Chapter Text
"Being brokenhearted is like having broken ribs. On the outside it looks like nothing's wrong, but every breath hurts." - Greg Behrendt
*
Paula sat on the edge of the tub and waited. The bathroom was quiet except for two noises – her breath and the mechanical tick of the egg timer that sat on the lip of the sink. She should try to keep herself busy – just sitting and waiting was making the time unbearable. But she couldn't move. All she could do was let the seconds tick and tick away until…
The timer popped and was silent. Paula exhaled slowly. She pushed herself to her feet and ignored the sharp pain in her neck, the rush of blood to her face. It was time to look. Her hands shook so much that she accidentally knocked the timer to the floor where it broke into two pieces on the tile. It was cheap plastic and so she drew the time out by bending over to pick it up and dropping it in the wastepaper basket. Then she stood up.
She picked up the stick preparing her self to look but she needn't have bothered. It was no use; she could already see it as clear as day. The two pink lines were definite and solid. They left absolutely no room for doubt.
She had to sit down and lowered herself down onto the closed lid of the toilet.
Really, though, it explained so much. She'd been so tired lately, and sore. Her joints, her limbs ached and her breasts were tender to the touch. She was over a week late.
Her first urge was to call her sister but she pushed that feeling away. There wasn't any use in telling anyone until she went to the doctor. There was a doctor out in Palm Desert who treated celebrities who didn't want their visit to hit a news cycle. This doctor operated out of a day spa. Paula would make an appointment there and call it a day of pampering. That's what she would do.
And if the doctor confirmed what the test had already told her?
One day at a time.
oooo
Instead of fighting, they just didn't speak. So early in the development of the show, going to work consisted mostly of sitting in production meetings. There were things that would carry over from Pop Idol, of course, but things would have to change also. She sat next to Randy Jackson, one of the only familiar faces in the room. Simon Fuller and Nigel Lythgoe stood at the head of the table and across from her sat a quiet Ken Warwick and…
She couldn't look at him.
At the lunch break, Paula went out and stood in the small courtyard of the office complex. She wanted to sit in the sun for a few minutes. She wanted to be alone.
Randy appeared holding a bottle of water and a salad for her.
"Want to come in and eat?" he asked. She wasn't hungry but the doctor had been explicit in her nutrition instructions. Paula needed to put on weight and needed to eat at least three meals a day.
"I think I'll stay out here," she said, and took the food from him with murmured thanks. Randy sat down, the wooden bench creaking slightly under his weight.
"You and Simon seem to be getting along a little better," he commented. Paula flushed and tried to hide it by lowering her head and prying the plastic top from her meal.
"We've been ignoring each other," she said, finally.
"For you two?" Randy laughed. "That is progress."
"I'm having second thoughts about the show," she said.
"Come on," he said. They had this conversation again and again. She had doubts and he convinced her to stay.
"Jeff says it isn't too late to get out," Paula said.
"Is it Cowell?" Randy asked. "What did he say to you?"
"No," Paula said, maybe too quickly. "I just haven't been feeling well and I don't know if I can handle the audition schedule they're proposing. Plus, you know, maybe I'm just not right for this show."
"We'll add in more travel days," Randy said, ignoring the last part of her statement. "Come on, P, don't leave me here alone with these guys."
She smiled at him and poked at the salad with her plastic fork half-heartedly. She took a bite, but the food just didn't taste like anything.
"Just don't make a choice you'll regret," he pleaded.
It was a little too late for that.
oooo
She stood in the shower, wondering how long, exactly, she could get away without mentioning anything to anyone. Spring was coming fast and with spring meant hitting the road. She wouldn't be showing for those, but by the semifinals? Maybe. And by the final shows, definitely. Maybe no one would watch the auditions and the show would get canceled before they even made it to the live tapings. She could dream, at least.
She looked down at her body, the warm water hitting her at the collarbones and then running over her breasts to her flat stomach. It was flat now, but inside there was a secret that wouldn't stay kept for long.
