One To Watch(32)
“Well,” she sighed, “not today!”
The one saving grace of the situation was that Alison had picked some gorgeous suits for Bea; she settled on an electric violet Chromat bikini with a high-waisted brief and snug halter top that accentuated her cleavage. As she tied a matching sarong artfully around her waist, she rationalized that at least her thighs were covered. It really wasn’t so much worse than wearing a skirt and a crop top, which she’d done plenty of times in public—just not on television.
As Bea made her way onto the deck of the yacht and saw the half dozen camera operators (and attendant sound ops and PAs) swarming through the space, poised to capture her every move, she felt a rush of exhilaration despite all her anxiety. Yes, it was terrifying to hand over control of her image to Lauren and the crew, but there was a sliver of excitement too. Bea loved the thrill of selecting that perfect photo of herself, of posting it on Insta and her blog and watching the likes and adoring comments roll in. These people were professionals, and Lauren wanted America to see Bea as a princess. Wasn’t it possible that this date could be as glamorous and sexy as Lauren promised?
Lauren had the group of men—all in their swimsuits, all with their toned bodies (except for Jefferson, who was a welcome sight)—arranged in a semicircle awaiting Bea’s arrival, which was terrific to really maximize the awkwardness of the situation, especially since Bea realized she only knew half their names. There was Jefferson; Jaime the hot Texan bartender; Ben the kindergarten teacher (who was still, Bea noted, wearing Birkenstocks); the Asian American guy with the black glasses and salt-and-pepper hair (Aslan? No, that was the lion from Narnia); Nash the real estate broker with the nasty look in his eye (Nasty Nash! Now, that was a functional mnemonic); several others Bea couldn’t name to save her life; and one whose name had been rattling around in her mind all day: Marco, the politico Bea had chosen for her first kiss. When they made eye contact, briefly, his smile was knowing.
“Hey, Lauren?” Bea grabbed her producer. “This is embarrassing, but can we just run down everyone’s names before I have to actually, you know, make conversation?”
“Sure.” Lauren looked up from her phone, which was a constant thrum of texts on something called “Producer Thread.” “Who don’t you know?”
“I know Jefferson, Jaime, Nash, and Ben. And Marco, obviously.” Bea’s stomach gave an involuntary flip as she said the name—a staged kiss was still an actual kiss, and she was starting to feel actually nervous.
“Which Ben do you know?”
“Kindergarten Ben.”
“Personal trainer Ben is here too—in the red swim shorts?”
“I thought personal trainer Ben didn’t get a date this week?”
“No, that’s personal trainer Ben F. Personal trainer Ben K. is here.”
“Ben K.?”
“Ooh—sorry, he prefers ‘fitness coach.’”
“Right. That guy.”
“And the other trainer is Kumal.”
“Got it. And the finance guy is … Trent?”
“Trevor. He’s a stockbroker. The surfer next to him is Cooper.”
“Great. And that just leaves …”
“Asher. He’s a history professor in Vermont.”
“I knew it wasn’t Aslan!”
Lauren gave Bea an affectionate pat on the arm and escorted her over to the circle of men to begin filming.
“Just ignore the cameras,” Lauren reminded her, and Bea nodded—though it was easier said than done with three of them pointed right at her.
“Welcome, everyone!” Bea delivered the speech the show’s poor underpaid writer had scripted for her. “Take a look at this yacht—pretty amazing, right? I just hope our date will be smooth sailing—we wouldn’t want to make anyone walk the plank!”
This sort of wordplay—if, indeed, it could even be called that—was something of a Main Squeeze staple; Bea hoped she delivered the lines with enough of a wink to give everyone at home a good laugh. But the men right in front of her stared back rather blankly, and Bea wondered how sternly Lauren had admonished them not to react to anything at all. As she finished the speech and the group splintered off to explore the various yacht activities (shuffleboard, blackout drinking, et cetera), Bea readied herself to mingle.
“Who do you want to talk to first?” Lauren asked.
“Whoever’s nearest the bar, I think.”
“Attagirl. That would be Trevor.”
Bea headed toward him—surely a glass of wine would help lubricate the several hours of looming small talk. But before she could make it there, Ben K. headed her off at the pass to ask if she had a minute to talk, a somber expression on his face and a camera operator standing right behind him.
“Sure, Ben. What’s going on?”
He led her to the railing near the front of the yacht, which made Bea wonder if he intended to reenact Titanic—particularly when he took her hands and looked deep into her eyes.
“Bea, I want you to know how seriously I’m taking this.”
He paused, which led Bea to believe that she was meant to respond.
“Okay! That’s great, because—”
“For too many years, I have spent my nights alone,” he proclaimed. “I have yearned for someone special, someone to become my other half. My wife. I am here to seek her.”