Not So Model Home

CHAPTER 30


Amanda Becomes the Butt of A Joke

The dust eventually settled. The final episode aired to huge ratings, Aurora and Darryn were in jail awaiting trial, and the final winner of the competition for Ian’s affections. . . ahem . . . the money . . . was in doubt. Since Aurora’s opinion on who should be the final winner was somewhat tainted, Ian and a team of lawyers from the network and his own personal cadre of attorneys hammered out an agreement and Ian chose David Laurant as his boyfriend to the end. This, of course, led to more publicity, which pleased the network and Jeremy Collins, whose career was on a trajectory that would make a rocket jealous. And life returned to normal, whatever that was.

Ken had successfully gotten his mother back on her feet and returned to Palm Springs just in time for summer. He and I cooked a wonderful dinner and as we sat in my dining room, Knucklehead asleep at my feet, he asked the question that I was dreading, because once he asked it, I wasn’t quite sure how to answer. Should I be completely honest about my dating, even though I never gave away any more than a passionate kiss? Should I stretch the truth just a bit, or should I be a conniving, thieving liar?

“So, besides the show, the celebrity, and two murders, did you do anything exciting while I was gone?” he asked with complete and total innocence.

“Naw, nothing much. Just the same old stuff,” I replied, hoping that the acting skills I had honed while on Things Are a Bit Iffy would help me cover my guilt. And while I expected the long arm of the law to come down from the sky and reprimand me (or at least point a finger at me accusingly), Ken cut another slice from his filet and ate it without a hint of doubt of my story crossing his face. And that was it. Had I carried off the perfect crime? Ken was a very good detective, and I was sure he heard things about me while he was gone. But his face, his emotions, and his questions signaled that he was willing to accept my answer completely and without reservations. I felt like a louse for a while but justified my behavior by saying it was the fame that made me do it.

While I had escaped being made accountable for my actions with Ken, I had to face a much tougher adversary: Alex.

He wanted to deliver a gift to celebrate my stint on television, so I invited him over for dinner at my place. I had since toned down my wardrobe, no longer needing to be noticed all the time. Just like beauty, fame is fleeting. So I greeted Alex at the door in Levi 511’s, a white button-down oxford-cloth shirt—and a pair of zebra-print Maud Frizon loafers. Hey, I might have come down from my once-lofty pedestal, but I was going to wear nice shoes after the descent.

He showed up carrying a huge rectangular object covered in wrapping paper with a huge red ribbon and bow perched on the corner of the object. It was a painting or photograph judging from the shape as he ferried it into my living room and set it gently on the floor.

“Open it,” he said, grinning from ear to ear.

I tore the paper off and took a look at the enormous photo. It was a picture of an a*shole. A human a*shole.

“Do you like it?” he asked eagerly.

“What’s not to like? It’s a four-by-four-foot picture of an anus.”

“Five-by-five,” Alex corrected me.

“Even better. There’s nothing better for filling up empty wall space.”

“But do you like it? It’s the one that our ex-client Vicktor Teller sent us on our cell phones.”

“Oh, I remember. It made me lose my shit on national television. Alex, it really is beautiful. What did you do? Photo-manipulate it?”

“Photoshopped it myself, and had it enlarged and retouched. Then I added special effects and false colorization, removed the hair, etcetera,” he said proudly.

I had to admit it, the photo really was beautiful. It didn’t actually look like an a*shole. It looked like a beautiful red–orange crater. But there was a much bigger question that formed in my head: Was this just a piece of art for my home, or was it a message from Alex to remind me of what I almost turned into? Neither me nor Lady Gaga could see through his poker face, so I resigned myself that it would always be both: art with a message.

“I’m going to hang it right there near the entrance,” I said, pointing toward my front door.

“Great idea. I was going to suggest that. Perfect location.”

I got up and carried the photo over to its new home and set it down on the floor. Alex and I stood there for a moment, not a word passing between us, but volumes of unspoken words being exchanged. He then walked over and gave me a big hug—a hug I really needed right now since I was on the verge of tears.

“Welcome back,” he said.

We sat down to eat and we had a wonderful, wonderful meal. And I had never felt more real.