At any rate, she needed to confide in someone. As a human being, she needed to tell her mother or her sister. As a professional she needed to tell her manager. As a woman, she needed to tell the father.
She shut the tap off forcefully and stood, dripping and starting to chill. She would deal with those problems when she came to them and until then, she would hold her cards close to her chest. She toweled off carefully and then sat on her mattress, gathering her strength. Outside, it was raining – a rare wet day in Los Angeles. She was supposed to drive to Inglewood to meet with her lawyer about song rights, but she was going to cancel. Or, rather, reschedule. She couldn't face to rain and two hours talking about legalities and royalties.
She got dressed and went downstairs to survey her kitchen. Her housekeeper had gone to the market the day before, so her refrigerator was well stocked, but standing in front of the open door of the refrigerator nothing seemed appealing. It wasn't that she wasn't hungry, it was just that she was worried and stressed out and that rarely led to hunger.
Still, there was something inside her now, a force of life that depended on her and as scary and stupid as this whole situation was, as careless as she had been, it was her responsibility to care for herself now. To care for anything that might be inside of her.
It was easy enough to fix a sandwich. Paula was, by no means, a gourmet chef but she'd never retained a cook. Mostly, she ate dinner out and skipped breakfast all together. For lunch, she made sandwiches or salads or seared some fish in a pan. Now, she'd have to alter her routine a little. No more fish, no more soft cheeses, no more caffeine. And, perhaps most heart-breakingly, no more sushi. She looked down at her stomach again and then away quickly.
She had yet to really think about anything past the surprise and trauma of the situation. She'd thought briefly about the next nine months but what about after that? Gaining weight she couldn't hide was not exactly the mostly lasting of consequences she was going to have to face, but at the moment it was the one thing that seemed the worst.
Halfway through eating her sandwich standing over her kitchen sink, her phone rang. She glanced over at the dock on the counter expecting to find it empty. She was always searching for that cordless phone – lost it enough that she was considering buying one of those phones that mounted on the wall and had a long, curly cord just so she could find the thing, tackiness be damned. But, fate smiled on her and the phone was in its proper place. She picked it up, not bothering to glance at the caller ID. Anyone who had this number was welcome to call. The phone in the office was another story.
"Hello?" she said, leaning her hip against the counter. Outside, the lawn was damp and the sky was still gray, though the rain had quit for the time being.
"Paula?" She knew the voice. "This is Simon." A pause. "Simon Cowell."
"What do you want, Simon?" she asked, intuitively turning her body against the counter, as if to hide her torso even though she was alone in the kitchen.
"I think we should talk," he said.
"I don't really want to," she said. She hoped her voice didn't betray her fear or that she didn't speak too quickly. They would have to talk, but not so soon.
"We need to be able to work along side one another," Simon said, forced patience evident in his tone. "I think perhaps sitting down together might, ah, clear the air?"
"As I recall, we tried that and it didn't quite work out like we planned," she said. She didn't mean to sound so biting and perhaps she should acknowledge that he was reaching out at all, but even speaking to him for this short amount of time was already dissolving her resolve. She could feel the secret crawling up her throat, clawing for escape.
"We're both professionals," Simon said. "At least I am."
She scoffed.
"I think we owe it to each other to find a way to make this work."
She closed her eyes and took a breath. What could she say to him?
"Fine," she said. "I'm free today."
"Great," he said. "I'll arrange for a lunch reservation. My assistant will call you back in a bit."
"No seafood," she said. Simon paused for a minute.
"Fine," he said, before hanging up without a goodbye. She looked down at the phone in her hand and then slowly replaced it in its cradle. She didn't bother finishing the sandwich – in an hour she'd be seated in a restaurant with Simon Cowell across from her. What would he say?
What they had done – it still felt like a dream. More like a nightmare. Paula was still horrified with herself, still hazy with disbelief at her own actions. She wasn't the type of woman to make choices without considering the consequences – which wasn't to say she didn't jump into things with both feet, but she always thought about how it would affect others and this time she just hadn't done that. She'd done something without thinking at all and now she was dealing with all the problems that came along with rash behavior.
