Reality Jane (39 page)

“This little e-mail, Jane, is slander!” He leaned forward, looking as if he might just cut off my tongue. “Who else did you give or send it to?”

I stared at the 8
¹
/
₂
by 11 sheet that sat harmlessly on his desk. The type on my e-mail blurred into giant gray blobs. “No one. No one but Gib was ever meant to see it.”

“Wrong. Everyone’s seen it. Do you have any idea how much trouble you’re in?” He shook his head mercilessly. “Just who the hell do you think you are?”

“I. . . I’m—”

“I’ll tell you.”
I pictured horns sprouting from his skull.
“You’re a dime-a-dozen producer who’s both reckless and naive. You think you can judge my show? My life’s work? My empire? My multi-million dollar media empire? Think again. You are nothing!”

The real me—the person on the inside—began a slow drift up and out of my earthly body. In a moment that defined surreal, my body was no longer a part of me. I was watching from above. My lips began moving while my voice trembled. “I’m not nothing!”

“What?” He slammed his fist on the desk.

I lifted my gaze ever so slowly to meet his, summoning whatever courage existed in my beleaguered body. “I said I’m not nothing.”

All of the pep talks I’d ever received from my mother replayed in my mind.
No one calls Jane Kaufman a nothing! No one has the right to call anyone “a nothing”!
Years of encouragement embedded deep in my psyche flooded forward. “You can be anything you want to be, Jane,” I heard my mother say. “You have it all. Trust yourself!” Then I thought:
What would Diane Sawyer do?

I felt a surge of strength. “I’m better than that,” I said bravely. “And after seeing how you operate, I’m better than you.”

“Excuse me?!” He looked as if a scourge of cockroaches had escaped his mouth.

“Yes, Mr. Dean,
better
!” For the first time, my blinders had been removed. This was just a man—not a god, not a prophet. Just a rich man with an angle. “Because I am honest, I am real, and I actually care about people—more than money!”

There was a loud knock on his door.

“Mr. Dean?” His secretary nudged the door open reluctantly. “Sorry to interrupt you, sir, but I’ve been beeping you,” she said, shrinking. “Ms. Houston is here regarding the rehab special. She has a small window. Sorry.”

“Fine,” he snapped, then turned to me. “Wait in your office,” he yelled, looking at me as if I was puppy chow. “I’m not
through with you!”

The day dragged on like Chinese water torture: limbs strapped tightly to a board, circulation waning, a slow drip on the center of my forehead, waiting for eternity, or waiting for it to end, slipping slowly into madness, wondering,
What the hell is he going to do to me? What
can
he do?
I didn’t even completely understand what I’d done wrong except want out! It was all new to me: iron-clad studio contracts, personal e-mails circulated anonymously, charges of slander, pissing off a TV super-power.

My temples ached as my head bobbed in front of my computer screen. In spite of my anguish, I somehow lulled myself into a catnap. When I finally awoke, the clock read 8:03—p.m.! I couldn’t believe it. I double-checked my watch and ran toward Meg’s office, where I saw her assistant packing up for the day.

“Where’s Meg?” I asked. “Where’s Mr. Dean?”

“Sorry, Jane. She just left, and I haven’t seen Mr. Dean in hours.”

“What? Are you serious?”

“Yes.”

“But I’ve been waiting all afternoon and evening for him,” I said, beginning to panic. “He told me to wait.”

“Sorry. It’s been crazy today.”

“Crazy? I’ll show you crazy. Mr. Dean was going to tear me limb from limb, then eat me this afternoon!
That’s
crazy!”

“I’m sorry, Jane. Really.” She put her head down as if she might cry.

I collected myself one more time. “No, it’s okay,” I said. “It’s not your fault. I’m sorry too.”

“I can give you Meg’s cell phone number,” she said with a weary voice. “I’m not allowed to, but it’s the best I can do.”

I jotted down the cell phone number and gave her a hug, which was weird because we’d never talked before. I walked to my office to gather my things and heard my extension ringing on my desk.

“Yeah,” I said.

“Jane, sorry, I never got back to you.”

“Meg?” I couldn’t believe it was her.

“Who else would it be?” she barked.

