Reality Jane (40 page)

“Looking good, Jane. Have you lost weight?” He grabbed my hips. “Great to see you.”

Before I could slap him, he pushed in for a kiss on the cheek.

“Guess what, babe? I’m in talks for my new show, a series MTV is creating about me and my adventures. . .”

He kept talking as if I cared, the same way he always did— all about him—and grinning stupidly from ear to ear.

Yuck!
I was done with Hollywood, and I was through with its predators. He was the worst of them because he looked like something else, something kinder and gentler, but in truth, he was as vicious as the next guy.

“Shut up, Craig!” I finally said. “You’re an opportunist and an egomaniac. You use people!”

“What’s that? I can hardly hear you. The music’s so loud in here,” he said, bopping his head to the beat in his stony way.

What did I ever see in him?
Craig was so used to doing all the talking that he’d lost all ability to listen to anyone else. I snatched my purse from where I’d tangled it around the foot of the barstool and marched stoically for the door. Toni grabbed my shoulder.

“What’s Craig doing here?” Toni said. “Do you want me to kick his ass?”

“He’s not worth it,” I said, laughing at my stupid luck. “Toni, I’m leaving. I’ve got to get out of here.”

No amount of alcohol or frivolous dancing could change the fact that I’d been humiliated—though not by Craig. He didn’t have the power to affect me—not anymore. Rather, I was humiliated by absurd expectations that my knight in shining armor might arrive on his knees, begging to have me, now that “me” was back from her evil activities. Unfortunately for me, no
Grant was in sight.

“But. . . but. . . you can’t leave! Not yet. I wanted to surprise you and—”

“And what?” I said, feeling a glimmer of hope. “Grant?”

“Grant?” she said, taken aback. “No, but Naomi’s coming! In about half an hour. It’s been months. I told her all about what you’ve been through and how the show just worked you over and how you’re actually better for it and that our little Janey is back and better than ever.”

“Oh,” I said flatly. I thought I might cry. “I’m sorry, Toni, but I just—I just have to leave. It’s just, this day, these last few months, have been so draining. Please tell Naomi I miss her and that I’m sorry. Sorry for being such a jerk. And that I really do appreciate her—and you—more than ever. I’ll make it up to her. And you, too. Promise!”

“Okay,” she said sadly. “But are you sure you want to leave?”

Toni leaned in to hug me and kissed me on the cheek. She didn’t realize that by “leave,” I meant, “really leave.”

A
s the plane descended, snow was coating the prairies with a sugar dusting of fresh fall powder. From the sky, the city appeared to be a giant pod of lights and metal. The buildings downtown seemed to spring from the center of urban sprawl like towering behemoths. Past the glare of the city, the mountains—my favorite part of the landscape—provided a gray, luminous backdrop, visible through the cloud cover only because a band of sunshine was crossing a line of jagged peaks.

As I walked the steel plank into the airport terminal, I felt the crisp air envelop my body and slip beneath my jacket. It was frosty, but I liked it. The tingling feeling caused my skin to pimple and invisible blonde hairs to rise on end, reminding me I was alive. My jacket remained in my palm as I loped toward the baggage claim. It felt weird to let people dash past me as I walked the long halls of the airport corridor. One week ago, I would never have allowed it.

Mom picked me up at the airport.

When we reached her house, the fire spit and crackled with fresh cedar, cranking waves of scented warmth through the living room. Mom’s kitties sniffed my bags curiously, mewing at my ankles and pressing their furry white and gray noggins tenderly against my jeans. A stew in the oven smelled heavenly. I was safe now. This was home.

Mom told me to rest, but we couldn’t help staying up late, talking and nibbling on chocolate. She insisted I’d met her motherly mandate, and done the right thing in quitting. “True to your principles—that’s my girl,” she said encouragingly.

After a thorough decompression session, I finally decided to take my suitcase up the stairs to unpack. Just as I began to settle
in, Mom, looking rather strange, walked into the doorway of my bedroom. She was holding a copy of
Star
magazine.

“Mom, you never read that crap,” I said.

“I was going to wait,” she said, smiling an awkward smile, “but I thought you should look at this—tonight.”

“Okay,” I said solemnly, wondering what could possibly be so important.

“This is today’s issue,” she said, handing it to me.

I read the headline on the front cover: “
Fix Your Life
Needs Fixin’!”

I gulped and flipped to the article:

S
ELF-HELP
G
URU
H
ELPLESS TO
C
OUNTER
C
OMPLAINTS BY
A
NGRY
S
TAFF
M
EMBERS.
Seems Mr.
Fix Your Life
needs to
fix
his show. An anonymous staff member claims working conditions are “torture”. . . that they are instructed to use unethical methods to make show guests cry. . . all for ratings that have insiders talking Emmy. . .

“Sorry, sweetie,” Mom said, rubbing my shoulders. “I just figured, after what you told me tonight, you might get a few phone calls tomorrow.”

I took a deep breath. Meg had let me go. I hadn’t done anything wrong. She knew the truth. That e-mail was intended only for Gib!

