The Interview

---

Rebecca had been prepared to jump through all kinds of hoops when she called Mike Grayson back, but preparation for her television debut couldn't have been any simpler.

He gave her an address, a time, and told her to wear what she'd normally wear. They also gave her the address of a hotel, because it was too far for a round trip.

Richard had of course been uncomfortable with her staying in the big city overnight, but ultimately the money was the most important thing.

The day fast approached, with Rebecca receiving zero additional context as to what to expect. But she rested easily, in her head, she'd be paid for a dud of an interview that wouldn't even air. She was Rebecca Ashford, a proud mother and wife, and she was as boring as sin -- and proud of that.

What could they possibly want to know from her that would be interesting enough to put on the television?

She kissed her husband and children goodbye in the afternoon, and a couple of hours later the black car that was arranged for her was pulling up outside of her hotel.

"You have half an hour to check in and freshen up," the driver told her. "Then we're straight onto the studio."

"Thank you," she replied with a smile, climbing out of the car with her overnight bag. She headed inside, got herself checked-in, and was back at the car well within ten minutes and onto the studio they went.

Her dressing room was modest, but even that seemed too much for her. She was fully dressed in her floral summer dress and cardigan, and she didn't need to touch up her makeup at all. As she sat in front of the mirror, her nerves began to overwhelm her.

"This is for you, kids," she whispered to herself.

"Mrs. Ashford?"

A man stood in the doorway.

"Mr. Grayson is ready for you now."

She followed the man through without a word, playing with her cardigan and trying her best not to chew her lips. Her heart racing. Her eyes wide.

"Thank you all for joining us today, on the very first episode of Breaking Mrs. Ashford."

Applause followed the familiar voice. Rebecca was brought to the stage edge and stopped by the man, who held up a hand in front of her.

"Ten seconds," he said quietly.

"We have a very, very special guest. Somebody that I'm sure you're all excited to finally meet. Without further ado. Please put a big hand together for -- Mrs. Ashford!"

The room burst into applause and Rebecca was thrust forwards in front of the live studio audience, the whole time wondering, why would they be excited to meet me?

An audience? Nobody had mentioned an audience.

She'd imagined a quiet little room with a camera and somebody asking questions. Not all these people staring at her.

And what had he meant by first episode? She hadn't agreed to the television show. Just an interview.

"Wow, you look just as ravishing as expected, Mrs. Ashford." The man took her hand, shook it gently, patting her back and guiding her towards a sofa. "Please take a seat, get comfortable."

"Thank you," she replied meekly. "I'm not really sure what to expect, Mr. Grayson."

"Please, call me Mike," he said as he sat opposite her, behind a desk. "And I'm sorry we didn't tell you anything about our little show before you came on. That would spoil the surprise."

The audience laughed, making Rebecca feel like the butt of the joke. She clasped her dress nervously, then released it when she worried about the potential of the cameras seeing up her skirt.

"What's the surprise?" she asked. Eyes flicking from the crowd to Mike.

"Ah. You'll find out in due time, darling. There's no rush." He smiled at her. "We have a few questions we'd like to ask you before we skip ahead to all of that. Now first of all, how are things at home?"

"At home? Well. I'm very happy." She smiled sweetly at him. "I have a loving husband, two wonderful children. More than I could ever wish for."

"Two kids? More than most people could ever want." He winked at a camera as the audience laughed. She felt her cheeks flushing red. "Just joking, Mrs. Ashford. I have three children myself, and whilst I sometimes wish I had none. Hey, what are you gonna do?"

Her cheeks were crimson. She was starting to regret agreeing to whatever this was.

"I'm happy." Her voice curt. Her hands gripped each other tightly.

"Tell us about your husband. Richard, is it?"

"Yes, Richard." She took a deep breath. "He's really wonderful. He was a senior salesman for an oilfield equipment company. Really--"

"He was a salesman. Does that mean he's unemployed?"

"Well, yes. Temporarily." She nodded. "But we're both looking--"

"Both looking for work." Mike sighed, shook his head. "The death of the nuclear family, isn't it? It's a shame to expect such a lovely wife to have to fend for herself."

