Reality Jane (22 page)

“Morning, babe,” he said with a devilish grin.

Is he joking?

“Oh my God!” I said, finally noticing what Toni had run out to show me. It was my pillowcase, stained an unholy-looking orange flesh-tone. “Is that my friggin’ pillow? What did you do to it?”

Toni cracked up. “I don’t know, but you better come and see the sheets!”

I ran toward the bedroom, leaving Kyle in a pile on the couch.

“What the. . .? Was that dude wearing make-up? On his body?” We broke into a fit of laughter. “Gross!”

“Or tanning cream? Ew! I don’t even want to think about it!”

Apparently, Roger had already departed for an early morning audition. Toni had offered him breakfast before he left at 7:30, but he eats only egg whites—all I had were Tatertots. He left his card on her bedside table and a huge orange mess on my bed.

“You know, Toni, straight boys should never wear make-up. The world is not functioning as it should when straight boys wear foundation.” We giggled again.

“Where I come from, a straight boy with pancake make-up would get his face pancaked with a fist.”

“I guess the real question is, when straight LA boys wear make-up, how do we stay prettier than them?” I added.

Toni laughed, then dropped her head into her hands and moaned, “I’m such a loser.”

“Don’t be silly. He didn’t look like he wore make-up.” I tried not to laugh. “I mean, he
was
pretty cute.”

“Loser!” she cried.

“Do you think it’ll come out? I like those sheets.”

“It had to be tanning cream. His chest was like a bright orange color,” Toni yelled down the hallway. “And he was totally hairless, like he’d shaved. . . or waxed. Hey, Kyle, does
Roger wear make-up? On his
chest
?”

We heard a groan from the couch. Guilt swept through me as I thought of Grant. Then, realizing I was still in my dress, and my undergarments were still intact, I felt slightly relieved.

Kyle walked into the bedroom to join us. On the back of his hair were mini-dusters, and his right cheek was prominently creased from the couch pillows. He looked like a teenager.

“I should probably go,” he said, trying to play it cool. “So, uh, your digits?”

Something about dating a guy who carries a mirror in his back pocket didn’t interest me. Then again, what if Grant really had changed his mind about me? What if I had been just a fling? What if I was destined to be alone for the rest of my life? Even the questions were depressing! And the mere sight of Craig had sent me slipping into self-demolition.
Poor Grant. I don’t deserve a boyfriend.
I suddenly felt stupid and immature. Girls back home were getting married and having babies, while I was single in LA and crashing out with my own boy baby.

“It’s okay,” I said, trying to lighten an awkward moment. “Not necessary.”

He bowed, did a half-wave, and walked out the door. I peered through the window to make sure he was gone. Toni giggled, waiting for me to join in on a good laugh, as if we could have carried on like this forever.

But I didn’t laugh. My face became serious. “We didn’t—”

“No, you didn’t,” she said, still smiling.

“So what then?” I asked earnestly.

“I don’t know,” Toni said blankly.

“Did I kiss him?”

“Not that I saw.”

“What did you see?”

“Nothing.”

“Come on! Spill!”

“It’s all good,” Toni said, sounding a bit riled.

“Come on, Toni! I kind of need to know if I just destroyed my relationship with Grant. I mean, I really like him!”

“Believe it or not, Jane, I was busy with my own thing.” Toni was now fully wound up. “It’s not always about you!”

“Who said it was?” I said, irritated. “I pick up the pieces whenever you get drunk, which is a helluva lot more often!”

“Fine. You want the truth?” Toni was now in my face. “You were too busy feeling sorry for yourself to even notice Kyle.”

“Really?” I said, fully relieved.

“Yeah, and crying into your drink about how Craig had dumped you, Alex had used you, and Grant was an MIA pecker-head, just like the rest of them.”

“I said all that?” I cringed, now backing off.

“
Mm, hmm
. Consider yourself lucky. You’ve got, or had, the choice between two awesome guys. Not even the hottest chicks in LA are so blessed! Every one of them’s looking for a decent guy, and this town has a massive shortage of them. Then there’s you with a goddamn horseshoe up your ass and you don’t even recognize it! You see Craig and get all blubbery. One look at that asshole and you fall into the pits of despair! Frankly, it’s getting old.” Toni looked at me, her nostrils flaring.

