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Authors: David James

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BOOK: A Not So Model Home
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“Ian. Yes.”
“I know how easy eet eez to call out zomeome else's name,” Gilles retorted, jumping right in. “Especially during sex. I hear that Aleksei does it all the time when he's with Ian.”
While everyone was incensed with the way Gilles ceaselessly lobbed flat-footed insults like show-me-your-breasts Mardi Gras beads, Ian seemed to cherish the tussles that he instigated. Ian, it was clear, thrived on conflict and liked being fought over.
Jeremy attempted to wrap things up. “Now zat we all know each other . . .”
“No, we don't,” Gilles spoke up. “Who's zat?” he asked, pointing at a rather plain-looking, middle-aged man standing off to one side of the dining room.
“That's Lance Greenly,” Ian explained. He's my CEO and business manager for my hair-products empire. You've met him a dozen times. He comes here all the time on business.”
More blank stares.
It was becoming clear that unless you were muscled or handsome, you didn't register here. At all.
Don't get me wrong, Lance wasn't ugly by a long shot. But being surrounded by these abnormally handsome men was enough to make George Clooney look like a skank. Lance must have been around forty, with a receding hairline that he wisely kept short. He had a long, drawn-down face with a heavy five-o'clock shadow and red eyes that made him look like he had been crying for decades. I guessed he was about five feet eight. Lance, working for a style Nazi like Ian, dressed very, very well, but he didn't stand a chance in this room of mannequins. Like the attitude of the boys at the table, whose motto surely had to be “amaze me or I will dismiss you,” Lance was probably cast off long ago due to his lackluster appearance and his terrifying potential to use scary and hard-to-understand corporate terms that could upset the guys now sitting at the table.
Tony Marcello, Jeremy's silent servant, tiptoed up to Jeremy, whispered in Jeremy's ear, then departed the room walking backward like a peasant in King Henry's court.
“Well, we were going to save this surprise for later, but Ian's therapist, Aurora Cleft, is here in town a few days ahead of schedule. We might as well have her come in and introduce herself,” Jeremy said, waiting for our surprise guest to appear.
A minute later, she entered the room and clattered across the soft pine floors on heels so tall, they pumped her petite frame up almost five inches. The soles of the shoes were a bright red: Christian Louboutin. Though she was very small, she walked with an intensity that suggested that very little would stand in her way, and anyone who did would end up like flattened roadkill. She dressed in a voluminous black knitted dress cinched tightly around her wasp-waist with a huge black belt. She wore black tights that completely covered her legs. She looked like a female superhero: Black Spandex Woman. In contrast with her preference for dark clothing, her hair was shocking Annie Lennox white, parted severely in on the right side of her head, with the left part perpetually covering her left eye like an eye patch. I suppose in parts of Los Angeles this was supposed to be fashionable, but to me, it looked sinister—an effect that probably wasn't lost on Aurora. If she were suddenly thrust into a fashionable woman's prison, Aurora would be nobody's bitch.
Aurora didn't take a seat at the table even though there was a chair open for her. Instead, she leaned forward and placed her widely spaced hands (with talon-like fingernails, painted black) firmly on the table as if to remind a reluctant board meeting that she was in charge.
“I'm sure Jeremy introduced me already, but just in case he hasn't, I'm Aurora Cleft. I am Ian's psychiatrist, and I'm here on the show as a relationship counselor, to help him choose a suitable boyfriend—and heir. I've had a very successful practice in Los Angeles for over a decade, and I've treated some of the biggest names in Hollywood. I can't tell you who they are because of therapist–patient confidentiality, but believe me, I'm talking big names. I've written several books you might have read”—she looked at the empty-headed expressions on the faces at the table—“or heard of:
Kick Your Own Ass
;
You're Not a Victim . . . Just a Pathetic Wimp;
and
Lonely? Get Over It!
I believe in the individual taking charge of his life and not whining a lot about it. I'm tough, I'm smart, and I don't suffer bullshit. Okay, gentlemen, let's go make history, let's get ratings, and good luck to all of you. Some of you are going to need it,” she finished, looking squarely at Gilles.
I didn't know whether to clap or storm the beaches of Normandy. I didn't know what to think of Aurora. Yes, I did. I thought she was a bitch.
Gilles, true to his nature, made a mumbling comment about Aurora's being “vertically challenged.” I'm surprised Gilles would know a word that was so, well, American.
Aurora's head spun in Gilles's direction so quickly I thought I was going to hear neck bones cracking. “When Katharine Hepburn first met Spencer Tracy, she was wearing high heels and commented that maybe she was a bit tall for him, to which he responded, ‘Don't worry, I'll cut you down to size.' I may be short, Gilles, but don't forget that I am here to make sure Ian finds a suitable partner who thinks with more than his dick. I've seen your type before.”
