Reality Jane (6 page)

“Got it,” I said. I knew Toke was
the
biggest rap star since rap itself, but I still felt confused.

“Something wrong?” Karl asked.

“I just. . . thought. . . Well, the schedule says Wednesday’s shoot is host pick-ups in studio,” I said, running my finger through the call sheet. “You know, just so I could get the lay of the land, get my footing, so to speak, before the big
date
event.”

“Lucy,” Naomi jumped in, “why Wednesday? This
is
a little quick for Jane.”

Lucy groaned. “It’s the only time we can get MC Toke. And he’s a
get
.” She looked down her nose at me. “It has to be this Wednesday.”

“Do we have permission to shoot at the airport?” I said sheepishly. I already knew the answer.

“No, that would be the producer’s job,” Karl said, matter of factly. “As well as the limo and a suitable bar or restaurant or—I know, let’s get them into Koi. Jane, book them into Koi for Wednesday night. That’ll be hot.”

“Very hot,” Danny repeated.

“Okay,” I said weakly. My heart had just leapt from its standard 40-plus beats per minute to a drum roll. Airport permits were a nightmare to get, even with weeks of lead-time. I had less than two days. Not to mention I had no clue where Van Nuys was, or that LA even had an airport outside of LAX.
And Koi
?
As in pond? What the hell is that?

Karl wasn’t trying to clobber me, I sensed. He was just being unrealistic, with a
get ‘er done and don’t bother me
management style. He didn’t really care what had to be done to get the permit.

“Do you mind if I just ask what our location budget is so I can get going on this, like—” I looked at my watch, “like, uh, now, if that’s okay?”

Karl guffawed. “We don’t pay for locations. CRP-TV carries
beaucoup
pull. Just tell them who you work for.”

I scrambled for something positive to say while I cooked like a Christmas goose under my pink- and green-swirl Gucci knock-off blouse—a therapeutic purchase after my Friday night fiasco. A stream of sweat squirted past my rib cage as I squeezed my elbows tight against my sides.
Friggin’ hippy deodorant crystals are supposed to keep you fresh. “Try the fancy new roll-on, nature’s anti-perspirant,” my big fat—

“Actually, that’s a good question, Jane,” Naomi said. “We have some petty cash to cover the airport fees.” She looked at Karl. “Charm doesn’t work at airports. However, let’s avoid paying a fee for the restaurant. Come talk to me later, Jane.”

“I’ll get calling right now,” I said, gathering up my things, noticeably ruffled. “Maybe Danny can stay and take notes, get any other details while I line up the airport.”

“Of course,” said Danny, high drama in his voice as he wriggled upright in his chair, preparing for something grand.

Karl nodded. “Don’t forget the limo, Jane.”

“Right. Of course. We’ll make it happen,” I said, managing a toothy smile as I fumbled for the door. “A day with three mega-sexy hosts and MC Toke, the world’s biggest rap star? It’s going to be awesome!”

“Hosts?” Lucy barked. “As in plural? What? Have I multiplied?”

“Ffff. . . uuuuuck” is all I heard as Karl dropped his head into his palms.

Ffff. . . uck is right!
I shimmied out the door and made for my desk in a full-fledged race to avoid the aftermath.
Wasn’t my fault Karl hadn’t told Lucy she’d just become a co-host, or was it? I thought they said she knew.
One morning in the TV cuckoo
barn and I’d lost any sense of judgment. And was it really possible that I’d recently left a serious on-air reporting job (albeit part-time) to direct women who paraded their naked beavers in front of the whole world? Drizzly Vancouver was suddenly looking not so drizzly after all.

Thirty phone calls, six hundred dollars, and a lot of begging later, I received permission to shoot at Van Nuys airport on Wednesday. When I finally looked up from my desk, already pasted with a dozen or so scribbled sticky notes, Toni was standing at my door.

“That went well,” I said, laughing painfully, referring to the meeting. Friday night was already banked away in the crappy memories vault—do not open until next night of stay-at-home self-loathing and a Ben-and-Jerry’s-fish-food-binge.

