Reality TV Bites (15 page)

I want to go home, but if I do all the reporters will write that Nicolo and I are having a fight. Which we are.

“What are you doing here all by yourself?” Nicolo says, coming up behind me. “You are not still sulking?”

I watch his reflection in the glass—a tall, regal man, a prince, standing beside a little girl pretending to be a princess.

I take a breath and turn. “I don't sulk. I was thinking. You might try it sometime.”

“Ah, yes. That coming from you, whose big decision is the red nail polish or the pink?”

Before I can retaliate with my own scathing commentary, Nicolo holds up a hand. “No. I am sorry. I do not want to argue with you. We put all that aside, yes?” He scans the room, his gaze critical. “Come. Sixte has been asking for you.”

Nicolo leads me across the room, where a small group of Europeans including Sixte, Valencia, and Maxmillian have gathered. We embrace and kiss as though we haven't seen one another in years. When I sit down, they continue their conversation.

“I refuse to ride in a white limousine,” Valencia says. “I look fat in white.”

Valencia is wearing a gown by Badgley Mischka, and if she's larger than a size zero, I'll eat my Emilio Pucci bag.

“Black is the only color for a chauffeur-driven car,” Maxmillian adds.

“Well, I for one intend to take a Rolls back to the airport,” Valencia says. “I cannot abide these dinosaurs some people consider cars.”

I hear a muted sound and glance around until I notice one of the bartenders has a portable TV. He and a waiter are watching the Bulls play-off game surreptitiously. The
cameras flash on Benny the Bull, and I can't suppress a smile. God, that Gatorade incident was horrible. Horrible and crazy and real. I glance at Nicolo, seated beside me on a divan. His expression is blank, the perfect mask of ennui.

My purse vibrates, and I jump in surprise. “Excuse me.” I walk away, feeling Nicolo's frown burning into me.

“Sweetie, where are you?” It's Josh.

“The Ritz.” I retreat to my corner behind the plant and stare at the lights of the city behind the windows.

“Ooh, swanky. Okay, quick question, since I know you've got all those royal affairs to attend to. Do we have everything ready for the next Wernberg meeting on Monday, or should we go in tomorrow?”

I close my eyes. “Josh, I don't even know. My brain is so fried right now.”

“Sweetie, go home and turn in early,” Josh says. “You sound exhausted.”

“Nicolo has been dragging me out every night. I've gotten like no sleep.”

“So tell his royalness you need a night off.”

“We already had one argument today. It's easier just to humor him.” I touch my fingers to the glass, tracing the outline of a building a few blocks away.

“Well, be a martyr, then.”

“Look, I can meet tomorrow to double-check everything, but it has to be either early or late. I'm going with Gray to basketball camp.”

“The princester's letting you out?”

“Josh.”

“Sorry. Well, look at it this way: The sex is good, right?”

“Yeah. I'm just tired. I want a break from my life.”

“Not next week, sweetie. We've got a show to watch, and a game to win.”

I groan.

“Come on, girl. You were the cheerleader.” I can almost see him jump up and strike a pose. “Give me a J.”

“Josh, the Village People do that, not cheerleaders.”

“Come on! Gimme a J!”

“J.”

“With spirit!”

“J!” I growl.

“Ooh! Give me an O.”

“O.”

“Give me an S and an H.”

“S, H.”

“What does it spell?”

“Idiot.”

Josh huffs. “You are no fun. I say you ditch the princelet and come out with me and Carlos tonight. We're going salsa dancing.”

I glance at Nicolo across the room. He's frowning at me. “Better not, Salsa King.”

“Speaking of kings, what's it like sleeping with royalty? Are you like, ‘Oh, Your Majesty! Oh, oh!'?”

“Hey, when you tell me about Carlos, I'll tell you about Nicolo.”

“But there's nothing
to
tell about Carlos. Yet.”

“Well, then you better get moving, Salsa Boy, or he's going to mambo off with someone else.”

 

“So, how are things with the prince?” Gray asks on our way home from camp the next morning.

Oh, good. This question again. “Fine. Except he'll probably be pissed that I'm staying in tonight, but I'm too tired to deal with his bullshit friends.”

“Better get used to it.” Gray slips a Nickelback CD in the
player and turns the volume up. “You're going to be almost royalty. That's a job that entails a lot of partying.”

