Reality Jane (3 page)

“An overnight move to a foreign country will do that,” I started.

“Not exactly foreign,” she said. “It’s
just
Canada.”

“I guess,” I said, trying to find the right words to please Corinne. “But it was still tiring. I drove pretty much non-stop from Vancouver last weekend. It took 22 hours. I pulled an all-nighter, and the only thing that got me through was about eight cups of coffee and a coupla packs of cigarettes. But who’s counting?” I giggled. “Anyway, I haven’t had a good night’s sleep all week. I don’t know why.”

“You
drove
?” Corinne nearly choked on her lemon water.

“Uh-huh,” I said nonchalantly, as if packing up my life and busting out to California was something I did every weekend.

“By
yourself
?” She looked aghast for the second time in only a few seconds.

“Of course. I didn’t know anyone else moving to LA.”

“Wow, you are so. . .” Corinne hesitated while she waited for the right word. . . “Canadian.”

She had a curious look on her face, as if I might balance a bone on my nose or juggle some back-bacon. From what I could tell, Corinne would never have driven 1,500 miles, let alone done it alone, let alone moved by herself. She would have hired professional movers, and had other pros unpack her dishes and hang her clothes. And her parents would have
thrown her a theme party with palm tree-shaped balloons and a fabulous new beach wardrobe.

Then lunch arrived.

“Garden salad dressing on the side, no bread?”

“Mine,” answered Corinne.

“Burger and fries?”

“That would be me,” I said, again reluctant to admit it, slipping on my sunglasses as if that might hide the fact that I’d clearly just fallen off the turnip truck.

Small-town do-it-yourselfer who eats like a lumberjack wasn’t exactly the trend
du jour
in Hollywood. A trust fund and a Pygmy Chihuahua in my purse would have made a far better impression.

I didn’t bother to ask for the extra side of mayonnaise I’d ordered to dip my French fries into, certain Corinne would have tossed her undressed salad or, at the very least, mocked the idea of mixing mayo and ketchup to fatten up an already mega-greasy deep-fried potato.

After lunch, Lucy returned with hair blown out and make-up redone, looking nearly perfect. She snatched one of my left-over French fries.

“You must be the last female producer in Los Angeles who actually eats this crap,” she said, stuffing it in her mouth. “Christ, that’s foul.” She practically licked her fingers. “But strangely irresistible.” She winked and smiled.

I couldn’t help but be intensely curious about her. Never before had I met someone so casual about her body and so difficult about everything else, and utterly gorgeous, of course. She was how I imagined the ever iconic Madonna to be: powerful, flawless, sharp, magnetic, sarcastic, and rude. And the only woman I knew who could comfortably
drop trow
in front of a crew of ten.

“Must be nice to look like that, eh?” whispered Toni, as if reading my thoughts.

“No kidding,” I replied. “But is it all, like, her bod? Her boobs—are they. . .?”

Though she was for real—there was no airbrush or “Navajo rug” filter between my eyes and Lucy’s person—she did appear
a little molded: breasts so precisely shaped (cantaloupe firm and round), and nipples pointing to the sky, like a dolphin begging for a sardine.

“They’re real,” Lucy said, squeezing her tit and staring at me.

Everybody laughed. My face turned six shades of red. It took me a moment to realize she was joking.

“Okay, back to one, everybody,” Corinne said, trying to herd in the crew. “Just a few more lines and we can wrap for the day!”

By five o’clock, we had shot six tapes with nine wardrobe changes. Lucy cracked a bottle of Argyle sparkler to celebrate our little achievement and Corinne’s big promotion.

“This calls for a real party,” Lucy said, reaching for her phone. “I’m making us a reservation at Rebecca’s!”

“That’s my girl.” Corinne high-fived Lucy and Rose. “Only
the
number one chill spot in Santa Monica. Looks like those boobs are good for more than just a photo shoot.”

Everyone giggled.

“We’re in!” Lucy said, slamming down the phone and clapping her hands enthusiastically. “Corinne, you can get ready here. Wear something of mine.”