It was most definitely Meg.

“You caught me off guard,” I said, wondering if she might have me thrown in jail—stranger things had happened. “Meg, I’m sorry.”

“Uh-huh.” She sounded completely unsympathetic.

“I just can’t do this anymore,” I said, desperation in my voice.

“I’ve heard you, loud and clear. And now, thanks to your e-mail getting into Mr. Dean’s hands, you’ve got yourself in a fine mess.”

“Didn’t
you
give it to him?”

“No, I don’t need that kind of trouble.” She sighed.

“I feel horrible, Meg. Not that it changes anything, but I should have chosen my words more carefully,” I said, realizing now that I had been playing with fire. This was Hollywood nouveau royalty here, not some high-school bully who needed to be taught a lesson.

“Well, let me put it this way,” Meg said softening, “you’re lucky. I got you off the hook. Don’t ask. All you need to know is that you can never speak of this to anyone—not the e-mail, not the meeting with Mr. Dean, nothing.”

“I won’t,” I said. “I promise.”

“I never would have saved you if it wasn’t for how hard you’ve worked for us these past few months,” she said. “Now, go see Stephen in Accounting. He’s still in the office. He’s got your paperwork. I’ve already signed it. You’re free to go. Better you don’t show up on Monday anyway.”

“I’m free? Just like that?” I breathed a gale-force sigh of relief. I couldn’t believe she’d made it this easy.

“Don’t make me change my mind,” she snapped. “And your expense check is in the mail. You’ve been completely reimbursed.”

“How’d you—? Wait, thank you, Meg! Thank you!”

I didn’t know what else to say. This was good-bye.

“Frankly,” she said, “I’m sorry to lose you. If anyone asks, I’ll give you a good reference.”

“Thank you, Meg.”

I was astounded. It was a bizarre moment. Meg had never given me a compliment, nor shown even a hint of affection. She was suddenly the woman I originally thought her to be, the Meg I’d met four long months ago when I signed up for my
dream
job. She was a woman with a heart.

“And hey,” she said, “you’re not alone.” She hesitated, as if she shouldn’t say what she was about to say. “Sometimes,” she said with a chuckle, “I wish I could just tag along with you and get the hell out of Dodge! Oh, well, I’m here for the long haul. Goodbye and good luck.”

As she hung up, I sat back down in my chair and my whole body relaxed.
Oh my God
, I thought.
This woman is a human being after all. Actually, a pretty cool chick.

The office was silent. I was completely alone, except for Stephen in Accounting.

I won’t miss this place
.
But, as Disney-esque as this may sound, I will miss the hope we shared.

A picture of Ricky Dean stared at me from behind the frame. I shivered. I looked around the room at the scattered papers, the tapes, and the schedule board, thinking of all the lives we’d affected in such a short time. It felt like a war—not a war we’d won, but a war I’d survived. . . barely.

“C
ome on,” said Toni, “we’re going out!” Toni was wearing a short black skirt, and had doused herself in a bucket of Ibiza. I knew she meant business.

“I just want to veg. Really. I’ll go tomorrow night. Promise.”

I had just walked in the door. It was nine o’clock, and I was in no mood for a party.

“No chance,” Toni said. “I’ve been waiting almost half a year for you to party with me. It’s time to celebrate! You’re free!”

“I know, but I’m not feeling it. I’m actually just blah. Like, now what?” I said.

“What in hell do you mean, ‘Now what’?”

“For the first time in my life, I don’t know what’s next,” I said.

“I’ll tell you what’s next,” said Toni. “Whatever you want!”

“But—”

“Don’t speak. Just get ready. Let me make you one of my famous martinis.”

Toni scooted me off to my room and headed for the kitchen to mix drinks.

“You can wear anything of mine you want!” she yelled from across the apartment.

“Okay,” I said, picking up steam, deciding that I probably needed a night on the town. “I think I’ll wear my star-bum jeans and my ruffle shirt.”

“That sounds slinky-ass.”

“That’s me,” I said, giggling. “Where’s that martini?” I called, slipping into my outfit.

“That’s what I like to hear.” Toni cranked up bar tunes on the stereo.