“Hmm.”

“That guy Dave asked about you today.”

I swerve. “Who?”

“Nice try. I told him you were a princess in training.”

“Oh.”

“He said to tell you the prince is a better mechanic than he is. Does that—hey, you ran that stop sign.”

“This music's too loud. I can't concentrate.” I punch the power button on the CD player and we're cast into silence. I don't know why I'm annoyed at Dave's comment. It's probably true, and what do I want him to say, anyway?

“Look,” Gray says. “Nicolo's an okay guy. If you like him, I like him.”

Wow. Big praise for Grayson. “Thanks.”

“And I'm sorry about what I said at the lake house. I didn't mean that.”

One more emotional comment like that, and I'm going to start believing the alien body-snatcher theories. “It's okay.”

“No, it's not. I shouldn't say stuff like that to you—about you. I pretty much suck as a big brother.”

I brake at a light, shifting into first. “No, you don't.”

“Jesus, Allison”—he runs a hand through his long hair—“do you know how sorry I am about everything I've done? I'd give anything to go back and do it over again.”

I squeeze his hand, wishing I could make things better, make the pain etched on his face disappear. I can see the fine lines and beginnings of wrinkles when he looks like this.

“Mostly I wish I could go back to that summer. I knew what was going on with that asshole Chris, but I was so strung out I didn't care.”

“I've got as much to be sorry for as you do. It's my fault
you went to jail.” The light turns green, and a car behind us honks. I jump, releasing the clutch too fast so that the car lurches forward.

“No, it's not.”

“Gray, let's not talk about it. What happened with Chris is no big deal.”

“He raped you.”

I shift from second to third. “No, he didn't.” We're going seventy in a fifty-five zone, but it's still not fast enough. “I had a huge crush on him. I didn't say no.”

“You were fifteen. He was nineteen. That's rape.”

We hit eighty, and I shift into fourth. It doesn't matter how fast I go. I can't outrun the poisonous black pit that opens when Gray brings Chris up. Usually I don't notice it gnawing away at me. Sometimes I think it's gone, then something happens and the canyon yawns and I plummet down, down, down.

“Slow down. You're going to get us killed.”

I put in the clutch, brake hard, and turn, tires squealing, into a McDonald's parking lot. The car shudders.

“Gray.” I turn to him. “It's not your fault. It happened. I regret it, but we all do stupid stuff when we're kids.”

“And some of it messes us up more than others. Allie, I look at you now, and I think, man, if I'd just stopped it—”

“If you'd stopped him, what? Everything would be the same.” My heart is beating fast, the blood is rushing in my ears, and the roar of the bottomless chasm in my belly is deafening.

“I don't think so. You'd be married or at least serious with some guy by now. You wouldn't be so afraid of getting hurt that you hide behind childish fantasies and designer clothes.”

I recoil, feeling the verbal punch in my gut. My defenses
spring forward like porcupine spikes. I roll my eyes. “Please. What do you know about it?”

He sighs. “More than you think. I've got my own barricades.”

I'm sort of speechless at that comment. Am I really that much like Gray? Afraid to commit, changing men as often as my nail polish?

Gray glances toward the McDonald's playground. The sound of laughter and the smell of french fries and Big Macs seeps in through the car's vents. “You're so cool, Allie. You never let anyone see you—the real you.”

“That's not true.”

“Allie, you go through guys like—”

“Nail polish?”

“I was going to say disposable razors, but the idea's the same.”

His tone is lighter, and now that we're past the subject of our past, I can see the bridge out of this desert wasteland. My heartbeat slows and returns to normal. “Hey, maybe I just haven't found the right guy.”

“Allison, you're thirty-two, smart, successful, gorgeous—not as gorgeous as me, but—”

“What's your point?”

“I've met some of your boyfriends. They're good guys, but as soon as it gets serious, you ditch them.”

“Ha! Not true. They break up with me almost as often as I ditch them.”

“Because you make it happen. You won't let them get close. If they start to get past the perfect exterior to the broken interior, you back away.” He puts his hand on my arm. “But you know what, you're not broken inside. It's like that useless show you're doing. Stop trying to fix something that's not broken.”

“That's a lot of philosophizing. Have you considered that maybe Nicolo's not the right guy for me?”

