Reality Jane (25 page)

“Fine. Later.”

“Fine.”

Grant walked back to my room, grabbed his stuff, and began to walk out. He paused to look at me as he grabbed the door handle, waiting for me to say something, to stop him or apologize. Instead, I stared at him with an ugly look on my face. He shook his head and left. I knew I should have stopped him, but I didn’t. My thighs crumpled into my chest, and I knelt on the floor, beside the phone. It had been our first big fight.

“You look nice.” Toni grazed my arm, giving me the once-over as we traded places in the bathroom mirror.

“First day.” I swashed a strip of lip-liner above the cupid’s
bow on my top lip.

“A little sexy for your first day,” she teased.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I was still annoyed by Toni’s performance on Friday night.

“Nothing. It’s a compliment.” She smiled. “Do you want to do dinner tonight? I’ll buy. We can celebrate your first day.”

“Sorry, can’t. I’m meeting Alex for dinner,” I said, opening the closet and reaching for my favorite black boots.

“Alex?” she said loudly. “The hotty-host from France?”

“Yes,” I said as if hearing the words pained me.

We still hadn’t talked about her party antics. She awoke red-eyed, still stumbling, on Saturday morning, unable to recall the details, with the head lighting gaffer from France by her side. “He still had his pants on,” she said later that morning, in her brushing-things-off sort of way. She brought up how drunk she was, how she blacked out for a couple hours, and how funny she thought it all was. She was angling for my approval, but I wasn’t laughing. If she couldn’t realize that humiliating me in front of my friends and colleagues, begging for a job in exchange for sexual favors or God knows what, and hitting on my boyfriend was a totally un-cool thing to do, it wasn’t worth the effort.

“I thought Alex was out of the picture. Is hotty-host back in your life?”

“We’re just friends.”

“You never told me.”

“It’s not a big deal.”

“So, what about Grant?”

“Alex and I are just friends. We’re getting together to talk business.”

“Okay,” she said, confused.

“Oh, and if Grant calls, don’t tell him where I am tonight.”

“Sure. Hey, have a great first day. Break a leg!”

“That’s for actors.” I locked the door behind me.

By 9:15, there was a block-long line to the staff parking structure, jamming traffic from both sides of the street. Producers, secretaries, accountants, lawyers, and folks filling every studio-lot support-job imaginable—all seemed to arrive at the
same time in their separate cars. The really important people got to park directly on the lot.

Security was tight. They swiped my brand new
Fix Your Life
employee card and made me open my bag so they could rifle through the contents: a wallet, a tampon, a day-timer, a sweater, an iPhone, a brush, lip gloss, a Spanish/English dictionary, cinnamon Tic Tacs, gum, some paper clips, three pens, a pencil, and a mini-Leatherman (a present from Grant). I nearly spilled my coffee trying to disguise the end of the tampon—it was poking out of the wrapper.

“That’s one big Q-tip,” I joked.

The security guy looked at me as if I was from Mars.

“It’s not as if it’s used,” I remarked uncomfortably, still trying for a laugh.

“Move along.” He began searching the contents of the next employee’s bag.

“Do we have to do this every day?” I said as I was shuffled onto the studio lot.

Golf carts whizzed by me, expertly handled by execs, assistants, and maintenance types. I pictured myself being chauffeured in one of the carts, and I wondered what it would take to get one. There was a paved roadway to Building AB22. Someone told me it was near New York Street, where they filmed all sorts of movies. I couldn’t wait to see it in action. I peered upwards for a glimpse at the studio’s famous tower. It was all so imposing in real life.

The studio lot was like a mini-city, but with no way to tell the gray buildings apart from one another except for the pink numbers stamped in faded paint on the sides. Passing a set of metal doors that were cracked open a pinch, I couldn’t resist poking my head in. Pictures of famous celebrities adorned the walls: Lucille Ball, Greta Garbo, Mae West. Just beyond, there was a rack of clothing and a familiar living room set that looked lonely, with synthetic plants, pictures, and windows that opened to a mock skyline. I wondered if it was a famous set and wanted to go sit on the couch, but I didn’t, opting to get to work on time instead.

Two glass doors marked the entrance to my new show, with
Fix Your Life
written in bright bold lettering. The receptionist greeted me with a tough but friendly smile.

“You here for a meeting?”

“No, I’m a producer. First day.”

“Who should I let know you’re here?”

“Meg, I guess.”

“Oh.” She looked impressed.

She placed her headset on, careful not to muss her hair, and typed in a phone extension. I didn’t listen to her conversation, too busy soaking everything in and thinking myself special for my fancy new job.

“Excuse me. Miss Kaufman?”

“It’s Jane.”

“Okay, Jane. Meg says you’re to report to Gib. Straight back and through those doors.”

“Thanks,” I said, hesitating. “Uh, who’s Gib?”

“He’s your supervisor.”

Supervisor?
Any of the haughtiness I’d carried into the office quickly disappeared. I thought I’d be reporting directly to Meg, the EP, the woman at the top. That’s how it had been on
The Purrfect Life
.

I pulled myself together and put on a happy face. “Nice to meet you,” I said, sounding ultra-professional in greeting Gib.

First, he asked me about my experience. Then he asked me what I wanted to get out of the job. Then he asked me where I saw myself in five years, all with a nervous smile exposing tiny teeth and thin lips. I felt myself growing impatient but never would have shown it. Instead, I brooded over the fact that my supervising producer was re-interviewing me for a job I already had.

“So, what’s your interview style?. . . Ever edited a vignette?. . . How do you feel about being the first point of contact?. . . Is that something you’re comfortable with?” I kept my answers short and simple.

