Reality Jane

Two weeks before we hit the airwaves, my first Fix Your Life field shoot was to take place in La Crescenta—a story about a woman whose husband had committed suicide a year ago. She was still grief stricken, immobilized by emotional pain. She wrote to the Ricky Dean website, begging for help to get her life back. Minutes before I was to leave, Corinne came to me with final directions.

“Do you have everything you need?”

“I think so,” I said. “Release forms, back-story notes, shot-list. Anything else?”

“Just make sure you get her saying: ‘I hate my life. I wish I were dead, like him.’ Make sure she says that.” Corinne nodded as if she were asking me to sharpen pencils.

“Okay, I’ll try.” I looked at her sideways.

“Try?” She gave me a big smile. “You can do it. Don’t worry.”

“Okay, Corinne.”

“I should warn you.” Corinne, seemingly dead serious, grabbed my shoulder as I gathered up my things. “She looks a little trailer trash.”

“Trailer trash?”

“Poor thing. We just got her pictures. Maybe you can tidy her up a bit. Take away the. . . po-dunk.” She covered her mouth in a gesture of apology. “It’s awkward, but we can’t have our guests looking trashy. Orders from the top. Not right for the show’s image.”

“Okay,” I said, reminding myself, This is Hollywood, after all. “But I’m not sure I have the necessary supplies for that.”

“Just take a brush and make-up and, you know, fiddle with her.”

“All I have is lip gloss and a comb.”

“She’ll have stuff. And remember, she cries easily.” Corinne winked.

“Oh?”

My cell phone buzzed just as I settled into the passenger side of the crew van en route to the shoot. It was Grant. My heart raced. Finally! It had been awhile since our fight.

“Hey,” I heard from the other end of the line. He sounded rather subdued.

“Hey,” I said, wanting to apologize and to see him.

“How are you?” he said quietly.

“Good,” I said with uncertainty. “You?”

“Busy—away on a shoot for five days in Vegas.”

“Fun?”

“Not really,” he said. “I’ve been trying to get you. I’ve missed you.”

“I missed you too.” I felt relieved and guilty at the same time. I wanted to tell him the truth: that I needed him. Even that night with Alex, when I was acting like Miss Queen Slutbag with My Big Fat Complex Life, had felt alien to me. I craved normal— Planet Earth, not Planet Hollywood.

I craved Grant.

The line went quiet.

“Are you working?” Grant said.

“Yeah, we just got super busy.”

“I’d love to see ya. You around tonight?”

“Yes,” I said excitedly. “I mean, I will be. I’m leaving now for a shoot in La Crescenta. I should be back in the office by seven.”

“How about we meet at your place around nine? I’ll bring dinner.”

“Sounds great.”



Tasha wore a sleeveless brown turtleneck with an elegant gold chain holding a glass angel on a ring. Her naturally curly red hair was pulled tight into a clip and her make-up was tasteful, restrained. She looked at me trustingly.

I thought of Corinne and the trailer trash comment and felt a sudden wave of shame. I wanted to apologize, but we hadn’t yet begun. It felt odd to waltz into someone’s house, bull-doze their furniture to make way for our lights and equipment, and prod them to reveal their deepest hurt for our viewing pleasure. The only thing that comforted me was him—Ricky Dean. If he couldn’t help her, no one could.

We began the interview.

“I don’t want to die,” she said, “but I don’t want to live either, not without him. . . He was my one true love. . . Life doesn’t seem worth living.”

I asked her to leaf through albums of her husband during happier times. Tears rolled down her cheeks. I wanted to hug her but I couldn’t—not my job. I swallowed deeply, as if that might halt my own tears, then excused myself to get a tissue, which I crinkled into a ball while I tried to focus. Get in the game! We need this story. I was frustrated by my less-than-bulletproof exterior.

My phone buzzed mid-interview. “This is urgent,” I heard from the speaker. “Tasha’s friend Mindy is coming over. I need you to interview her too.”

“All right.” I checked my watch. It was already 5:30. There was no way I would be back in the office by seven.

“Write this down. Ready?” Corinne said hurriedly. “I need you to get Mindy saying that she can’t be Tasha’s friend anymore. That Tasha is pushing everyone away, ruining her life and her friendships.”

