Reality Jane (14 page)

All I saw was a sheath of lavender and blonde, carried by two perfectly shaped sun-kissed calves in purple stiletto heels. Somewhere in the storm of opulence, there was a toy poodle (also dressed in lavender), a bulldog with a butchy studded collar, a man, and six sniveling assistants purling anxiously in their path, probably lobbing lavender rose petals at their feet.

I searched Naomi’s face for signs of disapproval. She looked at me. Looked at my cameraman. Looked at me again. Looked
again at my cameraman.

“Did you get that?” she said nervously.

I looked at my cameraman. “Did you?”

He looked at us. “Of course I got that. Just filmed them walking down the hall and into the room. Like you’d said. Piece of cake.”

Thank God at least one of us wasn’t shaken by the presence of what was truly a demi-goddess: Miss Dagmar Bronson. Naomi apparently had had a five minute pow-wow with Mademoiselle Dagmar and her boyfriend, Mr. Dominic Girbaldi, in the limo when they arrived, just before they entered the castle, streamed up the stairs, down the hallway, and into their room, closing the door firmly behind them.
Our instruction from Dags?
No cameras in the room tonight. We start tomorrow.

So, I did what any good producer, who was totally out of her element, would do: had a mild panic attack while Naomi grabbed my shoulders, told me to breathe, and asked me to place my three cameras in position to catch the arrival of our stars. Gathering every cell of competence I could muster, I promptly sent one camera to the exterior: “Get them exiting the limo!” One to the lobby: “Get them entering the castle!” And one to the bedroom hallway: “Get them entering the boudoir! Oh, and let them walk through frame!. . . Please!”

Naomi breathed a sigh of relief. “You did well,” she said as I regained composure. “No one said this would be easy.”

“Thanks, boss.” I felt elated at successfully completing my first assignment.

“Now, let’s see what they’re getting on the surveillance cameras.”

Naomi pushed a button about eye-level and a hidden door slipped open to reveal a wall of monitors that made me feel as if I’d stepped into a Jason Bourne movie. Four monitors were dedicated to every angle of Dagmar’s bedroom, eight monitors dedicated to the entrance and hallways, three monitors dedicated to the kitchen, two monitors dedicated to the dining area, etcetera, etcetera.

“Wow!” I remarked, completely blown away.

I could never have imagined the technology and expense
that went into making a prime-time reality show—it was like a space mission. It was big-time. And I, a Tic Tac sucking, Tivo worshipping, closet tabloid obsessing, coffee swigging jejune, was not just a part of this hip new television team, but a senior part of the team—a
producer
.

“Naomi, this is so outrageous. I mean—whoa! This must’ve cost—”

“You like it?” a voice said melodically as he spun around in a chair holding a joystick á la Dr. Evil.

Get out of town!
I screamed inside.
Danny? As in my ASSISTANT Danny?

He squeezed out a Cheshire grin that briefly made me want to swing him around the room by his fuzzy purple tail.

“Hey, Jane. Good to see you,” he said. “Guess who’s directing the surveillance cameras?” His face lit up like a firecracker as he nuzzled up to Naomi. I thought she might actually pet him. “Naomi, just want you to know, the red lights on the corners of the monitors mean we’re recording those cameras. As you know, we can record four cameras at once. So, I got camera 16 to catch them entering the room on a wide shot, 15 was on a close-up of Dagmar and her dog Tofu, 17 got Dominic entering with his dog Steak, and 18 followed the assistants.”

“Wow, looks like you guys have this covered beautifully,” Naomi said, sounding pleased, as if Danny, despite his cotton-denim-leotard, was capable of orchestrating something so utterly logical. Until now, I had never even seen him actually work!

Not that I was bitter, but over the course of six months as my assistant, Danny had hardly proven himself to be director material. Cripes, he was hardly AP material. He didn’t deserve this! Truth was, the guy was always late, egged on Lucy when at her worst, had me negotiate all locations (his job description), and consistently forgot to copy my scripts for me before meetings. He exhausted me! His greatest talent was as Karl’s production mole or personal kiss-ass—that, and distracting Karl with his perky body.

“Jane,” said Naomi, turning to me, “what do you think? We got Danny on the show last minute too. He just arrived this
afternoon.”

“I took the red eye. Jet lag doesn’t bother me,” Danny snorted in his quick voice, blinking and smiling merrily. “Heard you had a rough morning. Feeling better now, Sweet Cheeks?”

