Tea with Tara Z

Tea with Tara Z

              The limousine crossed the bridge into the city and the once distant twinkling engulfed her, as if the air itself had combusted into the white-hot light of a sparkler. She at once felt connected to something so much bigger than herself, and yet, she also felt tiny and unseen. She was a spec upon the brightest star. She rolled the window down so she could remember what the night she met Tara Z smelt like.

              She was nervous and seriously considered not even going. She wished the contest had at least let her take a friend. That was the only thing she'd change if she could. Selfies alone in the backseat of a limo look sad, even if you playfully tucked a champagne flute under your chin. She waited until the sun began to rise, right as they turned onto 5th Avenue, before taking the shot she posted to her Insta. "Breakfast at Tiffany's, bitches!" She had 10,000 likes and comments by the time the driver opened the door. One follower wrote: "You are the luckiest girl in the world."

              The math certainly reflected her good fortune. More than 300,000 people had entered the national contest to have "Tea with Tara Z" over breakfast at the iconic NYC restaurant. But last week she awoke to a headline in her feed that made her scream, as her father would describe it to relatives on the phone later, as if she was being stabbed to death. "New Jersey YouTuber Wins Pop Star Meetup." Luckily her brother was home, so they were able to reshoot the moment she found out—for TikTok and Facebook Live. By the end of the day, she had 100,000 new subscribers to her channel. When she awoke the next morning, that number had tripled.

              A tall woman with high cheekbones and blond hair pulled back into a bun, stood waiting for her just outside the limo. Dakota marveled at how perfect her makeup was, and how her outfit— a leather pencil skirt paired with a purple satin blouse and thick belt— seemed worthy of a red carpet, or the runway. She held a tablet like a clipboard, and, in the other hand, a walkie talkie. "She's here, main entrance. ETA to you: 5," she said into the device before motioning for Dakota to follow her.

              "Sorry, we just have to walk and talk. You're late."

              "Oh, I," Dakota stammered. "I— "

             "No worries. Not your fault. Fucking limo driver was told to take the tunnel. That's on me. Our usual guy's got COVID. Oh, which reminds me, you're going to need to show her security guys your vaccination card and they’ll also do an instant PCR on you so you can meet her without a mask."

             Dakota was having a hard time keeping up with the woman, who glided in her red-soled high heels with the athleticism of a speed skater. The grandeur of the lobby was a blur of crystal and marble. As the elevator doors closed a woman struggling to carry a stack of teetering pizza boxes pleaded. "Can you hold it?"

             The woman in the purple satin blouse pushed “Door Closed” and looked at her watch, then at her tablet, then at her watch again.

              "I'm sorry, I don't even know your name," Dakota said.

             The woman smiled at her. The doors opened at their floor. "I'm just a production assistant." The lobby of the restaurant was filled with baskets of flowers. A group of men were setting up lights and two women were discussing how many feet apart two armchairs needed to be for the interview.

              The production assistant walked her over to a tanned man in his 30s, wearing a pressed oxford shirt, designer jeans and expensive looking leather loafers, without socks. "Dakota, this is Max Schoenfeld. He is the director of the shoot today." She looked at Max, her eyes practically squinting with annoyance, and, without breaking her stare with the director, said to Dakota. "Good luck."

             He rolled his eyes. "Don't mind Miss Thing, she just found out she won't be in the second season of Love Cabin Alaska, and she is taking it out on all of us."

              Dakota went to say something, but Max kept going.

             "Ok, so...." It took her a few seconds to realize he was pointing at her because he wanted to be reminded of her name.

              "Dakota," she said, looking reflexively down at her shoes, a defense mechanism from middle school she was surprised was still just under the surface.

             "Right. Like Dakota Johnson. I like it. Good choice for TikTok."

              "It's actually my real name," she said.

              Max stared at her as if he didn't understand. "You're hilarious. I was dreading this shoot today. You know, contests, right? How sad."

              It was her turn to look confused.

             "Oh, no, darling. Not you. You're not sad. You're fantastic. I checked out your Insta and you are going places. And with a little vocal training, you may even get that singing down. That's how Tara started. Just a few YouTube videos. And now look at her. Did you know she has nearly 100 million followers on her YouTube channel now and CelebrityValueGuess.com estimates her net worth to be 30 million?

             "Is that right?"

              He laughed. "I don't think the number matters after the first 10. Anyway, follow me, I need to take you to makeup."

              Max walked ahead of her down a long hallway with gleaming glazed concrete floors, and modern looking frosted glass sconces set into the walls every few feet. His pace, unbelievably, exceeded that of her previous chaperone. As she struggled to keep up with him in her new, knock-off heels, which she hoped nobody would recognize were from Payless, she spotted a sign for the ladies’ room jutting out of the wall down another hallway. "Max, I am sorry, but do you mind if I use the rest room?"