Like yippy schoolgirls, Lucy and Corinne ran to the bedroom to try on clothes. Rose trailed behind obediently. The rest of the crew quickly chugged down their wine and blazed home to change in preparation for the big night. Which left Toni and I alone on the couch sipping fizzy Chardonnay.

“I’ve got some gloss and eye-liner in my purse,” Toni said.

“I could use a touch-up.” I followed Toni into the powder room.

Truth be told, I could have used more than a touch-up. I was tired. And the first thing sacrificed in favor of early morning
zzz
’s had been my usual primping ritual. So my hair was pulled into a nape-of-the-neck ponytail that looked like a little yellow buffer brush, and yesterday’s make-up featured an early morning coat of mascara and bronzer that had long since flaked away. Thankfully, youth was still on my side.

“How ‘bout these dark circles?” I said, studying my reflection
in the mirror. “Nerves, I guess. Just hoping I’ll do a good job.”

“You look great.” Toni smiled through her pout as she piled on the lip gloss. “And you’re doing a fine job.”

Toni was too good to be a PA, TV’s entry-level grunt job. She was a “take no-crap” type with a confidence that belied her years. I instantly liked her. On Wednesday, she’d driven us on a location scout. In rush-hour traffic, halfway down Wilshire Boulevard, she did a U-ball near the 405 underpass, across four lanes of traffic, in a maneuver that would have awed Danica Patrick. The fact she did it with me in the car made it even ballsier.

“Now these are real,” she said indifferently, pulling her breasts up from her bra, only not for cleavage, but for comfort.

“I know,” I giggled, fluffing my bangs, a hint of pride that this one hadn’t gotten past me. “I can tell.”

“So, it’s pretty crazy they had to go to Canada to find a producer for this show,” Toni said casually. “Guess it’s good for you, though. Not many
foreigners
land a cush producer gig overnight, even if she is the world’s biggest pain in the ass.”

“You mean Lucy?” I sputtered, stunned by the insight.

“Yeah, her reputation precedes her. They literally couldn’t find a single LA producer who would take the job. We’ve been through four director/producers this season already. Corinne’s the only one who can manage her, and even she struggles!” Toni laughed. “You got your work cut out for you, babe.”

And I’d thought it was my zippy can-do personality, together with a well-honed skill to put out fires, whether stovetop or mountaintop, that had gotten me in.

“You knew that’s why they hired you, didn’t you?” Toni said.

“Yes, of course,” I nodded as if I planned it—little old Janada up against the Goliath of TV hosts.
Goliath?
I gulped.

“Don’t worry. You’ll rock it.” Toni winked at me.

“Or die trying.” I smiled nervously, suddenly fearful of the challenge ahead.

This job meant the world to me. Sure, it wasn’t my dream job. We didn’t help anyone, or educate audiences, and we barely provided any good candy-coated trivia to aid folks doing the crossword puzzles in the back of a
Star
magazine. And I was
quite certain my idol, journalist extraordinaire Diane Sawyer, hadn’t made any pit stops in reality TV before hitting the big-time. But it was a step in the right direction. I was in the right city; I had the right title; I was making connections; I worked for a good company; it was a big paycheck; and finally, and most importantly, it was a blast, at least so far!

“Don’t ever say anything about why you got the job,” Toni said, as if it were her escape clause.

“I wouldn’t,” I said, trying to be casual. “Seriously, I’m just here to do a good job and finish the season.”

“That’s the attitude,” she announced. “Hey, we should go to San Diego together some weekend. The beaches are awesome, and I know a great pub on the water where hot surfer dudes hang out.”

“Sold!” I replied giddily.

Rose came tripping down the hallway. “Come on, Janada. Let’s go.”

“Bye, everyone. See you at. . .” I forgot the name. . . “the club!” I said excitedly.

Rose and I left Lucy’s and hopped into her car. She was unusually quiet. I wondered what our dynamic would be after Corinne left the show. Perhaps she would start treating me like her boss. After all, she
was
my associate producer. In TV Land, that meant
assistant
to the producer—i.e., me. Not that I expected special treatment, but a little polite conversation now and then, in place of the endless ribbing, would be nice.