"I'm not fending for myself!" she said, her voice raising slightly. "Honest! I'm happy to do it."

"I'm sure you are, Mrs. Ashford. You look more than happy to be here today."

More laughter from the audience. She wanted to curl up into a ball and simply... cease to exist. Just vanish.

Please God, if you're listening...

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry. Low hanging fruit, I feel I've picked on you far too much today. I am terrible, aren't I?"

"Yes..." she whispered. "You're really bad."

"Really bad." He smiled at her. "And you're a perfect angel, aren't you? Now, we just need someone to stand between us, and we can climb on their shoulders and tell them what to do."

She let herself laugh with the audience this time. It made it easier to endure, and as she laughed, she felt closer to this man -- he wasn't trying to pick on her, he was trying to be entertaining, she was probably making it hard for him.

"And that is a wonderful dress you're wearing, Mrs. Ashford. Would you mind standing up for us, letting the audience see it properly?"

"This old thing?" She stood, thinking nothing of it. "I thrifted it a few years back."

"Wonderful, that is simply wonderful. How does a housewife keep in shape?"

"Well, all the running around..." She went to sit back down.

"Ah-ah, hang on a moment. Would you mind turning around for the audience, letting them see the back of the dress?"

"Well..." She thought about it a moment. "I suppose that's fine."

The audience let out a cheer, some wolf whistles rang out. She looked back over her shoulder, blushing, before quickly sitting back down.

"My my, Mrs. Ashford. If I were single, thirty years younger... and you were single, and had absolutely zero standards... I might try my luck with you."

"That's... thank you?"

"I'm sorry. I am terrible. Aren't I terrible?" He was speaking to the crowd now. A woman in the front was nodding, and waggling a finger at him. "I'm sorry ma'am. Can somebody get this poor woman in the front row something to drink? She looks like she might faint from the scandal!"

More laughter, some clapping. Rebecca felt glad that the eyes weren't solely on her -- but still just as confused as to what she was doing there.

As the laughter subsided, the man looked her in the face again.

"We were talking about your home life Rebecca. You don't mind if I call you Rebecca, do you?"

"Not at all," she replied.

"Well. One question on all of our minds -- this Richard. He must be unable to keep his hands off of you. Am I right?"

"I-- I'm not sure I understand." She looked at the audience, then down at the ground.

"Sex, Rebecca. Sex! You do have sex, don't you?"

Her eyes widened again. She remembered back to the street -- the man asking her in front of her husband. I'm not supposed to talk about this.

"Uhm. I have two children."

The crowd burst into rapturous laughter -- and for once, it wasn't directed at her. She felt the energy directed at Mike, and it spurred her on.

"I'd think you of all people Mr. Grayson would know how those are made."

More laughter, some applause. She felt her cheeks flushing in pride now.

"You've got me there, Mrs. Ashford." He winked at her, a wink that seemed to say, well done. "I might have had a little help in that department."

He chuckled, then continued. "But seriously. How often do you guys have sex? If my wife looked like you, well. Let's just say I wouldn't be in such a well paid job."

She cleared her throat. "Whenever Richard wants to, I suppose."

"Oh, I see. A truly traditional household. And how often is that?"

As she thought about the answer, she wondered why she was humoring this. She glanced towards backstage, and wondered what would happen if she simply ran out of there.

But then her husband's words came to her mind. Two grand was a lot of money.

"Once a month, maybe. When we were trying, it was more like once a week. He was really persistent in those days."

More laughter. She had no idea why.

"I know, it's a lot," she whispered, embarrassed. "But we really wanted a lot of kids."

"A lot?" Mike asked. "Even with how my wife looks I can manage more than once a month."

"Oh," she looked down at hers. "Is that bad?"

"No, not at all. We're all different, Rebecca. So what does sex look like for you?"

"Huh?" She stared at him like he'd asked her what color the sky was. Blue, obviously.

"Sex. When you do it. What does it look like?"

"I guess like a blanket moving up and down."

The laughter was much louder now, and although she felt she should feel proud, she just felt awkward.

"Please," Mike said. "We want to know from the words of a proud housewife, start to finish, how does sex happen? Don't worry about the gory details, just a quick run through. This might feel silly or like a trick, but honestly, we have a point to make here."