“No greasy discos, okay?” I yelled over the music.

“Whatever you say.”

I guzzled my martini, and Toni’s, too, before leaving the apartment, primed for whatever she had in store. Toni turned south onto Lincoln from Pico. She wouldn’t tell me where we were going.

Since the night of the Alex debacle, she and I had grown close again. I’d explained to her my crisis at work, my attraction to Alex and the Hollywood dream, and how it was all just a crock—an imaginary, shapeless pot of gold you chase your entire life, which shifts, disappears, and ultimately doesn’t exist. Abandoning the chase had been such a relief.

Toni and I dredged up the nights of her drunken stupidity, and my days of callous judgment, and decided that friendships weren’t supposed to be all sugar and spice—they’re piss and whiskey, too. And at the end of all the crap was unconditional, you’re-my-best-buddy-friend-and-soul-mate love.

Toni slowed her pace just after we passed the airport parkway along the north end of Manhattan Beach. The yellow neon sign read “Harry O’s.” She swerved and tucked her car into a parking space—one of those true LA rarities—a half block away.

“Parkma!” Toni squealed, cranking her tunes up for one final blast before we exited the car.

“Harry-O’s? Can’t we go to a martini lounge? Please,” I said, looking at her, pleading.

“My choice. Not yours. Besides, my friends from the show are meeting us. They live nearby. They say it’s a great crowd. Come on.”

“All right, but I’m leaving if they have tub-girls in bikinis.”

“Ha!” She hooked her elbow around mine and bounced along the sidewalk.

“Don’t know if you noticed, but we’re like six blocks from Grant’s place,” I said, reading the street signs.

During the past week, I’d also told Toni about my Grant-related epiphany. I wondered if maybe she had a little something up her sleeve. It wouldn’t be unlike her.

“No, I hadn’t thought about it, actually.”

“Guess it doesn’t matter,” I said coyly, thinking Toni’s poker face wasn’t fooling me. “He wouldn’t come here. He’s not into pick-up joints.”

We squeezed past the beefcakes at the door. Toni somehow got us out of paying the $5 cover charge and nuzzled up to the bar, paying little attention to the stares of the wispy femme-bot with the micro-mini whom she’d just hip-chucked out of her spot.

Toni giggled. “Oh, bartender,” she said, batting her eyelashes, “two lime margaritas for us, please. Oh, and also little Miss Christina Agu-Foo-Foo-Lara’s next.”

She pinched out a smile to Miss Evil Eye, who was obviously one of many teenage girls brandishing fake IDs and sparkly halters. As for the guys, it was a strange mix of furry old dog-town types shlumping around in surf shorts and flip-flops, and nineteen-year-old wannabes encased in crotch-hugging denim and nipple-tight vintage t’s.

Toni’s friends had wrangled a row of prime real estate at the end of the bar. One of the guys dragged me out onto the dance floor. Normally, I would have resisted, but at this point, I had on a hearty buzz.

In my university days, I was a regular Madonna on the dance floor. Now, I had both arms ricocheting above my head and my hips gyrating a quarter-second after the beat. Toni was gripping the bar in laughter. Her friend grabbed my waist and pulled me onto his leg for a bump and grind. I giggled as I swirled around him, my final day at the office a lifetime away.

A hand tapped me on my shoulder. I looked at my dirty-dancing partner like:
How did you do that?
He gave me a shoulder-shrug and kept going. The hand tapped again. A burst of excitement ripped through my body.
It’s Grant. Toni set this up. My big surprise for my big night out.
I pushed my tango-ing cohort aside, closed my eyes, and turned toward the mystery tapper, donning a sexy, pouty smile for what I hoped would be the love of my life come to rescue me.

“Hey, Jane.”

It was Craig.

I pressed my lips into a scowl. He chuckled, in a self-
absorbed way that seemed to say, “It’s your lucky day.”

“What are you doing here?” I said, more than a little disappointed.

Girls from the bar were pointing at him. They’d probably seen him on
The Single Guy
, which was now at mid-season, not that I was keeping track. I wondered if he’d obtained a wife from the deal, knowing full well he wasn’t able to talk about the show finale until after all the episodes had aired.