Reality Jane (10 page)

“And babe, I really need your help with this next pitch. I wrote most of it on the plane.” He handed me a single sheet of paper with a few scribbles torn from his steno pad.

With one eye on the road, I pretended to read it, unsure what to say.

“This is the big one. It’ll make my career. They expect it next week.” He slid his hand on my leg. “Damn you’re hot. I can’t wait to take you.”

Fifteen minutes of rush-hour traffic later, Craig and I were rolling down Lincoln Boulevard en route to Malibu and Craig’s palatial abode when he suddenly grabbed my arm. “Turn here,” he said as he read off an address from his day timer. “My new digs in Venice. Pretty nice, I hear.”

“What?” I squealed, completely taken aback. “But what about your house? On the ocean? Your Malibu beach palace?”
Where we made sweet love to the sound of waves pounding the beach, with the giant mural of the Lichtenstein girl staring at us with that ‘Oh, no, Mr. Bill’ expression, and the Buddha facing out from the wall of sliding glass doors. Oh, and the kitchen with the marble counter-tops and columns where we cooked Aunt Jemima pancakes and sipped espresso and you joked about marrying a Canuck!

My heart sank. I was confused.
Again.

Craig began nonchalantly, almost as if it didn’t require explanation. “Oh, that was just temporary. This is a great new condo. It’s huge. On the beach, too. Just closer to things—you know, downtown, LAX, my meetings, you!”

“But, how’d you. . .? You’ve been gone. Did you sell? Did you—”

“Oh, I didn’t own that place. I was only renting. Actually, Pal Porter owns it. That dude has more money than God.”

“Pal Porter? The studio executive icon? How’d you. . . weren’t you his nutritionist?” I said.
I could have sworn Craig said he owned that house. Was I imagining things? And isn’t Pal notoriously bi? Why would Pal want Craig living with him?
Actually, I know the answer to that one. I’m not THAT naïve.

“Yeah, when he got sick, right about when I moved in to keep him on his program, make sure he ate right and all that stuff. Totally better now. Anyway, hon, I’ve got to really focus. I need to call these guys and get directions. And we should leave in about an hour. Maybe while I shower, you can pick up some food for us. Then we’ll roll.”

“Oh,” I said, sinking into my seat.

As we pulled up to the condo, I noticed the name on the keypad wasn’t Craig’s. It was that of his friend—another very wealthy friend. As we walked into this gorgeous structure of glass and steel beams, I noticed something else. Craig’s room was not the master bedroom. It wasn’t even the guest bedroom. It was an over-sized laundry room.

“Great pad, eh?” Craig nodded at me, not caring to hear my response as he went about his business of tossing bags on the bed and searching for toiletries.

I nodded back, the truth about him an ever-expanding mystery.

Craig’s cell phone rang as we hit the I-5, halfway to the party. I had just begun to rationalize in my head how unimportant it was that Craig should own a house on the beach, or even a house at all. I didn’t even care that he didn’t seem capable of renting a condo on his own or that he had to sleep amidst piles of dirty clothes that didn’t belong to him.
Don’t let it ruin the night
.
He’s doing something most people never do. He’s giving up everything for his dream!
I half-listened to his cell phone conversation while listening to the radio and having a conversation with myself about the state of Craig.

“Hey, what’s up?. . . Good. How are you?. . . Same old. Yeah. Just got back. . . Amazing, totally amazing. . . Hit the summit. . . Yup, filmed the whole thing. . . Not too much. Mainly prepping for the next big one. . . Oh, just going to a BBQ with a friend. . .”

Friend?
I glared at him. FRIEND? I was suddenly just a friend! My heart began to thrash.
How dare he? Am I that big a loser I think I’m in love with someone who considers me just a friend?

Craig hung up the phone. I waited, attempting to collect myself, not sure whether to cry or to sock him.

“
Friend?
” I said, staring into his eyes, expecting him to beg for mercy.

None came.

“I’m
just a friend
?”

“What?” he said, suddenly perturbed.

I felt my heart pounding, “That person, whoever that was— you told them I was your
friend
?”

“They’re not important. I hardly know them.”

I was seething. “If they’re not important, then why didn’t you say ‘with my girlfriend’? I
am
your girlfriend, aren’t I?”

