Episode 14: Buzz
buzz: slang for the sense of excitement, expectancy, and hype that surrounds a film, an actor, or a director.
The first week of the New Year served as a vehicle of firsts for Tallulah. In the early hours of January 1st, a sober Nick carried her drunken ass into his West Village townhouse after they attended an old rockstar’s NYE bash, christening their vacation bed with an alcohol-induced sloppy top.
On January 2nd, Nick took her and Milo to a hole-in-the-wall joint in the Meatpacking District, where they munched on their first slices of NYC pizza.
On January 3rd, their little family did touristy things to sate Milo’s thirst for exploration, visiting the Statute of Liberty, the Empire State Building, and the Museum of Natural History.
However, on the fourth day, Tallulah was faced with a terrifying first arranged by her ex-husband’s publicist and her talent agent’s collaborative efforts: a magazine photoshoot and interview. An arrangement made after Hollywood Laundry aired Nick’s dirty laundry and paparazzi photos from their first family outing.
A flood of lucrative proposals flooded Tammy's email box as magazines, tabloids, and entertainment television programs vied for Tallulah's first tell-all interview. Juan suggested she choose celebrity publications like People or InStyle, but Tammy wanted a sit-down interview on Entertainment Tonight or Inside Edition.
Nearly every emailed pitch centered around one question: “Why did you keep your son secret from his father?”
Tallulah knew what she had done had hurt Nick and Milo. Still, she didn’t want to further damage her reputation by knowingly walking into an interview to justify ridicule of her.
In the sea of impending PR disasters, one proposition held promise.
Big Bold Beautiful, a leading plus-size lifestyle magazine, offered a different angle: “How did you survive single parenthood, a discriminating industry, and fatphobic haters like a boss?”
Tallulah never thought of herself as a survivor or a boss, but the pitch changed that.
The magazine provided a chauffeured ride to their Fifth Avenue office. Lanya and Christophe went with her.
Getting stuck in traffic gave her time to overthink.
What if she botched the interview?
What if she looked like an ugly fool in all her photos?
What if this exposure did more damage?
What would Nick do?
What would Nick say?
Why didn’t you ask him when you had the chance, you idiot?
“I don’t know why,” she muttered aloud, gently tapping her temple against the tinted window as a tiny act of self-inflicted punishment.
“I’ll be sure to forward the information to Mrs. Bryant, and we’ll contact you soon regarding her decision. Have a good day.” Lanya concluded the business call, plucking out her Bluetooth headset’s rubber earplugs. “That was Nikita Spire, the owner and lead designer of House of Spire.”
Tallulah appreciated the conversational reprieve. “Never heard of her.”
“Well, Nikita was the high fashion brand High Spiral’s creative director for twenty-three years,” Lanya informed, “until she found out her CEO husband enjoyed taking clothes off models more than dolling them up with her designs. However, she agreed not to air his affairs if they split, and she could keep the last name to start her own fashion house. Well, he’s been slandering her to scare away any potential business. She needs a big-name client. You need a dress for the Oscars. It’s a win-win.”
Tallulah winced at the mention of the Academy Awards. In the beginning, being unable to find a designer for a red-carpet-worthy dress was the perfect excuse to witness Oscars Night unfold on a 90-inch flatscreen television.
A dream never to be if she agreed to partner up with Nikita Spire.
“You can’t not go, Tally. If you stay home, the haters win,” Lanya counseled. “You can’t grace the pages of Big Bold Beautiful claiming you’re a boss and not own up to it. If Nick goes alone and he wins Best Actor, you’ll be called a selfish bitch. If he goes alone and loses, you’ll be called an unsupportive bitch.”
Tallulah countered, “And if I do go, I’ll be called the fat, unworthy bitch who doesn’t deserve to be at his side.”
Lanya boosted her plucked eyebrows, presenting a manicured finger to accentuate a point. “But you’ll be a fat, unworthy bitch serving looks in a dazzling custom gown as Nick Bryant escorts you down the red carpet. Unworthiness would never look so good.”
Tallulah got lost in her imagination, her wobbly reception to the idea firming up. As she imagined herself arm-in-arm with Nick, she quickly discerned the error of her ways. Whether he won or lost, she’d never forgive herself if she stayed behind. Years ago, they routinely laid in bed, dreaming of starring roles and Oscar wins.
Back then, the dream seemed impossible, but now, it was as real as life itself. The announcements of the 91st Oscars nominees were eighteen days away, creating mounting tension.