“I’m sorry,” I said, relenting.

Toni exhaled forcefully.

“Toni, I’m sorry,” I said again. “I had no idea.”

“Well, now you do.” Toni softened her tone. “Let’s just forget about it. You know I love you.”

She reached over to hug me. I felt like an ass.

“Nothing like a little hangover to get our juices going.” I sighed into her ear as we hugged. “Thank you for being so honest.”

From that moment forward, I decided my life would be about two things: advancing my career and making good with Grant. No more sulking over losers or acting like an infant. Good-bye self-absorbed, insecure Jane. Hello successful, together Jane.

“Sorry about your sheets,” Toni giggled.

We grabbed our coffees and plunked ourselves onto the balcony lounge chairs. The sun poked through my angel trumpet while passing cars formed our morning backdrop.

“Do you think he’ll call?” Toni asked.

“Make-up boy? Do you want him to?” I said, surprised.

“I don’t know.” Toni sipped her coffee. “Hey, maybe we
should move in together. What do you think?”

“Could be fun.” I smiled.

“Could be dangerous.” Toni winked.

B
efore moving to LA, the last place I thought I would ever work was the Sex Kitten Mansion, the so-called Purr Palace. But there I was, on a Sunday, two months after the Dagmar show launched to huge ratings, waiting, with my crew, for Sally—former assistant to Dagmar and otherwise known as Snookums—to arrive in her limo for her
Purr
Magazine semi-nude
Hot Brides
photo shoot, to be followed by a post-production party. It was another one of the many perks of co-starring on a CRP-TV reality show. Thanks to my diligent spy-cam efforts, Sally and Matt were co-stars on
Marry an Heiress
, now the hottest new reality show on network TV, and soon to be stars of their very own wedding special—America’s very own Wil and Kate!
(In their dreams.)

The mansion was everything my Hollywood peers said it would be. It sat high on a hill with a long line of marble stairs carved in perfect symmetry alongside meticulously maintained flowerbeds and greenery—like a manor you might find in Italy, not a house a few blocks off Sunset Boulevard. There was a large yellow traffic sign that read “Kittens at Play” reminding us this was no proper manor. The driveway wound around freshly plucked lawns and thick evergreens shaped like perfect cones. There were tennis courts and plenty more manicured shrubbery beside the driveway fountain, shadowed by the hotel-sized home and another mini-manor made entirely of stone. The groundskeeper told me that Mr. Barrington’s current litter of girlfriends lived in the main manor with him.

“Oh, Cherry Blossom,” Danny sang from the distance. “I just confirmed Shakira to sing at Sally and Matt’s wedding. How hot
am I?”

“You’re hot,” I chirped, squirming in the awkward recognition that I had just mimicked Danny’s singsong timbre.

It was so unlike the old me. But as per number one of my two new goals (focus on advancing my career), I was starting to realize my future in television production might be limited if I didn’t at least get a Yellow Belt in ass-kissing. And who better to learn from than the very best—Danny. It certainly worked for him.

“No, seriously, Jane, how hot? Come on. Give it to me, baby,” he said.

Was he trying to annoy me?
“Very hot!” I said, no longer amused, given I was the one who had negotiated the deal. I had practically begged Shakira’s manager to do the wedding in exchange for shameless promotion during all commercial bumpers.

“Oh, and Jane,” Danny started, obviously loving the bossman role, “did you confirm my meeting tomorrow with the. . .”
Blah, blah, blah!

In the three months since Danny had established himself as Mr. Supervising Producer, he had abused nearly every boss privilege imaginable, such as sending me out for meaningless errands, picking up lunch, and getting wedding decorations, while I also performed my
real
job, producing television vignettes about the new “it” couple.

Now, up the mansion driveway rolled an extra-stretch stretch limo. Sally squealed as she bounced out of it. “I just love this place.” She was talking to her new stylist. No trace of her broken-down, pre-fame apathy in sight. In fact, no indication that she’d ever been anyone’s assistant.