“That true?” I said, unable to imagine someone not wanting to be Tasha’s friend.

“Yeah, that’s what she told us.”

“Okay.”

“Call me if she says anything different.”

“I will.”

“Oh, and is she talking?” Corinne asked.

“Yes, she’s great.”

Tasha was an excellent subject, completely willing to expose her sorrow for the camera. After the interview, we worked through the shot list and got creative with rack focuses and candles while we waited for Tasha’s friend.

When Mindy finally arrived, she looked frazzled. “I really don’t want to do this,” she said as she dove for Tasha.

Tasha cupped Mindy’s hand for support. They appeared to be the best of friends.

“Oh, it’ll be great, really,” I said, holding my hand out to introduce myself. “We just want to ask you a few questions about your friendship. Our goal here is to help Tasha. Nothing else,” I said, trying to put her at ease with the idea.

“I’m not comfortable with it,” Mindy replied, shooting me a suspicious look, which was almost a first. Most people liked me, at least at first.

“I understand, but this is for Tasha. And it’s the only way Ricky Dean can get a handle on her grief. That way, he’ll know what he needs to do to help her.”

Mindy stared at me. She wasn’t convinced.

“Really, it’s the only way we can help her,” I pleaded, smiling sincerely.

Tasha whispered to her. I couldn’t hear them and purposely began a conversation with my crew members to give the two friends the cover of privacy.

“Okay,” Mindy sighed, looking at her dear friend, “I’ll do it.”

Tasha nodded with approval before leaving the room—all individual interviews were standardly done in private.

I began Mindy’s interview with gentle questions about the suicide, her reaction, and how Tasha had changed since the tragedy. After a 10-minute warm-up, I launched into the meat of it:

“How has his death affected your friendship?”

“How hasn’t it?” she said.

“In a sentence, please.”

“Ron’s death has affected our friendship in every way imaginable.”

“Are you closer than you were before?”

“Of course.”

“In a sentence, please.”

“Tasha and I are closer then we’ve ever been. I’m totally here for her. I’d do anything to help her. She’s a wonderful person. And she didn’t deserve to have her husband leave her in such an abrupt and hurtful way. No one deserves that.”

Bloody hell, I thought to myself, glancing at my notes. What do I do? Corinne said Tasha was pushing Mindy away, “ruining their friendship.” That’s not what I’m hearing!

“Um,” I started up again, nervous I wouldn’t get what we needed and afraid of how they would react at the office. “What will you do if Tasha doesn’t recover, if she doesn’t come out of her depression? Can you handle being friends with someone who can’t, or won’t, help herself?”

“I’ll just stay by her side. I’m here through thick and thin.”

“But, what if she won’t help herself. Then what?” I prodded.

“Then nothing. She’s my best friend.”

“Is she pushing other friends away?” At this point, I’m hoping she’ll throw me a bone.

“I can’t speak for them.” No bone.

“But are her other friends pulling away because she’s unable to help herself?”

“Not really. I’m her closest friend. No one except me really knows how sad she is. This beautiful woman is dying emotionally. I just want her to be happy again.”

Just as we finished, my phone buzzed again.

“Hey, it’s Corinne. Did you get it?”

“Just a minute.” I looked toward the crew. “Guys, Mindy, can you please hold a sec?” I stepped outside to talk. “Mindy is a tough interview, but it actually turned out great. She didn’t say exactly what you expected, but it was still touching, and very real. Some great stuff, in fact.”

“Did she say that Tasha is ruining her life?”

“Kind of. She said part of her is dying.”

“Oh. Did she say Tasha was ruining her friendships?”

“Not really. She said no one knows how sad Tasha is, except her. It was moving.”

“Hang on. Hang on a sec.”

I heard a gaggle of voices in the background. It sounded serious. Corinne came back on the phone.

“Meg wants to talk to Mindy.”

“Huh? What? Meg?”

“Meg, your big boss,” Corinne whispered into the phone sarcastically. “Anyway, she’s in my office right now and we’ve got to deal with this.” She resumed her normal volume. “Here’s Meg.”

“Hi, Jane. Listen,” Meg said in a crisp voice, “I need to know exactly what Mindy said to you.”

I described the interview and told her it was compelling. I told her that Mindy didn’t say exactly what they wanted her to say, but what came out was dramatic and sad and full of real emotion.

