One
Sylvie

The outfit is the easy part. It was chosen by a style consultant hired by my agent to create an image. I slip on a sleeveless black silk jumpsuit with crystals along the edge of a plunging neckline, fasten strappy heels and diamond hoop earrings, and slide a platinum ring whose sapphire stones form an infinity symbol on my index finger. On cue, my stomach cramps and I rush into the bathroom, grip the cold porcelain, and lose a late lunch. Moose whimpers then rests his blocky head on my shoulder. He's a 145-pound Great Dane, but despite his size, he's a big baby. "I'm good. Promise."

A kiss between Moose's eyes; swish of mouthwash then I return to the mirror, sweep my dark brown hair into a glossy chignon. On goes a light coat of foundation, blush, eye shadow, dark gray liner, false lashes, and red lipstick. One final look confirms everything is in place. I swivel my chair and rifle through last-minute reminders. When the phone rings, there's no need to check caller ID. My agent always calls before a show. "Hey, Lucas."

Lucas crows, "We have a deal!"

The news shoves me back in the chair.

"Sylvie? Why aren't you jumping up and down and screaming? We've been working toward this for years."

"Are you jumping up and down?"

"I might've shot a fist in the air when Jackson phoned to say we had the green light. Syl, it's a guaranteed ten episodes, more money than we'd hoped for, bonuses, and if we get the numbers, which I'm sure you will, we can push E! for a two-year run. This is huge."

"I don't know if—"

"I do—that's why we make a great team."

While we talk, I wander around the dressing room, past a long mirror, a chipped wooden table and mismatched chairs, and a dusty shelf with a drip coffee machine that looks like it belongs in a 1950s diner. My rider—a set of requests fulfilled by each venue—is pretty basic. I ask for a well-lit mirror, a private bathroom, a few bottles of water, and lots of coffee, but don't demand anything fancy, like an espresso machine.

"Sylvie?"

"Connections don't always happen. You know that."

"Then you build a bridge."

"When I started—"

"Syl, what you do? It's incredible. You make people feel better. There's no harm either way. I've told you that since the day we met. You're one of the good guys."

I rest my forehead against the cool wall to quell a nervous heat. "I'm not consistently filling theaters at the shows."

"Your numbers have been climbing fast."

"I've never been on TV."

"I negotiated approval for each episode."

"Who will I read?"

"A mix of celebrities and regular people. Sylvie, if you don't take this opportunity, someone else will. That's just the way things work in this business."

I run through my options. No family support. No real friends. No college education. And this fits. At first it was about survival, money, so I never had to go back home. But over the past few years, I've realized that this is the only thing that gives me some semblance of peace. "I'm in."

"Of course you are. It'll take a week for the lawyers to comb through the contract. When it's signed, we'll announce in Variety, Page Six, too. Sylvie?"

"Yes?"

"I believe in you."

The first time he said that was my third show after I moved to LA—just a basement club in Venice, but Lucas made sure it was packed and that a few small entertainment papers were there. I was on fire, hit after hit. Finally, I felt like I might be in the right place. After the show, he drove me back to the studio apartment in West Hollywood he'd rented for me. He turned off the engine and said, I believe in you. Then he added, I'm going to make you a star.

"You still there?" Lucas asks.

Moose leans against my leg and stares up at me. "Is Moose part of the TV show?"

Excerpted from Some of It Was Real by Nan Fischer. Copyright © 2022 by Nan Fischer. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.