Most Hated, page 1
Most Hated
Most Hated
A Novel
By Kara Alloway
RE: Books
Copyright © Kara Alloway.
All rights reserved.
www.rebooks.ca
Published in Canada by RE: Books.
ADDRESS:
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No portion of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, without express written permission of the copyright holder.
This is a work of fiction. Any names or characters, businesses or places, events or incidents, are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
First RE: Books Edition: May 2023
ISBN: 978-1-7386702-2-2
eBook ISBN: 978-1-7386702-3-9
RE: Books and all associated logos are trademarks and/or registered marks of RE: Books.
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Title: Most hated : a novel / Kara Alloway.
Names: Alloway, Kara, author.
Identifiers: Canadiana (print) 20230151590 | Canadiana (ebook) 20230151655 |
ISBN 9781738670222 (softcover) | ISBN 9781738670239 (EPUB)
Classification: LCC PS8601. L5535 M67 2023 | DDC C813/.6—dc23
Printed and bound in Canada.
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Cover design by: Jordan Lunn
For my boys, Baron, Hunter & Christian, and my husband Graham.
“Frankly, Mr. Shankly, this position I’ve held
It pays my way and it corrodes my soul.”
–The Smith’s “Frankly Mr. Shankly”
Subject: FW: Casting Attractive, Wealthy, Glamourous women for TV Series
From: fpoke@cpmedia. com>
To: fpoke@cpmedia. com>
CASTING CALL
“ARE YOU THE TALK OF THE TOWN…”
DO YOU LIVE A FABULOUS GLAMOROUS LIFE…
A celebrated series about real women, living fabulous real lives, is currently casting.
The hit docu-soap TV series will give viewers an inside look at the most glamorous women.
For this version of the franchise, chosen participants will have the opportunity to work with an internationally acclaimed, award-winning director.
We are looking for outgoing, exciting, strong, focused women who reside in New York City and want to share their lives with us—and the world.
They should be lively and energetic, with defined opinions and views. The women will have busy lives, strong work ethic, an active social calendar, and an enjoyment of the good life.
We love glamorous women who are self-confident and happy with who they are.
This is FANTASTIC exposure for anyone involved.
The women, their significant others, and their families must be open to sharing their experiences with the producers and the television audience.
If you are interested, please reply to this email with your name, age, contact information, recent photos, and brief bio.
1
The woman was responsive. Beneath the non-rebreather mask, she was mumbling and moving her head from side to side. Her eyes blinked repeatedly—all good indicators the naloxone had done its job and she’d be okay. Despite the unknown quantity of Vicodin she’d ingested, she wasn’t going to die of an overdose. The paramedic silenced the volume on the cardiac monitor and spoke into his device.
“Truck 7737, coming in with a female, conscious, opioid overdose. Narcan is onboard, patient on high oxygen and we have obtained IV access.” He tucked her arm, the one without the line, under the beige blanket and noticed it was very cold. Her low body temperature was not surprising.
The boxy vehicle maneuvered through the streets of Upper Manhattan, battling the gridlock like the red plastic car in a sliding block puzzle, and took an aggressive corner. Items rattled and jostled in the storage cupboards behind him, and the paramedic reached to steady the IV bag atop the pole that emerged from the stretcher. Glancing over his shoulder, he peered out the small rear window to see where they were. He knew every bump, every building along the way. The pyramidical glass awning he spotted, looming over the entrance to the condo building on Fifth, indicated they were very close to the hospital.
Back to his radio, he continued, “We’re about two minutes out. ETA….” Here he paused to look at his watch because those clocks in the rig were never correct “ETA 9:10.”
Retuning the device to the holster on his uniform, he made eye contact with his passenger. They shared a look of reassurance before he continued his work documenting her vitals on his ePCR tablet. Empathy was an important but potentially problematic part of the job.
2
Zoe
Eight Weeks Earlier
Zoe shifted in her chair, untucked one leg, and checked the time on her laptop: 10:12 a.m. As the lead talent producer on Talk of the Town, this was her deal. The other production assistants she had hired, Fiona and Milo, were assembled around the table in this poorly furnished rental office that smelled like a dirty hamster cage. The film companies always rented the crappiest places for their staff to do pre-production. Zoe wondered if they got together with the network and determined it essential that the mental and physical abuse of the crew begin immediately once employment contracts were signed. The three were immersed in discussing the minutia of the candidates’ lives since the primary agenda for the day was to review possible filming locations and finalize casting for network approval. Potential cast members had delivered lists of restaurants they frequented, salons they visited, vacation properties they owned, their neighborhood cutesy coffee shops, boutiques where they were known (smaller ones were more agreeable and easier for filming), routes for their walks around the city, and any other camera-ready conceivable locales for their filming.
Privileged bitches, Zoe thought.