Meg could not have cared less. “Listen, what you don’t understand is that they need to say on camera exactly what they told us on the phone. If they don’t, we shut it down—the whole shoot, the whole story. It’s make or break.”

“But it’s a great story. I mean, here’s this woman—”

“Can I talk to her?”

“Who?”

“Mindy. Put her on.”

“Okay, but let me just explain—”

“Put her on.”

“Okay then.” I felt defeated.

Mindy listened as the rest of us sat quietly. She barely uttered a word. When she finished, she handed the phone to me like an eighth-grader being sent to detention. The gentle, friendly atmosphere I’d created was gone.

Meg was still on the other line. “She’s all set. Do it again, the whole interview, one more time. Call me if you don’t get what we need.”

“Okay,” I said.

Without another word, the line went dead.

It was ten o’clock when I finally returned to the office. The second time around, Mindy gave us a sterile version of Meg’s script: “She’s pushing me away, she’ll lose me and all her friends if she doesn’t snap out of this. . .” and so on. She’d completely changed her tune. The lines were there but the emotion was gone.

I’d just dropped the tapes off with the transcribers when Corinne grabbed my shoulder in a panic. “I need the story by tomorrow morning.”

“What?! It won’t be transcribed until morning. I don’t have an edit suite until two tomorrow.”

“It’s changed. You need to do it tonight. You transcribe. I’ll write the script. Then we’ll jog through the tapes and pick out the clips together.”

“But why?”

“Meg needs it for a mock run-through tomorrow morning.”

“Huh? Tomorrow’s Saturday.”

“It’s a start-up. We have no choice.”



Grant spent our night together watching TV at my apartment with Toni. So much for make-up sex! Over the phone, I’d apologized profusely and promised to make it up to him. We both giggled.

Just as I was about to hang up, he stopped me. “Hey, I want you to know something. I’m really sorry about that morning. . . I don’t want us to be that way.”

“Me neither.”

“I want you to be happy.”

“And I you.” I took a deep breath. “You’re the best.”

“I’m here for you.”

“Thanks, honey,” I said, quietly. “Hey, is Toni behaving?”

“Like a banished puppy dog,” he laughed. “Your dinner is here—KooKooRoo chicken and mac and cheese.”

“My favorite,” I laughed, “comfort food to go with my comfort man.”

Little did I know then it would be seven in the morning before I returned home to microwave the meal he’d brought over.



The phone rang. I didn’t answer it. It rang again. I got up. It was 11:00 in the morning. Officially, three and a half hours of sleep.

“Jane, hey, sorry to do this to you.”

“Hey, Gib. What’s up?”

“You were sleeping, huh?”

“Uh, yeah. Didn’t get home until seven. What about you?”

“Three.”

“Yuck.”

“Yeah, and back at nine.”

“Double yuck.”

“Anyway, we need you here today by 1:30. Staff meeting. Mandatory. Sorry. I wanted to give you the day off after your all-nighter. But I can’t. I’ll make it up to you. Promise.”

“That sucks. But no worries.”



The entire staff gathered in the audience chairs of the newly designed studio. It was exciting to see the forum where, starting next week, it would all go down, with millions watching every day. To me, it looked very masculine/talk-showish, as if a plastic factory had thrown up silver beams and orange silks. It had a black hardwood runway for Ricky Dean to move amongst the crowd in his Armani suits. I guessed it would be good for his stay-at-home groupies to see the man in all his manliness strutting up and down the stage, rather than relegated to a center stage couch.

The executive producer, Meg, stood in the aisle in her navy blue DKNY skirt suit, counting heads. At age 40, she was second in command under Ricky Dean—quite an accomplishment after working in TV for only a decade. I hadn’t seen her smile since I started the show—quite unlike the person I met in my original interview. “She’s a model for the ambitious,” the studio’s lawyer had told me when I turned in my signed contract. “Play your cards right, you could be another Meg,” he said boldly.

His comment ignited my growing ambition. I felt I had what it took. Seeing Meg now, I speculated that maybe—in a few years or so—I too could take up the reins. That thought comforted me as I watched her play commander and chief to about 100 willing subordinates.

“Jane,” Meg called, spotting me on the end of a row, “I had a look at your piece.”

