Reality TV Bites (2 page)

Before I know what's happening, there's a shower of cups, plastic forks, wads of paper, and a big foam finger raining down on Clutch.

The Bulls players part, and Clutch rushes forward screaming obscenities. Wow. I didn't know mascots knew words like that. Then he bends down, reaching under the players'
bench, and lifts a huge red-and-white cooler. He holds it over his head, pretending he's going to drench us. By now the scene is being broadcast on the arena's big screens, and the Rockets fans are cheering Clutch on.

All of a sudden, Benny pantomimes coming to our rescue, but as he rushes forward he trips over one of his big hoofs, stumbles, and knocks into Clutch.

“Oh, shit,” Dave and I mumble as the contents of the cooler gush over our heads. People near us scramble to escape the wave of bright blue Gatorade surging from the cooler, and through the waterfall, I catch a glimpse of Dave and me on the big screens dominating the arena.

For a moment, the crowd hushes, then hell really breaks loose. Dave and I stand there stunned. My first thought is to reevaluate my aversion to the color orange. It might be worth the horror of wearing an orange prison jumpsuit for five to ten if it means the satisfaction of killing or seriously maiming Clutch.

One of the guys behind me, who's dripping with blue Gatorade, jumps over the chair next to Dave and lunges for Clutch. The two go down in a tangle of gray fur and human limbs. Another spectator follows suit, then Benny the Bull joins the fray, butting Clutch with his horns.

The crowd surges forward. I cover my head to protect it from the onslaught, but Dave grabs my arm roughly and pulls me up. “Let's go!”

I stumble after him, rushing against the tide of humans rising to join the melee. I cry out when my one remaining heel gets caught on the edge of a stair. Dave looks back at me, glowering. In one swift motion, he bends down, frees my foot, and slips the shoe off, then pulls me by the wrist.

Finally, we break out into the corridors of the United Center. The place is practically empty, as most people are
watching the fight, so Dave and I take a moment to lean against the wall and catch our breaths.

I glance at my soggy clothes and wonder if Gatorade stains silk. Then I look at Dave. His spiky blond hair is flat against his face and rivulets of azure meander down his cheeks to drip onto his blue-splotched T-shirt.

“You look like that blue guy from
Sesame Street.
Grover,” I say. “But worse.” I smile at his dark look.

“Want to know how you look?” He swipes a drop from the tip of my nose.

“Don't push it, Grover.”

“Fine.” He gestures to a TV screen broadcasting the fight, which is still going on. “Got anything to say for yourself?”

“What? Like that's my fault?”

“You threw the first shoe.”

“Yeah, and if I'd been thinking straight I'd have thrown one of yours.” I watch Clutch crawl out from the heap of Bulls fans piled on top of him. He's still got that annoying grin. “Anne Klein is way too good for that foul-mouthed bastard.”

Dave gapes at me, then laughs. Really laughs. He throws his head back and laughs until even I start smiling. Finally he manages, “Come on, Red. If you promise not to piss off any more mascots, I'll buy you a new pair of shoes.”

Forty-five minutes later, we're sticky but dry, and standing on the hardwood floors in the foyer of my town house. I'm wearing red flip-flops with fake flowers from Target and cradling a mammoth Diet Coke. Dave's holding two White Castle bags. “One thing about you, Red. You're never boring.”

I sip my Diet Coke. “I'd invite you up”—I gesture to the stairs leading to the living room, kitchen, and the…bedroom—“but you'll get blue all over my white furniture.”

He raises a brow. “Like you got Gatorade all over my leather interior?”

I nod and sip my drink again. Dave watches me, his eyes focused on the way my lips wrap around the straw. I wish I didn't like Dave so much. I wish every time I was with him, I didn't want him to ever go home. “We might be able to work out a deal,” I say and set the cup on the floor.

“I'm listening.”