“You’re acting crazy, Jane. Calm down.”

“I am calm,” I said, feeling broken. “I’m just trying to understand.”

I couldn’t believe he had no explanation, no story. He’d nonchalantly called me a “friend” and was okay with that. My whole world seemed to collapse.

“
Friend
? Come on, Craig. That hurts.” I felt the tears forming.

My wheels began churning. I thought back to Craig’s many mysterious rendezvous during the last few months, his endless evenings of work, his surprise weekend trip to Mexico with a “buddy.” Did he have someone on the side? Through my head raced visions of him curled up naked with some uber-girl: his fingers exploring her impossibly thin body; his head ensconced between gravity-defying cleavage; her thick brown mane framing her face and pillow like those in a
Victoria’s Secret
lingerie ad—both of them giggling with delight.

How can I compete with that? I’m sporty! Cute. My mom says beautiful, but she’s my mom. I’m tall. My mom also says I’m swan-like—again, she’s biased. I suppose I have good posture, but I’ll never have that perfectly firm butt you can bounce a quarter off of, or those super slender legs that look so good in skinny jeans, or when wrapped around a guy’s head in bed.

“This is stupid. Just drop it, okay?” he said, trying to end our conversation.

For a moment, I regretted saying anything. He was angry
and it was my fault. I had let my imagination get the better of me. This had probably ruined our first time together in three weeks. Really, it was no big deal.

I sat silent, staring out the window at grid-locked traffic, thinking about the time Craig and I were camping in the Sierras on my 29th birthday and he surprised me with a brand new Burton snowboard and told me I was “the one.” Then another time over dinner, he saw a pretty, pregnant woman and rubbed my belly, insisting, “That’ll be you soon.”

He loves me. He’s just scattered sometimes
.
Love’s supposed to be complicated.

The sun had disappeared as we pulled up to a large gray five-story apartment building. There was nowhere to park. This I expected near the beach, not on the streets of quaint, charming, and oh-so far-away Pasadena.

“What time is it?” I asked Craig. It was my attempt to break the silence as he grabbed the wine from the back seat, three blocks from our disappointingly humdrum destination.

“Dunno.”

“Must be 8:30, huh? Too early for the sun to set. It’s summer. You know, back home, it’s still light out.”

I waited for his response. He nodded.

“Until, like 10, or maybe only 9:30 now that it’s August, but still. . .” I began to think I missed Vancouver, and the clean sunsets where the sun beams a frothy yellow before settling into a clear blue ocean. “Hey, Craig, do you want to live in LA forever? Or do you love it here?”

“Not forever.”

I waited for him to say more, hoping he had a plan for us, perhaps a ranch in the Rockies, near a ski hill, with kayaks and bikes and horses and maybe even a goat for fresh milk. Like some pitiable wallflower, I pictured him sweeping me into his arms, professing that life had no meaning without me. It was unlike me to be needy. The pre-Craig me had a few simple rules: Let them call you; play it cool; and most important, never say the L-word first. But there was something about him that had melted me, turned me into a child quietly calling out for reassurance, praying for that Cinderella ending.

“I’d probably live in the mountains, maybe the Tetons. Some day, yeah.” He grabbed my hand and pulled me down the sidewalk, set on his destination.

“Craig?” I said, rather pathetically. “Alone?”

“No,” he squeezed my hand. “Course not. With you.”

Craig ended up in the kitchen, talking to some engineer about streaming real-time video of Craig via satellite as he attempted the Antarctic crossing. They lost me at
bandwidth,
so I saddled up next to the girls at the food table and plucked out a cheese popper, hoping for lighter conversation. Three glasses of wine were helping me forget Craig’s cold front.

The minute the girls discovered I was a reality TV producer, it all started. The bombardment. Everyone wanted to know:
real or not?

“You guys are too smart to watch reality TV,” I said, wondering if they were just being polite.

“I’m addicted to
Top Model!
” one freakishly smart girl said.

She had just finished telling me about her doctorate in algorithms and complex system analysis—something I could barely pronounce, let alone comprehend.

“What about Dagmar, that break-out celebrity heiress on all the talk shows? Is someone coaching her? She seems so shallow. Is that for real? I heard she’s getting her own TV show,
Hollywood Heiress
.”

