught my ring and I held my hand out, not to admire my newly manicured nails but to try to find a defect in the two-carat princess-cut platinum setting diamond ring from my FiancÈ, Tony. Try as I might, I couldn’t find fault with it. The ring was perfect.

Perfect like you, Tony had said, down on one knee, eyes gazing up at me as he offered the ring in his hand. I hesitated. Not because the ring wasn’t lovely and he wasn’t great. Because he was great and handsome and kind and everything a woman like me would want. Or should want. But for a reason I could not pinpoint, I just could not bring myself to pick up the phone and make an appointment to see dresses or inquire about a reservation at a country club or church for a reception. I paged through Bride magazine but there was no excitement over tulle and lace, even imported hand—crafted Italian lace. What was wrong with me? Not even the idea of mountains of white—wrapped gifts, appliances from Williams Sonoma and a new honeymoon wardrobe appealed to me. I needed medication. Or a drink. Or both.

Psst. Maddie’s coming. My co-worker, Raquel, peeked her head over my cubicle.

Thanks. I whispered, setting up the scene to appear busy. Raquel was the only little ray of sunshine in my otherwise dismal work environment. She wrote the beauty column. No, it wasn’t full of exciting cosmetic tips featuring Stila and Mac and Benefit, it featured articles on mid-life age spots and sunscreen and new products from cosmetics companies who chose not to update their products. Raquel and I were tired of lamenting over being writers for a magazine geared towards middle-aged women when we were twenty years from being there ourselves. I clicked out of my entertainment gossip, making a mental note to check back later for the eBay tickets. I pushed my chair out as Maddie approached with a sour pucker frozen on her tight face.

Miss Greer, where are you off to? Her smile was chilly like her persona.

I was going to get coffee. Did you need me for something? Oh how I hated these sneak attacks. I was lucky to be on the defensive this morning and had my desk looking as if I were in the middle of something important.

I wanted to discuss the ‘Ten Fun Things To Do With Yarn’ article. How is it coming along? She scanned over my desk, her blue eyes sweeping over the magazines and then resting on me. I toyed with my necklace, figuring she would comment on it, but of course she ignored my accessories and flared her legume shaped nostrils.

Great! I have about seven fun things to do with yarn, I just need a few more ideas—

She cut me off. Don’t use the old clichÈ of cats and yarn. I want to have you write a little something about the history of pumpkin pie. I think that would tie in with the fall issue. Arvis is creating a wonderful autumn meal with cream of broccoli soup, and I’ll speak to some of the others about doing a craft with cinnamon sticks. We will do a fall fashion layout with tweeds and blazers. She spoke in voice edged with steel. I responded better to people who had a glimmer of warmth, but there was none of that with Maddie. Even when she came to work wearing overalls and plastic gardening clogs, looking like your favorite neighbor about to trim a rosebush, I knew there was really a bitch under the denim, and I was not fooled by her casual appearance.

You know, Maddie, I’d love to assist with the fashion pages, I offered with a smile. Besides celebrity stalking, I was all about fashion. I stuck my foot out a little so Maddie would notice my faux croc heels. How could she not see my knack for clothes and accessories? Why was I still wasting my time on silly articles when I could be doing the job of Fashion Editor, no offense to our current editor who had the fashion sense of a teenager from the 1980’s shopping for half shirts and tapered jeans at the local mall. Junie needed to be sent back to wherever she came from, and I was the one who should take the reins and run with couture. I suggested we funk up the fashion pages. I had several fabulous ideas I wanted Maddie to pursue with me helming. I created fashion layouts just for fun, before and afters, trendy clothes that suited a variety of body shapes. I just needed the green light from Maddie.

Maddie pursed her lips. Barrett, we value your excellent writing skills. I’d like you to continue writing about crafts, not fashion. Let’s start thinking of topics for the next issue. I’m thinking wreaths with berries; ponder a new spin on that. She excused herself and went to harass someone else about trivial matters. A history of pumpkin pie? I stuck my head over the cubicle to talk to Raquel, but she was gabbing in hushed tones on her cell phone, her head bent into the corner of her cubicle. I cleared my throat.

Hold on. She looked up. What did Maddie want?

A history of pumpkin pie to go along with fun things to do with yarn. I rolled my eyes. Oh, and no cats.

Raquel laughed. That’s okay, I’m writing recipes for home-made skin care featuring oatmeal and avocado. And just wait until you read about the herbal coffee cellulite reduction. And I know you will be interested in my article, When Your Bladder Gets The Blues." She winked at me and turned back to her call.

I checked eBay, but to my dismay, I lost out on my chance to get close enough to see the sweat glisten on Kat’s forehead. Since I didn’t get the tickets, I’d have to find another way to see her in person. Growing up alone and depressed with my alcoholic mother and traveling father, I sensed a kinship with Kat as she sang about heartache and loneliness. I had no idea back in school what pain she was going through! How I wished we had become bff’s back then. I’m sure I could have provided a whole other inspiration. Her earlier stuff was very touching: haunting, melodic tunes about the very feelings I experienced years ago. Kat’s later music was more techno-pop with a few ballads thrown in. I didn’t so much care for the new songs where she sounded like she was singing in a rotating fan. But I knew that under the tight leather bustier beat a heart intimate with emotional pain. But hey, who wants to hear about that? I prefer to focus on the present.