“Courtney P. is out.” Milo said as he read an email aloud in his best impression, “The fact that you would even consider asking me to postpone my important surgery to accommodate your filming schedule indicates to me that my health and well-being are of little consequence to your production company. And for that reason, I will not be signing the participant agreement. Your lucky…”
“She did a Y-O-U-R here people,” Milo interjected, “…I’m not taking this to a lawyer to share with the Department of Labor.”
“Wasn’t it fibroid surgery?” Zoe asked.
Fiona shrugged. “I thought it was a cancer scare and that’s why I asked to hold off till filming. The hospital scene, waiting for results, such good content there.”
“Guys,” Milo rationalized, “the bigger point is she made the ‘YOUR/YOU ARE’ mistake. These women think they’re Mensa because they did an online test once, but the reality is they are the most insecure and easiest to handle.”
Zoe shot him a look.
Milo sat back in his chair, raising his hands in surrender, “Hey I’m only speaking from experience.”
“Forget about her,” Zoe said. “If they’re difficult before filming they’ll be impossible once we start. She’s out. I hope she turns up as a charter guest on Below Deck. That’ll run her around fifty grand but at least she showed us.”
Redirecting her energy to the task at hand she continued, “Where are we at as of now. Who’s in, and who needs a little push over the edge?”
Fiona stood up, removed the pushpin holding Courtney’s photo to the board and threw it in the garbage. She plucked off a few Post-Its with production notes scribbled on them from under the picture and dropped them in the same can. With her back still to the two, she began.
“We have the larger-than-life Ms. Budgie Verroye confirmed.”
Larger-than-life was a reference to both the size and personality of the Broadway producer. They had yet to come up with a bona fide nickname for her.
“The unholy mess that is Nicole Trace, fading popstar, also confirmed. Let’s hope she doesn’t get another DUI between now and filming.” Fiona paused, likely expecting something back from the group. But since another DUI was an obvious possibility for Ms. Trace, nobody laughed.
“And when I say confirmed, I mean they are signed and sealed. They’ve both completed their psych evaluation, and physical,” she added.
Every participant was to undergo a psychiatric evaluation and a medical exam with a doctor hired by production before being officially contracted. Zoe explained it to the participants as both an insurance must and a mental health safety precaution to make sure they could withstand any harsh criticism from fans without crumbling. The truth? It was a fast and easy way to get the inside track on the participants’ triggers, phobias, past surgeries, and medications. This intel, alongside Fiona’s exceptional cyberspace investigation skills, was the reason Zoe had recruited her for this project, which resulted in a complete dossier on each potential “star.”
“The sex toy woman?” Zoe asked.
“Mariana? Hadn’t gotten there yet,” Fiona answered.
Zoe knew Fiona thought she was rude—and pushy. She kept the meeting moving because the other PAs had this annoying habit of dissecting and analyzing the minutia of everything. Zoe had determined their liberal arts minds were stuck in some first-year university discussion group where you were given extra credit for the quality and quantity of contribution.
Fiona tapped the photos as she mentioned the women’s names. “Right, Mariana, aka
There was general nodding and sounds of agreement at this statement.
“With Courtney out that leaves The Countess of Controversy and the WAG.”
Milo repeated, “WAG?”
“Dahlia Irvine?” Fiona feigned shock. Then she explained, “As in wives and girlfriends … as in a sport star’s significant other. Victoria Beckham was the original back in the height of WAG mania!”
Ah yes, should anyone forget that Fiona was from London, she always had to drop some dopey reference. Zoe wondered how long she’d had this one ready and waiting.
“Okay, what about these two?” Zoe asked. “Do we have any feedback? Any idea what they’re thinking? Did they answer the survey for locations?”
Milo scanned his email and read, “Budgie’s convinced her cousin Sabrina will do it. She’ll put up an ‘I could never’ but she’ll come around. Her words,” he added. “Oh, and she may have some tweaks to her contract.”
“Not gonna happen.” Zoe replied, “But that’s for legal not me. Everyone signs the same contract. No exceptions. Let’s have the cousin think we’re passing on Sabrina the Countess. Fake her out and tell her not to worry ‘because casting is more or less complete’.”
Milo nodded and made a note in his off-brand Moleskin.
“And Mick Irvine’s wife, our ‘WAG’?” Zoe asked. “Do we know where she’s at?”
This would appear to be the real fake out of the day, since Zoe knew exactly how the negotiations with Dahlia Irvine were going. The wife of the hot, entertaining, NFL tight end was undoubtedly hanging out somewhere between bored to tears and at the end of her rope. Zoe had it on good authority that she was spending most of her days alone, trying not to feel empty, abandoned, and irrelevant—like the old building near Zoe’s apartment with the Blockbuster façade. Yes! That was a far better nickname for her; Dahlia Irvine was “Blockbuster.” Purposeless and out of date. Perfect for the show.
3
Dahlia
I didn’t want to let go of Mick when I left for Day One with the show. Homesick kid off to the first day of camp.
To my surprise, when offered, he had agreed to participate in filming. Clocking in at six feet, five inches, with features so perfect they seemed illegal and a great sense of humor, my husband was a score for production. Thanks to a Super Bowl three years ago, a slew of endorsements that followed, a mention in a Lil’Wayne song, and a special touchdown dance, he was the one not-a-quarterback football player every non-footballer could name.