The studio behind Nick’s spy thriller, Wicked People, intended to jet its leading man anywhere to keep the film in the public’s eye. A logical tactic as it coughed up over ten million dollars to bankroll its campaign for Best Actor, Best Picture, and Best Original Screenplay.
The Bryant family and their entourage didn’t come to the Big Apple solely to bring in the New Year or the Big Bold Beautiful gig. Nick had an interview on a late-night talk show tomorrow.
“Alright, you win,” Tallulah exhaled defeatedly. “When can she fit me in?”
“You decide,” Lanya said. “Her schedule is wide open for you.”
The Academy Awards was seven weeks away.
As Nick Bryant’s plus-one, she had to slay on that red carpet to make a statement: He was hers, and she wasn’t going anywhere.
“Arrange an appointment for the ninth at ten o’clock,” she instructed.
Lanya’s adept thumbs danced across her smartphone’s keyboard to input the mandate on a lengthy to-do list. “I’ll get right on it.”
A little over an hour later, she was on the 23rd floor of the headquarters of a mass media corporation that owned and published over a hundred magazines.
A hairdresser tamed her tresses with a ponytail, sectioned plaits, bobbing pins, and ingenuity to fit on a mesh cap. She wore a bone-straight wig with a blunt bang covering her forehead. A platinum-haired makeup artist transformed her basic ass features into a sophisticated full-beat look, gifting her glamorous cat eye so thick and sharp it weaponized her face. A manicurist freshened her nails while the makeup artist worked on her.
Tallulah peered into the Hollywood vanity mirror adorned in light bulbs, a boss lady staring back right back.
“Wow,” she uttered softly as she delicately grazed her temporary locks. “Can I take you guys home with me?”
Her question garnered laughter, but she was more than half-serious.
Tallulah was no amateur at makeup, but she had never looked this stunning in her entire life. The magazine’s beauty professional trio knew how to make a plus-sized woman feel big, bold, and beautiful.
The photoshoot’s wardrobe stylist outfitted her with a rich violet-hued half-sleeve bodycon pencil dress and four-inch pumps.
“Well, damn.”
Tallulah’s attention strayed from the diligent woman cinching her into an extravagant box belt.
Air evaporated from her lungs as her ex-husband sauntered into her dressing room, garbed in an olive-green parka, a black beanie, impenetrably dark shades, street clothes, and snow-fighting shoes.
His arrival altered the atmosphere’s texture.
Relaxing on a complimentary couch, Lanya straightened her spine and uncrossed her legs as shock visibly seized her.
A reaction that told Tallulah her assistant had no clue about this visit.
Lanya and the magazine staff willingly departed to allow the couple a sense of privacy, but the wardrobe stylist stayed behind to finish her job.
“Nick, what are you doing here?” Tallulah remained still as a living doll as the stylist put a simplistic but elegant tennis necklace on her neck.
He grinned, hiking his eyebrows. “You seriously thought I’d miss your first photoshoot?”
“You didn’t say you wanted to come,” she voiced as a petite diamond watch enclosed her wrist before the stylist quietly peaced out.
“It’s called a surprise, Desiree,” Nick teased. “A favorite tactic I always use to keep you on your suckable little toes.”
A flash of arousal poured down her spine as she envisaged him backing her into the foldable makeup chair behind her, slipping off her high heels, and using his mouth to worship her feet.
Tallulah cleared her throat. “How did you get here? Where’s Milo?”
“I took the subway and walked the rest of the way,” he answered, advancing to her. “New Yorkers don’t give a fuck who you are if you stay out their way. As for the little rugrat, he’s back at the townhouse with Aishwarya teaching her how to play Minecraft.”
He then grasped her hand. “Now, let’s have a good look at you.”
He twirled her slowly, admiring her at all angles. Over his shades’ rims, his eyelids lowered halfway as a veneer of desire stained his gaze.
“I love your shine, Diamond,” he complimented, steeping his tone in a suggestive huskiness as he lured her into his arms.
“You only call me that when you’re doing something naughty to me,” she noted.
Nick skirted his arms around her waist, smoothing his palms over the lush hills of her ass. “I was getting to that part.”
He dipped his head to kiss her, but she panicked and dodged him. “You better not, Nick. I don’t want to mess up everyone’s hard work. I came to them looking like trash. They really outdid themselves.”
He struck her right asscheek.
He got a squeak and a momentary grimace out of her.
