Reality Jane (17 page)

He seemed to notice me just as I noticed him. He looked surprised. I shifted my gaze. I guessed that undoing that last button—on my tight, black, stretch-silk, short-sleeved pouf-blouse á la Stella McCartney—yes, real! Street sale in Santa Monica—to reveal the stitching on a sexy black tank wasn’t such a bad idea after all. And a little beauty sleep and 20 minutes of primping never hurt anyone.

“Hey, babe, let’s see you move it/move it!” One of the guys from the grip department grabbed me to dance.

I went along, the whole while searching for Surfer Boy. Alex’s face flashed into my head.
He wouldn’t do that to
you
?
My little voice sounded particularly schoolmarmy. This was the same voice that reminded me I was plummeting to super-slutdom every time Alex tried to unzip my jeans. Didn’t matter. I hadn’t done anything—yet.

“Let’s see what you’re made of, Jane,” the grip guy said, handing me a shot of Jaggermeister snagged from a bar tray. “Your turn!”

“What is this, high school?” I said, promptly chugging the shooter, planting it upside down on the tray and waving at Mr. Bartender to keep it coming.

A collection of shooters and three beers later, I was feeling no pain. I kept searching the room for Surfer Boy. He was swirling around, looking cute as ever in a plain blue sweater that matched his icy blue eyes. Unfortunately, I wasn’t the only one looking. Some of the castle’s female staff had caught wind of the party. I noticed a particularly busty chambermaid swooping awfully close to my prey.

“
Mmm
, look at zose muscles. You ah zo. . . How do you zay,
mmm, ztrong,” she said, her hand rubbing up and down what clearly was, even from my vantage point, a set of lean wash-board abs.

“No!” I said, lurching from the barstool.

I took a large slug of an inappropriately titled cranberry martini that was less martini and more mystery drink, and in a moment of recklessness, slinked toward Surfer Boy to hip-check chamber-skank out of my way.

“Bonjour,” I said, sitting beside him and leaning my back against the wall.

“Hi,” he said, turning toward me.

“Oo are yoo?” the chambermaid asked.

I ignored her and listened instead to my old friend Toni: “If you want him, take him. Otherwise, men take whatever is easiest, i.e., the chamber-ho beside you. Now get to work!”

“Hi,” I said to him again, sucking on a Tic Tac, praying I smelled as minty fresh as the tiny pellet eating a hole in my tongue.

“I vaz seeting ere,” the chambermaid continued. “Beetch.”

“No yoo veren’t,” I slurred, the Jagermeister talking, “becauze if you ver, zen I vood be zeeting on your vase.”

Surfer Boy laughed. “Nice accent.”

Then, strangely, he and I just sat there, staring into each other’s eyes, saying nothing, as though we had been waiting a long time for a closer look.

Finally, I broke the silence. “So, what do you think when you think about me?”

“What?” He smiled with a perplexed look.

“What do you think when you think about me? I know you think about me. I saw you looking at me.” I smiled coyly. “I want to know what you think?”
Did I seriously just say that three times?

“Well, I haven’t really seen you since the bus ride. But you’re right. I have thought about you.”

“You have?” I attempted my cutest pout. “So tell me what you think.”

“Well, I think you’re pretty.”

I hesitated. “Anything else?”

“Well, what do you think when you think about me?” he said.

“I’m asking the questions.”

“I think you’re interesting,” he acquiesced.

“Uh-huh.”

“It’s your turn now.” He placed a hand on my knee.

Gulp.

“I think you have great hair,” I said. In fact, I found the whole package absolutely delicious.

I hadn’t realized it, but our noses were practically touching. We were millimeters away from a kiss. I could feel his breath against my lips. It was as if no one else was in the room. I couldn’t hear the music anymore, just the sound of him breathing.

“And, I think—hey!” I yelped, yanked from my delicate state of bliss. “Danny?!”

“Come on, Honey Blossom. Drinks are on me!” Danny pulled me through the crowd.

“But wait, I—”

“No buts. I got them to make us something special. It’s called a Beluga martini. I made it up. Do you love it?” he said, pushing me onto a barstool, leaning into my neck for a little girl talk. “Oh my, you and that hotty cameraman, Grant, were getting awfully fresh. You should do him.
I
would.”

Working on it, you tool!

I had barely tasted Danny’s blackened firewater when I turned to check the bench for Surfer Boy. He had disappeared. Just like that. I scanned the room. Nothing. Nowhere. Then I looked for chamber-twinkie. Her friends were there. She was not.

Shit! Leave it to Danny to screw this up!

After twenty minutes of listening to Danny prattle on about how fabulous Karl was “as a boss” (
yeah, right, more like lover
), I checked my watch: 2:00 a.m. Before I did any more damage, I decided I had better get back to my room, especially considering the fact that, just minutes earlier, I was poised for not one, but two affairs. I was also considering kicking some chambermaid ass to make that happen. Probably not a great idea for an
aspiring producer in a business where you’re only as good as your last show. After all, I needed a solid reference for my new dream job,
Fix Your Life
with Ricky Dean. With an air-kiss, I said goodnight to Danny as I slid out the door.

Outside, people were milling around, smoking dubes and looking for stars—the real ones in the sky. The ground seemed to move. Suddenly, my elbow brushed against a wall, and I thought someone had pushed me. As I staggered between strides, I realized I was on my own.
Holy crap! I’m drunk!
I stopped for a minute to collect myself and to stare up at the black sky, thinking:
Got to get back to my place. This is stupid! Hardly know Surfer Boy. Must stick with Alex. . .