“What about you?” I grinned, happy to let him talk for a while. “What’s your story?”

“I live a few blocks away. My wife and I just had another baby. It’s hard to find a job with any security these days. . .”

I was torn. Part of me liked him. He was nice—borderline simple. But I also thought I might be able to do his job. After all, I’d survived Lucy Lane and Dagmar Bronson. I had more journalism and fieldwork experience than he had. And he lacked much of a presence. I wondered how he would do with Meg as his boss.

“Here we are,” Gib said, leading me into my new office. “It’s a bit of a squeeze.”

Five of us were to share the space: me, Gib, two guys in charge of post and editing, and a show producer whom I hadn’t met yet. Fluorescent lights gave off a sterile glow, kind of like a hospital, and there were no windows. Everything was off-white, except the carpet—it was beige. And the desks were brown.

Outside of our room, the promo department had littered the walls with posters of Ricky Dean, who always wore the same expression—an I-told-you-so look complete with his signature half-smile that made his left eye crinkle.

In the center was the bullpen, where the researchers— Associate Producers (AP) and Production Assistants (PA)—sat in various stages of spinal degeneration, their days spent cemented to the phone, pre-interviewing potential show guests, their measly cubicles adorned with Buddha statues, maps of the world, scented candles, and assorted knick-knacks.

Ricky Dean’s personal office had been nicknamed The Ricky Ritz Hotel. Rumor had it that it was the nicest executive office on the studio lot, complete with a bar, a shower, plush leather couches, and a desk the size of a pick-up. Gib said a small Indian clan could have lived in the adjoining bathroom.

“Oh my God! Oh my God! He’s coming. He’s coming.” A tall, skinny woman ran into the office, her angular copper bob bouncing alongside.

“Corinne?” My heart beat as if it was on the outside of my body. “What are you doing here?”

“Jane?” she said, her voice sick with surprise. “
You’re
the field producer?”

It was like a horror movie, and she was Jason, or Freddy, or Damien, or all three. I was practically unable to speak. With the
exception of a semi-apologetic e-mail, one I felt she’d been forced to write, I hadn’t heard from her since that awful night at Rebecca’s.

The room went hollow. All eyes were on us. I took a deep breath.

“Nice to see you.” I held out my hand, steady, calm, and confident. “Shake to a new beginning?”

Corinne smiled and shook my hand. “Thank you. Sounds good.”

Oddly, she looked more relieved than I did. I vowed in my head never to discuss the dreadful snub. That chapter was closed.

“
Ha-hem
!” I heard the sound from the hallway and, for the second time in a minute, my heart pounded like a jackhammer as
the
Ricky Dean stepped through our office door.

“Hello, sir.” Gib looked as if he might kneel.

Meg stood beside Mr. Dean, looking officious. “Girls, Gib, we want you to meet the man in charge.”

Corinne looked as if she might faint. “A real pleasure, sir.”

Ricky Dean stepped toward us in a perfectly pressed, perfectly tailored black suit, hair coiffed into a round black configuration with a subtle widow’s peak offset by a silver streak above his left ear,. He looked as tall as the doorway, larger than life, with a superhero stance. I would have expected nothing less from a multimillionaire self-help mogul. Ricky Dean was THE most powerful man in radio and soon to be one of the most powerful men on TV.

“Hello, gang! How are things going in the field department?” His expression and bearing radiated gusto and energy.

“Just getting started,” I said with my eyes wide, finding him dreamy in a god-like way. This was a true man of power—a man who, at this moment, could have made a field of flowers appear, or healed the broken, or saved the fallen—I thought I might offer him Corinne.

“Are you liking LA so far?” I asked. I desperately wanted him to know me, to be his pet producer, his go-to girl.

“It’s very nice.” He smiled in a way that could have been rehearsed, but his eyes twinkled briefly, as if just for me.

Then, in an instant, Ricky Dean, Meg, and the entourage of executives strode out the door in a wave of significance.

Corinne turned to me. “Oh my God, he’s amazing.”

The awkwardness of our reintroduction now ancient history, Corinne and I had something to bond over. I watched a tear trickle down her cheek.

“What’s this—a soft side?” I said to her with a smile.

“Shut it!” She smiled, fanning herself. “I can’t believe it.” She laughed while fingers fluttered in front of her face. “I’ve got to call my aunt.”

Corinne sat down to dial as I sank contentedly into my chair, staring at the pictures of the man on the wall.

By the end of the day, my freshly blown-out do had formed frizzy curls. The bathroom hand-dryer would have to do as a straightener. I slapped on a fresh coat of bee-sting lip-pump, clipped off a few wayward hair strands with a set of office scissors, and hurried off the lot for my dinner meeting with Alex.

Only ten minutes of primping and I was feeling plush again. It didn’t last. As I stood outside Dolce Enoteca, where Ashton Kutcher and three gorgeous Hollywood cohorts chortled snobbishly, I was reminded I might be happier, and certainly more comfortable, eating sprinkled donuts at the diner truck stop with Marge. I self-consciously fluffed my hair and forced my mouth, which was already mid-puff from the pepper in the lip-pump, into a pout. If I were back home, friends would have harassed me endlessly for posing. But in my new home of Hollywood, women endured all sorts of strange tortures for small improvements.

Alex was late. In the interim, I’d been mulling over what I would tell him about Grant:
We’ve been seeing each other. . . No, we’re dating. . . Oh, it happened after we got back to LA. . . Ran into him at a bar. . . No, not during the show. . . No, I was totally hanging with you. . . God, no, I’m not that cheesy. . .
What? Two guys during the same show?. . . What kind of banana whore would do that?