Boy, I wish the cameras were rolling just then. That would have made a Kodak moment. Aurora had shut up Gilles for the time being.
Suddenly, I liked Aurora a lot more. She was starting to grow on me.
Jeremy jumped in like a trendy ringmaster. “Well, that's the cast! You all know each other. When we start filming on Monday, the context will be a pool party here at Ian's house. I want to you to arrive in street clothes, but bring sexy swimsuits to wear for the party.... That means you, too, Amanda—I plan on having a lot of lesbians following this show too. That means a Brazilian wax,” Jeremy announced, pulling an imaginary strip of waxed pubic hair from his crotch with a ferocious jerk of his arm. “For those of you who could use a little touching up on the tans, I'd spend a few hours brushing up over the weekend . . . but don't overdo it. And please hit the gym as much as you can. I want you all looking sexy, pumped, groomed, and with bulges in your swimsuits. There will be several cameras roving around, taking down your every word, so if you're going to say something to the camera, be yourselves . . . but be nasty. I want conflict, I want competition, I want men here wanting to win. I want big ratings.”
I raised my hand timidly.
“Yes, Amanda?”
“As Ian's long-time friend, what is my role exactly?”
“To be his friend.”
“I know that, but how am I supposed to interact with these gentlemen?” I trailed off.
“Just be yourself, Amanda. Do what friends do. Comfort Ian . . . er, look, Amanda, I'm a producer. Everyone hates me. What would I know about friendships? In my business, you befriend someone and they stab you in the back, wipe their shoes on you, then climb over your lifeless body. That's why I have no friends; can't trust 'em in Hollywood. Plus, I'm a driven, obnoxious, toxic person. Who in their right mind would want to be my friend?”
There was no argument there. I didn't know how to answer him. Jeremy was so stereotypically narcissistic that if I called him what he really was—a total dickhead—it would bounce off his protective exterior without so much as a dent. I decided to stick with what manners my mother taught me: If you don't have anything nice to say about someone, say it behind their back.
“I guess I'll make sniping and bitchy comments about the other contestants, have others give me the finger, duck when someone throws a wineglass at my head, and get swept up in what promises to be a tsunami of self-manufactured and unnecessary drama. You know, like what happens on a typical realty show.”
Jeremy clapped his hands, the twenty-odd, trendy silver bracelets on his left arm jingling like a slot machine jackpot. “Excellent! This chick's got it. I hope the rest of you gentlemen heard that. I want you to write that down and paste it to your bathroom mirror and recite it every day. That's your fuckin' mantra! Okay, we start filming Monday. Be here at six
A.M.
sharp!”
While everyone got up to leave, I sat in my chair, dazed, wondering how all this happened. Yes, I knew exactly that this show was going to be little more than a gay Jerry Springer with a lot of tight pants. Yes, I signed the contract to be on the show. Yes, I showed up today for the briefing. But as I sat there, I wondered why I had done this? For the fame? Probably not. My low self-confidence made me shun the limelight like a cockroach under a fluorescent kitchen light. For the money? Well, yeah. I had four condo rentals that weren't going to pay for themselves. And a mortgage on a money pit that I called home (or The Curse, depending on my mood that day). But still, I couldn't get the question out of my mind. Like a mass murderer at his arraignment, why did I do it? And the answer was that I didn't know.
Jeremy, sensing wrongly that I was starstruck, gave me a pep talk.
“You're going to be a star, baby. What's my little girl thinking about?”
I let the “little girl” pass as just another Hollywood-bullshit-make-small-talk. I looked him straight in the face. “I was thinking that being on this show was going to make spending a weekend with Liz and Dick Burton look like a Girl Scout Jamboree.”
“That's the spirit,” Jeremy exclaimed enthusiastically, clopping me hard on the back as I stood up to leave.
C
HAPTER 5
I've Got A Funny Feeling About This
“S
o how was my movie star's first day?” Alex asked as I walked into our decoy office at the real-estate firm where we routinely gave too much of our commissions to our do-nothing brokerage. We mostly operated out of our home offices but used this one to store our huge files, make telephone calls, and more importantly, color copies.
“There's less tension at a Palestinian-Israeli summit meeting.”
“The bitchiness has started already?”
“Oh, Alex, you have no idea. This show is going to descend into the depths of white trashiness.”
“The guys look the part? One tooth in the front of their mouths to hook some fruit?”
“Alex, I didn't say these guys were from Desert Hot Springs. No, all the contestants are gorgeous models. Most are still working and one is in rehab.”
“A model in rehab. I never thought I'd see the day,” Alex said, insincerely shaking his head.
I took a stack of flyers for an overpriced home and dropped them all on the floor. “But behind the Estée Lauder eye rejuvenation creams and plastic Prada pants, their manners and breeding give 'em away. The weird thing is the French guy is the trashiest. Give him just one episode. He's going to strip the Kardashian family of their class. I always think of the French as being, well, you know, having taste.”