I step close to Dave and kiss his jaw. His arm comes around my waist as though it were a habit. “You can come up, but you have to take off your clothes first.”

His hand tightens, and when I lean in to give him a playful kiss on the lips, he pulls me harder against him. I back away before we end up on the floor in my foyer, my hands tugging his shirt out of his jeans and deftly flicking the button loose in the process.

Dave catches my wrist. “Not a good idea.”

I smile. “Scared?”

“Of you? Hell, yes. You eat guys like me for breakfast.”

I lift his hand to my lips and kiss his palm, then his wrist. “Not breakfast. But I haven't had dinner tonight.”

I move close to him again, but this time he backs away. “I'm going to pass.”

I smile. “Right.”

“Look, Red, I really like you, but—”

I stare at him, unable to believe what I'm hearing. Is Dave
rejecting
me? After all I've been through tonight, this is really too much. I point a finger at him. “Don't you dare fucking say it's not you, it's me. I already used that one on you.”

“That wasn't what—”

“You know what?” I cut him off. I feel like I'm being drenched with ice-cold Gatorade all over again, and this time
I'm fighting back. “It's been fun, but you're dripping blue on my expensive tile.”

“Fine. I'll go. Here.” He presses one of the White Castle bags into my hands. “So you won't be hungry.” And then he turns, opens my front door, and walks out.

For five minutes or more, I stand in the foyer, speechless. This has never happened to me. To my knowledge, this has never happened to
any
woman. Straight men simply do not walk out on willing women. Is Dave gay? Or could he just not—I gulp air and drop the White Castle bag—does he not want me?

I sit on the tiled floor—sticky, gross, and wearing Target flip-flops—and stare at the door Dave walked through. It's not until patches of rose peek through the slim window shears on either side of the door that I crawl to my knees, then my feet, and trudge upstairs to shower.

A week later, I've moved on. Dave? Dave who? A
Real World
marathon and a healthy dose of
Queer Eye
have erased Dave from my thoughts completely.

Hello, my name is Allison, and I watch reality TV.

A lot.

Hey, it's good entertainment. I know the shows aren't as authentic as they claim, but nothing in the world is real anymore. It's all about how we perceive reality.

In fact, that's one of the main facets of my job—extensive manipulation of the public's perception of reality. I work at Interiors by M, the most prestigious interior design firm in Chicago. I'm an associate designer, and I specialize in color and furnishings. Most of the junior designers' worktables are on the spacious floor of the firm, but the three associate designers and Miranda, the M in Interiors by M, have our own offices with large glass windows. In my office, three walls look out onto the floor, and one overlooks the city. Interiors
by M is on the seventeenth floor, so I have a good view of the skyscrapers.

“Come on, Google, hurry up,” I say, glancing at the screen, then back at the skyscrapers. I don't always talk to my iMac, but I've got a meeting in five minutes, and I've been trying to get a definition for repoussé for the last fifteen. Miranda, my boss, refuses to pay for a high-speed Internet connection, so the search is taking forever.

I spin around, hit Play on the stereo, and grab the
Sourcebook of Decorating, Designing, and Detailing
from the bookshelf behind me. Swing music plays quietly, and I glance through the glass walls of my office into the reception area where Miranda is dictating something to Natalie, her assistant.

I check the computer again, then begin flipping through the book, trying first the index, then the table of contents for a listing. The music to “It Don't Mean a Thing” comes on and I start to sing along. “It screws up your day if you ain't got repoussé.”

The phone rings and I roll my eyes. Is there anyone who doesn't want something from me this morning? It's not even morning anymore, I realize as I check the computer's progress and notice the clock in the screen's right corner reads 1:13. I now have two minutes before the meeting.

I swivel my chair toward the phone, press the blinking light with a long, manicured nail, painted in OPI's demure Taupe-less Showgirls, and purr, “Allison Holloway.”

“Allie, it's me. You can turn off the Kathleen Turner for a sec.”