“Maybe not. He comes with a hell of a lot of baggage, but if you're not sure about this thing, you'd better break it off before you're in too deep. Before your entire life is fodder for the tabloids. Now I'm going to shut up and buy you an ice cream cone.” Grayson hops out, walks around, and opens my door.

“I'll have a Diet Coke.”

“No, you won't.” He pulls me out of the car. “I'm the model, and if I can eat an ice cream, so can you.”

When Nicolo and I arrive at Rory's, her apartment is packed. Hunter, Grayson,
and Grayson's flavor of the month are playing with a big-screen TV that Hunter must have hauled over; Josh, Carlos, and Stormy, Rory's sister, and Stormy's latest boyfriend are in the kitchen getting the hors d'oeuvres ready; and Courtney and Christina, two of my friends from college, are sitting on the couch.

I introduce Nicolo to everyone he hasn't met, and he's relatively civil, which means he shakes the hands of the TV group, nods stiffly at the kitchen group, and kisses the hands of Court and Tina. By the time Rory comes back from the store, where Hunter told me she ran to fetch more ice, Nicolo's sitting between my college friends, ensconced in conversation.

“Allie! You're here.” Rory hugs me, which isn't typical for her, but it's sweet.

“Thanks for doing all this,” I say, indicating the streamers and balloons and party hats that no one except Hunter and Rory are wearing.

“It was fun.” She glances at Nicolo, still flirting with my friends, and I roll my eyes, then follow her into the kitchen.

“Want a wheatgrass smoothie?” Stormy asks, holding out a glass filled with bright green liquid.

“Um, I already grazed today. Got any wine?”

“Sure.” Rory pulls out two bottles. “White or red?”

“White.”

She reaches for a glass and pours the wine.

“Sweetie, are you as excited about the show as I am?” Josh asks. “Carlos did some strong mojo before we came.”

“That's right. I got a chicken—”

“Okay!” I say before Rory or her animal rights sister catch on to Carlos's anti-SPCA practices. “Let's go.”

Everyone settles in front of the TV—Hunter's big screen. I give him a hug and a kiss on the cheek, then rinse and repeat with Grayson. “Thanks for hauling that over. You're very sweet.”

I do wish they'd asked me before going to so much effort, though. I'm not so sure I want to see me and the box o'vibrators on the big screen.

Tina moves over, and I settle next to Nicolo on the couch. Josh sits directly in front of the TV, his eyes riveted on the Charmin commercial. Someone is ready for
Kamikaze Make-over!
and his close-up.

The show starts and a slick piece of eye candy stands in a studio and explains the concept of the show.

“Who's that?” I ask Nicolo. “I never saw him.”

The screen flashes to a shot of the Japanese team in an
office, talking and examining various fabrics. They look really industrious, like serious, skilled decorators.

The host introduces them, accompanied by a headshot of each, then flashes to a scene of the challengers.

“That's us! That's us!” Josh yells. “We're the challengers!”

But the rest of the room is silent. Where the Japanese team looked busy and successful, we look like a bunch of losers. Watanabe chose footage from the first house, when Josh and I collapsed on the floor. We look like we're lying around with nothing to do. Even Miranda, relaxing in the chair, her eyes half-closed, looks like a bum.

Nicolo laughs. “You keep telling me you are so tired. Look at you. Very lazy.”

I don't particularly want to look at me. The khaki capris and white T-shirt I'm wearing on-screen are wrinkled, splattered with dirt and grime; my hair is tangled, stuck on top of my head and secured with two pencils; and the angle of the shot is not as flattering to my hips as I would have liked.

“That was at the end of the day,” I tell no one and everyone. “We didn't know they were still filming.” I bite my thumbnail, chipping my Shootout at the O.K. Coral OPI polish. I'm more than concerned now about Watanabe and his cronies' selective editing.

The shot goes back to the slick host, and he intros the first segment, leaving off with shots of the houses and a cliff-hanger with footage of me arguing with the gang member. As soon as the ad for Sherwin-Williams comes on, everyone starts talking. Josh whines that he looks horrible on-screen, that his skin was ashy and he looked so fat—more so than the extra ten pounds the camera adds can account for.

