Page 21 of Reality With You (Arden Beach #1)

T he sun had barely risen when a “glam team” of three descended on Lennon’s apartment.

Led by a British, six-inch-stiletto-wearing, green-haired stylist named Freema, their crew consisted of Greg, a hair stylist whose mane nearly reached the waistband of his distressed jeans like a member of a nineties grunge band, and Deb, a petite, round, makeup artist who looked like someone’s sweet grandmother until you got a closer look at her silver heart-shaped earrings engraved with the words “fuck off” in a pretty script.

They were Lennon’s kind of people.

Carol Anne told her the other cast members had personal glam teams, so the show sent their resident stylists to “help her out”—another perk of her new main player status.

While Greg and Deb went to work setting up a temporary glam station in Lennon’s living room out of the large black trunks they’d hauled in, Freema rolled in a rack of designer clothes with matching shoes and handbags brandishing luxury labels.

Bright, neon colors and skintight silhouettes hung before her.

Lennon’s own closet was a mix of Sandra Bullock in Practical Magic and Joan Jett.

She stared at the selection in her oversized flannel shirt and distressed denim shorts, nary a loose floral dress or hint of black leather to be found among the two-piece sets and mini dresses.

“This is all gorgeous, but none of it looks like me,” Lennon pointed out.

“You’re playing a part, darling,” Freema purred. “Think of television as a stage. Embrace it.”

They had a point. Treating it like a performance and stepping into a character made this reality show thing sound a little less daunting. Maybe that small delineation between “Show Lennon” and “Real Lennon” was what she needed to get through it.

A month’s rent for the apartment they stood in cost less than the handbag Freema ultimately opted to pair with the selected outfit and shoes.

While Greg pinned Lennon’s hair in wide curlers and Deb painted her face, Carol Anne dropped by to sign off on the final look.

In contrast, Carol Anne’s plain tee was coffee-stained and ill-fitted, and her hair was haphazardly tied in a low ponytail.

Although she appeared to be in her mid-thirties, she looked like she’d lived nine lives and hadn’t slept during any of them.

Her frenzied energy made Lennon’s blood pressure rise and feel like she needed to hurry, though for what, she didn’t know.

After the supervising producer snapped a photo of her on her phone, Lennon asked, “How’s the audience going to believe I can afford all of this as an aspiring musician?”

“That’s the point. It’s a splurge. A reward. If they see it on someone like you, they’ll believe they can have it, too.” Carol Anne didn’t look up from her phone as her fingers flew across the screen.

Something about that didn’t sit right with Lennon, a faint tightness curling in her gut. “Can we at least incorporate some things that are a little more my style?”

“The sponsors send us what they want us to feature,” Carol Anne answered before addressing Freema. “Can we get more boob?”

“There’s not much there to work with,” Freema replied, eying Lennon’s modest chest with an arched brow. “But I’ll see what I can do.”

“Work your magic.”

Lennon gave them a withering look. “Are we selling them breasts, too?”

“We’re selling the dream.” Carol Anne went to the door. “I’ll be back in five for last look.”

Freema pulled two rubber things that looked like chicken cutlets out of their Mary Poppins bag and held them up. Not wanting to be difficult on her very first day, Lennon bit her tongue.

Choose your battles, she reminded herself.

Twenty minutes into her first day of filming and Lennon was already sweating.

The brunch took place at a travel blogger’s dream luxury boutique hotel on the beach—a pink facade, black and white striped awnings, and gold fixtures.

Bruno escorted her in his Escalade, but they filmed her arrival as if she’d walked there, capturing various angles of her strolling down the sidewalk past designer stores.

Who knew how hard it would be to walk naturally, especially in stilettos in the blazing summer heat, while being filmed?

It was as if Lennon had forgotten how to walk at all, like a mannequin who had recently come to life.

They had her do it five times before Carol Anne finally waved a hand and said, “They’ll fix it in post.”

By the time Lennon made it to the restaurant overlooking the ocean, her feet were screaming. She smiled through the pain of fresh blisters forming as she approached Avery’s table.