My heart jumped. All eyes turned to me. I nodded, hoping for a compliment.

“We don’t do nose rings.” She smiled an un-smile. “You should know that. No interview should come back like that.”

“But the interview was softly lit, nice backdrop—”

“I said no nose rings.” She turned to walk away.

“But she didn’t have a—”

“Your subject had a nose ring.” She stopped walking, and her face looked angry. “It looks cheap.”

I racked my brain. Did she have the right girl? Nose ring? I turned to Corinne.

“It’s true,” Corinne whispered. “It was just a tiny stud on her left nostril. Sort of distracting. Don’t worry. Just make sure you catch it next time.”

“I didn’t even see it! It must have been miniscule,” I whispered back. The auditorium had quieted in anticipation of Ricky Dean’s arrival. “Besides, I have no right to remove that.”

“It’s not a big deal.” Corinne patted my leg. “Here’s the man.”

Ricky Dean walked toward center stage, his dark gray eyes staring out at the crowd. He was a formidable presence: six-foot four, broad-shouldered, black hair that molded to his scalp. His thin lips fit neatly on his face, which was neither smiling nor frowning. After forty-two years of walking the planet, he commanded instant deference. The chatter volume decreased to a murmur, then to nothing.

He smiled. “I don’t want this show to be good,” he said, enunciating every syllable. We all stared at him curiously. “I don’t want this show to be great.”

I cocked my head. Where is this going?

He paused. “I want this show to be excellent.”

Me too! I thought, forgetting about Meg and simply awed by the Ricky Dean.

“And if this show is going to be excellent, everyone in this room needs to be excellent. If even one of us is not excellent, we will fail! And I don’t fail.” He paused again for effect. “All of you are here because you’re the best at what you do. We scoured the nation looking for the best of the best. But I know, as I look around at all your faces, that one-quarter of you won’t be here a month from now. You’ll be gone. Some of you do not have the will to be excellent. And that’s fine. If you don’t want to do what it takes, then go work somewhere else.

“But I know that most of you share my enthusiasm for what we’re creating. Something that television has never done before: change people’s lives. Their LIVES! Now, that’s something. And in order to do that, we have to give this show everything we’ve got. I know some of you have been burning the midnight oil, and trust me when I say, it won’t always be that way. But this is what we need to do now to be excellent!”

He had me. When he finished, everyone applauded loudly.

“Now get to work!” He clapped his hands together.

Meg ran to his side to commend him, her shoulder length fringe-cut swaying in sync. I envied their relationship. She was clearly his confidante, and probably the only person on the lot who regularly had his ear.

We shuffled out like loyal worker bees. I thought about his words. They had struck me deeply. Excellence. I had never considered what excellence really meant until that day—being the best, the very best. I vowed at that moment to never be in Mr. Dean’s un-excellent quarter. Whatever it takes, I’ll do it! I’ll be the best damned producer on the lot!

Corinne grabbed my elbow as I walked away. “Whoa! That was amazing!” she said, her mouth gaping.

“He’s something else,” I said in agreement, gauging her mood.

Corinne and I had this awkward history that we both ignored, and this intense professional relationship that we couldn’t ignore. I knew she was a bit of a dragon, yet she had this girly side of her that bordered on gooey. Every day, part of my challenge was to figure her out. A part of me found her endearing. I liked her. And that was strange, given our beginning.

“I can’t believe I’m working on this show. I mean, how weird is that?” she continued in a child-like way. “It’s like, I still can’t even believe I’m working on a studio lot. It’s all so surreal! We’ve come so far since The Purrfect Life.”

“I hear they’re pouring more money into Ricky Dean than any other new show,” I said. “He’s unproven on TV, so it’s extremely rare.”

“Get out!” she gasped, as if I’d confessed some deep secret.

“This show is costing zillions.”

“No friggin’ way!” she said, shaking her head.

I laughed as we strolled between the buildings, making our way back.

Suddenly, Corinne stopped me. “I’ve been noticing,” she said, taking a good close look at my face. “You could use a little Botox on your brow lines.”

Cue bad Sybill.

“Botox?”

“Yeah, Botox. Just on your forehead. Everything else looks great. I use it. See? No lines.”

“You really think I need it?” I said, wondering if I should have felt insulted.