“Carlos, why didn't you tell me I was fat? I'm a cow—no, a hippopotamus.” He runs into the bathroom, and Carlos follows.

“No, honey. Jou look good.”

The show starts again, and we get a look at the house the Japanese team had to redecorate. It starts out looking as bad as ours, so at least that's fair. The camera shows them scraping away old wallpaper and wrestling the vibrator into a tasteful-looking objet d'art. The host refers to the vibrators as personal massagers, but we all know what they really are.

“You had to decorate the house with vibrators?” Gray chokes back a laugh. “You are so going to get it. Mom and Dad are going to freak.”

“Maybe they'll believe the personal massagers thing.” Unfortunately, I remember one incident all too clearly and if the film crew has decided to show that footage, which they probably have as they seem determined to make us look like idiots, there won't be much question what the vibrators are used for.

“Are we back on yet?” Josh calls from the bathroom.

“Next commercial,” Rory answers. “Come out and watch. I'll pour you another glass of wine.”

“Half a glass. I have to watch my figure, since I'm such a blimp.”

There's another commercial break and Josh, dabbing his eyes with Kleenex, reemerges. “Oh, God. It's coming back on.”

Kamikaze Makeover!
flashes on the screen, accompanied by the sound of Japanese drums, and our host intros our house. There it is, and there's the three of us in the conference room at the office. “Look, Josh,” I say. “It's not that bad. We come across really serious there.”

“The American team did have a few distractions to contend with,” the host announces. Flash to a close-up of Lila.

She says, “We'd better get on that or we'll be late and end
up having to cut corners like we did at Harpo Studios.” Flash to a shot of me, looking very guilty.

In Rory's living room, I shake my head. “Wait. We weren't even talking about the show there…”

I trail off as footage of Nicolo and I going into a restaurant together last week begins. I glance at Nicolo, but he looks unconcerned. The host starts talking about me, about the romance that bloomed on the set between Nicolo and me kissing in the office one day. When I thought there weren't any cameras around. I'm so mortified to see myself like this. I want to ask Nicolo if he knew about the cameras, but before I can, there's another shot of me at Mrs. Jackson's house. I'm talking to Josh and holding the box o'vibrators.

On-screen Miranda says, “I thought you liked a challenge.”

“This isn't a challenge,” I say, holding a purple vibrator aloft. The scene then shifts to a few hours later. Josh and I are kneeling next to a table, trying to figure out how to fashion a vibrator into a lamp stand. We pull one out, and I accidentally turn it on. But instead of just vibrating, this one swivels and dips. The screen then flashes back to the earlier scene.

Josh says, “I think we're screwed,” and I say, “Well, we've got the right equipment.” Flash back to the gyrating vibrator.

I put my head in my hands. I'm not so much embarrassed as dreading the fallout. Right on cue, my cell phone rings. I glance at the display, then at Gray. “It's Mom and Dad.”

“Don't answer,” he says. The ringing stops and the phone goes to voice mail. A minute later, Grayson's phone rings. “Shit.” He answers, “Hello? Oh, hi, Dad. No, I don't know where—”

I stand. “Just give me the phone. I better get this over with.” I start walking toward the door. “Hi, Daddy. You were watching? It wasn't my choice. You heard what I said…I know but…Mrs. Chippenhall called?…I know, but I signed the…Daddy, I'm sure no one we know saw—okay, sorry.”

Everyone is watching me, pretending not to listen. I give a little wave and step into Rory's hallway. My dad continues to yell, and nothing I say calms him down. Finally, I hear the door behind me open.

“Daddy, why don't we talk about this tomorrow when you're not so upset, okay?”

He says something else.

“Okay, love you, too. Bye.”

I turn to see Nicolo. “Your father is upset?”

“Do you blame him? It's not every day he gets to see his little girl on national television playing with sex toys. Did you know they were going to make us look so stupid?”

He shrugs. “It was not hard to do.”

“You really are a bastard, aren't you? Why would you do that to me? And what about those scenes with us? Did you know they were filming?”

“You did not?”

“You know I didn't! What am I to you? A publicity tool?”

He shrugs again.

“You fucking used me.”

“Again, you make it so easy.”

“Get out of my sight.”

He opens Rory's door, presumably to get his jacket and keys, and go. I follow him indoors, my insides roiling with anger.