“They adore Mickey Rourke.”
“Okay, so there's a big, gaping hole in my theory. Gilles is nothing more than trash du traileur with a great body and face to match! And these guys are like what Gertrude Stein once said about Oakland, California.”
“There isn't any there, there?”
“That's about the sum of it, Alex. They spend most of their time texting, or playing Angry Birds video games. The glitz is the substance.”
“Amanda, they're models. What did you expect?”
“You'd think with all the time they've spent in London and Paris and Milan, some sophistication would rub off.”
“I think the word you're looking for is not sophistication, but as you said, substance. Don't hold your breath. These kind of shows would turn Prince William into Snooki.”
“Oh God, Alex, please don't mention
Jersey Shore
. I'm so afraid that Italy is never going to forgive us for letting those troglodytes film the show in Florence. Florence! Can you image it? The birthplace of the Renaissance! The city where all of Europe began to climb out of the Dark Ages, and the cast of
Jersey Shore
almost put it right back where it started in just a few weeks.”
“Amanda, the guys on your show might not be Rhodes Scholars, but they could never descend that low. You know this is a reality show, Amanda. There's going to be bitchiness, cattiness, pettiness, and above all, manufactured drama. But do you think it's going to have good production values?”
“Good production values, Alex? This is one step up from a porn film.”
“It's not that bad. At least Ian has good taste in his house.”
“It's full of penises.”
“It's full of male models, Amanda. What else could it be?”
“No, Alex. There are penises everywhere—sculptures, paintings, illustrations, pool floats.”
“Oh, then Ian's not getting any.”
I brightened up. “That's what I thought. Exactly.” I sighed. “Well, Alex, there is a silver lining. Maybe.”
“The paycheck?”
“No, that's expected.”
“Possible future husbands?”
“No, that ain't gonna happen. I think I'm the only straight person on the show. Oh, wait a minute. Aurora Cleft . . . I think she's straight. I think.”
“Aurora Cleft? What is she? British supermodel? Nazi she-wolf?”
“Both, but she's kinda short for the model thing. She's Ian's therapist, counselor, exorcist, whatever. But I like her. I think.”
“She's the silver lining?”
“I'm going to make her my emotional airbag. A buffer, so to speak. All right, I'm going to hide behind her if I need to.”
Alex gave me one of those stop-underestimating-yourself looks. “How about this: Why don't you work to stand out rather than hide in the shadows? I mean, that's what they hired you for.”
“I'm there for the comic relief . . . to make others look good while they dance rings around me.”
“Then don't let 'em do it. You're much smarter than those vacuous models and musclehead pretty boys. Remember, the image you create on this show is going to stay with you for a long time.”
“Like Janet Jackson's pierced and armored nipple at the Super Bowl? Great! I still can't get that image out of my head.”
“I know, I still wake up screaming at night. That is one ugly boob . . . the veins, ugh! But back to the matter at hand. You're a smart aleck. You're funny. Why don't you put all those zingers you come up with to good use?”
“Oh, I don't know, Alex.”
“Amanda, you said that these guys are vain, narcissistic, bitchy, and vacuous.”
“Most of them are.”
“So then it will be like shooting fish in a barrel. You're going to stand out if you play off these bad qualities. I mean, if these guys turn out to be as bad as you think they might be, they're not going to be likable. Ian is certainly not likable. Aurora seems like a hardass. You play it smart and witty, and you're going to steal the show since viewers are going to want someone to like. They'll identify with you because you'll be giving these guys the kick in the ass the viewers want them to get.”
I got up to go, grabbing my briefcase.
“Where are you going?” Alex asked.
“To look through my shoe closet for a pair with really sharp toes. I'll call you later.”
 
“Yes, Mrs. Gorky, I understand you're frustrated that your house hasn't sold yet and your neighbor's has. But as I told you, Lionel's house is 1,200 square feet larger, it has a drop-dead kitchen and new baths, and yours doesn't. Yours is kinda original. From 1957 . . . Yes, I know yours has the original Formica, and we described it as vintage in the brochures, but it's still gold-flecked Formica.... Yes, I understand that buyers are out for blood, but that doesn't change things.... Yes, I think they're bloodsuckers. . . . What? No, I wouldn't call them that . . . that's illegal. Listen, I understand. . . yes . . . I work in the market, I don't make it. No, I don't think it's a Jewish conspiracy. Well, I imagine that Lehman Brothers had some Jewish people working there, but . . . Yes, but I don't think that has anything to do with your house not selling. Let's give it a few more weeks, and let's talk about a price reduction at the end of the month. No, I think that's what we need . . . Yes, about $50,000. I'm sorry, Mrs. Gorky, I think that's what we need. Okay, I'll call you in a week. Okay, yes, I hear that. Fuckers, huh? Good-bye.”