“I am so sorry,” Toni began. “I had no idea the girls were going to do that to you.”

I felt my insides curdle all over again. “Yeah. That was awful.” I shook my head and paused. “Is that what LA women are like? I know Naomi’s not, but the others? Who would do that?”

“Honest, Jane, when I arrived at Rebecca’s and you weren’t there, they told me you’d changed your mind. Believe me, I would never do that to you. But you’re my boss, and Naomi said you could fire me. Your choice.”

“I wouldn’t do that to you,” I said, thinking I’d do well to redefine my concept of dream job. “Tell me this, though: Why didn’t you pick up your cell when I called?”

“It was on silent—it had been on silent all day for the shoot. I’m really sorry.”

“The others?”

“They”. . . Toni hesitated. “They were intentionally avoiding you.” Toni stared sadly at me.

“They hate me?” I braced myself for the answer, willing myself to be strong but knowing it wouldn’t work.

“
Hate
’s a strong word.” Toni shoved her hands in her pockets uncomfortably. “They’re just jealous. You’re smart and pretty and way more together than they could ever be.”

“I’m not so sure.”

“Look on the bright side. Rose was let go. She’s always been difficult. Naomi got rid of her this morning. Naomi was really mad. I was called in at seven o’clock and got grilled. As for Lucy, there’s nothing Naomi can do to her. She comes with the territory. And Corinne is off to New York on another show. So it’s going to be okay.”

“You’re right,” I said with a partial smile. “Let’s just forget it happened.” I knew full well the idea of me forgetting something so rotten was impossible.

“Thank you,” Toni sighed. “Hey, my friend and I are going to San Diego this weekend to that surf bar. Want to come?”

I hesitated in an effort to not look desperate, but I was doing back-flips at the prospect of a new friend in SoCal.

“Come on, it’ll be fun,” she said smiling.

“You know,” I replied, “I would like that.”

The address on his business card was 450 Beachfront Avenue. Beside it, he had scribbled the words: “BBQ @ 2pm. DNBL8! xxo Craig.”

Too cute:
Don’t be late
. More than the quip, it was the address that got me.
Beachfront
? I imagined some dilapidated beach shack he shared with six other surfer dudes, precariously held together by rotting posts poised to crumble into the ocean. But I’d passed the previously rustic part of Malibu beachfront, and it had graduated to swanky. No chance of a surf shack amidst these sand castles. After a left, then a right turn at a mini-mall, I found myself on Beachfront Avenue, idling in front of number 450.

Oh. . . my. . . God!
As my hand whacked the steering wheel, every bolt in my 15-year old Volvo sedan convulsed. It was beachfront, all right, but more like a Trumpian mansion, with O.C.-style intimidation tossed in for good measure. The walls oozed money—new money, celebrity money—and fabulous good times. A far cry from the prairies where my life began, tumbling down a grassy hillside like Laura Ingalls. There, “good
times” meant a hot summer night playing kick the can, and “celebrity” meant getting an autograph from the captain of the local hockey farm team.

Large Mercedes and Porche SUVs littered the street. I shrank, suddenly feeling humiliated. Previous to LA, I’d always loved my car. But that Saturday afternoon, I circled the block enough times to make the neighbors call the police. I ended up parking a half mile away, embarrassed that my Volvo wasn’t shiny or new enough, or even remotely cool.

“Are you lost?” asked an older woman who poked her head into my window as I dotted pink lip gloss on my lips.

“No, just, just meeting a friend.” I felt sweat collecting between my breasts.

“Oh, at the party.” She shook her head and turned away, murmuring under her breath. “This place is going to the birds. . .”

“Okay, then, see you later,” I said, now feeling doubly uncomfortable.

To my surprise, I somehow made it to the front entrance. A large white stucco wall with a frosted glass door and a silver intercom placed neatly at eye level stood before me. Behind that, sheer glory! Three stories of white stone, brushed steel, and glass set on powdery yellow sand and the most coveted view in the world.

First thought?
Gorgeous AND rich?

Second thought?
Go home, before a bucket of pig’s blood falls on your head!