“Just a little. It’s only Botox, baby,” she whispered in my ear. “I won’t tell anyone. We’ll go sometime. It’s totally painless.”

“Hmmm. I’ll think about it.”

We settled back at our desks. Corinne had perfect skin—not even the hint of an old crow stomping across her delicate eye area. I felt my brows. I seemed to be frowning a lot lately, or maybe I was just more serious at the new job. It sucked that I had to start worrying about pesky brow lines, the scourge of professors and old people.

I took a minute and typed “Botox” into Google and began to read and look—pictures of women with flawless skin dominated the pages. I imagined myself, like them, sailing into my 50’s, skin plump and taut like that of a 15-year-old ingénue. It was nearly irresistible, the idea that with the jab of a needle and the swift injection of a clear liquid—and a mere three hundy or so—I could be wrinkle-free into the distant future. Brilliant. A year ago, I wouldn’t have dared consider Botox.

“Good girl,” said Corinne, who had snuck up behind me. “Try it once and you’ll be hooked.”



Grant made the most delectable salads: red lettuce, persimmons, cherry tomatoes, cucumbers, yellow peppers, chick peas, and a creamy poppyseed dressing—and that was just a warm-up. When we finally sat down to dinner, he presented a delectably seasoned quinoa with sun-dried tomatoes, local asparagus grilled and topped with chunks of fresh Parmesan, and “catch of the day” blue-fin tuna. His bouquet of red sunflowers reminded me that, in actuality, he was the catch of the day—and probably the decade. The card in the flowers read:

To my little ray of sunshine, I’ve missed you lately. Want to sail this weekend (or next time you’re free)?. . . XOXO, Me.

Each time we got together, I learned something new about Grant. It was like peeling back the layers of an onion, and unlike my former boyfriend, Craig, this onion didn’t stink. So many LA guys would spill their entire life story, the fine-print of their resumé, their grand ambitions, their damaged upbringing, the whole grand epic, before anyone had even gotten up to pee. Grant was different. He never bragged or droned on about himself. He was subtle and charming, the type of man who didn’t need much to be happy, at least not in the way of ego food or gratuitous praise.

Tonight, I learned that he’d earned his boat captain’s license. I found out, too, that he and his dad had sailed to South America on their yacht, catching tuna, roughing it through fifty-foot swells—the real deal. He promised we would do it together, too, “if I wanted.” It made me want to know more, but I was tired and dreading another long day at work—my next day’s flight left at six in the morning.

We finished dinner and skipped the movie so I could rest. This is what it takes to be excellent, I reminded myself. Chumming up to ass-kissing colleagues like Danny, or chasing Kittens around the mansion, felt like a century ago. At 29, my clock was most definitely ticking, and not the biological one—the career clock, which was the important one to me now.

Grant rubbed my back softly. It comforted me, like a bed of rose petals or a kitten cuddling into my neck. Then I thought briefly of Alex and our date a few weeks earlier. My comfort level dropped a notch—first to uneasiness, then to guilt. Alex had called a few times since. Each time his charm practically oozed through the voicemail into my head.

Things have finally come together for me. Grant is enough. He should be enough. Look at him. He’s fabulous. So why am I thinking about Alex? What’s this compulsion I have? What’s wrong with me?

“You’re cheating whenever it feels like you’re cheating,” I heard my mother’s voice say.

Grant kissed my neck as I drifted off to sleep.





In just two months with Ricky Dean, I’d boarded 62 airplanes, traveled to 31 cities, and slept in 20 different hotels. The production coordinator always tried to schedule me in and out on the same day, but sometimes it was impossible. The shoots took ten-to-twelve hours—plus long cab rides to locations, tedious airport check-ins, and the occasional strip search that left me standing in the security line-up barefoot, pants slipping past my butt crack while my soy latté went from extra hot to dish-water warm.

Over these 60 or so days, I’d missed countless meals, hadn’t enjoyed a single day of rest, unintentionally lost ten pounds, and churned out 38 two-minute video vignettes from the edit suite, complete with back-story, intrigue and, most importantly, oodles of human suffering. All of them ended with a similar plea: “Mr. Dean, can you help me?”

People at work began to take notice. The other show producers wanted me to do their interviews. I overheard comments like: “Jane’s stories are solid!” “She gets it every time!” And “I want her doing my field pieces!”

