“I wasn’t going to say that. Yet. But you could show more skin,” he said, “Maybe a tank top?”

“No.”

“What’s wrong? Are you malformed? Do you have an embarrassing tattoo? That’s it, isn’t it. What does it say?”

“You wouldn’t ask Ryan to wear a tank top,” she countered.

Matt looked offended. “If Ryan could come up with a reason, he’d be on air in a muscle shirt in no time. In fact if I were Andrea, I’d be racking my brain trying to figure out a way to make that happen.” He gestured to the beach out the window. “Meanwhile we’re in the land of fun and sun, and you won’t even wear something sleeveless.”

“Let’s play a game,” Natalie said. “Whoever is quiet the longest wins.”

He turned away. She closed her eyes and noticed that it was starting to get hot in the room. With the glass missing from the window, she knew the air-conditioning wouldn’t stand a chance against Miami humidity. Let’s hope The Treatment holds.

Standing up, she walked to the bathroom, closed the door, and looked in the mirror. In thick TV makeup, she looked like the wax museum version of herself. Or a corpse ready for an open casket funeral. She would have killed for a shower but with the mask of makeup, she couldn’t even splash her face with water.

Leaning toward the mirror, she studied her reflection. Her mom was right: there were bags under her eyes. At least her hair was straight. Remarkably straight, given the humidity. Victory! she thought and managed a smile.

She dampened a washcloth, unbuttoned her shirt, and wiped down her neck, upper chest, and armpits. Relief. She closed her eyes and was feeling some calm when there was a banging on the door.

“Go time.” It was Matt. “The chopper is up. They want you live.”

“What’s happening?” she asked, opening her eyes and buttoning up her shirt.

“The photographer found a yacht. FLOTUS is on it,” Matt told her. “They think it’s Leonardo DiCaprio’s boat.”

Heart racing, she flung open the door. “FLOTUS is doing Leonardo DiCaprio?” Hell, if that were true, she might even consider a bikini top.

Natalie was standing on the stepladder three feet off the ground staring straight ahead. There were two diva lights shining in her eyes, one with diffused color to soften her features and make her glow, another under her chin to fill shadows under her eyes cast from the bright sun. Two high-intensity HMI lights were flooding the space around her to create a sunlit look to counter the brighter sun outside. She knew that if they were in St. Tropez they’d be outside and none of this would have been necessary. Not for the first time, Natalie was struck by how much more work faking it took than the real thing.