Not So Model Home

CHAPTER 12


Would Someone Please Shoot Me?

I had a tiny breakfast that wouldn’t make my stomach stick out since we were filming again today. And the next day, and the next. With only weekends off. Today would be another pool episode, with those scenes that matched the previous day’s shooting edited to make it look like they happened yesterday, and those that moved the story noticeably forward would either be super-titled as another day or be saved for the following episode. Jeremy had told us we would take between three and five days of shooting for each episode—light speed for a reality show. We would follow the same schedule each week, pumping out material for the “post” people to craft into a half-hour program. The first episode would be ready in four weeks. Again, unbelievable speed for TV show production.

It was pretty much the same as yesterday, except that no one got slapped. There were a lot of posturing, tiny bathing suits, catty retorts, rumor spreading, and Aurora and Ian sitting there watching it all like spectators in a Roman coliseum. The question was, who was going to emerge the victor? A few more days and by Thursday, we would be done shooting for this week. This would go on and on for thirteen weeks, starting Mondays and finishing each Thursday—unless we were canceled.

Some of the rumors I overheard during the filmings were somewhat surprising, but not shocking. Aleksei had penile implants, Drake owned several pairs of leather chaps, and Ian routinely had boyfriends followed by private investigators. Other revelations later sent me to urbandictionary.com to look them up since I had no idea what snowballing, an Alaskan fire dragon, or a rusty trombone were. Trust me, you don’t want to know.

A month went by, filled with a little more drama each time. There was a drunken brawl between Aleksei and Gilles, Ian stormed off the set several times, and Drake destroyed a fair amount of household items those four weeks. Manufactured drama for the most part . . . just what I had predicted.

And before you knew it, the first episode was ready to air on Sunday night. In a really good time slot. The program schedulers at the network obviously had a lot of faith riding on their decision. They felt our little show was going to be a big hit. Alex and Regina came over to my house to celebrate episode one with a nice bottle of champagne and my new fifty-five–inch flat-screen TV.

“I’m so glad you got rid of that last goddamn TV, Amanda,” Regina said as I poured her another glass of bubbly. “This one is so much nicer.” Today’s T-shirt she wore read: F*ck ME, I’M FAMOUS.

“I wouldn’t talk, Regina. Yours is still housed in a Mediterranean cabinet. How old is it?”

“Twenty, twenty-five years old.”

“I didn’t think TVs lasted that long,” Alex remarked.

“Well, it’s not like this fancy one you got, but you can still make out colors and shapes on it.”

“Shhh,” Alex warned as the show came on.

The opening started with ominous music that slowly built over footage of Ian Forbes and his hair empire while a narrator laid down the premise of the show. This was followed, like any reality show, with blaring rock music to get people excited. After the titles, each of the show’s cast members got their five seconds of fame as they were highlighted. Some cast members turned slowly toward the camera like they were on a human-sized turntable. Some leered naughtily at the camera. Aleksei was shot toasting the audience with a glass of champagne.

Alex and Regina watched the entire show with rapt attention, amazed at how much of the “artwork” in Ian’s home had to be pixilated because it was too obscene for television. But the time you watched a few minutes of the show, you would’ve sworn you had cataracts. When it came to the end of the episode and my peep show, the two of them sat with mouths wide open even though they had seen it dozens of times on the Internet.

“Your bazongas are huge on a wide-screen TV!” Regina said, downing the contents of her champagne flute. “Good thing you don’t have a 3-D TV. Those things could’ve poked my eyes out!”

Up came the reaction shots, followed by Aurora, who wrapped up the show by giving a brutally honest assessment of the guys:

They’re rude, crass, untrustworthy, and self-centered. When they’re not trying to outslime each other, then they’re texting and not connecting with another human being in a meaningful way. I don’t see how some of them are going to make it with their toxic personalities. Now, I know that Ian is not easy to get along with. He’s tough, egotistical, ruthless, paranoid, and could stand to lose a few pounds, so I need to find someone who could put up with his antics and his paunchy abdomen. But this is going to be a struggle to find a guy with some sort of integrity. I refuse to lower the bar here, and it’s pretty low as it is. Drake and David are the standouts so far. David can be a little sarcastic and high-and-mighty, but he has honesty. And Drake, he’s loyal, hardworking, doesn’t get involved in the petty interactions of the others, and like David, he seems to be honest. He’s a bit dark, but I think that characteristic appeals to Ian as well.

The show cut to scenes of upcoming episodes (even though they weren’t even filmed), most of which were assumptions of where Jeremy and the editors were sure the show would head in the future. The editors cleverly used dramatic reaction shots with verbiage that could have been used no matter what ensued. It was like a fortune-teller or astrologer, giving predictions so vague and adaptable, the listener would read more into them than they actually deserved. The next-episode scenes were followed by credits that surprised me. The number of people who put on the show was far greater than I had seen at the filmings, so I wondered what cost savings Jeremy gained by using an unscripted format. The credits revealed, like with any TV program or movie made in Hollywood, that everyone within a 100-mile radius got a credit on the show, whether they styled our hair or walked Jeremy’s dog.

I waited a moment to ask what Alex and Regina thought.

“F*ckin’ great, Amanda. That bitch slap is going to make you famous. F*ckin’ great,” Regina said, finishing her champagne.

“And you?” I asked, looking at Alex and realizing that his reply was the only one that mattered.

“You did great, kid. I’m proud of you,” he replied.

I studied the tone and inflection of his comment, and searched his face again. Alex had a terrific poker face, but I could see behind the mask. He thought I did a great job. Mostly. I could see the ten percent that wasn’t on board. I felt like a failure. Then, like me reading Alex, he read my thoughts.

“Hey, hey, what’s that face for?”

“What?” I said, lying to him.

“I can see what’s going through that head of yours. Amanda, you’re on a reality show. It’s not Masterpiece Theatre. That’s okay.” He grabbed my chin delicately and turned my face to look directly into his eyes. “Y-o-u a-r-e o-n t-e-l-e-v-i-s-i-o-n, Amanda. That’s a billion-to-one shot. And you stole the first show. Stole it! And you kept your dignity. So stop feeling sorry for yourself. You aced it.”

I believed him. Mostly.

Alex continued, sensing that he was on a roll with his ego boosting. “On the first show, you’ve established your character and it’s a hit. It resonates with viewers. You’re the voice of reason on this morally topsy-turvy program of conniving gold diggers. There’s almost no one on the show who’s likable, but you are. You stand up to the bullshit. You fight back. People like you.”

“That’s right, Amanda. I really liked you . . . rooted for you,” Regina slipped in.

“Oh, that’s just the two of you saying that to make me feel better.”

Just then my iPhone, which was on silent, started jumping and buzzing on the tabletop like a cicada on a hot July afternoon. And it didn’t stop. I went over, wondering which client was now having a drama-queen episode. I looked at the mass of text messages, and there was a list as long as your arm. Friends, cousins, clients, coworkers were all sending messages of congratulations. They loved me! I showed the messages to Alex and Regina, who quickly scanned them and nodded their heads in approval.

“Amanda?” Alex sang slowly. “I think the people have spoken.”