Reality Jane (20 page)

“Yes, my little French Fry. Those two assistants are now millionaires, and soon to be famous millionaires at that. CRP-TV believes that, once the Dagmar show is a hit, people will be fawning all over their two assistants. They’re going to steal the show! Karl says the various networks will come to blows over the chance to air their wedding. Now, no one can touch it. It’s all ours. Anyhoo, babe, are you in?”

“Uh, well, I just, I’m not. . .” I couldn’t. Only in Hollywood could these things happen: a glitzy over-the-top wedding for two former assistants, and Danny, suddenly, my SUPERVISING PRODUCER!

“Sweet Cheeks, whaddya say?” Danny whined. “I need an answer today!”

The idea of Danny as my boss made rubbing balsa wood up and down my naked chest sound pleasant. But somehow, I said yes. My student loan wasn’t about to pay itself off.

“Peachy. Can’t wait!”

Click
.

S
un guns and flash bulbs blasted the side of my face. Row upon row of cameramen and reporters pressed tightly against the long velvet rope, thousands of lenses pointed in my direction. It was my first time on one of Hollywood’s illustrious red carpets. My knees buckled. It was the Grammys.

Is this what fame feels like?
I thought, smiling large for the band of paparazzi and tossing my hair so curls framed my face. I probably should have been ducking somewhere near the limos, or chauffeuring one, but I couldn’t help but revel in this small taste of fame.

“Someone get that blonde out of the shot?” a producer barked.

“
Moi
?” I said sheepishly, glancing side-to-side to help grumpy-producer-man find his
real
target.

Justin Timberlake stopped to talk to
E!
while I hovered over his shoulder in awe, catching my reflection in the frame of someone’s wide-angle lens.

“Jane, this is crazy! They think we’re celebrities,” Toni beamed, probably believing it.

Usher brushed my shoulder in a full-court strut down the red-rug runway. I sidled up to him. With all the pappa-nazis yelling at him, he hardly noticed the extra body moving in stride with his. I was just about to snap his photo when his publicist bulldozed me.

“Ouch!” I bellowed into my kneecaps, picking my purse up off the ground. “You could say sor—”

“Let’s go, babe.” Naomi popped out of nowhere, linking one of her elbows in mine and the other in Toni’s, racing us away from Usher’s entourage through a sea of celebrities. “Okay,
girly-girls, keep abusing your tickets and I’ll put you in the nose-bleeds.”

“But Naomi, I just heard Ryan Seacrest ask who we were!”

“And I’m Jenny from the block,” Naomi teased as she straightened her black blazer to fit her cleavage and flipped her chocolate brown hair off to the side of her curvy body. “Fifth row. Got it? I’ll catch up with you after the show.” She lightly shoved us into the Staples Center and toward the attendants. “Please help them to their seats. I don’t want them getting lost, again!” Naomi winked and quickly disappeared down the long corridor, en route to her boyfriend backstage, bigwig YBC exec Hank Griffin, who was the real reason we were all here.

“We’ll miss you!” I crooned in her direction while the usher began guiding us down the stairs with a flashlight.

We were barely fifteen minutes into the show and I was shifting madly from cheek to cheek. Fortunately, the Grammy soundtrack flooded the Staples Center auditorium, signaling a commercial break. Fingers clutching the armrest, I lurched from my seat, sprinted up the stairs with forearms folded to contain a bloated belly, and scrambled to the bathroom, praying to God to wire me a new bladder and somehow get me back to my seat before the start of the next number.

En route, Naomi instant-messaged me:

Bono’s next. Amazing! You gals hav’g fun?

Peeing!
—Jane

Spaz!;) Don’t miss Bono!

It was my first Hollywood awards show. In my whole life, the closest I’d ever come to an event this big, or this cool, was an AC/DC concert in Edmonton. When the bells chimed and Angus Young began screeching
Hell’s Bells
, I couldn’t have imagined anything more exciting than sparking up my lighter. And as I swayed side-to-side in a pair of zip-around jeans and black concert t-shirt, it all felt so meaningful.

Despite having just two-and-a-half minutes to pee, fluff my hair, and race back, I made it back by a millisecond. The Grammys’ ushers had already placed a seat-filler into my chair—she looked so excited. Toni and I were fifth row center and thinking ourselves quite special, surrounded by A-list celebrities and rock stars.

“Excuse me, Miss.” I gestured respectfully for Ms. Filler to get up and out of my seat in the half-second before the show resumed. “I’m back.” I looked at her sympathetically.

She slipped out inconspicuously while I nearly took Snoop Dog’s foot out allowing her to leave. Toni was leaning sideways, trying to eavesdrop on the man who owned
Purr Magazine
, Brock Barrington, one row up and to the right.

“It’s pretty juicy,” she whispered. “Apparently, Brock is pissed. During the commercial break, when his three Kitten girfriends went to the bathroom, they put seat-fillers in their chairs. Then he kicked the fillers—three, you know, regular looking girls, dressed nice—out of their seats because, he said, “I don’t do dogs. I do Kittens!”

“Say
what
?” I responded in shock.

“Yeah, he’s a total asshole. And he’s old enough to be Grandpa to those porn stars.”

“Speaking of porn stars, I wonder how our little Lucy’s doing,” I said, leaning into Toni’s ear.