And yes, the ex-assistant now had her own assistants. She had a stylist, a publicist, and an agent, all three of whom followed her around like bossy self-important puppies.

After the show aired, Sally and Matt had become an overnight hit, garnering millions of fans across the country. I had no idea Karl and Naomi’s editors could turn a show around so quickly, but it was all part of the reality TV wars newly erupting between the networks, and CRP-TV was dominating. They were
also advertising the bejeezus out of Sally and Matt’s upcoming nuptials: “Reality TV’s greatest wedding extravaganza ever!” At a million bucks a pop, the execs at CRP-TV were, I guess, trying to get their money’s worth.

My phone buzzed from my cargo pocket. It was Grant.

“I don’t think I can do this anymore,” I whimpered to him after answering.

He knew exactly what I was talking about.

A day after my Grammy night couch adventure, which Grant never found out about, he called me to explain why I hadn’t heard from him for the previous seven-day stretch. Turns out he had received a last-minute call for a weeklong gig in Florida with his gear.
Translation
? Mega-bucks. Between an urgent flight out, 16-hour days on a boat in the Gulf of Mexico, and losing his cell phone somewhere en route—and thereby my number, which he hadn’t memorized and wasn’t listed—he couldn’t reach me, even if he had the time, which he didn’t. This was, of course, music to my ears. He soon showed up at my door with a bouquet of flowers and a massage table. We’d been together every weekend since.

“Seriously, Danny is driving me nuts. Everyone’s gaga over him because he’s Mr. Cheery Pants, which is fine, except when you have a job to do,” I said. “Hire him as a staff comedian, but don’t make him my supervisor!”

“Brutal,” Grant sympathized. “Sounds like you need out.”

“Plus, Karl doesn’t want to pay me for the weekend days I’ve worked. I’ve only asked for three hundred per. That’s fair, don’t you think?”

“Of course,” Grant said. “And what does Naomi say about all this?”

“I guess she’s sided with Karl. She makes all final money decisions. I don’t know, Grant. I love Naomi, but I’ve got to cut the cord one of these days. I need a new gig! I need something that’s more me! I need Ricky Dean!”

“I don’t know about
him
,” Grant said dismissively. “But just today, I recommended you to a friend of mine producing a documentary on lowland gorillas in Uganda. A month of filming in Africa and three months of prep in LA—I thought it
was right up your alley. Plus, I’d be DP’ing. He’s still waiting for funding, but I’m pretty sure he’ll get it.”

“Are there any Dannys on staff?”

“No. I promise,” he laughed. “It still cracks me up that he was your assistant less than a year ago. Only in Hollywood!”

“Ha, ha, I’m not laughing.” I pretend-sulked, comforted by the sound of his voice.

“Hey,” he said, “how about I take you out for a late dinner tonight? Cheer you up. I’ve never been there before, but I hear the Ivy on the Shore is great.”

“The Ivy!” I said, brimming with delight.

Then I thought of Craig, and the difference between Grant and Craig, and how funny it was that Grant, who was born and raised in LA, had never been to the Ivy, and that he could not have cared less that it was a celebrity hangout, and probably wouldn’t want to go there if he knew it was.

“How about something a little less. . . I don’t know. . . garish,” I said, hoping to please him. “Like that Indian place near the Promenade.”

“Jane,” I heard Danny whine from the distance. “CWT’s here to film us filming Sally for tomorrow’s film, I mean. . . show. . . you know, their celebrity news-feed thingy. Whatever. It’ll air tomorrow night. And CBS News is here too. Anyhoo, let’s roll.”

“Oh, brother.” I hung up with Grant and rounded the corner to the infamous water park to meet up with Sally and her photographer. It was basically a pool/Jacuzzi/waterfall embedded in a rock façade, with little tunnels that housed exotic birds, private baths, and cheesy 70’s mood lighting.

“This place has seen a lot of bodies,” the groundskeeper had confided to me earlier. “Orgy Central. You might want to wear gloves.” He laughed in a creepy old man voice. “But that was years ago.”