“Ow, what was that for?”
“I ain’t gonna let you put yourself down at your own goddamn photoshoot, Desiree,” he said, his southern accent springing to life, “nor am I goin’ to stand by and let you tell a boldfaced lie to me or yourself. You ain’t ever looked like trash a day in your life. I should know ‘cause I wake up to you in the mornin’ and hold you close at night.”
A slight smile twitched her lips upward. “You’re an excellent cheerleader. Maybe, I should buy you some pom-poms.”
A crew member rattled their knuckles on the dressing room’s door. “Mrs. Bryant, everything’s ready for you.”
Whenever someone addressed her as Mrs. Bryant, it felt oddly right, even though it was a complete falsehood. The world still believed she and her ex-husband eloped lavishly back in November. Because Nick forbade her from directly reading entertainment gossip stories, she tasked Lanya with keeping her informed.
Tammy regularly contacted her about seven-figured offers for wedding photos. Desperate gossip rags resorted to bribery, but their loyal staff refused to entertain the idea of deception. Tallulah was grateful to be surrounded by individuals who cared about her family’s security and privacy.
Nick rested a tender kiss on her nose. “Now’s your time to shine, Diamond. Dazzle ‘em.”
The photoshoot’s first location was in a corner office on the 23rd floor’s opposite end. Photography equipment and crew clogged much of the capacity, edging up to the mahogany executive desk.
The photographer instructed her to sit in the high-back tufted office chair and prop her feet up. She did as told, crossing her ankles.
Nick leaned against the office’s back wall, regarding her steadily.
He looked over his aviators when their stares intercepted and lobbed a wink.
“Gimme a resting boss face,” the photographer directed.
Tallulah obeyed and labored to keep from squinting at the camera’s rapid flashes as the photographer fired away. With each shoot, her empowerment withered while her insecurities flourished.
Do I look stupid? I feel stupid, she thought.
The photographer ceased and went to the computer monitor his camera was tethered to, studying the captured shots. She discerned a trace of disappointment in his expression, but she reasoned it was her worry polluting her head with illusions.
“Let’s try a different pose,” the photographer encouraged, his sympathetic delivery confirming her suspicions. “Stand up. Hands on the desk. Show us you’re the boss.”
Tallulah executed the first two directives but floundered pathetically at the final one. She could act her ass off, but she couldn’t pose for a goddamn picture?
Nick pried himself off the wall, approaching the photographer. “Mind if we take five?”
The photographer agreed to the request. The volume of bodies dwindled until only Tallulah, and her ex-husband remained. He crossed the distance between them, rounding the immense desk.
“How bad am I?” she groaned.
He plucked off his shades and propped the pair atop his head, the wrinkles around his eyes crinkling as a telltale sign of his amusement. “You aren’t bad.”
“But I’m not good either,” she countered.
His warm, rough hands cupped her cheeks. “If you want to survive this photoshoot, you’ve got to have confidence, Desiree. You don’t trust yourself.”
“You picked up on that, huh?” she sighed.
“Everyone did,” he said, smirking, “but I know exactly what you’re capable of. You love to boss me around, and you make me stiffer than starched pants when you do it.”
His analogy induced her laughter. “Because it’s you.”
“Then pretend nothing else, and no one else exists beyond you and me,” he counseled. “You get this indescribable look in your eyes when you show me who’s boss. And holy fuck, I love that cocky ass smile you give me when you’ve got me eating out the palm of your hand. You’re not doing this for them. You’re doing this for us, but most importantly, you’re doing this for yourself.”
Nick sandwiched her against the desk’s lip. “And the sooner we get this shit done, the sooner I can kiss that lipstick off your face.”
Tallulah used her index finger to poke his chest’s center. “That’s if I think you’re worthy.”
“Mm, that’s my girl. Put me in my place,” he purred as he grasped her hips.
He stepped back to provide a sliver of space and gently swiveled her to face the photoshoot equipment. Her eyelids drifted shut as he brushed aside her wig tresses. His mouth skimmed along her ear’s edge.
“Hands on the desk. Show the world you’re the boss of me,” he muttered, altering the photographer’s former behest. He abandoned her as the magazine’s photography unit funneled back once the time ran out on that five-minute break.
He left her, but his words stayed behind as the fuel to her determination—her confidence. Behind a dark glistening camera lens, the photographer directed her, an impressed smile widening as she executed every cued pose.