Paula expected to go to the Ivy or some other celebrity-friendly hot spot, but instead she found herself driving to somewhere she had never been before. It wasn't exactly her type of restaurant – it was a dark steakhouse, an old boys club with wooden paneling on the walls and the smell of cigar smoke lingering in the upholstery even though no one had smoked inside for years. It was, however, secluded which she appreciated. When she walked in, a maitre d' took her trench coat and showed her to her table immediately. The place wasn't very populated, but the patrons who were there were older gentleman in business suits drinking scotch and having serious conversations. And then, in the corner, Simon Cowell reading the L.A. Times and drinking what looked to be like a gin and tonic while he waited for her.
She had butterflies in her stomach at the sight of him – she'd had them from the start but now they beat relentlessly against her ribcage and she felt a little light headed. The maitre d' helped seat her, but Simon still stood halfway, hovered over his chair for a moment before settling back into his seat.
"You look nice," he said in greeting. She raised an eyebrow.
"Really?"
"You look tired," he amended.
"What do you want, Simon?" she asked.
"Do you want something to drink?" Simon asked. As he did so, their server appeared at the table, her pen poised above a pad of paper expectantly. There were no introductions of any sort. Most servers told Paula their name, but Paula suspected Simon had already instructed this girl to do nothing but take orders – preferably from him.
"Club soda," Paula said. Simon frowned slightly but didn't say anything. The server nodded and left.
"They have an amazing porterhouse here," Simon said, picking up his menu. "You like steak, don't you?"
She didn't really. She wasn't much of a meat eater at all, and only fish and chicken when she did, but suddenly a steak sounded fantastic. Paula had been nervous about the list of nutritional needs the doctor had provided for her but her doctor had smiled.
"Your body will tell you what it needs," she'd said. Now, Paula found herself nodding at Simon.
"Whatever is fine," she said. "If you want to sit here and eat together like nothing is wrong."
"That's awfully dramatic," Simon said. The server returned with Paula's club soda, garnished with a wedge of lime. "Two porterhouses, darling. Medium."
"Medium well, for me," Paula interjected.
"Right away," the server said, and turned on her heel, headed back to the kitchen.
"It's going to be too tough," Simon warned, as if he were some sort of culinary expert instead of a record executive.
"I prefer my meat not to still be alive on my plate," she said coolly.
"Suit yourself," Simon said.
"I will, thanks."
Simon looked at her, a smirk on his face.
"You absolutely loathe me, don't you?"
"No," she said. "Yes. I don't know. I'm… confused."
"Do you want to know my opinion?" he asked.
"Do I have a choice?"
"I think there was some tension and we needed to figure out a way to work together. We just… broke the tension. No harm, no foul, we move on and make a boatload of money."
He was so blasé about it. She stared at the cloth napkin in her lap, feeling the heat rise into her cheeks. No harm, no foul? Not quite.
"Why," he said with a big sigh, "do I get the suspicion you aren't a move on sort of girl?"
"It's just…" She wanted to tell him but she couldn't seem to make the words. A public place, even one that was semi-private, was no way to tell someone a secret that was going to completely change their life. "My actions were… I don't ever do that."
"Do what?" he asked. He was trying to make her say it.
"You're practically a stranger," Paula said. "I don't know you, I don't trust you. But I do think you're right. We found a unique way to relieve some tension and now it's over." She brought her straw to her mouth and sipped lightly, trying to bring the subject to a close and swallow down the lie.
"I'm not a stranger," Simon said. "At least not anymore. Even if we don't ever… relieve the tension… again, I would like it if we could at least be friends."
"I could never be your friend," Paula said. "Let's not set unattainable goals for ourselves. We can be colleagues who try not to fight."
"If that's what you want," Simon said. "You know, it could've been nice sitting next to someone pleasant and beautiful while being on TV, but if you want cool indifference, I guess I'll take it."
