Reality Jane (23 page)

“You the producer?” the blonde rake from CWT asked.

I gasped. It was Dagmar. . . again. And she didn’t recognize me—again! Too busy being fawned over by her make-up girl and puppy-dog producer. She held her microphone distastefully, as if anything work-related, even for a cushy CWT job, was meant for plebeians.

“OhmyGod,” Sally said, running her words together. “Dagmar!” she screamed, brushing past me and my cameraman as if we were bugs.

“Hey, former
assistant
of mine, isn’t this fun?” Dagmar said. “It’ll totally hype your show, me interviewing you about the wedding that
I
should have had.” They both giggled.

Beneath a silk kimono, Sally wore a pair of clear-glass stilettos with six-inch heels, a string around her crotch, and nothing more. Her hair had been backcombed into a big, brownish helmet that no mid-grade tornado could undo. I was embarrassed, for all of us. Sally was being mentored by Miss Spring Kitten, who was busy showing her how to simultaneously arch her back, tilt her chin, hold a dreamy gaze, slide one hand across her privates, and stand on one leg, all while resting on a rocky outcrop. For this, and maybe ten more equally intricate poses, Sally got fifty grand. After a second glance at her shoes, I thought she might actually have earned it.

By the time seven o’clock rolled around, the party was well underway. We had been shooting for eight hours straight, and I now knew the grounds intimately. It was kind of like Sex Disneyland: grape-eating monkeys in cages, a very rare white peacock with endless white plumes folded into a tight fan, a cabin house with a pool table, arcade games played by dozens of naked bodies, and last, but not least, a floor bed—a room where the entire floor is a bed.

“It’s Brock!” Sally wailed. “Brock is here!”

Brock puckered up for what looked like a slobbery grandpa kiss on Sally’s lips. The cameras took it all in. How quickly she had grown accustomed to this lifestyle.

“Jane, Jane!” Sally yelled toward me. “Did you get that? Did you get that on tape, like for the show? I want that in my piece. I want my friends to see me kissing
the man
!” She turned back toward Brock to lick his ear.

“I hope you got that,” Danny said, pulling at my sleeve. “That’s television gold.”

I rolled my eyes. “Yes, Danny, we got it.”

My cameraman was rolling, hence the red light flashing, and the lens was pointed in Sally’s direction, hence filming her.
It was that simple.

“Jane, come on!” Danny grabbed my shoulder. “Brock is giving Sally a personal tour of the mansion. And then we’re going to surprise Sally when Matt arrives for the big celebration. We can’t miss it!”

Danny, along with Celebrity TV and various news crews, scrambled across my path, practically crushing my toes in the process. “Look out, Blondie!” a cameraman shouted.

Sally turned and scowled at me for not being thick on her heels with my camera crew. “Jane, are you coming? This is my moment! Jane!”

Then Danny again shouted. “Jane, Jane! Get your crew. Get on this now!”

Clearly, Danny hadn’t noticed my crew already positioned in front of Sally, per my direction, filming the whole thing. After all, it was I who had set up the tour, Matt’s surprise arrival, and the whole damn night in the first place, days ago.

“Jane!” Danny yelped, unrelenting. “We need this now!”

I screamed internally, tucking my phone into my pocket.
How had I strayed so far? I had come to LA to make it as a credible TV producer! And so far, my only credits were documenting a sleazy date show with a completely neurotic Purr model; chasing a spoiled celebrity heiress as she snubbed her way through France; and following an uninspired former assistant turned overnight reality TV celebrity/nudie model/bridezilla around Sex Disneyland. What the. . .?

It was punishment—karmic discrimination, even. Why me? At this juncture, any show of substance seemed miles beyond my reach. My great big ridiculous you’re-so-special grin was cracking.

“Jane, I can’t believe you’re just standing there!” Danny clomped back toward me. “Where’s your crew? Why aren’t we filming this?”

“If you look straight ahead, Danny, you’ll see,” I said with my jaw clenched, “that they
are
filming the entire scene. That’s my crew—sorry,
our
crew—in the middle of the scrum, taking it all in. The red light is on. That is the
record
light. You’ve heard of a record light, right? Never mind. And what good would I be
doing up there if I were in the shot, as you’ve been all night. That is why I’m ‘just standing here,’ as you so aptly phrased it—to stay out of the way. . . out of the shot. That is what a professional does. You know, someone with experience. Get it? Copy that? Understand?”

“Well. . . I. . . uh. . . just. . .” Danny stuttered, for the first time without something clever to say. “I. . . just. . . thought. . . um. . . Don’t you need to direct this scene? You’re not directing.”

“That’s what the walkie-talkie is for!”

“But. . . you. . . should. . . You. . . need—”

“Danny, what I
need
is to leave,” I said. My face was completely emotionless. “I’m finished.”

“That’s not funny, Jane,” he said, a terrified smile on his face.

“Not joking, Danny. I quit.”

“You can’t! I’m your supervisor. I say you can’t!”

“Danny, if you’re so damn hot, you direct.”

“Come on! Really, Jane, you’re
amazing
. Please, just stay,” he said, nicer than nice.

“I’m out.” I grabbed my bag, thanked the cameraman and soundman over the walkie-talkie, and told them to “follow the puck” for the rest of the evening.

“You can handle this, Danny. It’s all you.”

The valet brought my car. I got in, not even remotely self-conscious despite a small line of party-goers forming behind me.

I put the car in drive and didn’t look back.

“Y
ou have
arrived
! I’m so proud of you,” Penny, a lawyer and my closest friend from college, said from the other end of the phone line, 2000 miles away.