During my time in France, Naomi and Karl had the network’s legal department fire Lucy. They were able to prove that, because of her complete lack of professionalism, she was legally unable to fulfill her contract—there were at least two hours of temper tantrums caught on tape to back their claim up.

In the meantime, Naomi’s production company was on fire, with three reality shows in production at the same time. Naomi could barely keep up. To boot, she now had this famous mover and shaker boyfriend. I knew very few of the details. With all the Dagmar drama in France, Naomi and I barely had a moment for girl-talk, and hence hadn’t had our post-shoot chat.

Our Grammy tickets were a guilt gift from Naomi for ignoring her favorite Canadian protégé. Toni told me the tickets were free thanks to her highfalutin’ Hollywood exec boyfriend.
Didn’t matter. I was just happy to be there.

“
Shhh!
” Toni whispered, pointing toward someone emerging from a shadow stage right. “It’s Bono! I love him.”

“Me, too,” I said, completely awed. I could practically touch him. “Do you think he’ll be at the after party? How cool would that be?”

“Jane, quiet!” She pinched my hand.

Toni wore a tight-fitting, copper-colored, floor-length gown that squeezed in her ’50s bombshell curves. She also looked very old Hollywood with her deep-set eyes and ample breasts. It wasn’t until my move to LA that I felt the need to classify women’s boobs. Now, it was part of just about every description, like: “Oh yeah, she’s nice, about 5’5’, red hair, fake boobs.” Toni’s brassy brown-blonde hair sprouted funky tentacles from her French roll. It was the kind of hairdo that either took hours of painstaking assembly, or two minutes, a bobby-pin, and a shot of tequila. With Toni, which one was anyone’s guess.

“Quit fidgeting.” Toni bumped me. “What are you doing? Your dress looks fine. God, this woman is amazing!”

Beyoncé was onstage, accepting her Grammy.

“It’s caught on my underwear,” I said. “Damn! Shouldn’t have worn these stupid. . . They’re snagging my dress. On the crotch!” I pulled my dress from where its sequins had velcroed to my underwear. “This is why women used to wear slips,” I whispered, attempting to straighten the run that afflicted my scant nylon swath. “Whatever happened to slips anyway? Do people still wear them?”

“They’re called Spanx! And I’m trying to listen!”

Despite a few snags below the belly button, I was looking satisfyingly Hollywood for a relative newbie. Toni had convinced me to wear one of my mom’s retro gowns I’d snuck from her dress storage last time I was home. The gown was slinky green nylon with a psychedelic gold pattern. It fit snugly, with a bold slit that zoomed high-thigh, a back that plunged past the curve of my spine, and halter ties that swung over my shoulders and trickled toward my rump. It was groovy. And thanks to its retro authenticity, it looked like a dress any of these rock stars or their dates could have worn.

“Hey, Toni, Antonio Banderas checked me out on my way back from the can. I put an extra hip-check in my walk just for him,” I giggled.

“Isn’t he like 100 now?” Toni poked me and belted out her signature laugh.

“I don’t care,” I swooned. “Ever since
Mambo Kings
and the way he crooned ‘Beautiful Maria.’
Yum!
”

“Too funny. Did Melanie see?” Toni asked.

“Hope not,” I gushed. “They’ll probably be at the after party.”

None of the big stars from the Grammys were at YBC’s after party. So much for “Jane and Toni: Celebrity Insiders!” Somebody said they all went to the
Vanity Fair
party at Chateau Marmont. It was apparently
the
party to go to, but without some celebrity connection, we didn’t stand a chance of getting past security.

“That one—grab me that one.” I pointed while nudging Naomi. My plate was too full to add anything else.

“Just eat it,” Naomi said, stuffing a pink glazed chocolate truffle into my mouth. It looked like a Christmas ornament with a delicate and edible chocolate treble clef teetering on its center. “I need the room for that hazelnut thingy on
my
plate.”

Naomi dug into the pile of intricately decorated hedgehogs, which were surrounded by shelves of crystal and ivy. On the other side sat a giant chocolate fountain, burbling Belgian’s finest. Being with Naomi, here at the Grammys, momentarily reminded me of our time in Mexico. She had been relaxed there.

“They need bigger plates,” I sneered, stacking another pink treble-clef truffle on my overloaded plate.

“We should find Toni,” Naomi said as we shuffled past endless buffets of food. “And my boyfriend,” Naomi said, laughing as if she didn’t really care if we did or not. “By the way, how’s it going with Danny and our wedding special? I’ve been under a pile of legal mumbo-jumbo developing this new game show pilot for ABC.”

“Another new show?”

“Jane, honey, we’re always pitching,” she said in her best mentoring voice. “This biz is pitch or plummet. And I’ve got to make my millions before 50!”

“You’re my idol,” I said to Naomi, toasting her with my glass. “Can I be you?”

“Don’t get all sucky on me,” Naomi said, never one to hang on a compliment. “Now, how’s my wedding special coming along?”

“You know, it’s busy.” I tried to read Naomi to see if I could tell her what I really thought of Danny as my boss. Truth was, after two months under his control, I wanted to poke my eyeballs out. I did all the work! Could I tell the boss that her right-hand man was a right-hand phony and, if so, how? I also wanted to tell her that it was thanks to me that we had the secret footage of Sally and Matt in the first place.