Reality Jane

It was already noon, I still hadn’t seen any of the senior staff, and Gib was noticeably MIA. I was hoping he would find me or at least offer some feedback on the e-mail. I couldn’t bear the thought of another week on the show. Suddenly, Meg’s assistant paged me over the intercom. Immediately, I called back. Meg answered, her voice surprisingly pleasant and forthright.

“Hi, can you come see me?”

I was expecting a different tone.

“Sure, I’ll be right there,” I said, a patch of nerves rumbling through my belly. What does she want? She doesn’t know I’m leaving. Maybe she’s calling to reprimand me for taking these sick days. Maybe it’s another Fat Forum shoot.

“Hello,” I said, shutting the door, fear swelling in my body.

Her finger pointed at the chair in front of her desk as she motioned for me to sit. My fingers began to tremble.

“So?” She looked at me as if she had just swallowed her morning kill. “Janey want a cracker?”

“Pardon me?” It wasn’t like her to be funny.

“I understand you’re starving. Never get time for lunch, or a sit-down dinner. I just thought you might want a cracker.”

“It’s true,” I said, a hint of defiance in my voice. Did Gib tell Meg about my e-mail?

Meg quickly launched into her act. “How could this happen?. . . How could you be flying five or six days a week?. . . How could you not get a per diem for lunches or petty cash to pay for your taxis?”

“Don’t know,” I said, cowering.

“Whose fault is this?!” she bellowed.

“Meg, I don’t know. I’ve just been doing my job like everyone else.”

“Get me Gib on the phone,” she buzzed to her assistant. “Try him at home! He’s responsible for this.”

“Please don’t,” I said. “He’s just doing his job too.”

“Look, Jane, you might as well know. I saw the e-mail. I’ve had someone checking Gib’s work emails ever since he was put on leave.”

“Leave?” I asked, bewildered. “I thought he was still in the office.”

“No, he’s on leave,” Meg spat. “That’s all you need to know.”

“With all due respect,” I said, “what right does someone have to forward you a personal e-mail of mine?” Corinne flashed through my mind briefly. Would she? Could she?

“Jane, as I’m sure you know, your office e-mails, written on our computers, and sent through our network, are our property. Read your contract!” Now fully annoyed, she again buzzed her assistant, “Get me Gib on the phone!” Clearly, whatever was most wrong with the system was of little concern to Meg.

“This is about me. Not Gib. Just me,” I said with regret. “I’m the one with the problem. And it’s not just the hours or the airplanes. That’s only the half of it.”

“What’s the other half? You feel, as you put it, like a drone? You’re a robot now?”

“Sort of.”

“What else, Ms. Hot Shot?”

“Well, I. . .” I said, hesitating.

“Go on.” Her eyeballs bulged.

“Per the e-mail,” I said, trying to maintain my composure, “I don’t think this show is helping—”

“Oh, right,” she said flippantly. “So, Jane, what do you want to do here, journalism or philanthropy? Because you can’t do both!”

Her phone buzzed. “Still haven’t reached Gib,” her assistant said over the intercom, “and Mr. Barlow’s on the line.”

“I’ll take it.” She looked at me with one of her forced smiles. “Two minutes. I’ve got to take this.”

Her walls were an off-putting peach color, with a single painting of a Mediterranean landscape housed in a cheery gold frame. A shot of two young boys on a sailboat sat on her desk. They were laughing. I stared at it, feeling unprepared for this meeting. I sounded dumb, inarticulate.

Her red fingernails clanked along her keyboard as she checked e-mails and said the occasional “uh-huh” to the man on the other end of the phone. I noticed a large, chunky diamond on her ring finger, which looked out of place on her bony hand. She looked up at me, phone attached to her ear, apparently on hold.

“Listen,” she said, directing her voice toward me in her most business-like manner, “I’m not upset with you. In fact, I want you to wait a week. I can’t give you details now, but I promise you, a promotion is in the works. Things are about to become really good for you.”

She was unemotional, matter of fact. I looked at her with a half-smile and began shaking my head slowly.

“I’ll get back to you tomorrow,” she said, shooing me from her office.

“Don’t bother,” I whispered as I walked out the door. “I quit.”



“You should at least try to give them two weeks’ notice and a formal letter,” Penny said from the other end of the telephone.