“I can’t leave you to it alone,” he had said. “I’m your partner and this sounds like something you would have done a few years ago.” Whether he knew it or not, those were the magic words. The show had been his idea, but I didn’t need much convincing.
“This is a step in new direction for us.” I had replied. This was something, for the first time in a while, that was for me. An exciting project for the one who took photos for the fans and who held the stuff when he posed for those photos. There’s no way he was excited by the idea of reality TV. “And I see what you’re doing here … you’re taking one for the team.” A concept, very familiar to me.
Being Mick Irvine’s wife meant giving 100 percent to him. His physical and mental needs always trumped mine; it went Mick, then the team, then Dahlia. Football dictated what we ate, when we ate, how we slept, when we celebrated, where we lived, who we socialized with, when we argued, even when we had sex. I could not depend on him for anything, but he had to be able to depend on me for everything. The game was blameless, perfect, and beyond reproach. I knew all this before I married him, and I’d have to be pathological to resent something that had done so much for him, for his family, and, honestly, for us.
But today was not about football.
I wondered how many other husbands or partners would make appearances. I hoped the more, the better. There’s something backward about the idea of getting a bunch of women together and demanding television-worthy drama.
That being said, Sabrina Verroye was somewhat of a lightning rod. Any Verroye wedding would make the news, of course, but she had continually made headlines.
For one thing, the guy she married was a straight-up hottie. For years, trashy magazines featured grainy photos of Earl Robert Stanhope—better known as Racy Robbie—emerging from crystal clear waters in the sunshine, his eight-pack glistening in all its glory. He dated every beautiful actress and model at some point or another. Always top five on those Hottest Royals Ranked lists, he was the party boy, the titled disappointment; no one could get enough. A Bond villain smirk made him look sweet and youthful, but without the smile, he was fiercely beautiful.
Okay, full disclosure? I met my own prince charming, one that other women drool over. But the good-looking guys were never my thing. My friends used to try to figure me out, pointing out this guy or that guy, asking, what about him? Do you think he’s hot?
My answer was usually a shrug. A meh. Because it always took more than nice eyes and chiseled features to interest me. Physical attractiveness was always a plus, and I never hooked up with—well, I never dated anyone who was hideous. But something about Robbie—he was captivating. He was the exception to the rule.
A gorgeous specimen.
The tabloids went mad when he started hanging around Sabrina Verroye, the original celebutante. Already an American princess, her family had been rich since the railroads. They had their name on a line at Tiffany’s—one piece even called Sabrina’s Key. They owned Michelin-rated restaurants, apparently for fun. Her aunt was the founder of a massive fashion line that had been known for bringing Old Hollywood to the modern runway. Her cousin Budgie was the Queen of Broadway—producing hit after hit. From banking to real estate, without question the Verroye family was one of America’s most storied dynasties with a white-gloved hand in almost everything. Sabrina was the It Girl, the prettiest family member by far (even though their glamour did more of the work than most natural good looks could), and she was an actress.
Her first movie was Lily of the Alley. It should have been a massive failure. But it was too intoxicating. I saw it (for the first time) when I was twelve years old, when my best friend, Cassie, and I snuck into the theater and watched, mesmerized, as a dazzling, gorgeous Sabrina Verroye—only nineteen—played a teenage prostitute who witnesses a murder and falls in love with the killer. It was steamy and dark, intriguing, and romantic. The film took place in a hot summer in New York in the 1940s, and she looked so flawless that it seemed she’d been born in the wrong era.
I could recite all the dialogue to that movie by heart, and that goes for most girls my age—and all the guys who watched it for the nude scenes. Critics hated her for it, calling the plot atrocious and sexist, saying it was passing off pathological behavior as romance. Still, it crushed the box office.
After that, Sabrina Verroye skyrocketed in popularity. She was on the back of every locker door and on every magazine cover. Everyone wanted her shade of shimmering, shiny red hair, and I was long jealous of the contrast between her mane and her bright blue eyes.
And then … nothing. Hollywood forgot about her. The references to her character—Lily Lowe—never stopped, especially from those of us who’d experienced a sexual awakening. But Sabrina was never in much of anything again. She vanished from the social radar. And it was such a waste because it wasn’t like she went down some drug spiral or anything like that—she simply went away.
But right when she had been gone long enough that no one seemed to think she’d come back again, there she was frolicking in the Mediterranean surf alongside Earl Stanhope—a guy ten years older than her. He wasn’t royalty— “he’s a titled aristocrat” as my gran used to tell me. But he was a perfect fit for the Park Avenue Princess.
All this fantastic gossip happened during my freshman high school year. Half the world hated her for being the “entitled rich girl who played a hooker when she was a kid”—again, she was nineteen, not exactly a kid. And the other half loved her because she was Lily Lowe and because who better to keep Rascal Robbie in line?
