Reality TV Bites (14 page)

“Grayson got in some trouble when he was young. He was hanging out with the wrong kids, and he got arrested for stealing and drug possession.”

“I see. What did he steal?”

I keep my eyes on the paddleboat, the paddlers stirring the blue silk water. “A car.”

“That's rather serious. How old was he?”

“Seventeen.”

“And he was also arrested for drugs?”

I sigh. “That was later. He went to juvenile detention for the car incident. He got arrested two years later for possession of heroin. He did nine months for that—real jail.”

“Your parents must have been very embarrassed.”

I turn to look at his face. No wonder my mother likes him. “My mother was. She got him accepted into Northwestern when he got out, but Gray didn't want to go to college. He loafed around a lot, then he started modeling, and now he's doing really well for himself.”

“Why was his license taken?”

We stop walking, and Nicolo gives me a long, direct look.

“DUI last year. He totaled his car when he hit a tree. No one else was hurt.”

Nicolo shakes his head. “I think it is good you told me. I do not want to be seen in public with your brother.”

I stare at him. “Why? Because it might be bad press? That's a pile of crap.”

He looks at me as though I'm a naive child. “It is a practical matter. You do not want Grayson's past dredged up in the media any more than I do.”

“Then maybe you shouldn't be seen with me, either.”

“Perhaps not, but I do not want to give you up. And I have ways of suppressing certain stories.”

I laugh. “God, you sound like the Italian version of Juan Perón. What do you do, run around the globe producing weird TV shows, wooing women, and paying off reporters?”

He shrugs.

“Oh, my God. I do not want to know this. I feel like I'm dating Al Capone.”

“Who?”

I shake my head. “Look, Nicolo, in case you haven't noticed, I'm a bit”—high-maintenance?—“
complicated.
You don't want to get involved in all this.”

He makes a gesture of protest, but I cut him off.

“Not only that, but between the kamikaze show, all my other clients, and my family, I just don't have time for dating games.”

“This is not a game.” He draws me into his arms then and kisses me. It's long and slow and calculated to leave me panting. I give in to the experience, wondering what it would be like to kiss this man every day, go to bed with him at night, wake up with him in the morning. I could be happy. I could be a princess.

He ends the kiss and pulls me into his arms, whispering something in one of his many languages. He's strong and solid. My head fits perfectly in the crook of his neck. He strokes my hair and lavishes endearments, and I want to believe all this is real. I want to believe the fantasy is now reality, but can I trust Nicolo? What happens between us if life isn't all roses?

“Give me a chance,” he whispers.

It would be easy to grant his request. I could have everything I ever wanted. I could live in the fantasy. But what about the real me—the imperfect me—where would that Allison fit?

Nicolo pulls back. “This is not a game.” He opens his
hand and there's a diamond tennis bracelet in his palm. Even in the shade of the pines and maples, the diamonds sparkle, creating the illusion of a hundred tiny fires.

He clasps it around my wrist.

“It's beautiful,” I say.

“This is only the beginning.”

The next few days are pretty good. I see Nicolo almost every day, and he takes
me to dinner, the theater, parties…After more time with the new and improved Nicolo, I start spending a few of my nights at his luxury penthouse overlooking the lake. It's great, but Booboo Kitty is mad that I've been away so much.

Maybe that's why princesses in fairy tales don't have pets. I miss Booboo, but my life sure feels like a fairy tale. I'm up to my OPI Marquis d'Mauve nails in affection and gifts. Every day there's a surprise—flowers in my office, a jeweled barrette, a painting by an up-and-coming artist, a pearl choker. He's courting me in every sense of the word.

It's not all glass slippers and fairy godmothers, though. I never realized how relentless the media can be. We're in all the local papers as well as some of the national ones, and they're calling me Princess Allison, which I kind of like, even if it's not accurate. The press is another reason I've been staying with Nicolo—reporters, mostly European, have been sitting outside my house for the last few days, and I'm afraid I'll open the door and find one of them going through my trash.

Last night I stayed at home, and I woke up in the middle of the night, stumbled into the bathroom, and looked up from my seat on the toilet to see a reporter peering in my bathroom window. This morning when I went out to get the paper, a dozen flashbulbs went off in my face, and when I tried to drive away, my car was swarmed. I shook for an hour afterward. I'm not used to that much stimulation before nine
A.M
.

As for the office, I'm getting used to splitting my time between the show and real work. We've still got two more shows to film. Then next week the vibrator show airs, and while Rory is planning a big viewing party, I'm trying to think of a way to keep my parents from seeing it.

But this morning, I start hoping no one sees the show. Any of the episodes. We're in a tiny apartment near the now defunct Robert Taylor Projects getting miced. The family who lives there is staring at the motley group of cameramen, designers, and Japanese guys mulling about their house. Watanabe is on a cell phone, screaming something in Japanese, which Yamamoto translated as, “This show very exciting.”

Right.

When the sound guy finishes, I lift my clipboard and double-check the list of supplies we've brought, drowning Watanabe out by humming “They Can't Take That Away from Me.”