She was the only lawyer I knew personally and my closest friend from college—also, the single mom I’d referred to with Corinne. I was sitting with my editor’s cell phone attached to my ear on the steps of the fake City Hall on the studio lot, surrounded by concrete columns and wooden storefronts that appeared entirely authentic. It was all a stagefront.

“But can I get out of it? I’m worried.”

“Depends. Every employee contract, whether with a Hollywood entertainment company or something else, carries with it an implied ‘good faith’ clause that assumes the artist or employee will be provided reasonable working conditions. And I must say, repeated 90-hour weeks, not to mention no meal times, are unquestionably unreasonable. That’s your out.”

“But what if they blacklist me after I leave?”

“Seems ridiculous to do that, but it is Hollywood, after all.”

“So this is the Hotel California they talk about: ‘Check out any time you like, but you can never leave.’”

Penny laughed. “Ah, Jane, always dramatic.”



Slumping back into our building, I felt the walls closing in on me. The bullpen, ordinarily a proud walk down the talk-show runway for a star field producer, felt like a cage. Unsure what else to do, I returned to my desk to draft my final e-mail to Meg.

Dear Meg,

Please consider this my official resignation and my two weeks’ notice. I would prefer to finish my time here tomorrow, but am willing to work the two-week period following today if that is what suits you. Please advise on how to settle this. I’m hoping you will gracefully let me out of my contract.

Sincerely,

Jane Kaufman

I said a quick prayer and hit send. It was 3:30 in the afternoon. The office was sleepy. People were unaccounted for. Now that the show was on a short hiatus, people had been slipping out early. I skulked out the backdoor behind the edit suites without anyone noticing and headed for home.



She had strawberry blonde hair and moved gracefully. She was also tall and thin, sans any plastic body parts, and had a smile that was totally authentic. Her black bikini top and low-rise powder blue surf shorts hung off her body as she hugged his elbow. They meandered along the beach contentedly. I wanted to duck, but it was too late—they’d seen me.

My surfboard barely fit under my arm. I jammed it into my armpit to wrap my fingers around the rails. Still, the tail dragged along the sand. Nothing worked. The wind blew the board away from me, then into me, then away from me, like a giant piece of particleboard. It was a ten-foot long, nearly two-foot wide boat of a board that could have floated a rhino over the wave, let alone me. It was also the board Grant and I had bought together one weekend after arriving home from France. Actually, he bought it for me, the day he promised he would help me graduate from try-hard to riding barrels.

I stopped twenty feet from the Manhattan Beach break, coincidentally just a mile or less from Grant’s house, stalling in an effort to avoid him. I rested the board beside my feet and pretended to stretch in a forward fold, pressing my palms into the sand and breathing deeply as instructed in the yoga class I never got to.

After a minute, and figuring the couple had passed by now, I straightened myself out of my pike and came to full standing. Big mistake. My head whirled in circles. I felt faint and stumbled down onto one knee. The force of the collapse sent me onto my back like a turtle: legs sprawled, stars and diamonds spinning around my head. I wanted to die.

Grant and his girl were suddenly smack in front of me. “Are you okay?” she said sympathetically, cradling my shoulders.

I stared at her stupidly. Damn! She’s nice, too.

“Can I get you something?”

Grant placed his board next to mine and crouched on the other side of me. I couldn’t look at him. My hands were shaking. I was probably drooling. Like a crab, I wanted just to slip away into a giant sand hole.

“I’m okay, thanks. Just a little light-headed,” I said. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I never faint.”

“Is there anything we can do?” she said. “Grant, maybe you can get her some water.”

They seemed close. Maybe they’d been dating awhile. Maybe they’d been dating while Grant and I were dating! Maybe Grant had been cheating too! Maybe he was just like every other guy in superficial Hollyweird! Maybe there never was a man of my dreams, and never would be!

“It’s okay,” I said, shaking my head, “I’m okay. Really.”

“How you been, Jane?” he said, looking at me with a curious expression.

I couldn’t tell if he was about to burst out laughing, or pitied me, or both.

“Do you two know each other?” the girl asked with a sparkle in her eye, excited at the prospect that this might be an ex making an ass of herself right before her very eyes.