"Oh you'll be sitting next to someone pleasant," Paula said. "I'm the one who has to suffer."
Simon was saved having to reply because the server returned with their steaks, setting the hot plates in front of them. The cut of meat was enormous and Paula stared at it. There was no way she'd be able to eat it all, let alone the mashed potatoes and steamed vegetables that came as sides.
"Actually, can I get this to go?" Paula asked.
"Sure," the server said.
"No," Simon said, sternly. "It's here, you might as well eat it. Don't go, don't run off."
"Fine," she said. She did want to run off for every moment she sat there, the guilt became heavier and heavier on her shoulders. She was looking at a man whom she didn't get along with, whom she barely tolerated, but who was going to be a part of her life forever.
She cut into the steak, making sure it wasn't as pink as the one across from her, and took a wary bite. It was good and hit the spot. Simon ate quietly so she took his cue, putting bite after bite into her mouth.
"Good lord, where did you put it all?" Simon asked, looking at her plate. The steak was gone, as were her veggies and half of her potatoes. "You're minuscule." Simon's steak was only half gone and he was already showing signs of slowing down.
"I guess I was hungry," Paula said, just as surprised.
"Are you one of those women who eat everything in sight and then whine about how they can never put on weight?" he asked, disgustedly.
"No," she said. "Actually, I struggle with my… how is it you know nothing about me?"
"I know enough," Simon said and his tone wasn't exactly kind. "You were a pop princess – silver platters and number one records. Then time passes and tastes change, but you didn't, did you? Now, here we are ten years later and instead of being the one selling records you've decided to recapture your fame on reality television."
"As I recall, you called me and begged me to be on your little show," Paula said, throwing her napkin down on her plate. "Try making it with only Randy Jackson and Simon Cowell. No one will watch because no one knows or cares who you are."
"You're not the only has been pop star looking for a comeback, you know," he threatened.
"I hope you enjoy buying me out of my contract," she said. "It's not going to be cheap."
"Look, I didn't ask you here to fight."
"Could've fooled me," she seethed.
"I'm serious, the last time we fought we…"
"I know," she said. "That was unprofessional and it will never happen again."
"Is that what you want?" he asked. "To be colleagues and nothing more?"
"Nothing more," she repeated.
"All right," Simon said, taking his credit card out of his wallet and tossing it on the table. "But it's a shame."
"What is?" she asked, frightened to hear his answer.
"I thought we might have been friends," Simon said. "Given enough time."
Time, unfortunately, was something Paula felt she didn't have much of.
oooo
They started in New York City. Paula threw up on the plane three times. It wasn't in front of anyone, but it was on her hands and knees in the small lavatory. She was grateful for the roar of the engines to cover the sound of her retching. It was the smell of the coffee that set her off, the flight attendants brewing it in the galley between first class and coach. Once she started, it was hard to stop. It was called morning sickness, but hers usually didn't start until almost noon. She was always lulled into a false sense of security thinking that the morning was almost over and she'd make it through the day without getting sick, and then someone would start eating a banana or walk by her holding a container of leftovers and she'd have to bolt for the nearest toilet.
"Food poisoning," she'd told her housekeeper, Marina.
"A touch of the flu," she'd admitted to her manager. She was getting better at lying, actually, coming up with small fibs that were white enough for no one to ask questions. And the secret she was harboring was becoming commonplace within her. The urge to share it was easy to ignore now. The shock and newness had worn off and left her feeling desperate and alone, yes, but more determined than ever to figure out a solution.
A solution she could live with.
"Are you okay?" She had to walk past Randy to get to her seat and he looked up at her over the rim of his glasses, concerned. She'd been in there for a while, and was pale and a little sweaty. She'd seen her reflection but there wasn't a lot to do about it now.
"A little nervous," she admitted. "I'll be happy to get off this plane."