It sucked that I had no LA friends to share this with or to help drag me through the door, although technically Toni and I were now starter friends. After our 24-hour party binge in San Diego, I was now indebted to her for life. It’s how I met
him
— Craig—the man who lived in this incredible house.

It’s just a barbeque
, I told myself as I timidly reached up to press the silver intercom button. I couldn’t wait to call my mother—if I could make it inside. My hands shook nervously. I fought the urge to run. Every cell of my body told me I was out of my league.

Go back to the stereo shop and give that cute salesman Ramone your phone number. He’s your type, not fancy Mr. Hollywood. Craig and his slithering harem will just laugh at you.

Indeed, the odds of a gaggle of bikini-clad models on the other side of the glittering glass threshold were as great as my thighs rubbing together. As I turned to skulk away, the door swung open. In front of me stood a lion of a man: broad-shouldered, with angular masculine features and bronzed bare chest, and wearing red surf shorts. I kicked myself for eating a bagel and cream cheese for breakfast instead of doing crunches. He was flawless, like Superman, only dreamier, as he stood surrounded by a sea-foam blue moat that straddled the white-tiled walkway.

He leaned in and kissed me on one cheek, then the other, barely making contact but sweeping his face against mine, oh so satisfyingly. “Hi, babe. Glad you could make it.”

And just like that, the air-kiss was redeemed. Go
Europe and all your funky Euro traditions!

“Thanks,” I whispered, sounding unintentionally sultry as I held my breath and tried not to look impressed, as if stumbling into 20 million dollar beach houses was a daily habit of mine.

Craig grabbed my hand, leading me through a clear-glass door that revealed an idyllic view of the ocean lapping bubbly-licks inches from a wall of marble and glass. I did a quick scan of the room searching for six-foot Swedish supermodels in shiny gold string bikinis and anything else that might signal “abort mission.”

Nope, not her. Nope, not her, either. She’s pretty—oh, she just smiled at me. Obviously cool. That girl’s a little goth. Crap, is my dress too frilly? Nope. She’s got a cute dress on, too—and she just smiled. Woo hoo—they’re nice! I can breathe now. Cerveza, please!

“I brought a fruit salad,” I said, pointing to the entrance where I’d left a box overflowing with mangos, watermelons, and strawberries I’d picked up at a corner stand. Being Canadian, the idea of fresh, locally grown produce in February was a complete novelty—so much so I’d forgotten to bring beer. “Do you have a knife and a cutting board? It’s not quite a salad yet.”

“You bet. This way,” Craig said as I followed him into the kitchen, delighting in his back muscles and perfect symmetry. He turned to make sure I was behind him. “What’s this on your
face?” he said, wiping something off my cheek. “Dirt?” He smiled, but not as if he was making fun of me. He’d done it in an endearing way.

“Huh?” My cheeks turned hot. “I went for a ride this afternoon,” I said. “You know, in one of the canyons. I was sort of rushing to get here.”

“You mountain bike?” He looked impressed. “Beautiful and sporty. I like that.”

My knees went limp.
Beautiful?
Had someone paid this Viking to flirt with me? This guy should have been knee deep in Giselle Bundchen, not slumming with me. At that moment, I vowed that even if he never called me again, and even if he ravished me and tossed me out on my keister, I would cherish this day forever—as the most spectacular day of my life.

Craig and I talked and sipped yummy blender drinks all day.
Welcome to Princess World, starring me.
I had him all to myself. But, like Cinderella, I couldn’t kick the reality that I’d crashed the ball. The house was too much. He was too gorgeous. The friends were too nice. It was all too extravagant. Then, adding to the fairy tale, came the kiss.

The sun’s final rays beamed across a restless ocean, and the music of Jack Johnson purred in the background. Craig and I emerged from the break, waves lapping at our knees, salt water dripping from our bodies. Craig hurled the kayak onto his shoulder and swiftly wrapped his other hand around my waist, leaning in, his body draping mine, his mouth millimeters away, breathing sweet, soft breath. Then, just as my lips began to quiver, contact. The perfect kiss: gentle, fresh, powerful. The soothing touch of a real life Adonis.