It was a huge day for me. After a month of unemployment, and all the stress and self-sabotage bundled with that, I had landed the job of a lifetime. Just in time too. Plan B was to beg at Naomi’s doorstep—we hadn’t talked in weeks—and pucker up for Karl.

“Oh, come on,” I said. “It’s just a field producer position.”

“The
Fix Your Life
show? Are you kidding? He’s America’s advice guy. He’s on the news practically every night. And now he’s going to be on TV every single day! That’s huge!”

“Okay, it’s awesome,” I agreed, unable to contain my excitement. “It’s so great to finally work on something that matters.”

It all happened thanks to a text message I’d received a few days after walking away from Danny and the supposed “wedding of the decade”:

Greetings from Jamaica! It’s been too long. Busy. This show I’m hosting is awesome—met Ziggy Marley yesterday. Hey, not sure what you’re doing for work, but my friend is looking for a producer. She’s head cheese on Ricky Dean’s new show. Told her you kicked ass: Meg Cohen, 323 589 6117. . . Miss you. Big smooch, Alex

Yes!

The text message hadn’t come completely out of the blue. Throughout the past few months, Alex had sent me a few
e-mails with similar themes: “just checking in” and “how’s my little field producer?” They were harmless enough, so I always replied with the latest details of my career, including various Danny shenanigans. He never asked about my love life, and I never asked about his, though I mentioned I was dating. We were friends—friends with a bit of a past—and now friends involved in an innocent cyber-flirtation. With this latest message, though, he had turned out to be a better friend than I could ever have imagined.

At first, I thought it would be Naomi’s boyfriend, Hank—“Mr. YBC”—who would get me inside the hottest new talk show in television history. But our Grammy night meeting hadn’t gone well. So I decided to go it alone and simply submit a blind resumé, along with hundreds of other skids without a leg up in the competition. This accomplished nothing. It wasn’t until I got Alex’s auspicious text and made a direct call to Meg, dropping Alex’s name ever so casually, that I got an interview. The rest was history.

Penny continued with enthusiasm. “No kidding, from Sex Kittens to saving the world! Maybe one day you’ll host the show with him. I can see it all now:
Sanity Tips with My Little Janey
!”

“Don’t joke. I want to go all the way with this.”

“Great. Just call me when you attend your first party at his Malibu mansion. I want to come!”

Penny was the fourth person to call that day, all of them welcoming me to the big leagues. It was a first—friends calling to congratulate me for getting a job. And word got around fast. Even some of my new producer colleagues were calling with their kudos.

My mother, on the other hand, called every time I got a job—any kind of a job. She’d even sung my praises when I landed my crappy waitress gig in Vancouver: “Good for you, kid. Just a temporary stopover.” But this time, I could tell she was glowing.

“That Ricky Dean, I’ve read so much about him lately. He’s tremendous, helping people improve their lives! And he’s written all those bestselling self-help books. Get in real tight with him, honey. Hitch your wagon to his star!”

It was my first big Hollywood deal. YBC required me, along with the rest of the senior staff, to sign two-year contracts. A lot of producers would have killed for one year. Typical job security in TV production was two months, not two years!

Once I saw the contract, I understood the significance of my career leap. The contract was 70 pages long, full of mind-numbing detail, and not exactly negotiable:

• $2000 per week—firm;
  
• zero percent raise in the first year—firm;
  
• zero benefits the first year, and no obligation for any in future years—firm;
  
• zero chance of getting out of the contract, unless they want me out—firm;
  
• sign on the dotted line, please—done.
  

Hundreds had sought my position, and I was just some wannabe producer who needed a job. But, besides my inside connection, I had an edge: a blinding desire to work on a show that mattered! Ever since that night at the Purr Mansion, I knew:
If not now, when?

Meg, who was Alex’s buddy and the show’s Executive Producer, was a powerhouse—as edgy as a Himalayan cliff, and as sharp and dangerous. But she felt like a kindred soul to me. In my second interview for their single, solitary, hugely coveted field producer position, I told her: “This show will improve lives. It will make TV a better place. And I’ll help deliver that with riveting interviews and creative story-telling that will keep audiences glued to the tube. I was born to work for Ricky Dean!” Meg smiled contentedly.

It all felt like destiny unfolding—my life as I dreamt it should be. But there was a bittersweet taste in my mouth. It was because of Naomi.
Fix Your Life
was my fourth show in LA, but the first one Naomi had no hand in. It was my first win—sans Naomi! Sure, Alex had opened the door for me, but I’d brought in the goods. I should have been proud and, for the most part, I was. I wanted to share my accomplishment with Naomi. But something stopped me from calling her. Was it shame? After all, I had walked out on
Matt and Sally Get Married
(yes, that was the title) and thereby her.

Three different blenders with three different neon-colored slushy drinks crowded the cupboards. Bodies swarmed the kitchen and balcony. All of our production friends, with the exception of Danny and Naomi, were jammed into our new beach pad for the party. Both Toni and I had called Naomi to invite her to the bash, but we hadn’t heard back. I tried not to think too much about it.

“To Jane’s new job and her two-year contract!” one of the crew girls from the France show shouted, raising her glass in the air.

Perfect
. I couldn’t help but think my life was falling into place. Not only had I landed the job of all jobs but, thanks to rent control, Toni and I had managed to sublet a semi-affordable apartment on the beach, one with a balcony and killer view, thereby grabbing my dream pad, too. Waves smacked against the beach in the background as Adele crooned from the speakers.