"We're landing soon," he promised. She sat down in her seat, her knees still a little shaky. It was just Randy and her self on the flight. If there was other Idol staff it was people she hadn't met yet and they were probably in coach. Simon, of course, was flying in from London and they'd all converge in New York and start filming.
While they were waiting for their luggage, Paula was fretting.
"What if no one shows up to audition?" Paula asked. Randy hefted her suitcase off the carousel or her and set it at her feet.
"It's been advertised for months," Randy said, not for the first time. "They're expecting hundreds of people at each location."
"But, what if…"
"Paula," he said. "It's going to be cool. Don't worry."
He turned away to wait for his own suitcase to come around and she pulled up the handle of her own. Her nausea had finally subsided and now she was back to normal which lately meant starving. When Randy had his suitcase, he led them to the limo that waited outside.
"Can we get something to eat?" Paula asked. The driver was putting the suitcases into the trunk and they were sitting in the back. The limo was stocked with alcohol but no food, Paula had checked. Not even a lime to suck on or a cherry for a garnish.
"I thought you weren't hungry – you didn't eat on the plane," Randy said.
"I'm hungry now," she said.
"Well, I'm sure the hotel has a restaurant."
"How far away is the hotel?" she asked, peering out the tinted window. All she saw was traffic trying to weave in and out of the curbside lane through gridlock.
"I don't know," Randy said, slowly. "I might have a Snickers in my briefcase."
"Thank God," Paula said, grabbing the black case off the seat from beside him and clicking it open. She pawed through it until she found the candy and tore the wrapper off quickly. The chocolate was slightly melted but tasted just fine.
"Are you sure you're okay?" Randy asked, taking the open briefcase from her lap and closing it.
"Sure, why?" she asked, through her full mouth.
"Guess your nerves are gone," he murmured. The engine started and they moved into the traffic, heading for the freeway.
Aside from her constant hunger, daily sickness, and evolving body, it was her hormones that posed the most danger. Her mood swings were getting stronger and more frequent. She didn't notice them much at first, but she would have to start holding herself in check if she didn't want people asking questions.
"I'm just happy to be on solid ground," she said, forcing her self to sit still and finish the candy bar like an adult instead of a sugar-crazed child. She would buy Randy one to replace it when they got settled.
Paula decided, once she got checked into her room, to just order room service. She had known Randy for too long and if he saw her eat the amount of food she wanted to eat, he would definitely know something was wrong. While she waited for her food, she changed into more comfortable clothes. She found herself wearing softer fabrics and looser dresses. It wasn't that she was getting bigger already, but her body did feel different. Her pants fit, but they fit differently. It was hard to explain. She also knew it was temporary. Soon her body would be larger and there wasn't a thing to do about it.
When her food came, she rolled the cart in front of the bed and settled at the foot of it, her TV on. She was about to tuck in when there was a knock on her door. She sighed, looking longingly at the cart as she walked to the door. On the other side was Simon Fuller.
"I just wanted to make sure you got in all right and give you the call sheet for tomorrow," Fuller said, handing her a manila folder with her schedule inside.
"Thank you," Paula said. "I got here just fine." Fuller looked past her at the amount of food she'd ordered.
"Are you… uh, expecting company?" he asked. Perhaps he was worried because their call time was early or perhaps he was just nosy. Either way, it was none of his business.
"I'll see you tomorrow," Paula said, and shut the door. She sat back down and started eating but her enthusiasm had waned. If Fuller was here, it meant everyone who was coming from England had arrived. It meant somewhere in the hotel, possibly on the same floor, was Simon Cowell – bane of her existence, arch-nemesis, root of all her current problems.
So why couldn't she stop thinking about him?
But Simon proved to be a man of his word the next morning. He was polite to her, but distant and cool as ice. He didn't make small talk with her and when the broke for lunch, he disappeared instead of eating at craft services with the rest of the crew. She was pleased with it, really. Special treatment was the last thing she wanted.
"Night," she called when the broke for the day. He waved without even turning to look at her.
She could live the entire summer like this, one audition city blending into another.