“Rory, I
am
Kathleen Turner.”

“Yeah, and I'm Princess Leia. Look, I need a favor, okay?”

I flip another page in the sourcebook. “I'm listening.” Out in the reception area, Miranda is welcoming several men—presumably our new clients—while Natalie rushes to make
coffee and answer the phone. “But make it fast. I'm late for a meeting, and I still have no clue what repoussé is.”

“It's metalwork that's hammered on the back side.”

“How do you know that?”

“I know everything. Okay, so now that I've helped you, you help me. I need you to go out with me and Hunter and some of his friends tomorrow night. I can't be the only girl again. I've already been exposed to dangerously high levels of testosterone.”

I finally find repoussé in the sourcebook and study the pictures. Rory was right, except, “You forgot to mention the embossing and outlining in repoussé, and the answer is no way.”

“Allison, please. Dave will be there…”

“Then definitely no. How many times do I have to tell you I hate his guts and hope he gets run over by a Mack truck?”

“I thought you wanted him to burn in hell for all eternity.”

“Hey, I can be flexible.”

“I'm not saying you're not, but you keep saying you hate him and won't tell me why. You guys only went out like half a dozen times. What happened?”

“What happened is that tomorrow night is a play-off game,” I say, completely avoiding her question, “and I don't want to spend any of the ten or so short hours I escape Miranda the Maniac with a bunch of beer-swilling, basketball-chugging sports junkies.” Not to mention,
Survivor All-Stars Meet the Big Brother All-Stars
is on.

I glance into the reception area again, and Miranda gestures to me. I swivel so my back is to the glass window between us.

“And what are you going to do in those ten short hours?” Rory asks. “Sit home and paint your nails?”

“Maybe.” I look at my nails, but the manicure is already perfect. No maintenance required.

“Wouldn't that time be better spent in a fun, relaxed atmosphere where you have at least a sixty-four percent chance of meeting an eligible guy?”

Have I mentioned that Rory is an accountant?

“Well, I might just have to take my little thirty—” Okay, sixty-four from a hundred is…wait, sixty-four plus six, minus—”

“Thirty-six percent,” Rory offers.

“Whatever. I'll just have to take my chances.”

Rory sighs. “Okay, Allie, I didn't want to have to do this, but if you insist on behaving like an astromech droid, you leave me no choice.”

Rory's an accountant and a
Star Wars
nerd.

The intercom on my desk beeps. “Allison, can you come out here? I need you in the next meeting,” Miranda trills.

“Rory, I have to go.”

“Two words, droid brain: Cody Maxwell.”

I grit my teeth. “Rory, that was eleventh grade. You can't guilt-trip me with that. The statute of limitations has run out.”

“Really? Because I thought a lie lived forever,” she says, somehow managing to sound like innocence incarnate.

“It wasn't a lie.”

“Then what do you call impersonating your mother on the phone to convince Cody you were too sick to go to the Winter Dance with him?”

“I
was
sick.”

“Sick with lust for Kyle Reitmeier. That was the night you two—”

“Fine. I'll go to the goddamn sports bar, but I won't like it.”

“I understand.”

“Allison? Allison!” Miranda screams through on the intercom.

I ignore it. “And if that jerk says one word to me, I'm out of there.”

“I'll give Dave fair warning.”

“Fine.”

“Fine.”

“Allison! I need you in the conference room now!”

Fricking maniac. “No need to warn Dave, Rory. Miranda's screaming has now rendered me both insane and deaf. Hey, do you think that qualifies for workers' comp?”

“Bye, Allison.”

On the way to the meeting, I stop in the ladies' room for a quick touch-up.
Natalie's in there, probably hiding from Miranda.

Natalie is pretty in a librarian sort of way. She's got long brown hair and a small face, and she's so thin sometimes I wonder if she's got tapeworm. When I walk in, she smiles weakly. “Hey, Ms. Holloway.”

