1
Chloe
Icould tell New York City was preparing for Christmas as I rode in the Uber on the way to Frost Tower. Even though Thanksgiving had only been yesterday, workers were hanging garlands on buildings and wreaths with big red bows on lamp posts. The advertisements on the sides of the various kiosks screamed reminders about holiday shopping, and there were light snow flurries in the air.
"It's so magical," I sighed, gazing out of the window. I'd always wanted to live in New York City, ever since I'd come for a middle school trip. Now I was back—broke, desperate for money, but back.
"You're going to be singing a different Christmas carol after you've lived in this city a few months," the driver said. "Or maybe not if this is where you're living."
"Is this Frost Tower?" I asked him. We had stopped in front of an all-glass tower that reached up to the cloudy sky. It was beautiful, like an ice sculpture, but it did not inspire warmth or Christmas cheer. In fact, unlike the other buildings we had passed in which Christmas trees and other holiday decorations were visible in the lobby, Frost Tower was barren.
"Don't forget to give a five-star rating," my driver said and winked as I stepped out of the car.
"Spare some change?"
I turned to see a tipsy-looking Santa Claus waving a coffee cup in my face.
"Get outta here!" the driver yelled at him as the homeless man staggered off. "You'd think a fancy building like this would have better security." The driver carried my suitcase and my crate of high-end cookware to the door, waved, and then returned to his car.
I entered and looked around. The lobby was completely empty. There were no people, no artwork, and no Christmas decorations. It was all glass and polished concrete with clean white walls. On the wall near the elevator lobby was a handwritten sign that said ROMANCE CREATIVE PRODUCTIONS 37thFLOOR.
I stepped in the sleek elevator feeling slightly apprehensive. What if they didn't want me to be in the show anymore? I couldn't go back to the Midwest. There wasn't anything for me there, and besides, my credit cards were almost maxed out.
"I guess I found all the people," I said to myself when I stepped off the elevator. The large elevator lobby was packed with people pushing carts, carrying cables, and toting heavy lighting.
"Are you Chloe Barnard?" asked a tall, elegant woman with long, dark hair. I nodded and held out my hand.
"Hi, I'm Dana Holbrook. I’m one of the producers. We talked over email. That’s my co-producer, Gunnar Svensson." Dana gestured to a tall blond man talking intently on the phone. "We're very excited to have you. Let me show you to your room." She tapped the elevator button, and we rode up another twenty floors.
"Your Instagram is very impressive," Dana said as we walked down the hall of one of the upper residential floors. "You have hundreds of thousands of followers, and they all seem quite active.The Great Christmas Bake-Offisn't airing on network or cable TV, it's only on the web, so we'll need you to leverage your social network to make this show a success. Make sure you send out lots of photos of the contest!"
"That's what I'm planning on," I told her. "I want to useTheGreat Christmas Bake-Offas a platform to hopefully start my own café or at least be offered a cool job."
"We anticipate this show will be very popular," Dana said as she punched a number. I tried to memorize it but failed.
"I emailed you the code," she said and opened the door. The apartment was beautiful, with big windows, a large kitchen, and a view over a nearby park.
"Believe it or not," Dana said, "this is considered a big apartment for New York City."
"It's perfect," I told her, setting my bag down.
"Pick a room. You're the first contestant to arrive. You'll have to share, unfortunately, but it's only a five-week contest. We'll be done filming by Christmas."
By the time I had unpacked my things, no one had arrived yet. I sat on the small bed in the room I had chosen and checked my email. There was a message from Dana with a scant amount of information, just a tentative shooting schedule and the key code.
When I had auditioned for this contest, the paperwork had said there would be a cash prize of $20,000 for the winner. It wasn't enough to open my own restaurant, but it would at least let me pay off my credit card debt. My druggie cousin had stolen my money, and against myoma's protests, I had filed a police report. That had been the only way the bank would refund my money. Though it returned a few thousand of what I had lost, it still hadn't refunded the full amount, and almost a year had passed since the incident. After my oma had passed away, I hadn’t had the energy to fight with the bank. Now I was slowly trying to build a life without her.
I was starting to feel morose, so I snapped a selfie in front of the window and edited it, then posted it to Instagram. I was immediately rewarded with dozens of likes.
"That's all you needed, a nice ego boost," I told myself as I headed downstairs. Maybe I could make friends with someone who could help me win or at least navigate the contest.
"What am I supposed to do with all of this garland?" someone was yelling as I stepped off the elevator.
"Just hang it up, Zane!" I heard Dana shout.
"I am not an interior designer!" the man yelled back. He had on a headset that held back his long hair.
"I guess this isn't a polished production," I joked, walking over to him.