“According to my sources, Dagmar is a bit of a pain,” I said with a wink, stressing the word “pain” for effect.

Toni had worked with Dagmar for a day on a press junket. This made her, and me, an expert on all things Dagmar.

“And yes, her reality show was greenlit yesterday. But nobody knows who it’s with or the subject matter. It’s all hush-hush.”

The great thing about having friends in “the biz” was all the trade gossip we so eagerly shared. Their stories became your stories, until you’d heard so many yarns about reality show vixens you could no longer remember whether you were there, or just heard about it. The other bonus was the factual accuracy, a sort of ethical gossip grapevine. And Toni, thanks to PA connections on just about every show in the works, was my vine.

“Do tell!” the brainiac purred.

“Well,” I said, leaning in, “my close friend, who’s worked with her, said Dagmar won’t speak to set crew directly, only through her assistant. She insists someone spray the room with lavender oil
before
she arrives. And, she says that the big bucks she receives for her public appearances, such as at those Miami night clubs and the like, is. . .” I whispered into the back of my hand for effect, “barely worth the cash, if she has to slum it with the riff-raff for an
entire
hour.”

“That’s just wrong!” Algorithms Girl sputtered, looking disgusted.

“Twisted, eh?” I said. “And, side-bar, apparently she refuses to use public rest-rooms.”

A few years ago, someone like Dagmar would have barely hit my radar—after all, I was aiming to be the next network news anchor, not Perez Hilton. But living in LA, whether through proximity or peer pressure, I couldn’t help but be fascinated by celebrity, even celebrity heiresses. Swapping the
Economist
for
Star
magazine had become habit, not guilty pleasure, and I now Tivo’d more shows on MTV and CW than on all the so-called “smart” networks combined (not that that meant much, with their
Swamp People
and
Dog
in number one ratings spots).

So much for wholesome smart chick from the great white north. Hard to believe I once did an investigative news story that prompted Vancouver police to take down an illegal Internet gambling ring. My weekend beach clean-ups back home had been replaced by weekend binges in Mexico, where I downed margaritas and got beach-side massages which cost less than an LA studio lunch.

In fairness, I had maintained my strange fixation on the notoriously grounded, immensely bold, celebrity talk show icon Ricky Dean. Now,
he
had substance. As the syndicated radio host of the ultra-famous
Fix Your Life
show, he had helped countless people straighten out their cruddy lives. A Ph.D. no less, who had penned at least five bestsellers on the art of a balanced life, he provided no-nonsense good advice, helping people help themselves, and he was damn good at it.

“Remember that show
Heavenly Hotel
?” someone else piped in. “Those people were so brutal! Total train wreck.”

Algorithms Girl cut her friend off. “Yuck, I hated that show. Hey, I want to hear about those Sex Kittens you’re working with.”

“Well, it’s a show about rock stars and the sexiest groupies on the planet,” I started. “Basically, a day in the life of Kittens on a play-date with a rock star, and we film it! That’s pretty much it.”

“Seems anyone can get their own show these days,” someone said sarcastically.

“Who’s the next rock star on the Kittens show?” someone else asked.

“Chaz Jones,” I said. Three days ago, I had never heard of this country mega-star. Now, we were on a first name basis. “He, our impossible host, and two very hot Sex Kittens.”

Just as Craig walked in to join the conversation, two of the guys went
Raaaaar
. I saw Craig whisper to them.

“What’s that, Craig? Something you want to share?” I said with the lightness of a woman in love, expecting he’d make up for the car ride by declaring his devotion to my fragile feminine ego.

“Nope. Just that I might once have dabbled in a little meow mix myself.” He thumped his chest like a big ape.

“Whoa,” everybody teased, as if Craig and I were about to have a standoff.

People chuckled. But I was mortified. It was one of those evenings that had quickly plunged from expectations of glorified bliss—like Christmas morning, or the first day of a vacation, or a reunion with the love of your life—to a period stain on your favorite underwear. It was no badge of honor, not to mention embarrassing, to have my boyfriend telling a roomful of strangers he’d slept with a woman willing to show the whole world her naked beave!

“Why’d you say that?” I asked, halfway home in my Volvo. No clue why we hadn’t driven his brand new Jeep. C
ome to think of it, where was his Jeep?