Before Grant could answer, I interrupted, too embarrassed to prolong the agony. “Grant and I worked together on a crazy reality show in France. Anyway,” I said, starting to get up, sweeping the sand off my wet suit, “I’ve really got to run. The sun’s going to set soon and if I’m going to make a proper ass out of myself, I better go where I do it best—in the water.” Still dizzy, I grabbed my board clumsily and started toward the shore. “Nice meeting you.”

I looked at her, still crouched in the sand. Her mouth was wide with a curious grin. She probably thought I was a tool of the most extraordinary variety.

“Good seeing you, Grant. Take care. Thanks to your friend, too. I’m fine, really.”

I waved with my free hand and nearly dropped the board again. I couldn’t escape quickly enough. What was I thinking— going to Manhattan Beach, knowing this was Grant’s surf spot? For Chrissakes, he lives a short distance away. Maybe I secretly wanted to bump into him. But not with her. It was humiliating.

I would have gone home, never to surf again, but I figured they were still watching me and I couldn’t bear to face them again.

The water smacked against the beach. The waves were chest-high and closing out. I fastened my leash and began my paddle out, praying I wouldn’t get tossed over the fall for a humiliating tumble in nature’s wash-machine.

God or karma must have pitied me. I made it out past the break without incident and managed to get myself into a sitting position on my board. The sun was beginning its daily descent into the horizon. It bounced off the waves with silver twinkles. It wasn’t long before the peaceful rocking motion of the ocean had lulled me into a semi-hypnotic state. My mind wandered back in time to that hopeful day on the bus in France, when Grant had talked about what was, to him, the blissful world of water.





Friday was the longest day of my life. Arriving diligently at 9:00 a.m., I immediately began looking for Meg. Two people from the show producer teams had been fired the night before during shakedowns. I wondered why I couldn’t have been one of them—it seemed the only easy way out of a studio contract.

Corinne took a sick day. And I’d heard through one of the editors that Gib had taken his family to Palm Springs, seeking solace from his Fix Your Life quagmire. Meg crossed my path a number of times in the morning, each time an officious finger waving in the air. “Gimme a sec” or “I’ll get to you.”

Then, finally, at two o’clock, I got the call.

“Jane?” I heard the other end of the line say in a nasally voice. “Mr. Dean would like to see you in his office.”

I nearly choked up my sixth cup of coffee for the day. “Mr. Dean?”

“Yes, your boss,” his assistant said.

As I walked toward his office, I felt my face get hot, then my fingertips, then my chest. Was I about to faint—again? Then I recognized the feeling. It wasn’t excitement, nervousness, embarrassment, or humiliation. It was fear. Good, old-fashioned terror, radiating through me like the Ebola virus.

“You wanted to see me?” I said, pushing through the half-opened door.

It was like a palace inside, with no resemblance to the rest of our offices. Beautiful ebony cabinets sat boldly on granite floors. Huge Ralph Lauren leather couches and lounging chairs faced the movie-sized plasma screen. Beyond was a bathroom with a swimming-pool-sized Jacuzzi tub and steam room. At an arm’s reach, behind Mr. Dean’s desk, was a full bar with an espresso maker, and a mini-kitchen stocked with fresh fruit, healthy muffins, and an assortment of Kombucha flavors (the latest miracle drink at four bucks a pop).

All of this put our Fix Your Life crew kitchen to shame, with our one industrial coffee maker and powdered petroleum byproduct creamer—real cream was too expensive. We also had a fridge for our lunches—as if there was time to eat them— with a warning that read: “Your mother doesn’t live here!” And below that: “We toss everything without a label!”

“There are only two reasons I call an employee into my office,” he started, sounding grave. “One, spectacular performance. Two, abominable. Which one do you think you’ve been called in for?”

Though I knew the answer and desperately wanted out of the whole mess, part of me still hoped he’d say, “You’re spectacular.” I felt a brief sliver of exhilaration, then reality crept over me. I sat silent.

“Allow me,” he said. “Abominable!” He shoved a print-out of my e-mail under my nose. “What kind of garbage is this?” He didn’t wait for my answer. “Unethical? You think what we do here is unethical?” He looked at me with cold gray eyes. “Do you know how much fan mail I get in one single day? Well, do you?”

I looked at him pitifully. “I just. . . I’ve heard. . . some people. . . well. . . they’ve been hurt by the process—our process, that is.”