She looked at him, then to the audience, then to her hands, then back to him.

"Well, I'll be lying in bed, trying to sleep," she began. "And Richard... when the mood takes him. He'll be hard. Obviously." She felt like she might cry. "Then... he'll lay me on my back, lift up my nightdress, spit on it, and, well. You know the rest."

As the audience began to react, Mike held up his hand and silenced them.

"I really hate to pry, Rebecca. But I really need to know that I understand this correctly. Once a month, you're trying to sleep and your husband turns you onto your back. He's already hard. He spits on his hand, rubs his Johnson, puts it in you and hey presto, what do you know. You've had sex. Yes?"

She nodded, unable to speak.

"Do you... kiss during sex?"

She shook her head.

"Never?"

She shook her head again. "No, not during."

"Does he touch you at all? Your breasts, your neck, your..."

"He does touch my breasts sometimes, yes."

"I see."

The room was silent, and she had no idea why.

"Well, what if I told you it didn't have to be that way, Rebecca?" he asked.

"What do you mean?"

"As you already know, the title of our show is Breaking Mrs. Ashford, it does sound a little violent, like you suggested on the phone to me. But that couldn't be further from the truth. We aren't here supporting violence, we're here supporting love, and Rebecca... Mrs. Ashford... we think you have a lot of love to share that simply isn't getting a chance right now."

"I don't understand..."

"Did you know that 77% of housewives have never had an orgasm?" he asked a nearby camera. "Or if I asked Mrs. Ashford here what a blowjob was, she'd probably think about a hair salon?"

She looked at the camera, then at the audience. Suddenly, she felt like a test subject in a lab. All of these doctors staring at her, they all knew something she didn't.

Was she doing something wrong?

Or was there something everybody else knew about marriage that nobody had ever bothered to tell her?

For the first time, she wasn't simply embarrassed.

She wanted an answer.

He turned to face her again. "Now, Rebecca, I know we've sprung a few surprises on you today. But that's because we wanted you to come here with an open mind, without worrying about what might happen. And I think you've been absolutely wonderful. Breaking Mrs. Ashford is about taking you -- the most perfect, wonderful housewife we have ever seen, and exposing you to the things your life is lacking. So, we'd like to offer you five thousand dollars if you take part in our next show tomorrow evening."

"What is it?" she asked. That's a lot of money, Richard's voice whispered in the back of her head.

"For that measly amount of money, all we ask is that you meet our good friend James Burn. He's handsome, he's a model, and he'd like to help you out."

She nodded. "I have to meet him. And?"

"Nothing too serious, you'd just have to kiss him."

---

Her heart thudded in her ears as the car took her back to her hotel room. She had until the following morning to make a decision -- the two thousand dollars was already wired to Richard's bank account, just like he had instructed her to arrange. But five would be so much more.

You'd just have to kiss him.

God, the thought made her cringe. It made her shrink into the leather seats and want to die.

But it's so much money.

Back in her hotel room, she wanted to jump straight into the shower and wash off the filth of the day -- the filth of that interview -- but the first thing she did was pick up the phone and call home.

"Did you get the money?" Richard asked as he answered.

"It should be in your account, honey," she replied meekly. Feeling like she already kissed that guy.

"Good. We can get you a taxi home tonight, and..."

"Honey..." she began. "They offered me more money if I take part in another episode tomorrow night."

"Another interview?"

"Not exactly." She bit her lip. "They said... I have to do something..."

"Well, what is it?"

"I'd have to... kiss a man."

Silence down the line. She could see him now, fist clenched. Looking like he might punch the wall.

"How much?"

She had expected him to shout. This was so much worse.

"Five thousand dollars," she said. "I know it's a lot of money, but..."

"And you just have to kiss him? Why?"

"Well... something about... boring housewives never doing anything or... I don't know. It's all so confusing Richard. Shouldn't I just come home?"

Another pause. "We could really use that money."

She tasted blood, and quickly released her lower lip. "Okay."

"Will you call again tomorrow? Afterwards?"

She nodded to nobody. "Yes."

The phone line went dead.