Reality Jane (21 page)

“
And?
” Naomi pushed.

I readied myself for the big reveal, “Well, you know, Naomi, those late nights working the surveillance cameras in France, I really got my sea legs, and when I saw this side story blooming—”

“Jane, you don’t need to tell me,” Naomi interrupted. “I always knew you were a talent. You were my strongest producer in France. I noticed. You’re best when you’re face to face with the subjects. That’s your strength.”

“Thanks, Naomi.” I shrugged my shoulders, anxious to finish. “I know it was months ago now, but I just thought you should know. I was the one who told the cameras to film Sally and—”

“Great, Jane. There’s Toni!” Naomi wrapped her arm around me, abruptly ending the conversation.

Having missed my window, I decided to drop the discussion. The show had wrapped in France nearly three months ago, and had been on the air for a few weeks now—to huge numbers— and Naomi clearly appreciated me and probably knew my contribution already. Besides, with about a month left on the wedding project, I would soon be through with Danny, through with Snookums and Sarcasm and, if I had my way, onto bigger
and better things with Ricky Dean.

Toni, never big on sweets, was gorging on the salmon mousse, then flitting between the pâté and foie gras. “Which room next?” Toni said, looking blankly at us, salmon cream on her nose.

It was the ultimate in decadence. Everyone dressed to the nines. B-list and pseudo-celebs criss-crossing in the grand hallways of the Biltmore, shifting from room to room, dabbing their lips and sipping drinks, their vertical pinkies obtained from open bars around every corner. There were at least ten rooms to choose from, each with its own theme party: the Cuban room with a saucy band ticking out a rumba, the French room with bellowing horns, and of course the Mexican room.

I showed my enthusiasm for all things south of the border by being the first to belly up to the Tequila Luge. The polite waiter tried to guide me, but this was old hat for me. In a rather unladylike stance, I fell back onto the chair, positioned my face just so, wrapped my lips around the spout, and proceeded to swiftly suck back the equivalent of three shots of Patrón from the foot of a gigantic totem-pole ice-sculpture.

“Ah,” I slurped, wiping my lips with my arm.

“Well done,” said Hank, applauding my efforts.

Naomi giggled at me as she cuddled comfortably in her boyfriend’s shoulders.

“Wow, Hank Griffin! Nice to meet you!” I said, suddenly making the connection between YBC’s chief and the launch of its much anticipated
Fix Your Life
show. “You must be very busy with Ricky Dean.”

“Well, aren’t you on top of the industry buzz? In fact, we are,” he beamed. “It’ll be our biggest daytime talk show yet.”

“I so admire Ricky Dean. He’s brilliant,” I said, trying to impress Hank. “If I could produce on any show, it’d be
Fix Your Life.
I’d actually feel as if I was making a difference in the world, helping people. Not like this reality pap we’ve been doing.”

Naomi cocked her head in surprise.

I began a swift back-pedal. “Don’t get me wrong. It’s great. I mean, Naomi’s a genius. I’ve learned so much. It’s just. . . apples and oranges. You can’t compare.”

“Enough business talk,” Naomi said coldly.

“Well, young lady,” said Hank, who hadn’t caught the nuance, “they’ll be hiring producers in the next month or so. Toss your resumé in.”

“Oh, uh, thank you, Hank,” I said, feeling a bit like a traitor. “I’m actually busy producing the wedding of the decade now. Right, Naomi? It’ll be another surefire ratings winner for you.”

And before I could apologize properly, Naomi yanked Hank off to another conversation.

“Come on, Jane, free sashimi downstairs.” Toni grabbed my arm.

“Huh?” I said, feeling like an ass. “Did I just screw up a friendship? I’ve hardly spent any time with Naomi and I go and say that!”

“Forget friendship. What about your career?” Toni laughed. “She’s like your job ATM.
Cha-ching
. Next!”

“What?” I shivered at the thought. “You serious?”

“No. Don’t be silly. Naomi doesn’t care,” Toni said convincingly. “She loves us. And you’re great at what you do, so don’t worry.”

I nodded, knowing Toni didn’t get it. Naomi and I had something different together. She was more than just a boss; she was a mentor and a friend. Naomi had taken me under her wing and made things happen for me, even when she wasn’t around. She cared. And I needed to respect that.