“Torture TV?” his voice boomed. “You call this torture?”

“I didn’t mean any disrespect.” Was this a hanging offense? I wondered, ever grateful this was America.

“This little e-mail, Jane, is slander!” He leaned forward, looking as if he might just cut off my tongue. “Who else did you give or send it to?”

I stared at the 8 1/2 by 11 sheet that sat harmlessly on his desk. The type on my e-mail blurred into giant gray blobs. “No one. No one but Gib was ever meant to see it.”

“Wrong. Everyone’s seen it. Do you have any idea how much trouble you’re in?” He shook his head mercilessly. “Just who the hell do you think you are?”

“I. . . I’m—”

“I’ll tell you.” I pictured horns sprouting from his skull. “You’re a dime-a-dozen producer who’s both reckless and naive. You think you can judge my show? My life’s work? My empire? My multi-million dollar media empire? Think again. You are nothing!”

The real me—the person on the inside—began a slow drift up and out of my earthly body. In a moment that defined surreal, my body was no longer a part of me. I was watching from above. My lips began moving while my voice trembled. “I’m not nothing!”

“What?” He slammed his fist on the desk.

I lifted my gaze ever so slowly to meet his, summoning whatever courage existed in my beleaguered body. “I said I’m not nothing.”

All of the pep talks I’d ever received from my mother replayed in my mind. No one calls Jane Kaufman a nothing! No one has the right to call anyone “a nothing”! Years of encouragement embedded deep in my psyche flooded forward. “You can be anything you want to be, Jane,” I heard my mother say. “You have it all. Trust yourself!” Then I thought: What would Diane Sawyer do?

I felt a surge of strength. “I’m better than that,” I said bravely. “And after seeing how you operate, I’m better than you.”

“Excuse me?!” He looked as if a scourge of cockroaches had escaped his mouth.

“Yes, Mr. Dean, better!” For the first time, my blinders had been removed. This was just a man—not a god, not a prophet. Just a rich man with an angle. “Because I am honest, I am real, and I actually care about people—more than money!”

There was a loud knock on his door.

“Mr. Dean?” His secretary nudged the door open reluctantly. “Sorry to interrupt you, sir, but I’ve been beeping you,” she said, shrinking. “Ms. Houston is here regarding the rehab special. She has a small window. Sorry.”

“Fine,” he snapped, then turned to me. “Wait in your office,” he yelled, looking at me as if I was puppy chow. “I’m not through with you!”

The day dragged on like Chinese water torture: limbs strapped tightly to a board, circulation waning, a slow drip on the center of my forehead, waiting for eternity, or waiting for it to end, slipping slowly into madness, wondering, What the hell is he going to do to me? What can he do? I didn’t even completely understand what I’d done wrong except want out! It was all new to me: iron-clad studio contracts, personal e-mails circulated anonymously, charges of slander, pissing off a TV super-power.

My temples ached as my head bobbed in front of my computer screen. In spite of my anguish, I somehow lulled myself into a catnap. When I finally awoke, the clock read 8:03—p.m.! I couldn’t believe it. I double-checked my watch and ran toward Meg’s office, where I saw her assistant packing up for the day.

“Where’s Meg?” I asked. “Where’s Mr. Dean?”

“Sorry, Jane. She just left, and I haven’t seen Mr. Dean in hours.”

“What? Are you serious?”

“Yes.”

“But I’ve been waiting all afternoon and evening for him,” I said, beginning to panic. “He told me to wait.”

“Sorry. It’s been crazy today.”

“Crazy? I’ll show you crazy. Mr. Dean was going to tear me limb from limb, then eat me this afternoon! That’s crazy!”

“I’m sorry, Jane. Really.” She put her head down as if she might cry.

I collected myself one more time. “No, it’s okay,” I said. “It’s not your fault. I’m sorry too.”

“I can give you Meg’s cell phone number,” she said with a weary voice. “I’m not allowed to, but it’s the best I can do.”

I jotted down the cell phone number and gave her a hug, which was weird because we’d never talked before. I walked to my office to gather my things and heard my extension ringing on my desk.

“Yeah,” I said.

“Jane, sorry, I never got back to you.”

“Meg?” I couldn’t believe it was her.

“Who else would it be?” she barked.