Yamamoto has taken the phone from our director, and now he's screaming into it as well. I plop down on top of one of the boxes we lugged upstairs and watch Miranda talking to the Ron Howard producer.

“Should we ask what the problem is?” Josh asks.

“No. He'll only tell us Yamamoto is very, very happy to work with us.”

Yamamoto screams again and holds the phone out to Takahashi, one of the Japanese designers. They're going to be doing the apartment next door. Takahashi scurries over. “Hai.”

“Where's the princeling?”

“I don't know. He's not talking to me because I didn't go out with him last night.”

Josh gapes at me. “We were working until nine.”

I shrug. “I know.”

“Are you sure you're okay?”

“Who are they talking to?” I ask instead of answering Josh's question.

“No idea.”

Then we both stare as Takahashi begins to sob loudly. The door opens, and I stiffen but, thank God, it's not Nicolo. I can't deal with him right now. Fukui, the other designer, enters, wearing a blue tuxedo shirt with ruffles. Strange decorating outfit, but I guess Hildi on
Trading Spaces
wears Prada pumps.

“I wish someone would tell me what's going on,” Josh moans.

“He is talking to Mr. Kobayashi in Tokyo,” Fukui says.

Josh and I stare at Fukui. Josh recovers first. “You speak English?”

“Of course.”

“But why didn't you say so before?” I ask.

Fukui smiles.

“So, who's this Kobayashi?” Josh asks. “Why's Takahashi crying?”

Fukui sighs. “Kobayashi is CEO of Dai Hoshi. He is angry that first show not on air yet.”

“It's airing next week,” I say.

“We are behind schedule. We should have film last show today. Lose money.”

“Oh. But Nicolo set the filming schedule.”

Fukui gives me a long look. “Your prince cause more trouble than good.”

Josh glances at me. “How?”

“You read contract?”

“What does that have to do with anything?” I say.

Fukui looks like he might answer, then Yamamoto motions to him, and he walks away.

“What's that about?” Josh asks.

“I don't know, but do you ever get the feeling we're on
Survivor
?”

Finally the phone calls end, and we all get to work. For this project, Watanabe gives both groups twenty rolls of duct tape. I glare at Miranda, but she doesn't say anything. Here we go again. Fix something that isn't broken. I look around the tiny apartment. The family who lives here seems so nice. I'd like to do something really great for them; instead, I'm going to cover their home in duct tape.

None of this feels right. But I have the duct tape, and I have a job to do. I look at my rolls of tape. The last thing the apartment needs is duct tape, but I try to think creatively. What about all those kids who make prom dresses and tuxedos out of duct tape every year? Maybe I can make household items out of duct tape.

But after three or four hours of working with the duct
tape, I have new respect for the prom kids. This stuff is hard to work with, and if you mess up, there aren't any do-overs. This stuff sticks—to everything. My hands are sticky, my scissors are sticky, and I have pieces of silver duct tape in my hair and on my jeans (my Michael Kors jeans, which I wore because after the Chippenhall house, I didn't anticipate another foray into the ghetto). I am never going to get this stuff off.

Finally, with only about two hours left, I've made some progress, and I'm painting over the duct tape I've fashioned into trim for the kitchen cupboards and thinking about how much I hate this stupid show when I hear a
thump.

The Japanese designers' apartment is next to this one, so at first I ignore it, figuring they've dropped a ladder or something. But then I hear another thump followed by a sharp cry, and I run for the living room. Watanabe is watching our camera crew film Miranda patching a torn sofa cushion with the duct tape, but they turn when I run in.

“I heard something next door,” I pant. “A bang and then a scream.”

We rush into the hall and pause when we see the faces of the Iron Designers' production team. They look stunned. Watanabe asks something in Japanese, and one of the team answers, motioning us inside. Takahashi is lying on the floor, his hand to his forehead, and Fukui is kneeling beside him.

There's a long conversation in Japanese, and finally Yamamoto tells us what happened. Drug dealers came by looking for the owners and thought Takahashi and Fukui were lying when they said they didn't know where they were. One of the drug dealers hit Takahashi with a lamp, and now Fukui is taking him to the hospital as a precaution.

And since Josh and I don't really want to hang around our
unfinished apartment, waiting for a drug dealer to come quiz us, we start packing up to go. The camera crew helps, and we're climbing into the van when Watanabe and Yamamoto come over. Watanabe says something, which Yamamoto translates as, “Work not done. You go back and finish.”

I glance at Miranda. She looks ready to capitulate, so I step in. “No way, Mr. Watanabe. I'm only going in there if you have security.”

Josh nods, and Watanabe's face flushes when Yamamoto translates. “Then you lose.”

“Only if they lose, too,” Miranda says, pointing to the ambulance taking Takahashi away.

Grumbling in Japanese, Watanabe and Yamamoto walk off and Josh and I glance at Fukui, standing nearby, watching the ambulance pull away. “What'd they say?” I ask.

Fukui shrugs. “Same thing he always say, but Yamamoto usually make it sound nice.”

Josh narrows his eyes. “What's that?”

Fukui thinks for a moment. “Hard to translate, but I think something like, ‘You Americans are more stupid than water buffalo and uglier, too.'”