Rose’s phone rang five minutes into our trip home. Without a word of apology, she yapped into her swanky pink headset the entire ride back to her apartment. I stared out the window, attempting to drown out her conversation with the sound of the road and the wind, thinking it must be an LA thing to blather obliviously. Friends didn’t do that back home.

“You wait here,” Rose said to me as she parked her car. “I’m just going to run upstairs and freshen up. Then we’ll head out.”

“Oh, I’ll come with you,” I replied. “Better than sitting here.”

“No,” she said. “My place is a mess. I don’t want anyone to see it.”

“What are you talking about? No big deal.”

“Seriously, it’s embarrassing.”

“Nothing I haven’t seen before.” I grabbed the door handle, thinking she was being modest.

“No, I insist. Wait here.” Her insistence bordered on rude.

Feeling scolded, I sulked into my seat. Then I figured I was being overly sensitive because of fatigue and the endless supply of caffeine and sugar I’d hard-wired into my veins. Besides, the top was off her convertible and I could finally take a moment to enjoy the sun and decompress.

The sun was starting to make its way down the horizon and the warm Santa Ana winds were kicking up, enveloping me like a cashmere blanket. I was staring languidly at the clouds as they drifted beyond the leaf pads of the coral trees, when I finally checked my watch. I’d been waiting 30 minutes!

“This is lame,” I muttered as I walked up to the gate and buzzed Rose’s apartment. “Hey, everything okay?” My heart beat quickly.

“Just a minute, Blondie,” she said coolly. “I’m on my way down.”

I tried to relax. “No worries.”

Rose walked toward me in her sweats and slippers. I felt a shiver through my chest. Something was wrong. She opened the gate just wide enough to poke her head through the door, ensuring I didn’t enter the foyer.

“It’s off. The girls can’t make it now,” she said, shrugging her shoulders.

“
What the!?
” I said, totally shell-shocked.

“Yup, everyone bailed.” She grimaced.

“But we just left Lucy’s. They were all getting ready. What happened?”

“After we left, Lucy called and said she suddenly felt exhausted. I guess the wine got to her. Apparently, Corinne felt the same. She just got her period and her flight leaves early tomorrow morning. She still has to pack. And come to think of it, I’ve got cramps.”

“
Cramps
? Really? But we’re celebrating Corinne’s promotion. She’s leaving for New York. We won’t see her for a long time. Isn’t this everyone’s last chance to get together? They
were all so gung ho before. I don’t understand.”

“Don’t shoot the messenger,” she cawed.

“Geez.” I didn’t know what else to say. “Do you. . . do you want to get a quick bite?”

“Really, I’m pooped. I’m going to stay in and heat up leftovers. Got a date with Tivo,” she said casually. “By the way, the promenade is just two blocks south. Your car should be close. Good luck. See you Monday.” She closed the gate, practically catching my nose in it.

About five minutes after I left Rose’s apartment, a nasty pang hit me. I began to feel dizzy and a little sick.

At first, I figured the whirlwind of my week had finally caught up with me. I then blamed Rose. Couldn’t we at least have grabbed a burrito together? What a way to start a friendship. Then, I decided, Rose was just being Rose—more thorn, less Rose, but no big deal. Besides, after a week of averaging less than three hours of sleep a night, I could use the extra bedtime. Everything was fine.

Pajamas on, I climbed into my king-sized bed at the Loews Santa Monica and stared dreamily at the water.
Why can’t I just live here in the hotel?
I yawned as I began to justify how much better it was that we were all staying in. My body felt like a lead weight. The perfect Savasana: first my head, then my feet and legs, into my arms, all body parts sinking deep into the mattress, like being vacuumed into the bed, vacuumed into sleep.

“
Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
.” The company phone vibrated from the dresser.

“
Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
,” it vibrated again.

“
Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
,” and again.

“Shit!” I said, smushing a pillow into the side of my head.