“Hi, Natalie. Surviving?”

“Yeah.” She turns the cold water on, removes her glasses, and splashes her face. I set my makeup bag on the shelf above the sink beside her and extract my essentials. I run a brush through my hair, retouch my lipstick, and blot the shine from my nose, then I step back and give myself a quick appraisal.

In the mirror, I notice Natalie watching me. “You're so
pretty, Ms. Holloway. Have you ever thought about being a model?”

“No, but thanks. My brother is a model. Grayson Holloway? He was in those bottled water ads a few years ago.”

Natalie's large brown eyes widen behind her glasses. “Really? That was your brother?”

“Cute, huh? He's still single.”

Natalie blushes and looks down.

“Want an intro?” I'm totally serious, too. Gray would stay out of trouble more if he were dating a girl like Natalie.

“Did you see that episode of
America's Next Top Model
last night?” Natalie asks.

“Oh, my God, yes!” I glance at the door quickly to be sure no one will interrupt the ritual reality show rehash Natalie and I have once a day. I don't mind if Natalie knows I'm a reality show junkie, but I wouldn't want it to become public knowledge. “Can you believe Kristen L. didn't get kicked off? I hate her. She is so mean to Kristen K.”

Natalie nods furiously. “But neither of them are as pretty as Kristen R. She should be the next top model. Ms. Holloway,
you
should be the next top model. You should audition!”

I smile. “It would be pretty cool to be on a show like that, but not
America's Next Top Model.
I'd want to be in charge, you know? Like Simon on
American Idol
or the woman on
The Bachelorette.
I'd be a good bachelorette.”

“Yeah.” Natalie nods. “Maybe you'll get a chance to be on TV before you expect.”

I frown. “Unless the producers of
The Apprentice
are coming here, I don't think that's likely.”

Natalie shrugs and looks at the floor. “You never know,” she murmurs.

“I better go before Miranda has an aneurism. It's almost one-thirty.”

“Okay. Talk to you later, Ms. Holloway.”

I walk out, shaking my head. Natalie is so sweet. She's like twenty-two—a bit young for my older brother—but the poor girl worships me. I'm not used to that. Most women don't like me until they know me.

And men? Most men like me even
before
they know me.

I think that's a combination of several factors. I pause. Through the windows of the conference room, I can see that the meeting has started, but now I'm thirsty, so I beeline for the break room and a bottle of water.

I pass a kid from mailroom, and when I turn into the break room, he's still watching me. See, guys—Dave notwithstanding—like me. Why? I'm a size two and my bra size is 32C. And no, I haven't had plastic surgery, and I don't kill myself at the gym. Sorry. If size ten, 36A were in vogue, I'd be the one out of luck.

Why else? I come from money—lots of money. My parents are very, very rich. Imagine Chicago society as the Sears Tower. Okay, now look way up. No,
way
up. See those tiny dots waving at you, all stiff and condescending, from the 103rd floor? Meet my parents, Mitsy and Donald Holloway. I'm their youngest, Allison.

But I've had my share of pain and disappointment in life. My family, though rich, is far from perfect. My father was one of those absentee dads who worked so late he never made it to my dance recitals or choir concerts. My mother is on The Committee. I don't even bother specifying which one anymore because she's on so many. Sometimes when I was little I'd wish I had cancer so that my mom would pay as much attention to me as she did to raising funds for kids who were terminally ill.

And then there's my brother. There are good things about older brothers and bad. The good thing is that their cute
friends are always around. The bad thing is that their cute friends are always around.

The first time I thought I was in love it was with one of Gray's cute friends. I was fourteen; the guy was eighteen or nineteen. Bottom line: He used me for sex and discarded me. I will never forget that feeling of powerlessness and rejection. I still get flashbacks.

And I remember the last time I thought I was in love. Bryce is not a friend of my brother's, but there was still that same feeling of vulnerability when he broke it off two months ago. He said I didn't have time for him, and he found someone else. End of story.