Nick watched as this facet of herself caught fire, confidence smoldering bright in her eyes. Stationed near the office’s rear wall, he lingered beyond the crew and equipment, his heavy gaze broadcasting a message to her:
He couldn’t wait to be burned by her.
————
Milo Lachlan Bryant was indeed the son of actors. He had perfected a puppy-eyed technique and performed it to the fullest as he dropped to the kitchen floor on his knees and clasped his hands together. Such a shame his mother was his only audience.
Tallulah gave all staff the weekend night off as their holiday vacation neared its end. A perfect time for drinks and clubbing in a city that never slept. Though it took a bit more elbow grease to dismiss a reluctant Christophe, she provided repeated assurance that she and Milo would be fine.
The staff often forgot she survived the dog-eat-dog world of Hollywood and single motherhood for over eight years.
“Please, please, please, Mom,” he pleaded. “Just this one night.”
Tallulah poured herself a chardonnay, pretending to be unaffected by his little performance. “The Extra Late Live Show isn’t meant for children, Milo. If it were, it wouldn’t come on at 11:35, which is generally well past bedtime for eight-year-olds.”
Milo opened his mouth to make another plea or a counterpoint, but she shot him a motherly glare that quieted him. “I know you want to see your dad on television, but sometimes, we don’t always get what we want. This is one of those instances, Milo. Now, go get ready for bed.”
Tallulah sipped on her wine as he pouted and skulked away.
In cases like this, she hated being his villain, withholding him for his father even if it was the televised version of the man. However, The Extra Late Live Show catered immensely to its adult audiences, its infamous host a master of sharp sarcasm and crude humor. Its hold-no-bars approach attracted millions every Saturday night, crowning it the highest-rated show on its network.
The right amount of buzz could make or break an Oscars campaign.
Studios weaponized lobbying, ads, parties, private screenings, and talk shows to persuade the influential Academy members. Over nine thousand film professionals would cast a nomination ballot this upcoming Monday.
Many of which rubbed elbows with Jarrett Spencer, the offspring of an Oscar-winning actress and an acclaimed executive film producer. His bloodline of Hollywood pedigree secured him the late-night talk show gig.
Anxiety made Tallulah drain her wine.
“Three hours to go,” she muttered as she fixed another glass.
————
“Allow me to introduce the one and only Nick Bryant,” Jarrett Spencer announced, rousing a strong gust of applause from the audience.
Nick swaggered onto the sound stage, acknowledging the enthusiastic audience with a charming grin and nod. The two men shared a friendly handshake before they settled into their respective places: on a couch and behind a host’s desk.
Tallulah curled her legs onto the couch she lounged on, imagining how perfect and untouchable her ex-husband looked to the hungry masses who watched on from within the live studio and homes.
His celebrity status swathed him in a godlike aura and fashioned him into an idol destined for shallow worship.
If only his fans understood he didn’t want to be seen as a wet dream.
He wanted to be recognized as a flawed flesh-and-blood man.
Tallulah memorized and adored all his flaws.
A studio camera panned to fangirls wagging their homemade posters, shrieking ardently, “Nicky! Nicky! We love you!”
Nick grinned and shot a dreamy wink at the cluster of admirers high up in the studio’s seating, kindling higher-pitched screeches.
“Alright, alright, ladies. We get that you want him to make you a single mom,” Jarrett cracked, triggering robust laughter.
Nick seemed unphased by the joke, his grin widening.
The talk show host shuffled his topic cards, smirking. “Speaking of which, we conducted a national survey about your overnight rise to fatherhood and found 94% of women were disappointed for obvious reasons, but a resounding 97% of men expressed relief knowing that their wives’ celebrity husband also has difficulty pulling out.”
Nick laughed, shrugging, “When it’s sensational, you’re doomed.”
Tallulah choked on her wine mid-sip as shock seized her throat.
Her eyes bulged as her brain processed that her ex-husband admitted her pussy was sensational on national television.
“Fatherhood normally drains the life of a man, but it seems to have done the opposite to you,” Jarrett noted as the classic cityscape backdrop dissolved away to introduce a slide presentation of father-son photos from Nick’s social media.
A swimming lesson at their Trousdale home’s pool. A sandcastle contest on Kauai’s pristine beach. A three-day-old snapshot of Nick crouched behind a fascinated Milo, pointing up at a Corythosaurus fossil in the American Museum of Natural History.
The crowd chorused a sound of admiration.
“I gotta admit the kid’s got amazing genes.”
Nick eyed the endearing images, stroking his thick beard. “He gets it from his mom.”
A studio camera zoomed in on the talk show host’s face to catch a flicker of subtle comical expression of disagreement. His lips twitched as he withheld a laugh and cleared his throat to dispel the urge.
A scarce flock of shattered titters filled the air.
Disappointment swelled in Tallulah’s chest at the unvoiced insult.
“Right, of course,” Jarrett concurred lamely, proceeding to the next topic card. “Wicked People has been touted as—”
Nick narrowed his eyelids. “It’s one thing if you’re a disrespectful jackass to me for cheap laughs and ratings, but I won’t let you disrespect my wife.”
“I’m sure your wife has a lovely personality,” Jarrett said.
“I know she does, but this isn’t about her personality. You taunted her appearance,” Nick said.
Jarrett insisted, “I didn’t say anything.”
“You didn’t need to. Your actions spoke loud enough for everyone to hear.”
Attempting to dissipate the elevating tension, Jarrett chuckled, “Listen, man. If she’s your cup of tea, then drink away. I’m honestly glad you’re off the market. It’s hard to shop for a top-shelf babe when you’re my competition.”
The talk show host anticipated a positive crowd reaction to his light-hearted rebuttal, but he only got crickets. The failed joke was downright painful to witness.
Even though he didn’t deserve any bit of Tallulah’s sympathy, secondhand embarrassment coursed through her.
“I wouldn’t get your hopes up, Jarrett. You might come back from your shopping trip empty-handed. It’s common knowledge ladies with good taste are allergic to guys who lack it,” Nick disputed coolly.
The audience erupted into a fit of surprised ooohs.
Tallulah choked a gasp.
“If you’re trying to hit me below the belt, it will not work, my friend,” Jarrett smirked.
“I don’t think I could even if I tried. Since there isn’t much below your belt, I doubt I’d do you damage,” Nick articulated, a deviousness glinting in his blue eyes.
Her palm muffled an ‘oh-shit’ remark at her ex-husband’s ruthless clapback. A multitude of laughter flooded in, its profuse abundance crowning the conflict’s victor. A ruffled Jarrett flashed a tight smile at a different camera.
“We’ll be right back after a word from our sponsors,” he spouted.
A snippet of the show’s theme song played as a camera crane swooped away from the TV set, a title card pasting itself over the shot.
————
HOLLYWOOD LAUNDRY EXCLUSIVE
Don’t start none! Won’t be none!
Perfect Angle Cinema, the studio behind Wicked People, has pushed hard for its darling film to be recognized as an Oscar contender. Before the nomination season, they sent out their star-power atomic bomb, but we're sure they didn't expect such an explosive response. During Nicky's last stop on the Oscar campaign, he knocked Jarrett Spencer down to a much-needed notch on the Extra Late Live Show.
After receiving third-degree burns on live television, Jarrett became a burn victim after losing a heated confrontation backstage. According to our sources, it took five security guards to hold Nicky back and pull him off. Perfect Angle Cinema's executive producer Papa Spencer wasn't happy with his heir insulting his leading actor's wife, nor was the network after #jackassJarrett and #extraLAMEliveshow trended everywhere.
An impressive 5.3 million posts lambasted the talk show host for his behavior.
Rumor has it that next Saturday’s episode will include a televised apology.
Don’t start none! Won’t be none!
COMMENTS:
bonehugs&harmony: The southern rose up outta Nicky and got him out here throwin bows for his bbymama and shit. He’s a real one.
BeyHiveBzz: #jackassJarrett really tried to come for Tally. Keyword: TRIED.
HotGirlMegatron: Nicky said his woman’s goodies was SENSATIONAL. You love to see it, hunty!
Scorpio88: #unpopularopinion but no pussy good enough in the world to go to jail over.
FloridaMan904: I’d go to jail for Tally’s kittycat. He wouldn’t be with her if she weren’t giving him that good cat’s meow in the bed.
And-I-OOP: How did Nicky know the tea on Jarrett’s tiny peen?
ratchetTonguepop: @And-I-OOP, they got the same ex. Jarrett dated Avalon Dillard in 2015 and Nicky got with her in 2017. All that good D must’ve knocked all the hot tea outta her.
naominator: Esta no es la Nicky que conocemos en absoluto! >:{
DragonballDurag: LMAO! Nick going buck over Tally got @naominator falling out in Spanish.
