Lessons in Chemistry(66)

“Actually,” Walter said, shoving his hands in his pockets in an effort to look casual, “the dresses are meant to be snug. Camera adds ten pounds, so we use tight clothing to take it off. Suck it in, slim it down. You won’t believe how quickly you’ll get used to it.”

“I couldn’t breathe.”

“It’s only for thirty minutes. You can breathe as much as you want after.”

“With each inhale, our bodies initiate the blood purification process; with each exhale, our lungs release redundant carbon and hydrogen. By compressing any portion of the lungs, we put this process at risk. Clots form. Circulation drops.”

“Here’s the thing, though,” said Walter, trying a different tactic. “I know you don’t want to look fat.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“On camera—and please don’t take this the wrong way—you’re a heifer.”

Her jaw dropped. “Walter,” she stated. “Let me make something very clear to you. I will not wear that clothing.”

He clenched his teeth. Was this going to work? As he flailed around for some new way to reason with her, the TV station orchestra down the hall launched into a rehearsal of their latest little ditty. It was the Supper at Six theme song— a perky little tune he’d commissioned himself. A cross between a modern cha-cha-cha and a three-alarm fire, it was a toe-tapping tour de force that, just yesterday, his boss had enthusiastically described as Lawrence Welk on amphetamines.

“What on earth is that?” she said, gritting her teeth.



* * *



—

Phil Lebensmal, his boss and KCTV’s executive producer and station manager, had been very clear when he’d approved the cooking show concept.

“You know what to do,” he’d said after meeting Elizabeth Zott. “Big hair, tight dresses, homey set. The sexy-wife-loving-mother every man wants to see at the end of the day. Make it happen.”

Walter looked at Phil across the expanse of Phil’s ridiculously oversized desk. He didn’t like Phil. He was young and successful and clearly better at everything than Walter, but he was also crass. Walter didn’t like crass people. They made him feel prudish and self-conscious, as if he were the last remaining member of the Polite People, a now-extinct tribe best known for their decorum and good table manners. He passed his hand across his graying fifty-three-year-old head.

“Here’s an interesting twist, Phil. Did I tell you that Mrs. Zott can cook? I mean, really cook. She’s an actual chemist. Works in a lab with test tubes and things. Even has a master’s in chemistry, if you can imagine that. I was thinking we could play up her credentials; give housewives someone to relate to.”

“What?” Phil said, surprised. “No, Walter, Zott is not relatable, which is good. People don’t want to see themselves on TV, they want to see the people they’ll never be on TV. Pretty people, sexy people. You know how this works.” He looked at Walter, perturbed.

“Of course, of course,” Walter said, “it’s just that I thought we might shake things up a bit. Give this show more of a professional feel.”

“Professional? This is afternoon TV. You used to run a clown show in this same time slot.”

“Yes, that’s the unexpected part. Instead of clowns, we’ll do something meaningful: Mrs. Zott will teach homemakers how to make a nutritious dinner.”

“Meaningful?” Phil snapped. “What are you? Amish? As for nutritious: no. You’re killing the show before it even gets started. Look, Walter, it’s easy. Tight dresses, suggestive movements—maybe like the way she dons the potholders just so,” he demonstrated, as if he were pulling on a pair of satin gloves. “And then there’s the cocktail she mixes at the end of every show.”

“Cocktail?”

“Isn’t that a great idea? I just thought of it.”

“I really don’t think Mrs. Zott will go for—”

“By the way. What was that thing she said last week—about being unable to solidify helium at absolute zero. Was that supposed to be a joke?”

“Yes,” he said. “I’m pretty sure it—”

“Well it wasn’t funny.”

Phil was right, it hadn’t been funny, and worse, Elizabeth hadn’t meant it to be funny. She had meant it to be one of the things she might talk about on her show. Which was a problem because no matter how often he explained the show’s concept to her, she didn’t seem to get it. “These are just normal housewives you’ll be talking to,” Walter told her. “Just your average Janes.” Elizabeth had looked back in a way that scared him.

“There’s nothing average about the average housewife,” she corrected.



* * *



—

“Walter,” Elizabeth was saying after the song had finally finished. “Are you listening? I think I can solve our wardrobe problem in two words. Lab coat.”

“No.”

“It would give the show a more professional feel.”

“No,” he said again, thinking of Lebensmal’s very clear expectations. “Believe me. No.”

“Why not approach this scientifically? I’ll wear it for the first week, then we’ll review the results.”