Josh and I gasp. “He didn't say that!”

Fukui smiles enigmatically and climbs in the van.

The day before the first show airs, we're filming the last show back where the Robert Taylor projects used to be. This time Watanabe has security, though, and both teams are working practically side by side. Interiors by M has the apartment complex's laundry room, while the Japanese designers are assigned the rec room.

Our goal is to use about a hundred rolls of plastic wrap in various colors, including holiday green, red, and, just for fun, blue. It's very hard to decorate with plastic wrap. I can't even
get it to stay on my bowls at home, so this task is nearly impossible. Even the intrepid Fukui isn't quite sure what to do with it.

Our main problem has to do with heat and plastic wrap. Apartment tenants are in and out, dropping clothes from the washers into the dryers, and the heat from the industrialsize dryers makes the room feel like a tropical rain forest. The warm metal dryers also act as magnets for the plastic wrap, so that every unattended or unsecured piece of wrap gets sucked onto the dryers, melted by the heat so that we have no hope of ever removing it.

I'm sure this is a major fire hazard, and I'm about to say so, when the dryer I'm peeling plastic wrap from suddenly makes an unfamiliar noise, and there's a
whoosh
! I peer around the back, and a flame of searing fire licks at me. “Oh, fudge!” I scream.

“What is it?” Miranda says, turning from her plastic-wrapped clothing hangers. The cameras turn with her, and I suddenly realize this could be very bad if it's caught on film.

“Oh, nothing,” I say with a smile.

Miranda glares at me for interrupting her for no reason, but I ignore her, scanning the room for a fire extinguisher. I spot one and try to sidle over to it without drawing the attention of the cameras. Meanwhile, I can see the fire poking hot fingers over the top of the dryer. I take the fire extinguisher from a wall, pretend to examine it for possible decorative value, then scoot back over to the dryer, pull the extinguisher's pin, stand back, and aim. I squeeze with all my strength. But nothing happens.

What the fudge!

“What's that smell?” Josh says from the other side of the room. “It smells like smo—”

“It's nothing!” I snap, cutting him off and becoming much more frantic now. I try the extinguisher again, and still nothing happens.

Across the room, Josh gasps as fire rises on the wall behind me. I shake my head, appealing desperately with my eyes for him to keep his mouth shut, but then I glance at the round indicator on the extinguisher's nozzle. There are two pieces of colored pie labeled full and empty. The pointer on the indicator shows empty.

Fudge!

And that's the last thought I have before the fire alarm goes off and water rains from the sprinklers in the ceiling.

By the time the fire department leaves, I've almost forgotten the reason we were here. If I'd known firefighters were so cute, I would have started more fires. But not here. The residents forced out of their apartments for the past three hours look less than happy to see cute firemen.

And when we're all allowed back into the laundry room, I wish the fire had done some damage. Now not only is there plastic wrap everywhere, there's smoky, wet, singed plastic wrap everywhere.

In the end, after twelve hours of wrestling with plastic wrap, fire, and irate residents, we've ruined another perfectly good room. Before leaving, we peek in at the Japanese designers' finished product. Thankfully, their sopping-wet made-over rec room isn't much better than our laundry room.

I never thought I'd say this, but at the end of the last show, I'm thoroughly sick of reality TV. I'm so glad the show is over, and if I never watch another reality TV show again, I won't shed a tear. I hope I don't shed too many at my television debut tomorrow night.

 

Since it's been a long week amid a series of long weeks, I'm capping this one off with a party at the Ritz-Carlton for Nicolo's friends, who have flown in for the
Kamikaze Makeover!
premiere tomorrow. Nicolo reserved the hotel's greenhouse—a gorgeous room with a view of the city. All around me men and women are reclining on plush antique-styled divans and chairs, standing on thick oriental rugs, placing glasses of Napoléon brandy and Krug 1990 Clos du Mesnil Blanc de Blancs champagne on gilded cut-glass tables. Everyone is laughing and talking. And I'm miserable. Before the party even began, Nicolo and I had a huge fight. Huge. I'd put on my favorite vintage Valentino, but Nicolo had bought me a bland beige creation by Alexander McQueen and insisted I wear it.

We finally agreed on a sexy black Alaia, but it pisses me off that I should have to even discuss my fashion choices with a man. I've got my own style. I know what's being shown in the couture shows on the Paris runways, but I don't want to be like everyone else. I want to wear a romantic silk Galliano, a vintage layered tulle by Schiaparelli, or something slim and gorgeous by the defunct Augustabernard house.

Now, I'm standing at one of the windows overlooking the city, partly shielded by a large tree, trying not to cry. I hate the stuffy, pretentious Ritz-Carlton, and I hate the Alaia I've been forced to wear. Okay, I love the Alaia, but I hate the idea of it. And I especially hate Nicolo's friends, standing around blathering about how much Chicago sucks, how boring Cannes is at this time of year, and how stressed they all are, jetting about the globe and looking chic.

I mean, are any of these people real? Do they ever worry that the guy they like won't call for a second date, or that they'll multiply wrong and the whole budget will be off, or that they'll set an apartment building on fire? Are these people for real? Is Nicolo?