As luck would have it—or not—Arvis and I were hand-picked by Maddie to drive to the Los Angeles flower-mart and choose the finest array of holiday flowers available in southern California. Maddie gave us specific instructions which I only half listened to because I was too busy thinking about celebrity gossip and the latest Elle magazine. In fact, I made the horrible mistake of speaking aloud while I was daydreaming during the conference, which prompted Maddie to single out yours truly and order me to take Arvis to the mart and pick poinsettias and holly berries for a Christmas photo shoot. Could I have found a better use of my time than being stuck in a car with Arvis?

No, I’ll do the driving. Arvis insisted as I reached into my knock-off Balenciaga bag for my car keys. I’ve seen the way you park your car and I’m not willing to risk my life with you behind the wheel. She sneered.

I couldn’t stand Arvis. Just so we’re clear.

Okay, so I did often straddle the blue lines of the handicapped parking spot. I parked at an angle, but usually within the allotted space, maybe hanging out just a tad. I shot Arvis a hateful look, but she was busy readjusting the mirror and buckling her seat belt so that the fabric went right in between her ample breasts. What a shame such a nice rack was wasted on such a dour fuddy-duddy.

Subjected to an hour of conservative talk radio in Arvis’s Ford Focus on the way to the flower-mart, my eyes literally rolled into the back of my head. I tried not to listen to a staunch right-winger lament on prison reform. The pungent pinecone air-freshener dangled from the rearview mirror, a noxious odor accosting my delicate nostrils and clashing with my own perfume which smelled of light honeysuckle and jasmine. And now, pine.

…and so what if I still live at home with my mother? It’s not like every woman over forty needs a man. I have my quilting circle and my bible study. I’m a fulfilled woman. You know Barrett, I feel honored that I can take care of my parents at this stage in their lives. Arvis sighed deeply and cast a glance at me as she signaled to turn left. I stared out the window, trying my best to ignore Arvis’s steady stream of commentary. Somewhere between the office and the 405, she got the impression that I was her personal life strategist and started talking about herself. In between thoughts of my upcoming wedding, which garnered about ten minutes, and thoughts of the new Stella McCartney collection, Arvis blathered on about herself and her lack of a man. She was so into her one-way conversation that she turned the radio down so I could hear her drone on and on.

I clapped my hands as we came upon a familiar building. Oh, we’re going to pass the celebrity Scientology place. You know, I think we would have better luck at spotting someone famous if we drove by the Kabbalah center. Do you know where that is? I sat up a little straighter and gazed out the window, hoping to catch a glimpse of Tom Cruise wearing some kind of wacky Battlefield Earth costume, counting his thetans and engrams or whatever those people did. I clenched my buttocks as I imagined some kind of odd psuedo-religious prophecy, anal probes and body cavity examination. The place really scared me. I preferred the red string enticement of Kabbalah, if I had to chose a Hollywood cult.

Barrett, did you hear a word I said? We were stuck behind a tractor trailer belching an awful stench from the tail pipe. Arvis reached behind me to find a box of tissues and blew her nose with a honk. Ugh! Allergies.

"Yes, Arvis. I know you don’t need a man. You are a perfectly capable woman who is fine on her own. You’re fine, Arvis. There are plenty of other single women who are just fine." I held my gaze out the window, hoping to see an actor walking down the street, but to my disappointment, there was no one around. Why me? Famous people lived in this town, yet nobody was around when I was looking good? I was having an excellent hair day with no humidity, perfect curl and few flyaways.

Arvis straightened her posture and ran a hand through her own wiry hair. Her beady eyes focused on me, and she bared her corn-cob teeth. I always feel bad for people with gummy smiles. Lots of gums, petite teeth. I wondered if a cosmetic dentist could fix that for her. I was certain there was a dental expert in Beverly Hills who specialized in veneers for niblets like hers. I opened my mouth to tell her but quickly closed it. She might take offense to my gesture of aesthetic advice. Some people are like that, you know. I took out my makeup bag and reapplied my lipstick then gave my lips a swipe of plumping gloss.

You really think so? You don’t think society undervalues women over a certain age who haven’t been married? It might be hard to believe but I was the only single female in my Republican club last year.

I do believe it. I saw the sad look in her eyes and added, Hard to believe but, you know, not everyone needs to be paired up.

So you don’t think I need a man to be happy do you? She narrowed her eyes, forcing the fuzz of her eyebrows together like a four inch caterpillar. Again, I bit my tongue. Hadn’t she ever been told the secret of eyebrow wax? She glanced at me, waiting for me to spew out words of wisdom. I made it up as I went along but had to admit my advice