“The sushi isn’t going to swim to you,” said Toni, nudging me down the stairs.

On the lower level was a disco with two giant sushi kiosks, and a crowd of pretty people whirling their hips to the music. I recognized a few of them from reality shows. They looked awkward in their new-found fame, nervously shoulder-checking to see who was watching them or if anyone wanted an autograph.

Suddenly, beside the dance floor, a commotion broke out near a news camera. Toni and I angled for a better view.

“Oh. . . my. . . God,” Toni slurred. “It’s Craig!”

“What?” I nearly choked on the yellowtail.

“Craig’s being interviewed by Celebrity Watch Television!”
Toni cried.

“And not just CWT!” I gulped. “Dagmar.”

We pushed through bodies to get a proper look and listen.

“. . . and you, Dagmar, can call me
The Craig
,” Craig said, unleashing one of his dopey guffaws. “You know, like
The Donald
, only cooler.”

“So, you’re what they’re calling the adventure bachelor,” Dagmar said without any of the energy an entertainment reporter clone should bring to the table. “So what exactly does that entail?” Dagmar’s eyes seemed to glaze over in snobbishness.

“Basically, Dags, unlike the other
Single Guys
, I kick ass,” Craig said with another cheesy guffaw. “No, seriously, I’ll be taking the girls climbing, snow-boarding, heli-skiing, you name it, to determine which one is right for me. We’re stepping it up and she’s got to keep up. You want to go first?”

Her? No! I ski. I snowboard. I climb. Why wasn’t I good enough?
Was it really possible that I was still brooding over this guy?
No, Jane, stop it,
my little voice said in desperation.
It’s just the IDEA of Craig you like, not the actual Craig
.

“
The Craig?!
” Toni gasped. “Is that clown for real? He’s worse than that cheese-ball Jake Pavelka!”

“He’s disgusting,” I said, though not sure I meant it.

“And what about Dagmar?” Toni laughed. “She’ll stop at nothing! Her own TV show and now CWT’s reporter?
Gag.
This better be a one-off—like they haven’t hired her, I hope.” Toni was lit up like a Tiki torch at a luau, excited to be frontline for all this TV gossip. “She really is a media whore, isn’t she?”

“I don’t feel so good,” I sulked. “Maybe we should leave.”

“Oh no you don’t!” Toni said defiantly. “To hell with him. Don’t even go there,” she said, grabbing my cheeks. “Remember, you’ve got Grant. And Alex!”

“Well, actually, Grant was supposed to call. It’s been almost a week and I haven’t—”

“Screw it! Let’s have some fun.” Toni licked her lips. “Hey, maybe those hotties from
Outrageous Race
are here.” She did a quick scan, ignoring me.

Who could blame her? I was tired of listening to me too.
Craig was old news. Well, technically, he was new news, but old news for me.

“Ew, there’s Evan Merriott or whatever his name is,” Toni groaned. “I can’t believe he’s still on the scene. Ain’t his 15 minutes up? He’s with that drunky-drunk
Bizarre Life
girl,” she continued.

Toni knew every reality star since the genre had launched. To her, life began when reality TV began, in the year 2000, with
Survivor Borneo
, though I always said the genre was born earlier with MTV’s
Real World
.

“Now that’s a match made in the world of has-beens,” she said as we walked by Ewan. “Damn he’s cute, but I hear he’s dumb.” Toni was oblivious to the fact I was in my own world.

I was still self-consciously watching Craig. The light from the camera reflected off his hair like a golden halo. Girls were ogling him, hungry to get their claws in to him. I hoped he wouldn’t see me.

“There he is!” Toni said, pointing to some tall, dark-haired guy with a soul-patch and an earring. “It’s that babe from
The Race
!”

“Go for it,” I said, attempting to forget I had just seen Craig.

“No way,” she said, her cheeks turning rosy. “I can’t just approach him.”

“Since when are you shy?” I asked as she gave me one of her help-me-out pouts. “All right. Let’s get a drink and get this done.”

And that was that. Roger, last year’s winner from
The Race,
eventually waltzed up to the bar for a drink. Toni introduced herself. And they were locked in conversation. It was that simple, which was strange, because it was never that simple. Toni and her new pseudo-celebrity suitor were well on their way to something.