Except he was the first guy in a long time I thought I might really like, and he didn't care enough to forgive a few late nights at the office. We were decorating Oprah's studio, for fuck's sake. I'd thought he was The One, and then he dumped me for Another One. I can't stand feeling all weak and useless like that. No more.

So I've pretty much decided I won't ever fall in love. And really, when I sit and analyze my feelings, it turns out that I've never been in love anyway. Why should that change?

I reach the conference room door and pause, hand on the doorknob. I don't get it, this obsession with love. Why all the hype? Why all the sonnets and Michael Bolton ballads? In my mind, relationships are mini–power struggles. If a guy knows you love him, you give up your power. And if you let a guy get too close to the real you, that's when you open yourself up to the serious pain and heartache. So I'm glad I didn't open myself up to Dave. It would have made his rejec—what happened—harder to take. Besides, Dave is so not the man of my dreams.

Typically my dates are a little more sophisticated than burgers and Gatorade. For instance, a year or so ago, when I
was dating the son of a prominent politician, we jetted to Paris unexpectedly to dine on
le tiramisu de pommes au pain d'épices avec glace vanille
at Maison Blanche. Another time one of Gray's model friends got me into a film premiere, where I sat next to Orlando Bloom.

Even as a kid, I was—well, spoiled. For my sixteenth birthday, I not only got a Mustang convertible, but Mitsy took me shopping in Milan. A lot of girls get clothes for their birthdays. I went to Fashion Week in the most stylish city in Europe for an entire new wardrobe.

Not that I'm above basketball games or anything. Like I said, I was a cheerleader from sixth grade until my senior year at Lincoln High. I've had more than my fill of sports and jocks. But I'm not a cheerleader anymore, and
entre nous,
there's nothing stylish or sophisticated about basketball.

Now, if my best friend Rory heard this she'd say I was kidding myself. She believes love is the greatest thing since Luke Skywalker. She can't remember a time when she wasn't in love, and she's always loved (yawn)
the same guy.
Crazy, huh? She wouldn't believe that I've never really, truly been in love.

At least not with a man. I once saw a pair of Jimmy Choos that made my heart go pitter-pat, but other than those…oh! and the Hermès Kelly bag my dad gave me for my thirtieth birthday. It's gorgeous—red Ardennes leather with goatskin interior and an adorable lock, key, and clochette. The perfect shoes, the perfect bag. If that isn't love, I don't know what is.

So I have money, great clothes, and good friends. I also have a great job, which isn't going to be so great now that I'm late for this meeting. Miranda is probably really pissed. See, life isn't all sports cars and mansions.

I slip into the conference room, doing my best to ignore Miranda's glare, and slide confidently into a seat beside Josh, my partner in design. I twine my OPI Taupe-less Showgirls fingers together, steeple two fingers under my chin, and survey the room. Miranda is seated across from me, Josh next to me, and three or four Japanese businessmen occupy the chairs at the head of the gleaming glass table. Behind me, someone takes a seat, but I don't peer around to get a look. A small Japanese man is speaking when I glide in, and once I'm seated, he continues.

In Japanese.

He talks, waves his arms, points out the window, then at the artwork on the walls, then gestures to his companions. I don't know what he's saying, but it must be pretty involved. Finally he opens the black leather notebook in front of him—nice, wonder if it's Coach?—and reads, flips the page, and keeps reading. When he's done, Miranda, Natalie, and Josh turn to the young Japanese man seated next to the speaker. Hmm—cute, not too shabby in Hugo Boss.

The guy wearing Hugo Boss nods at his employer, nods at us, and says, “Mr. Kinjo say he is most honored to work with you.”

We wait. I mean, Kinjo talked for like five minutes; that can't be it. But the translator makes another bow and defers to Mr. Kinjo.