Why I ought to—
“Yes, thanks for asking, Danny. Thanks very much—”

I considered asking him how surveillance really worked and what story lines he was following, but I couldn’t bear the thought of hearing this from him. I suddenly felt competitive, even territorial, knowing Danny had suddenly usurped me, or at the very least, become my equal.
I could have sworn he was a busboy six months ago. Is there a gay Mafia?
I was beginning to believe the rumors when my head-speak was quickly silenced by my gossip radar.

I tapped the technician sitting beside Danny. “Is camera 22 rolling? There are two figures in the bathroom. Looks like they’re whispering. Might be something good. Should we check it out?” I turned to Naomi while pointing at the monitor.

Camera 22, the bathroom mirror camera, was picking up two shadows. The lights were off, and there was whispering.

“Of course,” Naomi said. “Dagmar’s on her phone, just playing with her hair. Go for it.”

The technician pushed a bunch of buttons and the screen for camera 22 lit up in black and white reverse—infrared. He cranked the volume. We all leaned into the great wall of monitors to listen to the conversation.

“I’m tired of it,” the female voice said.

“It’s not a big deal,” the male voice said. “He’s European.”

“But he smacked your ass,” she said.

“It was an accident,” he said. “Snookums, don’t worry. It’s okay. Nothing’s going to happen. Now, let’s go before they call us to massage out their toe jam. A-holes.”

Oh my God, it’s Snookums and Sarcasm from the bus
—
the couple whose noggins nearly got a lap dance on the ride up here.
They were part of Team Heirs’ entourage of assistants. Who knew?

“Well, that was meaningless,” Danny said, reaching for a tin of Olestra Pringles from the craft service table. “Let’s see what
Dags is up to,” Danny said, chasing his phony chips with a Diet Coke. “Turn up the volume in the bedroom.”

After an hour or so of the assistants unpacking, massaging, acquiescing, cowering, and otherwise doing what they do, Dagmar rose from her bedside slump and told them all to leave, as if she were the Ice Queen, insisting, “Be gone with you,” and they all turned to stone. Naomi said goodnight shortly after that, leaving Danny and I to brood in each other’s company.

I couldn’t help but notice how a promotion had changed him—he no longer had a string of compliments for me—not even a “cute sweater” comment or three. With nothing to say to each other, we both silently stared at the monitors and reveled in an insider’s look at the other side of life.

Dagmar and Dominic’s room was adorned gaudily in creamy silks and sheepskin. Their bedposts dripped of solid gold, and the wardrobe furniture was bejeweled in aquamarine and sapphires. It was even more lavish than I’d imagined when I secretly pictured myself in a “Freaky Friday” moment of cosmic justice, actually living her life as Nice Queen Dagmar, not Greedy Queen Dagmar.

“Hey! Hey, you!” Dagmar said, waving her finger into a camera lens, hidden within a horse statue. “Can I get some caviar?” she whined. “We were told we’d have food, and this corner store fruit basket is not cutting it. . . I know you heard me.”

Danny looked at me as if he had just shat his drawers. “I think this is your deal,” he said, mouth full of petroleum oil potato chips, pointing at me. “You’re the producer.”

“Okay,” I said, reluctantly. “She’s just a girl. Right?”

But Dagmar was more than “just a girl.” She was an oil heiress from the castles of England transplanted to Beverly Hills. At 20, she had more money than God, with the clout to boot, and somehow she’d amassed the support of half of Hollywood. It had all started with her Saturday morning cartoon about fighting crime in her private jet and pink unitard—she and the glam-girls primping, shopping, and busting ass on behalf of a better world. Then she parlayed that success into a voice-over as the perky pet poodle on Hollywood’s
latest blockbuster animation movie, and, presumably, the sequels to come. And now she had her own reality show, flaunting her everythingness, with cameras, producers,
me
, hanging on her every self-centered move and word.

I slid out the door, into the hall, and knocked delicately on Dagmar’s door, wondering how it was possible that a 20-year old woman, a fellow chick, a sister (if I accessed my inner yogi), could have me trembling. Maybe it was the fact that the entire thirty million dollar production was resting on her cooperation. Maybe it was the fact that I had never spoken a word with anyone as famous as her—Lucy didn’t come close. Maybe it was because I’d bought into the hype.