As for my social life, it had devolved into phone calls and the occasional meal. I’d become expert at leaving enticing three-minute updates just before Grant’s voicemail cut me off. Whenever he could, Grant met me for lunch, and we made a point of having dinner once a week—usually out of a box, and totally unglamorous. He would ask me how long I was willing to put up with the hours and I’d say: “It’s a start-up. This is how it goes.” Meanwhile, I was buckling from fatigue, but I refused to complain for fear of sounding un-excellent.

Alex called too. We were friends. He made me laugh and always encouraged me to flourish. “Fix Your Life is your ticket,” he would say, before launching into a story about some mishap from his day. He’d picked up a month-long gig in Florida hosting a fishing show, and was due back any day. I still didn’t know what to tell him about Grant, or what to tell Grant about Alex. It was as if time had stopped in that matrix of my life. Everything but work was frozen, stuck exactly as it had been two months ago. Nothing progressed, just this monolith of a show that had become me.

Even Toni was begging for attention. We never had the heart-to-heart we needed. I wasn’t sure if I was still pissed at her for the party mishap or, worse, had outgrown her. Somehow, I knew she regretted that night, but it was shoved under the carpet like a dead cockroach. All that was clear was the distance between us. She was partying more than ever, and I wasn’t. My new schedule was not what she’d expected when we became roomies and BFF’s.

I justified my life, or lack thereof, on Machiavellian grounds— namely, the end would justify the means. It was all about my career. No time to contemplate feelings or whether I even enjoyed what I did. My nose was alarmingly near the grindstone, too close to see anything but the wheel swiftly churning and my ultimate dream—executive producer—increasingly within my reach.

On the lot, staff members were dropping like flies, often sick with the flu, yet spreading their germs in the big Petri dish that had become our world. Supervisor Gib looked to be on the verge of collapse. He hadn’t seen his boys in a week. His wife had been sick and unable to care for them. Gib hired one of the girls from the office cleaning staff to help at home. Between urgent work requests and his non-existent home life, Gib, not our guests, needed a reality check, if not a Ricky Dean intervention.

Each time I told him to go home, with an, “I’ve got this under control, go get some rest, see your family,” he would sigh and say, “Can’t. Need to make sure the tapes get handed in. Need to be at the nine o’clock meeting.” Need to, need to, need to. . .

Despite his long hours and apparent diligence, Gib had become the scapegoat for many of the mistakes made in editing. I was too busy to know if they were truly his fault. The little man was ultra-committed. He never missed a minute in the office for fear something might go wrong. Meanwhile, one show producer, two APs, and five PAs—dubbed “Team Less- Than-Excellent”—had been fired. We shuddered at the thought of joining their ranks.

In the few spare moments I had while flying from city to city, I would reflect on what was slowly becoming a less than dreamy dream-job. Each day introduced a number of chinks that chipped away at what was once a flawless front, beginning with the big man himself. Ricky Dean never talked to any of the staff. He seemed more shrewd than sympathetic, more Hollywood than grassroots. I expected a heroic figure, shouting, “Go team! Meet at my house for drinks” or at least a “Thank you, good job.” Nothing.

Then there was Meg, who sent trifling office e-mails that chastised those of us who let face jewelry slip by in interviews. And there was my partner, Corinne, the quintessential middle-management TV captive with her uncomfortable shoes and now mostly prickly personality. I sat in on a few of her pitch meetings to Mr. Dean and watched her puff at his praise when she succeeded and bawl like a baby when she flopped. One minute she was pouring syrupy anecdotes your way, the next she was slicing out your innards with glass shards. The young office researchers/APs would hang on her every command, nodding in ass-kissing unison. Meanwhile, they would blow a donkey if it meant getting a shot at her job.

But was I any better? Manufacturing stories through the mystery of digital video and sound, lobbing pointed questions at unsuspecting subjects, often just pretending to care while admiring my shoes or thinking about a nice soft bed. I’d begun to hate the sound of my own voice—or maybe I was just tired.

Somehow I’d survived two months of the hardest work I’d ever done. Despite the unavoidable slivers of acrimony, and a small but growing distaste for certain colleagues, I still thought I was part of a noble cause leading me toward something even nobler. I still believed.