“You know what, Nicolo, I used to think I was a snob, but
you take the cake. I should have thrown you off a boat when you showed up in Lake Geneva.”

He turns and glares at me, hand still on Rory's door handle.

“What?” I say. “Do you think I'm going to break down in tears and beg you to take me back? You're the one who should be begging me.”

“Stop shouting at me. You act like a peasant.”

“Oh, you think this is shouting?” Actually, I had been talking rather loudly, i.e., shouting. “I'll give you shouting.”

“You are not worth this. You with your peasant friends—fags and freaks all of them. I cannot wait to leave this country.”

“And I promise you that we can't wait to see you go,” I hiss.

Nicolo whirls and glares at me, face red with anger. “You bitch.” He steps forward and Gray and Hunter rise simultaneously. Nicolo eyes them, then me. “You will pay.” He stomps out and slams the door. As the echo vibrates through the room, I put on a wobbly smile. “Well, that's that,” and then I burst into tears.

 

On Monday I arrive at the office five minutes before nine and am ready to go home again by nine-thirty. Several clients call to tell me they no longer require my services, and the front page of the Lifestyle section has a picture of me and Josh holding the gyrating vibrator. The headline reads, “
DECORATORS GET THRUST OF NEW SHOW
.” I want to cry, I want to hide under my covers, I want to kick Nicolo's ass.

And then my mother calls to yell at me. You'd think that at a time like this, my mother would be supportive, but she doesn't care about how I feel, only how all of this looks.
Everything is going wrong. My life has become a bad episode of a reality TV show, and I can't shut the TV off.

The only bright spot in my day is when Rory calls to ask how I'm holding up. She offers to cut out of work early so we can have an extended happy hour. But even a mojito and Rory's sympathetic ear don't ease the impending sense of doom. Two mojitos and several baskets of tortilla chips (yes, that's dinner) later, I'm painting my toenails with the TV on for noise. The world news coverage is over, and I hear the anchorwoman say, “In local news, a possible lawsuit against the prestigious Interiors by M.”

I scramble for the remote and hike the volume to max. I've smeared OPI's A-Rose at Dawn…Broke by Noon polish, but I don't care.

“Sources report that Dai Hoshi, a major Japanese media conglomerate that produces, in part, the television show
Kamikaze Makeover!
will sue the Chicago-area interior design firm.
Kamikaze Makeover!
premiered on KCHI Saturday evening and features competition between three top Japanese interior decorators and three American designers from Interiors by M. Ramosu Kobayashi, CEO and founder of Dai Hoshi, alleges that an employee at Interiors by M violated several stipulations of the contract between the two firms. More on this as the story develops.

“In sports, the Houston Rockets mascot is in court—”

I throw the remote and the TV flashes off. Shit. It's got to be me who's violated the contract. How would Josh or Miranda have violated it? I don't know how I could have, either, but I know it's me. I
know.

I grab my laptop case, open it, and dig through the files I've stashed there. No contract. I must have left it at the office. I don't remember filing it, so maybe it's still on my desk. Unless I had Natalie file it for me…

The phone rings, and I snatch it up, hoping it's Josh or Rory.

“Hello?”

“Miss Holloway? This is Marti Kristynik from
USA Today.
Can I ask you a few questions about your involvement in the show
Kamikaze Makeover!
and your relationship with producer Nicolo Parma?”

“No.” I hang up, and then my cell phone rings. The display reads “Evelyn Shephard.”

“Hello?”

“Allison Holloway, this is Evelyn Shephard from the
Houston Chronicle.
I'd like your comment on—”

The
Houston Chronicle
? People from Houston are calling me? Oh, my God. The phone rings again, and I unplug it and turn my cell off, too. Booboo Kitty is stretched out on my bed, and I decide she has the right idea and climb under the covers. I lie there, Booboo curled around my head and hogging (catting?) most of the pillow, until five
A.M
., and then I get up, get dressed, and drive to work.

When I arrive I'm surprised to see the light in Miranda's office. I tap on her door quietly and push it open. She looks as haggard as me in her velour tracksuit, hair in a clip at the back of her head, and no makeup. She's sitting at her desk staring at a pile of papers and doesn't see me at first.

“Miranda?”

She glances up. “Good, you're here. I thought you might call in.”