The other four women waited around a circular table on the sprawling patio, shaded by a black and white umbrella.

Water and bread sat untouched in the middle.

Vibrant colors adorned each of them except for Avery, who wore a white mini dress.

At least Lennon didn’t look out of place in her neon green crop top and matching high-waisted mini skirt.

Avery spotted her first. Her face lit up as she stood to meet her around the side of the table. “Lennon! Hi.”

“Hey, sorry I’m late. It took a while to film the, uh—” Lennon covered her faux pas with an awkward cough. “I mean, it was a long walk. From my place.” She inwardly cringed. Off to a great start.

“You look amazing,” Avery said, guiding her into a delicate hug.

“So do you.”

Avery addressed the table. “Everyone, this is Lennon Young, the musician I’ve been telling you about. We went to school together. She just moved back from New York.”

The other three women offered friendly greetings as Avery introduced her bridesmaids, Tana and Candace, and her maid of honor, Kelsey.

The surreality of the situation hit Lennon.

It was as if she had climbed into her television while watching one of these exact scenes play out on countless other shows.

The flawless, celebrity-like beauty of the cast. The glamorous, picturesque setting.

If it weren’t for her throbbing feet and the mic pack digging into her spine, she would have to pinch herself to confirm it was real.

As Lennon squeezed around the corner to get to the empty chair, her foot caught on the leg of Avery’s and dragged it a couple of inches, the metal loudly scraping along the polished stone floor.

“Shit!” She stumbled, barely avoiding a full face-plant.

She grimaced at the cameraman positioned nearby. “Sorry—am I allowed to say ‘shit’?”

Avery’s friends exchanged awkward glances while a soft, gracious chuckle drifted from the bride. “You’re good,” she assured her quietly.

Lennon cleared her throat, cheeks warm as she smoothed her hands down the sides of her skirt. Off to a great fucking start, Lennon. She took a seat between Avery and Candace.

“Linen—like the fabric?” Kelsey asked, amusement twinkling in her blue eyes with small winged tips. Her bleach-blonde hair shimmered in the sunlight.

The silent, tickled look that passed between Kelsey and the bridesmaids brought Lennon back to her childhood. “Wow. Haven’t heard that one since grade school,” she remarked coolly. Lennon refrained from adding you’re as original as an eight-year-old, Kelsey. Congrats.

Kelsey’s eyes narrowed slightly.

A waiter filled Lennon’s empty glass with ice water, and she thanked him before he disappeared as quietly as he’d arrived.

The coolness of the glass in her hand helped her relax a bit, slowly bringing her racing heart down.

“It’s actually like John Lennon,” she explained.

“My father was a huge fan of the Beatles.” Speaking of him made a hollow, tinny vibration ring from the pit his absence had carved in her heart after he ran off to follow his own dreams, leaving her and her mother behind.

Where those dreams had led him, she had no idea.

“Cute,” Kelsey said as the waiter returned.

As he took their orders, Lennon noted a few cameramen stationed around them, catching a glimpse of at least one unmanned camera hidden behind a large banana leaf tree planted in a stone pot.

Avery ordered a round of mimosas for the table and one virgin mimosa for Candace, who sported a small baby bump.

Kelsey called for a toast when they arrived.

“To Avery,” Kelsey began, raising her glass. Everyone followed suit. “For being such a beautiful, inspiring, boss bitch. May your wedding be everything you’ve dreamed of and more.”

“Cheers,” they sang in unison before clinking their glasses together.

The fresh orange juice bit at that satisfying place at the back of Lennon’s cheeks. She savored it, hoping the tiny bit of champagne would help her loosen up a bit. Her whole body seemed to be stretched taut from the inside out like a drumhead.

Her attention gravitated to the cameras again.

How was everyone else but her acting so natural, ordering their salads and drinking their mimosas like millions of people wouldn’t watch this later like an afternoon soap opera?

She couldn’t shake the hyper-awareness of everything she did.

Every move she made, no matter how small or ordinary, operated on manual rather than automatic.