“Jane,” Mom said, “this isn’t the first negative article about Ricky Dean. This sort of thing happens all the time when you’re in the limelight.”

“I know,” I said, still feeling horrible. “But it’s the first article that I
wrote
, albeit indirectly.”

I fell back onto the bed and considered my fate. Then I remembered: Meg’s assistant had given me her cell phone number. I rummaged through my bag’s loose papers and actually found the sticky note.

“Meg?” I said, my heart pounding. “Sorry to call so late, but have you seen the
Star
?”

“Jane, it’s midnight,” she replied crossly. “You’re only allowed to do this once. Next time, I kill you.”

“So sorry. I just wanted to make sure you knew that I didn’t. . . I wouldn’t—”

“We know. Ricky Dean knows. The studio knows,” she said with composure. “We also know who the culprit is, and they’re being punished accordingly. Don’t worry, Jane. It’s a disaster,” she said. “But it’s show biz.”

“So I’m okay?”

“You’re okay.”

“Thank you,” I said. “Oh, and Meg? Can you tell me who—”

“Move on with your life, Jane.”

Click.

The next morning, I had a jumbo-sized hangover, only I hadn’t been drinking. The
Star
magazine was sitting on the table, reminding me of everything I’d left LA to forget.

“Jane, you need to stop thinking about it,” Mom said. “Besides, serves them right! Who knew the
Star
actually reported the truth?”

I hesitated. Mom was right. In all the fuss, I’d forgotten about the truth. Too worried that I’d be made the scapegoat, I’d forgotten how I’d given serious thought to fighting a system far too big and entrenched for me to tackle.

“You’re right, Mom,” I replied, with conviction. “But I’m not so sure I’ll ever work in that town again.”

“You will if you want to,” she said with a smile. “You can do anything you want.” She nodded convincingly as she handed me a plate of beautifully rolled crêpes.

I picked up the magazine to flip through the fluff, turning my focus to pictures of celebrities’ bikini bodies. Suddenly, I ran into this titillating headline: “Popular
Single Guy
Series Pulled Mid-Season Due To Scandal.”

My jaw dropped as I read the story, buried in the back, on page 58. I looked at Mom. Then I looked at the pictures. Then I looked at Mom again.

“Have you seen this?” I asked, totally floored.

Craig had somehow merited a full-page article and pictures:
Craig hugging Marty, his Venice pad roommate, in a non-platonic embrace. A baby girl held by a really pretty woman. The really pretty woman and Craig together in Mexico. . . It was all too much, at least for me. The story read:

The swinging bachelor won’t know what hit him. Producers plan to yank this season’s
Single Guy
from the air, citing negligent background checks for their series super-hero. Turns out Craig Anders was not exactly prime chick-magnet material, despite his macho exterior.

Pictured here
: Anders with gay lover Marty Sanchez around the same time Anders was getting busy with Hollywood B-actress Charlotte Jenner. Jenner is mother to Anders’ baby daughter, born at Cedars-Sinai last month. Anders denies relations with Sanchez, claiming the two are friends and nothing more, but admits he is the father of Jenner’s daughter Liza. . .

“Oh my God! Mom! That’s my almost-life written up in the
Star
! What the hell?”

Mom read the article and gasped.

“And, do the math,” I continued. “He got her pregnant while we were still together!”

“Please tell me you had an AIDS test after you broke up,” Mom said.

“Yes, Mom—two!” I said, still in shock.

She looked at me with mom eyes, as if she could swallow me with her concern. I blinked, totally unsure what to feel. Actually, I felt rather empty, but in a surprising, perfectly good way.

Mom let out a chuckle. “Geez, Jane, quite a time you’ve had in La La Land!”

“No shit!” I squealed, and let out a guffaw.

We were soon rolling in laughter. It was either that or scream like a baby.

“I just can’t believe how in love with him I once was,” I said. “What does that tell you about
my
background checks? Some journalist I am,” I said, still giggling.

“You’re a great journalist, and don’t you forget it,” Mom said, becoming serious. “My little Diane Sawyer.”

“Yeah, right,” I said. “I’ve got a long way to go for that. Trust me.”

A week passed while I soaked in the warmth and security of home and much-needed mothering. I had made all the difficult phone calls I needed to make: first to Naomi, to apologize for being such an opportunistic bitch. She was gracious and told me I did her proud for taking a stand. Then I called Gib, to make sure his family was all right and to apologize if I’d stepped on his toes in my flight to the top. He said he got his job back, which he said he needed to support his family. “That’s life,” he said, sounding defeated. I wondered if anything would be different at the show.

Eventually, I decided it was time to cut the cord at home. I’d fluttered between feelings of exhilaration, newfound freedom, confusion, and perhaps occasionally, depression. But this newly contracted case of schizophrenia didn’t frighten me. In an odd sort of way, it was comforting. It was where I needed to be. I loaded the car for a trek to the mountains and a stab at figuring out my life.