Kinjo starts to talk again, and I give Josh a sidelong glance. He rolls his eyes heavenward, and it's not too hard to read his mind:
I need a drink
. A moment later, he scribbles on the pad of paper he's pretending to take notes on—but on which he is actually drawing raunchy pictures—tears it off, and slides it in front of me. Mindful that I am supposed to be entranced by our speaker, I pretend to ignore the paper, then
I unsteeple my hands and, still keeping my eyes focused on Mr. Kinjo, unfold the note.

Still pretending to be vastly interested in Kinjo's monologue, I extract a pen from my appointment book and jot an answer.

I pretend to stretch, shift, and slide the note back to Josh. A moment later he drops his pen, pretends to bend over and pick it up, and drops his reply in my lap.

Kinjo is
still
talking. What can he possibly be saying? And why is Miranda smiling like she understands? I scrawl LL and 6 on the note and pass it to Josh under the glass table. He reads it and, since everyone is paying rapt attention to Kinjo, blows me a kiss.

“Mr. Kinjo also say he expect this venture to be great success. And further he is honored to have support of Mr. Parma, who is here from Europe to oversee the project.”

Everyone whips their attention to me, and I freeze, thinking I've been caught passing notes in class. And then I realize they're looking behind me, and I turn to see an extremely attractive man dressed in dark slacks and a stunning royal-blue linen shirt sans tie.

His eyes, as startlingly blue as his shirt, are on me. Kinjo
starts another long monologue, of which I'm sure the translator will give us the abbreviated version, but I don't turn away from Parma.

What kind of name is that? It sounds familiar for some reason. I size him up: thick dark hair styled expertly to look as though he just woke up, heavy-lidded eyes, aristocratic nose, and a full mouth, set in that debauched European style. Not the pursed look of the British or the open sensuality of the Italians, more of the cynical, slightly amused look of the French. He's dressed in Armani, and his long limbs rest languorously in the chair. He appears perfectly at ease, and yet there's a sense of the patrician about him. A sort of benevolent condescension.

Now this guy is the definition of my dream man.

He watches me size him up, and while I take him in, his eyes skim over me, making no secret about the perusal. I'm wearing a thirties-style fawn-colored cigarette skirt and fitted jacket with a chocolate silk shell underneath. My legs are tanned and bare and my feet are strapped into three-inch open-toed Prada sandals, the exact color of the OPI Taupeless Showgirls polish on my fingers and toes.

Our eyes meet again, and to my amusement and chagrin, he deliberately glances at Josh, then me, takes a pen—no, a limited-edition Montblanc pen!—from his shirt pocket and jots something on the paper before him. That's a five-hundred-dollar writing instrument. He folds the note with slow, elegant movements, then places it on the table between me and Josh.

By this point, Miranda seems to have noticed that Kinjo is not the only person in the room, and she's watching me. But more important,
he
's watching me. Parma.

I skate the note carelessly over the glass until it's before
me but leave it on the table unopened. I attempt to appear completely engrossed in Kinjo's speech, but every few seconds, I run a fingernail over the note.

At that point the translator passes out thick documents, which look like contracts. I pick up the note, press it to my lips, and watch Parma's slow smile. A moment later, I notice everyone signing the documents, so I scrawl my signature and set the note on top.

Josh looks at the note, then me, and when I meet his gaze, he quirks a brow. Poor boy. This is why all of Josh's boyfriends leave him. He's too eager, too impulsive, too open. Of course, those are the exact qualities I love in him.

That and he knows good shoes.

Josh starts to squirm. To put him out of his misery, I slowly unfold the note. Two words:

I'll buy.

The words glide across the page in an elegant script that perfectly mirrors Parma's outward appearance. I haven't heard his voice, but I imagine he speaks formally, his accent soft and Gallic.

Josh reads the note over my shoulder and practically breaks into excited applause. I, on the other hand, pretend to ponder the issue. The delay is too much for Josh, and he finally snatches the note and writes: