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Glamour

ZONDERVAN

After nearly six months of drama and chaos connected to Malibu Beach, I hoped we'd finally left the show behind. Far behind. And really, it seemed a natural assumption. Especially after Paige permanently distanced herself from Benjamin Kross, who'd already left the reality show, by getting engaged to the brilliant young designer Dylan Marceau last month in London. Apparently I was wrong. Because now, when Paige and I would rather be focusing on the Bahamas' beaches (since that's our next big trip), we are talking about Malibu Beach. Again.

It turns out that Malibu Beach is the reality show that keeps on giving. Its producers want to give us the "opportunity" to devote an entire On the Runway episode to one of their stars. Brogan Braxton, who has never liked Paige or me, recently declared herself a fashion expert. And now she's coming out with a new line of clothing called The BBB, which stands for Brogan Braxton Beachwear.

"But these are awful," Paige tells Helen Hudson as we all lean forward to peer at the images on the screen of Fran's laptop computer.

"I have to admit I'm with my sister on this one," I tell them. "What made Brogan Braxton suddenly decide she's a designer?"

"You mean besides Daddy's wallet?" Paige teases.

"I think you're missing the point," Fran says as she closes the laptop.

Helen adjusts her glasses and clears her throat. "Brogan Braxton is still one of the hottest commodities in the teen market."

Fran waves a piece of paper. "According to this, Brogan has almost as many Facebook friends as Ellen DeGeneres."

"Yes, and they're real friends too." I roll my eyes. I may be the last person on this continent to join Facebook, but I'm still holding out.

"I consider my Facebook friends to be real," Paige says to me in a slightly wounded way.

"Yes, and I'm sure they'd still be your friends if you didn't have a show, right?" I turn back to Helen. She's encouraging me to take a bigger role in our show, and I am trying. "But I thought we were talking about fashion, and I still don't get how Brogan Braxton, or The BBB ... which, by the way, also stands for the Better Business Bureau, and I wonder how they feel about—"

"You're still missing the point," Fran says with a bit of aggravation.

"Remember the R word, girls?" Helen asks in a slightly bored tone.

"Ratings." Paige sighs. "Never mind whether it's fashionable or not, as long as the viewers tune in."

"Wait a minute," I say. "Just because we feature a fashion designer doesn't mean we have to approve of her style, does it?"

"That's true." Paige nods. "And my fans expect me to be honest. Do you have a problem if we do the show and I express my candid opinions about The BBB?"

Helen shrugs then pushes her chair away from the conference table. "Just keep the fans happy, Paige. Keep the ratings up." She stands and peers down at my sister. "And keep it clean."

"Oh, you know I always keep it clean, Helen." Paige flashes a camera-ready smile.

Helen pats Paige's cheek. "Yes, darling, but you know what I mean. Keep it polite and respectable. You have an image to maintain. One element that makes On the Runway different from other reality shows is that Paige Forrester, for the most part, is a lady. And the sponsors seem to appreciate that."

"You don't ask for much," Fran says to Helen. "Just keep the ratings up and play nice. That's so easy to do."

"Yes, well, our Paige is quite expert at it." Helen laughs as she heads for the door. "Sorry to meet and run, girls, but I have a major appointment with the network in about ten minutes. Ta-ta!"

Fran shuffles some papers into a stack then slides them over to her assistant, Leah. "Brogan's show is scheduled for this Saturday at two." Fran gets a worried look. "That's not your mom's wedding date, is it?"

"No, that's the following weekend," Paige says. "You are coming, aren't you?"

"Yes, of course, I already RSVP'd. I just blanked it." Fran takes a long drink from her bottle of water.

"The crew is scheduled already," Leah fills in for her. "You girls can come to wardrobe around ten, then we'll head over to the site and do the pre-show shoot. After the fashion show, we'll do the wrap-up." She smiles. "The usual stuff."

I'm curious as to why Leah is briefing us, since that's what Fran usually does. But maybe Leah is also trying to take a more active role.

"Brogan wants to do an interview before the runway show," Fran begins then looks at Leah. "When is that scheduled?"

"She asked for Wednesday afternoon," Leah tells us. "Two o'clock ... on Malibu Beach turf."

Paige frowns. "So Brogan called and asked us to interview her?"

"Her people called us," Leah clarifies.

"We thought we might get something to use for the show," Fran says.

"The interview is just with Brogan?" Paige asks. "Not any other cast members or the Malibu Beach crew, right?"

"I'm not sure about that," Fran tells her. "In fact, it sounds as if their crew will be filming this too. Just in case it's show-worthy."

"You mean in case they want to make it show-worthy." Paige groans. "Something about this whole thing is starting to smell fishy. It's no secret that Brogan doesn't exactly like me. This is not some kind of setup, is it—a get Paige plot?"

"No, of course not." Fran shakes her head.

"Because I know Brogan was pretty close to Mia Renwick. I mean, they weren't best friends. When Mia died, though, it was like everyone in the cast suddenly decided they had been her very best friends. I can understand that. But I also understand that some of those girls seriously hate me, Fran. Including Brogan."

"At least you're not with Ben now," I remind her.

"I hear he's getting back with Waverly Stratton," Leah says in a gossipy tone. "I saw it on WWW last weekend."

"The World Wide Web?" I ask.

Leah laughs. "No, that new entertainment show, Who's Who and Why. Haven't you seen it?"

I shake my head, thinking maybe it should be called Who's Who and Who Cares?

"Really, Erin," she tells me, "you need to keep up. Anyway, they showed some pics of Waverly and Benjamin at a club, and in the interview Waverly said they were together."

Paige looks skeptical. "That was a stretch on Waverly's part."

"So back to the topic at hand." Fran taps her pen impatiently. "What exactly are you saying, Paige? That you don't want to work with Brogan?"

"I just don't want to be sabotaged and end up on their show looking like an evil, backstabbing witch like that other time."

"Seriously, Paige, what could they actually do?" I ask her. "If it starts to go sideways, we'll just walk out." I turn to Fran. "Right?"

She nods and takes another sip of water.

"Speaking of walking out"—L eah holds up her BlackBerry—"don't you need to get moving, Paige? I have you scheduled for that spot on ET this afternoon, remember?"

Paige stands suddenly. "That's right."

"Why don't you let me drive you?" Leah offers. "That way you can get ready on the way over there. And you'll be on time."

"Great idea." Paige reaches into her bag then tosses me her car keys. "Guess I'll see you at home." And just like that, they're gone.

I turn to Fran and study her for a moment.

"What?" she says.

"Are you ... okay?" I use what I hope is a gentle voice.

She shrugs and reaches for her bag. "I'm fine." We both get up, but before we leave the conference room, I decide to try again.

"Really, Fran, you don't seem like yourself. Is something bothering you?"

And then, like I pressed the wrong button or something, she starts to crumble. Tears are coming and her hands are shaking, which makes me wonder if I should've kept my big mouth closed. I go over and close the blinds on the glass door and ask her to sit back down. "What's wrong?" I ask.

"I didn't want anyone to know—to know—that—" She chokes in a sob.

"Know what?" I'm seriously worried now. Something is really wrong.

She looks at me with watery eyes. "My cancer is back."

I blink. "You had cancer?"

"Had ... and now I have it again."

I put my hand on her arm. "Oh, Fran."

"I was diagnosed with leukemia in my early thirties. I went through all the treatments and they seemed to have worked. I thought it was gone. And now I have it again."

"I'm so sorry."

She nods as she opens her bag and retrieves a packet of tissues, pulls one out, then wipes her eyes. "I've been in remission for almost six years. Six years!" She blows her nose. "And five years is considered cured. I really believed I was cured."

"But you're getting treatment?"

"I started chemo last Friday."

"Does Helen know?"

Fran shakes her head. "No one knows. Today I told Leah I was feeling under the weather and asked if she would help me out in the meeting."

"I wondered why she was more involved."

"But I don't know if I can hide it for the whole time ... I mean while I'm doing chemo."

I don't know what to say. I've never known anyone with cancer before.

"Promise me you won't tell anyone," she begs. "I wouldn't have told you, Erin, except you pushed me. And I trust you. Just promise you won't tell."

I nod. "Sure. It's not my place to talk about your personal life to anyone."

"I want to be realistic, and if I can't do my job ... well, I will deal with that when the time comes." She forces a smile. "But my oncologist is quite positive. She says the new drugs are better than before. She really thinks the chemo will wipe it out again."

"But doesn't chemo kind of wipe a person out too?" I ask. "I mean, how can you expect to work while you're going through treatment?" I don't point out that, even today, she seemed wasted ... and she's barely begun her chemo.

"My doctor seems to think it's a possibility. A lot of people continue with their jobs during treatment. There are some new anti-nausea meds that are supposed to be really effective. I just have to take it easy, get lots of rest, drink water, and eat the right foods."

"Oh ..." I'm trying to absorb this, but it just doesn't make sense. I always assumed that if a person had cancer, they needed time off to get treatment and recover.

"I have to work, Erin." Her eyes look desperate. "Not just financially, because I know insurance will help. My work is my life. Without it, I wouldn't have a chance of surviving this. Can you understand that?"

"I guess so." Although I silently question how or why work should be anyone's life. "But, as your friend, I want you to do whatever it takes to get well. That's the important thing. Can you understand that?"

Fran smiles. "You're such a good kid, Erin."

I shrug. "Yeah, well ..."

"Not that you're such a kid. You're mature for your age, and you have a really good head on your shoulders. I know I can trust you with this."

"Of course."

"I want to go to Bahamas Fashion Week with you girls. I've really been looking forward to it. I don't know what I'd do if I missed out on that ..." She looks close to tears again. "It would feel like ... like the cancer had won."

I take in a slow breath. "Then you have to do everything you can to get well." I think about the timeline. "But that gives you less than four weeks. Can you be healthy enough to travel by then?"

"That's my goal."

"And you won't go if your doctor recommends against it?"

She pauses as if considering. "No, of course not. That would be foolish."

"If there's anything I can do to help," I offer, "please, feel free to ask. I mean that, Fran. I wouldn't say it if I didn't mean it."

"Thanks, Erin. I believe you. I'll keep that in mind." She flashes a funny grin. "So, how are you at holding a girlfriend's hair back while she worships at the porcelain throne?"

"Huh?"

She chuckles. "You never were a party girl, were you?"

"Not so much."

She pats my shoulder. "One of the things I admire about you. You are so you." She slowly stands. "I think I need to get home now ... I need to get some rest."

We walk out to the parking lot together and, although Fran is quiet, my brain is buzzing like a caffeinated mosquito. Whether it makes sense or not, I am suddenly feeling very responsible. Not only for Fran's well-being, but for how it might impact our show if she's trying to direct us when she really should be home in bed. It's got me very worried, and I think Helen should be informed. And yet I know I have to keep my promise to Fran.

"You take care now," I say as I wait for her to get into her car. "Promise you'll call me if you need anything."

She gives me a weak smile as she puts her window down. "Yeah. And you promise not to worry about me. Okay?"

I nod, knowing that's a promise I might not be able to keep.

"Leah will call with the details on the interview with Brogan. I'll see you on Wednesday."

"Get some rest," I say as her window goes up. She makes another weak smile, then drives away. Suddenly I feel like crying. Poor Fran! Why is this happening to her? But instead of breaking down in the parking lot, I slowly walk over to Paige's car, and as I walk, I pray. I ask God to do a miracle in Fran's life. I'm not exactly sure what kind of a miracle I have in mind, although I'm trusting that God knows what's best. But that's what I'm expecting—a real honest-to-goodness miracle.

"Is there a better form of torture than this?" Mollie drapes a little black-lace camisole over her huge, pregnant belly with a frown.

I have to control myself from laughing at the image. "I'm sorry," I tell her, "but you're the one who wanted to come to Victoria's Secret tonight."

Mollie puts the camisole back. "Why did Paige insist on having a personal shower for your mom anyway?"

"Because she's seen my mom's lingerie wardrobe, which is a stretch in terms, and it's so sad that even my conservative underwear looks good in comparison." I pull out a red-and-black silk kimono and hold it up.

"Can't be any worse than the maternity undies I'm wearing these days."

"Well, maybe after your baby comes, you can go underwear shopping for yourself." I put the kimono back. "And like I told you," I remind her, "you can just get her some shower gel or something like that."

"No." Mollie stubbornly shakes her head. "Your mom has been like a second mom to me and I want to get her something really special." She holds up a short, coral-colored satin robe. "How about this?"

I nod. "That actually looks like something she'd like. And that color would be good on her too."

"Done." Mollie heads for the cashier. It's strange seeing my best friend so pregnant. She still has almost two months until her due date, but she's gotten so huge that, thanks to her lack of height, she's starting to look almost as wide as she is tall. Not that I'd ever say that to her, or anything else that might upset her. Mollie's been extremely moody lately. I'm sure it has to do with hormones, but sometimes I feel like I'm walking on eggshells with her.

"Now that that's done, I'm starving," she announces as we're leaving the store. "I'm craving ice cream. With hot fudge, I think."

I know better than to question this or to suggest something healthier. "I guess so," I tell her.

"I'll treat," she offers. "My thank you for you bringing me here, especially after you already got your shower present."

I'm a little concerned about Mollie's expenditures tonight. Usually she's pretty frugal, and that robe was not cheap. But, again, I know better than to mention this. And, really, it's none of my business.

"So are you guys going to do the interview with Brogan Braxton tomorrow?" she asks after we're seated with our sundaes. I really didn't want a whole sundae, but Mollie wouldn't take no for an answer.

"I think so." I dip my spoon and swirl it around.

"Is Paige okay with it?"

"Cautiously okay," I admit. "We devised a cue system in case we want to cut it short."

"What is it?" She licks the chocolate from her spoon.

"Paige will say polka-dot bikini to tip me off."

"How do you use polka-dot bikini in a normal conversation?"

I shrug. "Paige will manage. Besides, Brogan's line is beachwear."

"Beachwear." Mollie dips her spoon again. "There's something I don't need to worry about this summer. Unless someone has a beached whale beachwear line."

"You're not going to be this big forever, Moll."

"That's what they say." She looks down at her enormous midsection. "I'm just finding it hard to believe."

"August isn't that far off either," I point out.

"That reminds me," she says a bit more brightly. "My obstetrician thinks my due date might be off."

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Excerpted from Glamour by Melody Carlson. Copyright © 2011 Melody Carlson. Excerpted by permission of ZONDERVAN.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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