Meanwhile, I sat back with a Corona, alone, wondering if I should have stayed home, wondering why the hell Craig had to be here, and wondering why Grant hadn’t called me yet. Maybe I knew. On our last date, almost a week ago, he went straight home after dinner, didn’t even walk me to the door, and claimed “nothing was wrong.”

“Jane, let’s get out of here,” Toni said, catching her breath. “Let’s go have drinks at our place.” She nudged me as she did one of her cheesy growls: “Check out Roger’s friend Kyle. Well?”

On a scale of 1-10 of out-and-out poseurs, he was a ten.

“Well, what? I have a guy,” I said, not completely convinced I did.

Before I could decline or deny, Toni, Roger, some very-hot, way-too-young kid named Kyle, and I were standing curbside at the Grammy Party valet station, waiting for a guy in a red vest to bring my trusty 1991 Volvo around the loop.

I was dying. There we were, on the red carpet, a fountain spewing multi-colored water droplets in the shape of a swan, surrounded by beautiful people, while brand new Beemer after Beemer, and Mercedes after Mercedes, pulled up to carry guests away, while I waited for my boxy white rust-bucket. Remarkable it was still running. But to add to the spectacle, it had suddenly begun to burn blue smoke, which made for a lovely picture. Toni’s car, which
was
a Beemer and
was
nearly new, was in the shop—her power window switch broke yesterday morning.

“I could kill you for not having your car here,” I whispered to Toni.

“Who cares?” she said, eye-balling Roger. “No one will notice.”

The valet finally pulled my car up to the red carpet. Even he looked embarrassed.

“If it isn’t my favorite Canadian,” I heard from over my shoulder.

It was Craig, with his arm around some girl. But it was not just any girl. It was Dagmar, heiress extraordinaire and CWT’s newest famous face!

“This your car?” the valet said, looking at both me and Dagmar.

“Are you crazy?” Dagmar said, totally disgusted. “Did I just get teleported to India? Do people still drive cars like this in America?”

It was one of those moments when I wanted the earth to
open up and swallow me whole.
Make me invisible!
I pleaded to God, or whoever would listen. At this point, I, like everyone else in this damned city, was more than ready to make a pact with the little red man below.

“Still got the Volvo, I see,” Craig teased.

“Craig, your friend’s wreck is blocking my limo,” Dagmar said, any remnant of her I’m-approachable façade clearly reserved for the TV camera lens. “Let’s get to Vanity Fair before I choke on these fumes,” she sneered.

“Good seeing you, Jane,” Craig smirked. “Call me sometime.”

He and Dagmar bent into the limo, driver et al. Dagmar hadn’t even recognized me! Could I be more of a L-O-S-E-R. A rocket ship couldn’t have gotten me out of there fast enough. These last few minutes felt like hours. They more than justified drinks.

Many.

I woke, still in my dress, covered in cat hair and sweat, and apparently swallowed up by the couch. The food truck rumbled by, tooting
La Cucaracha
, reminding the workers in the apartment building next door it was lunchtime. The clock said 11:35. I was thankful for the ocean breeze streaming in through the window, a temporary lift from the stench of rum (yes, rum, Captain Morgan) and stale cigarettes. Then, I felt it: a big fat foot lodged in my butt cheek.
What in hell?

“Jane, Jane, look at this.” Toni scrambled out of my bedroom, waving my pillow. Then her face contorted at the sight of Kyle curled up with me on the couch.

“You didn’t—we didn’t. . .” I said sleepy-eyed, turning to Roger’s hunky friend.

He was a strappingly handsome, anything-but-naïve, 21-year-old fireman/model/actor, and he was lying beside me, half-naked in blue-striped boxers, looking inconceivably chiseled. It didn’t matter. He could have been Jude Law and I still would have felt that knot forming at the core of my belly, screaming “you whore” while images of Grant coursed up my brainstem.

“Could you please dislodge your foot from my ass?” I glared at him and his perfect boyish features—smooth, flawless skin; thick, kissable lips; long black eye-lashes curling out in a fan—and wondered how my night had gone so wrong.