It was that last thought that brought me to my senses. I took a deep breath and vowed to remember who I was: a smart, capable woman who could kick her ass on a downhill slalom course any day of the year.
Me, Jane. Me good at sports. Unk!
As if that mattered. But it was the place I went to when I felt intimidated.

“What do you want?” she said, eyes darting up and down my body, landing on the emblem of my Molson Beer shirt.

“You’d like caviar? Want some champagne or crackers or anything else?” I said gulping. “Just want to make sure we get you everything you need.”

“Uh, yeah,” she nodded, her face frozen in aloof non-expression with a well-rehearsed lip pout. “Sounds good.”

“By the way, I’m Jane Kaufman.” I stuck out my hand and smiled nervously—it was like meeting royalty. “I’m one of the producers.”

She put her wax-soaked orchid-soft hand in mine as if I should kiss it. I nearly did, then shook it gently, awed by her beauty. I had never seen or felt anything quite like it.

“Okay, thank you. We’ll get right on that,” I said, walking away, nearly gleeful.
Man, I handled that like a pro!

“Hey,” she snapped.

Exit cool. Enter fear.

“Where’d you get that shirt?” Her nose angled toward the ceiling. “I want one.”

This is what she did best. Want. . . and get.

“I’ve had it since high school,” I said, smiling, relaxing ever so slightly, and feeling downright dandy that a fashion icon had just approved my taste in clothing, even if it was recycled retro from the last century. “Crazy, huh?”

Regret poured in the moment my words left my mouth. It’s cool to be real with your friends, to tell them about your bargains, about the 70 percent off the 70 percent off sales, or the hand-me downs from your brother, or the fact you still own a shirt from over a decade ago, but sharing that information with an heiress?

“Real crazy.” She smiled with only half her mouth. “It’d look cute on my dog.” Then she swiftly closed the door.

Defeat: I tried not to think about it and immediately called down to the chef to place her late-night order. Danny turned up the volume on Dagmar in the room, drowning out my phone conversation with the kitchen.

“Anyway, she’s a chunker. And that shirt is so tight on her, it would fit my dog. Wouldn’t it, Baby Tofu?” Dagmar’s voice whined from the monitor, distorted by the volume.

Danny sneered. He couldn’t help himself. He’d enjoyed it.

“Was she talking about me?” I said pitifully, the phone dropping to my shoulder.

My mouth popped open in revulsion as I sank into my chair.

Danny froze.

“Was she?”

More silence.

Then, as though reconsidering his foul conquest, “Jane, she’s a C-U-Next-Tuesday,” he said, sounding surprisingly believable as he turned down the volume even more. “That’s not right. And Babes, you ain’t fat. You’re fit. And that’s better than being anorexic like that bitch.”

“Thanks.” I hung up the phone and sulked. “It’s been a tough couple of days and I was just starting to feel good about things.”

Danny awkwardly wrapped his arm around me. Did I hurt? Of course I did. Not because of that smug, brainless, six-foot hanger with her mug all over the monitor, but because of Craig. And though I wanted to be over him, and maybe even thought I
was
over him, I couldn’t escape the fact that he had dumped
me. And for all I knew, he did so because I was fat. Well, not fat. Because I knew I wasn’t F-A-T. He dumped me because I wasn’t perfect. I didn’t have a model’s body, or fake boobs, or really boobs at all, and my legs were muscular from sports. It sucked, moving to LA, surrounded by perfect-looking women, and not getting to be one of them, even for a day. And what sucked even more was that this absurd, unattainable perfection was starting to feel necessary for my survival! Whatever happened to saving the world—me and Diane Sawyer? And whatever happened to the world I wanted to save?

An hour later, the caviar had been delivered, inspected, picked at, nibbled, and basically left to the elements by the heirs. Dagmar and Dominic made a run for their rooftop Jacuzzi as Dagmar modeled the latest in Euro-string swimwear for the 20
15
summer collection, and Dominic followed along in his matching skort. Seriously, a man-skort. Only in Europe. They settled into the bubbles as our Jacuzzi spycams recorded a half-assed attempt at conversation, which went something like this:

“I’m tired.”

“Hear that.”

“What kind of champagne is this?”

“Cheap stuff.”

“I’m so sick of
them
thinking Cristal is the bomb.”

“It’s so yesterday.”

“I need a new fur.”

“Done.”

“They don’t appreciate anything,” I muttered to Danny. “Not a thing. Is this what money does?”