             The look on his face emphatically said that he did, but he replaced it with what felt like a rehearsed-to-perfection smile. "Of course! Take your time. Makeup is the last door on the right at the end of this hall. I am going back to the set. Meet you there?"

               "Yes, sorry, thank you," she said as she ducked down the side corridor, hearing him say into his walkie talkie, "Guest is headed to makeup after a quick tinkle, over."

             When she entered the bathroom, she for a second thought she had walked through the wrong door. A small foyer, wallpapered in cranberry and gold, offered two upholstered leather chairs on either side of a small table. On it, there were several bottles of very expensive perfumes she had only ever smelt when the girls at Nordstrom’s sprayed her with samples. Against the wall was a glass refrigerator stocked with Gatorades and six kinds of water: sparkling, flat, caffeinated, vitamin-infused, electrolyte-fortified and—who could live without it?— coconut. The same soft-lit sconces were on the walls, upon which hung original oil paintings. She heard a toilet flush and the creaking of a door.

              As she rounded the wall separating the foyer from the sinks and stalls, their eyes met in the mirror and she stopped dead in her tracks, as if she had been hit with a tranquilizer dart. It was her! Tara Z! In the bathroom. With her. Just the two of them.

              "Tell Max to go fuck himself! I'll be ready when I am fucking ready! Jesus Christ, like I want to meet this sad little sycophantic TikTwat!" Tara screamed, making Dakota take a few steps backwards. Tara splashed her face with water and, grabbing a cloth hand towel from a pile between the sinks, turned now to face Dakota.

              Tara studied the stunned teenager for a moment. "Oh shit. I thought you were...but you're...fuck, I am so sorry. I'm just stressed out today. I—"

             "Oh, no worries," said Dakota, still starstruck enough to insulate her from the comments' sting. "I don't think I'm a sycophant, although I am not sure I 100 percent know what that word means."   

                The pop star laughed at this, an exaggerated hearty giggle that then dissolved into sobbing. Tara waived the air in front of her as if shooing away a fly and, with her other hand, used the washcloth to dab at the running mascara pooling in the corners of her eyes.   

              "You are being so sweet after what I just said, and I, man, it was just a shit thing to say, and I am so, you know, stressed out? I told them I didn’t want to do this today. Not because I didn't want to meet you, like, you the person, but because I have 30 of these bullshit appearances this week. I was hoping to get out and visit my aunt while I was here, but by tomorrow, I'll be too tired and I know I'll just go back to my hotel room and, and..."

             Tara suddenly shook her head “no,” as if she thought of how to finish her sentence but couldn’t bear the thought. She blew her nose loudly into the washcloth, pulled on the hem of her sequined skirt, tucked her long blonde hair above her ears with a quick swipe of both her middle fingers, stood up straight, inhaled deeply and said, "Let's sit for a bit, before we go out there." She walked past Dakota, who turned and followed her back to the fancy foyer. Tara sat down in one of the chairs and motioned for her guest to take the other.

              For a second, the only sound Dakota could hear was the sconces, bulbs quietly humming like an electric fence. Tara was sitting, facing the door, her eyes closed, as if she was about to meditate, or nap. "It would be funny if we just had the interview here, in the bathroom," Dakota offered tentatively. "You could call it Toilet Talk with Tara, or some shit."

             "Don't give them any ideas," Tara said, her eyes still closed. "They'd greenlight that in a second if they thought I'd get 1000 more followers."

              Dakota offered a nervous chuckle. Then silence set in again. Thirty seconds passed, in which Tara said nothing and Dakota pretended to check her email on her phone.

              "Can I ask you something?" the celebrity inquired, breaking from her trance, and resting her face in the palm of her hand, one elbow on the arm of the chair.

               "Of course. Anything." As she said it, she still couldn’t believe she was talking to Tara Z. The same person she had just watched in that awesome surfing movie on Netflix the night before.

               "Are you sure you know what you want?"

                 That answer came easy for Dakota, who articulated her vision to her fans all the time. "Yes, I want to build my brand and develop a following of people who share my goals, positivity and healthy lifestyle."

               "And then what?" Tara asked, eyes wide open, scooting to the edge of her chair. She reached out and took Dakota’s hands in hers.

              They stared at one another for a moment, before Dakota confessed, "I guess I don't understand the question?”

              "Who will you be when you're famous?”

              Tara Z stood up. Dakota stood too but Tara shook her head and motioned for her to sit back down. "I'm going to head into makeup now for a touch up. It's a small room. Just wait here and I'll have Kathy come get you when she's done with me.”

               Tara grabbed the door and opened it and Dakota blurted out.

              "I'll be me."

              Tara Z stopped and turned and smiled kindly, her eyes filling with fresh tears.

               "I really hope so."