"And turn please." Manon used her long, pale, bony finger like a prop, twirling it in an elegant circle to direct Babs into a pirouette. Babs had a finger or two of her own that she wanted to show the bitch, but she bit her tongue and executed a graceless pivot on her ankle to show the older woman her rear. Once she was out of view of Manon's piercing, dark eyes, Babs let herself smile as she imagined the look on the tight-assed old cunt's face when she read 'Kiss My Juicy Ass' on the back of Babs' jacket.
If it bugged Manon, though, she was too tough to complain about it out loud. She simply said, "Mm," in a tone of icy disdain that made her sound like Babs was a snotty Kleenex she was holding between her thumb and forefinger. It was the kind of bullshit that made 'Madame Manon' famous-every week on her makeover show, 'The Real You', they teased the idea that this new contestant was going to be the one who made the Snow Queen of Narnia lose her shit, and every week it ended with some wimpy little bitch sobbing and thanking Manon for making her a better person. Same damn thing, week in and week out, but somehow they'd gotten five fucking seasons out of it.
"And back again, thank you." The French-accented voice was calm, almost disinterested, but when Babs spun back around to face Manon, the fashion designer's piercing eyes gazed down at her like a hawk staring at its prey. Literally down-they always said that celebrities looked shorter in person, but Manon towered over Babs in her trademark black coat and black boots even with the younger woman's hair fully permed and styled. "So tell me about yourself, Barbara," Manon said, in a lilting accent that sounded weird coming out of a real person instead of a television screen. "Why do you-"
"Babs, okay? It's not fucking Barbara, it's Babs. B-A-B-S. As in, 'Bad Ass Bitch, See?'" She knew it was a little risky, showing this much attitude this soon in the audition process, but Babs grew up watching reality television. She knew the producers were looking for drama, even if the interview with Madame Manon was one-on-one. If she didn't give them anything to make her stand out, they'd just write her off as boring and walk her out the side door. Manon wanted someone that she could clash with, so that by the end of the episode it would really mean something when Babs hugged her parents and and cried and told Manon how amazing it felt to be the newer, better her.
And gave her twenty thousand dollars. Eyes on the fucking prize, Babs told herself, giving Manon a scowl that she knew would play perfectly on camera. She could always go back to her old look the week after she got paid.
Manon smiled thinly, her bright red lips carving a path across her marble skin like she'd just been sliced open. "We'll discuss the name later," she said mildly, and Babs knew the bitch was hooked. "So tell me," she went on, returning to her original question as if nothing had happened. "Why do you want to be on 'The Real You'? You certainly don't seem to lack confidence in yourself; if there's someone else you want to be, you're definitely hiding it well. What brings you to see Madame Manon?"
The fucking third person bullshit. Just like on the show. Babs didn't have any trouble rolling her eyes and huffing a sigh of petulant disdain before saying, "My fucking parents, okay? They're all like, 'Oh, you were such a nice girl in school! Oh, you had such a bright future ahead of you! Oh, you should try to make yourself more presentable, get a job with potential, marry that nice young Marvin Zweiback and start pumping out grandkids!'" Babs made a dismissive wanking gesture. "It's all bullshit, but they said they'd kick me out of the house if I didn't straighten up. And I saw your show, and I thought, hey. What do I have to lose?"
It wasn't exactly a lie. Babs' parents weren't really fond of her taste in clothes and hairstyles, and they didn't love her taste in boyfriends for that matter. But they never went as far as threatening to kick her out of the house. It was mostly just polite lectures and dirty looks and that weird sniffing thing Dad did when he thought she'd been over at Lizzie's apartment smoking weed. When your parents were both professional therapists, life was one long non-confrontational argument after another. They wouldn't try anything as interesting as an ultimatum.
But again, that wasn't the kind of shit that sold on the Lifestyles Channel. Manon always wanted someone whose back was up against the wall, who needed her fucking weaksauce life coach routine as bad as they needed twenty thousand bucks and a brand new wardrobe. It was how she got inside their head and twisted them up into bland, boring losers who dressed in nothing but khaki and masturbated over job offers from Microsoft. Babs knew how to play that game if she had to, at least for a month or two until the cameras turned off and Manon went on to her next chump.
Assuming she could get a spot on the show. Manon held her stonefaced pose for what felt like a solid minute, deep brown eyes gazing at Babs like she was dissecting her with her stare. "So," she said at last, gesturing imperiously to Babs to approach. "You think that this... this fluffy-haired refugee from 'Grease' is the real you?" Her hand rose and fell like a symphony conductor, taking Babs in from head to toe. "The tiger print leggings, the leopard print crop top, the colors, leather jacket, it all... well. Come here. Come here."
She reached out and took Babs' wrist in her surprisingly strong fingers and dragged her in front of a floor-length mirror. Babs let out a yelp that was a little less 'angry tough girl gets mad at someone for pushing her around' and a little more 'holy shit, I had no idea that a bony fashion designer who's pushing fifty could yank me around like a puppy on a leash', but she didn't pull away. For one thing, she wasn't sure how far she could push Manon before the crazy old bird lost interest. For another thing... she didn't want to embarrass herself by trying and failing. It was one hell of a grip.
Manon plucked at Babs' jacket with the fingers of her free hand, tugging the thick leather like she was removing invisible lint. "Do you know what I see when I look at you, young woman?" she asked, her accent thickening noticeably as the cutting disdain in her voice sharpened. "I see this, this tough outer hide you wear, and do you know what I think? I think you wear it not to show how strong you are, but to hide how frightened you are. A truly strong girl, she would not cower inside a conformist's idea of rebellion. She would not need a leather jacket or a vulgar slogan."
She smirked, the slash of red becoming a jagged hook at one corner. "A real 'bad ass bitch' doesn't need to announce it."
