Not So Model Home

CHAPTER 8


I’m Ready for My Close-Up, Mr. DeMille

It was the first day of shooting. We were starting early, but I had to make a stop before I drove over to Ian’s house. I had to check on one of my rentals since the tenants had stopped paying rent and I wanted to make sure they had moved out as promised. I could have had them evicted, but that takes a long time and a lot of money, so I talked them into leaving peacefully and, in return, I wouldn’t report them to a credit agency.

When the money was really rolling in until the economic Big Bang, I bought several condos that I figured I could rent out for a few years, then sell at a big profit since everything was going to go up forever and ever. This one was in a development in central Palm Springs, modern with a two-story atrium, and really very dramatic, inside and out. I fell in love with it the day I bought it.

When I walked up the sidewalk to the front door, something was amiss with the front door: it was a-missing. As I walked inside, I quickly discovered that everything else was missing, too—the stove, microwave, refrigerator, bathroom vanities, even the toilets. Yes, the toilets. Did they take them dirty? Needless to say, I wasn’t in a good mood when I left the condo and headed over to Ian’s house.

As I pulled up to Ian’s house, it looked more like a beehive than a place where an over-pampered multimillionaire hairdresser lived. There were half a dozen trucks parked on the street, with men carrying equipment, and women brandishing walkie-talkies—money was being spent on a grand scale.

I was stopped by a frantic woman with a walkie-talkie who, after ascertaining that I was a member of the show and not a crazed lunatic trying to crash the shoot, waved me into the parking area outside Ian’s garage. Once again, my Toyota Land Cruiser was the shabbiest car in the lot, showed up by the Bentleys, Mercedes-Benz SLS, and, landing at the top of the car heap, a beige, two-toned Maybach Landaulet—Ian’s, with the vanity license plate spelling WHAT IF.

I was directed to a tent that had been set up for wardrobe and makeup, which I thought was odd, since this was supposed to be a reality show. Apparently, they didn’t want too much reality. I brought my own bathing suit, opening credits outfit, and several changes of clothing, all of which were put aside in a closet by my stylist, Jacob. Pronounced Yak-obb, even though he didn’t have an accent.

“First thing, we’re going to shoot the opening credits, where you appear with your name. Jeremy wants you looking fabulous, since this shot will not only open each show, but they’ll use this shot in the promos too,” Jacob said, turning me around slowly and sizing me up like a cut of yellowfin tuna at a Japanese fish auction.

“Promos?”

“The commercials they run to advertise the show. Also on the Web site, blogs, etcetera, etcetera. You’re gonna be all over the world. For your credit shot, Jeremy wanted you in this little number,” he said. “The color is more color-friendly to the cameras than the stuff you brought.”

Little is right: There was very little to it. It looked like at one time it was a legitimate dress, but that it had been clawed by a cougar. Folded up, I imagined it filled a measuring cup with room to spare.

“It’s awfully sheer,” I mentioned, a fact that fell on deaf ears.

“Let’s see you in that first, then we’ll do your hair,” he said, shushing me off to a curtained booth to change.

I slipped into the dress, and yes, it was awfully sheer. Thank goddess I worked out, rode eighty miles a week on my road bike, and hiked every other week. When I presented myself to Jacob and looked at myself in the mirror, I could see what was wrong with it right away. My nipples were plainly visible.

“Jacob?” I suggested. “You might want to tape over my nipples . . . they’re showing. We don’t want that on national television, do we?”

I received a withering look that would have killed a cactus.

“Why do you think Jeremy picked out the dress? He wants viewers to see your nipples.”

Clearly, I wasn’t getting through to Jacob. “I’m not sure that’s such a good idea.”

“Trust me, sweetie, we’ll make it look tasteful. We’re not gonna make you look like a street walker.”

As soon as Jacob had uttered those words, they lodged in my head like buckshot from Dick Cheney’s gun. I was going to look like a slut on national television.

“It looks great. Now don’t worry, Miranda.”

“Amanda.”

“Yeah, whatever. Look, you’re in my hands; my job is to make you look great for the show. C’mon. This is a gay show, not The Real Housewives of Orange County. Now there’s a truckload of skanky pole dancers for you. Trust me . . . pleeeeaaassseee?”

“Okay, Jacob. I’m going to trust you.”

“Great, you’re going to look fabulous! Let’s see the hair stylist now.”

“Stylist? I think my hair looks great now.”

This time, a look of do-you-really-think-that-you-poor-thing?

“Jacob, I have a hair stylist here in town. Roberto. Yes, he’s a little dramatic, but he does a good job and he’s good with color. I mean, yes, he does like driving down to Oceanside to pick up Marines occasionally, but . . .”