On my first day off in more than 38 days, Grant rented a 30-foot sloop for an afternoon sail. He said it was my day to read, relax, drink wine, meditate—anything I desired. I started by sleeping in until noon and showing up late at the marina.

“How are you?” he whispered between kisses. “How are you feeling?”

“I thought I’d be dead to the world, but I feel surprisingly good.”

“Maybe that’s because you’re with me.”

“Must be.” We giggled.

There was a gentle wind, enough to inflate the main sail and send us out the harbor entrance into the Pacific. We passed my apartment and the Santa Monica Pier. The sky was clear, offering us little protection as the sun beat down like a great white torch. Sweat collected between my legs and the canvas seats. Grant expertly operated the ropes, pulleys, and winches. I loved the sight of him controlling this great white mass against a bullying sea.

When he was finally content with the breeze and our direction, he sat down behind me and pulled me onto his lap, wrapping his arms around my belly, “So, how are you feeling about things? When are you going to be through the slog at work?”

“I don’t know. There’s a lot of weird stuff going down.”

“Like what?”

I told Grant about the way I was controlled on interviews— how they gave me a finished script before I left the office, before I’d done the interview, and how the interviews had to exactly match my story notes.

“That’s not good,” Grant said, watching the waves hit the boat. “Why is it like that?”

“I guess it’s what he needs to keep his stories straight on air. They tape two shows in one day.”

“Two shows? When does he have time to meet the guests?”

“He doesn’t. Not until he’s on air, live. That’s the only time he spends with them. They don’t meet or talk to Mr. Dean before or after the show.”

“What?” Grant looked disturbed.

“Yeah, there’s no time.”

“What kind of help is he giving people, then? How’s that supposed to fix their lives?”

“It’s just how it’s done.”

We both stopped. This was a conversation Grant and I had avoided up until now. I worried that if we continued, Grant might say, “I told you so!” though he was probably too mature for that. Instead, it might go more like: “You’re overworking yourself for a greedy, big-money practitioner of self-interest, not self-help.” I believe the word he’d originally used was “snake,” to which I would retort: “No, really, we’re making a difference. We really are helping people.” At least, I hoped we were.

It was true that I’d begun to question the people around me, and the show’s story-gathering techniques. But I had to remind myself of the bigger picture—this job was part of paying my professional dues. Watching Meg in the office—the respect she commanded and the sheer power she wielded—convinced me I really wanted the same position someday, and the sooner the better! And it was worth it, even if the show wasn’t one hundred percent authentic all of the time. Greatness entails great sacrifice. Part of me worried Grant would never understand that.

“I’m planning a surf trip to Costa Rica,” Grant said, squeezing me tighter.

I was happy with his attempt to change the subject. “You are?”

“Yeah, I want you to come. Next month. There’s so much I want to show you.”

“Wow,” I said. “I don’t know. We might be out of our busy season. Could be doable. Sounds like fun.”

“It would be good for us. It’d be nice to. . . get closer. I feel like maybe we’re drifting apart.” He started massaging my neck. “I don’t know. . . this show. . . I wonder if it will always consume you.” He stopped and pulled his head around to meet my eyes. “Is this really what you want?”

“What do you mean by that?” I wriggled my head out of his hands.

“Jane, I think you’re beautiful, and—” He looked away from me as if embarrassed, then continued, “The girl I met in France, the girl you were then, it’s just—”

I cut him off. “What do you mean, ‘the girl in France’?”

“Nothing. It’s not a bad thing. Since you started on the show, things have been a little different. You’ve been a little different. Back in France, I felt like I was falling—”

With the grace of a Chinese fire-drill sergeant, my phone suddenly buzzed, demanding my instant attention. I’d become so accustomed to diving for it in the field—it was always ringing with urgent orders from the office—that I lunged for my bag, nearly spilling our wine bottle and pushing Grant overboard.

“Hello. Jane here. . . Yeah, yup, no problem. Uh, lemme check. Got it, got the script. . . Yeah, it’s all here. No worries. It’s okay. Yup. . . Bye.” I tossed the phone back into my bag.

It had been Corinne about a shoot the next day in Texas. She said it was important. The story might be used in the sweeps week’s headline show Monday: a little unneeded pressure to ensure I got it right.