I hung up the phone like it weighed 300 pounds. I was back in the office with Alex after a short lunch.
“Is she still on the Jew-bastards rant?” Alex inquired.
“That was last week. Now she's after the Armenians.”
“She's old Russia, isn't she? Probably missing the good ol' days of Stalin.”
“Did you see the varicose veins in her legs that she tries covering up with the dark blue hose? And the naval pinafore dress and spectators! She looks like a casting call for the movie
Grey Gardens.
Alex, could you tell me why we took on this listing? I knew she was crazy the moment she walked into my open house two months ago.”
“The lipstick?” he replied. “A telltale sign if there ever was one. Normal people can put theirs on and manage to hit most of their lips.”
“I think she's better suited for living under a bridge instead of in a mid-century house. I don't know why we took this listing,” I added exasperatedly.
“Money? Penance?”
“Alex, you forget that I'm Catholic. Life is penance.”
“I never forget that you were raised Catholic because you remind me daily.”
“That's because I suffer mental anguish from it every day of my life.”
“That was almost thirty years ago. It's time to move on, Amanda.”
“I can't. It's not just mental trauma. It's physical. Look at my hands. I still have ruler marks from when Sister Gerzaniks hit me because I colored Jesus's face black in second-grade Sunday school.”
“Black?”
“The sister told us Jesus lived in the Middle East, where there are deserts and a lot of sun. So I figured Jesus would really be tan at the very least, and since someone had used all the burnt sienna crayons in the box, I used black.”
“Sister Gerzaniks was a racist.”
“She was. She pointed to a picture of Jesus, then a crucifix on the wall, and asked me if his face looked black to me.”
“And what did you say?”
“I said that was just one artist's conception of what Jesus could have looked like.”
“You did not. You couldn't have been more than eight.”
“What could I say, Alex? She was towering over me and had the dreaded ruler in her hand. The one stained red from all the blood. Before I knew it, she brought it down on my hands. I'll never be a hand model again.”
“Did you tell your mother about this? This is physical abuse.”
“I did.”
“And what did she say?”
“She said I probably deserved it. Real supportive.”
“Did anyone tell Sister Gerzaniks that there is absolutely no description of Jesus in the Bible, so every painting or sculpture is completely manufactured. It all depends on the artist. It's not like we had a yearbook to look at.”
“No one looks good in their high-school picture, Alex—except you. Imagine, Jesus with acne.”
“The Holy pustule.”
“We're supposed to be made in God's image, if you believe the Bible.”
“Amanda, if there was a God, do you think he would run around looking like Paris Hilton?”
“So remind me again, Alex, why we have this listing? It's overpriced, the seller is psychotic, and no one is buying any homes.”
Alex looked at me as if to say, y-e-s?
There it was, staring me in the face like an oversized sty. The Great Recession that was really a Depression, but nobody wanted to name it that because it was too scary. But you couldn't ignore it any more than you could a crack whore in your living room. It all started on Wall Street, with stock brokerages creating financial vehicles from borrowed overseas money with no wheels on them, lending money out to anyone who could successfully fog a mirror, to homeowners who bought houses at artificially inflated prices, then took out home equity loans with the false equity they had in their homes and spent it on masochistically ugly home improvements, more speculative housing buys, or boob jobs and cigarette boats capable of running down swimmers at over 100 miles an hour. It was a worldwide clusterfuck. It all was going along very nicely until the participants ran out of lube. Then things got uglier than an Amish fashion show.
Yes, we Realtors had our fine, manicured hands up to the third joints in this mess. We sold these overinflated houses by the thousands and made money like South American drug dealers. We lived like them too. Almost everyone was driving BMWs or Mercedes. The poorer agents drove Lexuses. All this wealth and fine living didn't go unnoticed either. Soon, everyone was getting into the business. Waitresses, school teachers, interior designers, followed by the just plain stupid and inept, while the corrupt brought up the rear. They exploded out of nowhere like a squeezed zit, bloating the ranks of agents while the State of California struggled to keep up with those applying. After all, all you had to do was have a car and a Department of Real Estate license. You didn't have to build a database of leads, follow up on them, do mailing, make phone calls, and build a business plan. And like Santa Claus, we all believed the lie, believing that home values were going to go up forever and ever. The rising tide was going to raise all boats, but ours was going to be a yacht. We were going to be stinking rich. And some of us were . . . for the life span of a fruit fly. Then the whole sorry mess began to collapse like a house of cards. Agents went bankrupt, walked away from their homes, drove those fancy cars off cliffs, or more dramatically, made their entire borrowed estate into a delicious bonfire. And there we stood, with sellers looking at us Realtors to bail their butts out of the sling.
The phone buzzed from the front desk.
“Yes, Gino?”
“Call for you from Jeff Stewart. He's on the warpath again.”
BOOK: A Not So Model Home
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