Jacob stopped leading me toward the hair and makeup styling tent, turned around, then put his hand over my mouth.

“Are you through?”

“Yes, I guess so. I’m just a little nervous.”

“That’s normal. Being on television for the first time.”

“No, not that. I do have a guy who styles my hair here in town. If I get it styled for the show, Roberto is going to know next time I see him.”

“He’ll get over it.”

“He’s a dramatic Brazilian queen. You don’t want to piss off a hairdresser, especially him, any more than you want to aggravate a plastic surgeon as you go under the knife or an airplane pilot before takeoff. They can make life really ugly for you if they want.”

“Amanda, darling, who is this whole show about?”

“Ian Forbes.”

“That’s right. The man who made millions cutting hair correctly. Do you think Jeremy is going to let just anyone cut hair on this show? He knows Ian is going to be watching everything. So relax and trust me. You’re going to have Sebastian from Ian’s own salon in Beverly Hills do your hair. He’s refused to style some of the biggest names in Hollywood, he’s that good. ”

“Shit. Sorry. I guess I am lucky.”

“You don’t know how lucky you are. You are going to look so great, your life is never going to be the same again.”

Little did I know how right he was going to be.


I got my hair styled and I had to agree, in the hands of a talented stylist, a lump of clay could be made into a masterpiece. In fact, it was a revelation that made me deliriously happy, then angry for all the years and thousands of dollars I’d spent thinking I couldn’t improve my appearance any more than what the gods gave me. My problem is that I was hiring amateurs. I looked in the mirror as Sebastian finished up on me and I looked at my reflection—it struck me that I wasn’t a bad-looking woman. Or, at least now I wasn’t. The reality was that there was always great potential there. It just took someone like Sebastian to give me enough style to make me shine.

“There,” Sebastian said, giving me a hand mirror so I could admire myself up close. “You look like Jane Lynch from Glee. Sexy, smart, not too polished. Natural. Plus, it helps play up your nose.”

“My nose?” I asked like a bleary-eyed child. “Play it up?”

“Oh, yes. I like your nose. Very come-f*ck-me.”

I never thought about a nose inviting fornication, but I suppose it was possible. Over the years, I’ve heard of guys getting turned on by everything from writhing in custard to wearing certain wristwatches. Yes, wristwatches. The right kind of wristwatch can make some guys cum. Go figure.

“Come . . . ?”

“Your nose. It is very sexy. Very virile, aristocratic.”

I put my hand on Sebastian’s arm. “You find my nose aristocratic? When I think of aristocratic noses, I think of pointy, sharp ones like the British.”

“Well, then, Amanda, you haven’t spent enough time in Europe. The continent. The French. The Italians. Germans. All big. You are beautiful, now go and make love to the camera.”

As I was escorted away by Jacob, I had to ask the question: “Is Sebastian straight?”

“Yes, he is. His girlfriend is absolutely stunning,” Jacob added.

“Does she have a big nose?”

Jacob thought for a moment. “I don’t really remember. But he seemed to like you.”

“Nooooo, Jacob! He was just being nice.”

“No, I’ve seen him style lots of women. He doesn’t flirt with them like he did with you.”

I thought no more about what Jacob said for the time being. I got into my dress and when I was squeezed into it, they made me up. I stole another look in the mirror and, Jesus, if I didn’t look fantastic. It was a whole new way of thinking for me.

I got to the set and they were just finishing up shooting Keith MacGregor. Keith was attired in a black silky shirt unbuttoned practically to his waist, showing off his hairless chest and tan. And, if I wasn’t mistaken, his padded crotch. Now, I’m no slut, but I have seen a number of male boxes in my time, and I can tell when one is not all-natural. Keith’s crotch wasn’t anything to sneeze at, but it seemed more than prominent, compliments of the stylist staff. I wonder if they were serving kielbasa at the lunch. I mean, it ran a few inches down his right leg.

As for the rest of him, Keith had that relaxed, easygoing presence in front of the camera and acted like he spent all his life in front of one. He probably did just one take, just like Elizabeth Taylor.

My television debut was a little different. I didn’t even have to talk. All I had to do was smile and turn toward the camera with my body. But I couldn’t get it right. Take after take, and I couldn’t act natural. Go figure . . . a reality show and I couldn’t be real.

The assistant director, Matthew, finally spoke up, “Amanda, just stop trying to be a character. Be yourself.”

“Easy for you to say,” I replied. “I’m still trying to figure out that one.”

Eventually, the cameraman either got the promo footage he wanted or he just plain gave up. He released me to get into my own personal swimsuit, which apparently wasn’t so hideous, so I was allowed to head out to the pool area. In hindsight, I should have turned back right then and there. But that’s the problem with hindsight. It only comes to you after you really need it.