As I plodded my way back to my chalet, I opted for a shortcut. It was late, but there were lights and mini-parties going on everywhere. I tripped over tree roots and rocks and wended my way through a short and nippy vineyard trail. It spit me out near a group of chalets that were hardly familiar. I suddenly felt lost and silly and wished I’d taken my normal route.

Then, as if the alcohol had finally tainted every last one of my brain cells, I felt an inexplicable urge to find Surfer Boy. I
had
to see if he was with that woman. I
had
to know.

One chalet after another, I peered inside the windows, squinting to catch a glimpse.
If I find his chalet—and she’s not there—that means we’re meant to be together
. Any sense of professionalism, or the fact I was being paid good money to be in France, didn’t enter into my “thinking.”

On the final set of rooms, a beam of light flickered through a half-shut curtain. I slid up the window frame and poked my head around for a closer look.

“Voila!” I mumbled.

There he was, alone, an electric toothbrush vibrating between his chops.

“I shouldn’t. I shouldn’t. I shouldn’t.” I watched my hand reach toward the door.

Knock knock.

The door creaked open. He stood shirtless in front of me. No words, just a consenting smile.

“Grant?”
That’s his name, isn’t it?

“Yes.”

“I can’t believe I came over.”

“I can.”

“I think I’m drunk.” I self-consciously swept my hair over my shoulders. “And what do you mean ‘I can’?”

“I thought you might.”

“You thought I might? But, I didn’t even know your chalet number.”

“It just seemed like you might.”

“Oh,” I said, disappointed. “Am I that predictable?”

“No, you’re not.” He swept his hand across my chin. “And I’m glad you’re not.”

We began to kiss. All I could think about was how this had to be a dream. I was probably—actually—passed out in a bush somewhere, imagining the whole situation: two hunky men, both wanting me, one an earthy surfer dude with a brain and a conscience, the other, a successful model and TV host so brazen and self-assured he was planning to take over the world. How was it possible that pre-LA, I had gone three long years with barely a date, then, suddenly, I had relationships with three hotties in less than a year?

“It’s not like me to do this. You know?” I whispered.

“
Mm, hmm
.”

More kissing. Thirty minutes later, a big heavy sigh.

“Okay. I’ve got to go. I can’t believe I’m here. It’s late. I can’t stay.”

“I’m glad you came by.”

“Me too.”

More kissing, then kissing on the bed, then rolling and kissing, then silence.

I saw the first morning sun ray creep through the window.

“No!” I shrieked, scrambling around the pillows. “It’s morning! Piss! Damn! Hell! I’ve got to go. What time is it? What time is it?” I was in full panic mode.

“It’s 6:10,” Grant said sleepily. “What’s wrong?”

“I’ve got to get back to my chalet. It’s morning! Someone’s going to see me. I’ll never make it back!”

“It’s okay. No one’s up yet. Don’t worry about it.”

“No. I can’t believe I fell asleep! If someone sees me, I’ll die. I’ve got to go!”

All I could think about was Alex’s early morning call. Right now—and probably this very second—he was traipsing around the vineyard grounds, shooting his host wraps for the show.
Shit! Shit-crap-shit!

“Let me help you.” He reached for my clothes.

I had my socks on and nothing else.
Had we? Did we?
No time for questions, much less answers. I threw on my jeans, my shoes, and my jacket, then pulled my underwear and blouse into a ball. I grabbed the door and barely kissed him back as he reached for me.

“I’ve got to go. Sorry. Bye. Shh. Bye.”

As I slipped out the door, my heart was pounding. I felt dizzy from the alcohol and a meager three-hour nap. I was furious that I’d let myself crash, and maybe have sex.
I’m GTH, GTH, GTH
(a high school acronym for Going To Hell), and definitely the new Queen of Slutville. In horror, I skulked behind the row of chalets and around the back in mortal fear that Alex might see me, and Karl and Naomi, too. Anyone.
Could I be fired for this?

Oblivious to my need to remain hidden, the sun began to fill the sky. I fumbled over rocks and jogged through a winding, unfamiliar path that led me to a clearing. When I saw the coast was clear, I bolted toward my place. In my periphery, I noticed someone walking.

No! You don’t exist!
I ignored him. If I didn’t see him, he couldn’t see me.
Pfew,
I thought,
nearly home.

I was on the final stretch when one of the lighting grips peeked his head out of the tech shack.

Nooooooooooo!

“Morning, Jane,” he snickered with a funny look on his face.

I pretended to be serious and in a rush. “Morning,” I replied. “Just. . . uh. . . picking up my call sheet.”

“Uh, huh,” he laughed.

The ball of clothing in my fist screamed
Walk of Shame
! Who was I trying to kid? I kept my head down and continued my walk-jog to my chalet. The floorboards squeaked as I headed up the stairs and snuck through my door, as if wide-eared parents were angrily anticipating my return, which they kind of were—Karl’s room was on the same floor as mine.

Given the alcohol-affected drama of hooking up with two guys, I was firmly and suddenly convinced that this reality show should have been about me!

I
t was six o’clock in the morning. Two days and counting until the end of production. Two choppers, their engine noise deafening, hovered over the castle towers: one for Dagmar and Dominic, and the second for all their assistants. Everyone was on the way to Paris on a shopping trip for Dagmar’s wedding dress.
Yahoo!
We finally had our ending.

“So, where do you want me?” I yelled to Karl, sounding as subservient as I could.

He was busy organizing people and shouting orders at the PAs. Ever since Beluga-gate, I’d been unable to step back into his good graces, though I wasn’t sure I’d ever been in them. And even though I’d made the
Fix Your Life
show my new raison d’être, I still needed a job in the interim. With two days left of employment, my fingers were firmly crossed, hoping that Karl would ask me to post-produce the show.