Grant turned his body away from mine, staring out at the horizon. I grabbed his hand. “Grant, I’m sorry. What were you saying?”

“Never mind.”

“No really, what?”

“Honestly, I can’t remember.”

“Oh, okay.”

Neither could I. Our conversation escaped me. The horizon looked a million miles away. Part of me wanted to sail toward it, and keep on sailing.

“Hey, Earth to Grant. Let’s talk.”

“Okay.” He looked at me with a smile that didn’t seem natural. “What do you want to talk about?”

“I don’t know. Whatever you want to talk about,” I said playfully.

Grant smiled, but something wasn’t right. I couldn’t place it. Thoughts of work crowded my head. “So, I think Gib is on the chopping block,” I said.

“Your supervisor?”

“Yeah, one of the show producers said he’s screwing up big-time. Tapes not turned in on time, interviews botched. He told us to use backdrops that Meg and Mr. Dean hadn’t approved.”

Grant seemed only marginally interested. But I continued anyway, telling him about the time Ricky Dean had reprimanded me, in front of the entire bullpen, for not using the new interview backdrop, which ultimately was under Gib’s control and therefore his fault.

“Sounds like a lot of miscommunication, or non-communication,” Grant said.

“You don’t even know. Gib’s nice, but he’s a little out of it.”

“Poor guy—working nonstop, and a family to support. Must be tough.”

“True, but he just doesn’t seem right for the job, like he’s in over his head. I feel bad, but you know the saying: ‘Can’t handle the heat? Get out of the frying pan!”

“That’s harsh.”

“Well, he just doesn’t seem up to it. Maybe they should find someone who is.” I paused for effect. “Like, well,” I placed my hand on my chest, “yours truly.” I tilted my head for approval, hoping Grant might find my ambition cute.

Grant looked as if he’d swallowed a slug.

“What?” I said, insulted by his expression and unwilling to consider what he was really thinking. “This is for real, Grant. It’s big. I might be up for his job. People in the office say I’m the right fit. It’s a real opportunity. Supervising producer.”

“Would you take it?” he said, his eyes blinking, as if he was trying to hide that he was upset.

“I’d be crazy to turn it down!”

I sat staring at him, frustrated, while he turned to watch the main sail inflate with the wind.

“You’ve changed,” Grant said, almost under his breath.

“What’s that?” I said, knowing he didn’t mean that I’d changed for the better.

“Never mind,” he said, avoiding me.

“You know,” I said, weighing whether or not to finish my thought, “I’m too ambitious for you, aren’t I?”

“Jane,” he half-laughed. “That’s not it.”

“Then what’s going on here?” I put my hands on my hips.

“You’ve been brainwashed. You’re like one of their droids.”

“What are you talking about?” I said, lashing out.

“This is what I warned you about. It’s a scam. . . that show. . . your show!” he said. “You turn people’s misery into entertainment. What don’t you get? You tell me awful things about the show. The whole set-up stinks! And they’re using you.”

I hated him. I wanted to jump into the cold blue ocean and swim as far away from him as I possibly could. As he steered the boat back toward the harbor, my mind was spinning. He doesn’t know me. He doesn’t understand me.

Grant pulled the sail in, but he no longer struck me as heroic or strong. He looked more like an insignificant blur. I smiled to myself. He can’t take it. He can’t handle me. I’m too much for him.



The wind had completely died down by the time we returned from our afternoon sail. At the apartment, Toni was nowhere to be found. With the exception of a few homeless people on the Santa Monica boardwalk, there was no one around but me. Grant and I had said our goodbyes with barely a kiss on the cheek. We managed a level of civility that got us back to shore, but it was forced. Normally, he would have spent the night, but things were suddenly different, and I believed that was for the best. I wasn’t about to give up my career for a man.

I walked to my room and collapsed onto the bed. Feeling my brow crinkle into two giant creases, I thought of Corinne and Botox. I lifted my eyebrows to de-contort my scowling face and rolled onto my side, hugging my pillows. The duvet coddled me like I was a swaddled baby. The effort of walking ten paces to the bathroom seemed too great to be considered. Brushing my teeth would have to wait until morning. I reached for the night table to set my alarm for five, then pulled off my shirt and pants, getting under the covers in my bra and underwear—too tired to put on my pajamas—and crashed.