It was most definitely Meg.

“You caught me off guard,” I said, wondering if she might have me thrown in jail—stranger things had happened. “Meg, I’m sorry.”

“Uh-huh.” She sounded completely unsympathetic.

“I just can’t do this anymore,” I said, desperation in my voice.

“I’ve heard you, loud and clear. And now, thanks to your e-mail getting into Mr. Dean’s hands, you’ve got yourself in a fine mess.”

“Didn’t you give it to him?”

“No, I don’t need that kind of trouble.” She sighed.

“I feel horrible, Meg. Not that it changes anything, but I should have chosen my words more carefully,” I said, realizing now that I had been playing with fire. This was Hollywood nouveau royalty here, not some high-school bully who needed to be taught a lesson.

“Well, let me put it this way,” Meg said softening, “you’re lucky. I got you off the hook. Don’t ask. All you need to know is that you can never speak of this to anyone—not the e-mail, not the meeting with Mr. Dean, nothing.”

“I won’t,” I said. “I promise.”

“I never would have saved you if it wasn’t for how hard you’ve worked for us these past few months,” she said. “Now, go see Stephen in Accounting. He’s still in the office. He’s got your paperwork. I’ve already signed it. You’re free to go. Better you don’t show up on Monday anyway.”

“I’m free? Just like that?” I breathed a gale-force sigh of relief. I couldn’t believe she’d made it this easy.

“Don’t make me change my mind,” she snapped. “And your expense check is in the mail. You’ve been completely reimbursed.”

“How’d you—? Wait, thank you, Meg! Thank you!”

I didn’t know what else to say. This was good-bye.

“Frankly,” she said, “I’m sorry to lose you. If anyone asks, I’ll give you a good reference.”

“Thank you, Meg.”

I was astounded. It was a bizarre moment. Meg had never given me a compliment, nor shown even a hint of affection. She was suddenly the woman I originally thought her to be, the Meg I’d met four long months ago when I signed up for my dream job. She was a woman with a heart.

“And hey,” she said, “you’re not alone.” She hesitated, as if she shouldn’t say what she was about to say. “Sometimes,” she said with a chuckle, “I wish I could just tag along with you and get the hell out of Dodge! Oh, well, I’m here for the long haul. Goodbye and good luck.”

As she hung up, I sat back down in my chair and my whole body relaxed. Oh my God, I thought. This woman is a human being after all. Actually, a pretty cool chick.

The office was silent. I was completely alone, except for Stephen in Accounting.

I won’t miss this place. But, as Disney-esque as this may sound, I will miss the hope we shared.

A picture of Ricky Dean stared at me from behind the frame. I shivered. I looked around the room at the scattered papers, the tapes, and the schedule board, thinking of all the lives we’d affected in such a short time. It felt like a war—not a war we’d won, but a war I’d survived. . . barely.





“Come on,” said Toni, “we’re going out!” Toni was wearing a short black skirt, and had doused herself in a bucket of Ibiza. I knew she meant business.

“I just want to veg. Really. I’ll go tomorrow night. Promise.”

I had just walked in the door. It was nine o’clock, and I was in no mood for a party.

“No chance,” Toni said. “I’ve been waiting almost half a year for you to party with me. It’s time to celebrate! You’re free!”

“I know, but I’m not feeling it. I’m actually just blah. Like, now what?” I said.

“What in hell do you mean, ‘Now what’?”

“For the first time in my life, I don’t know what’s next,” I said.

“I’ll tell you what’s next,” said Toni. “Whatever you want!”

“But—”

“Don’t speak. Just get ready. Let me make you one of my famous martinis.”

Toni scooted me off to my room and headed for the kitchen to mix drinks.

“You can wear anything of mine you want!” she yelled from across the apartment.

“Okay,” I said, picking up steam, deciding that I probably needed a night on the town. “I think I’ll wear my star-bum jeans and my ruffle shirt.”

“That sounds slinky-ass.”

“That’s me,” I said, giggling. “Where’s that martini?” I called, slipping into my outfit.

“That’s what I like to hear.” Toni cranked up bar tunes on the stereo.

“No greasy discos, okay?” I yelled over the music.

“Whatever you say.”

I guzzled my martini, and Toni’s, too, before leaving the apartment, primed for whatever she had in store. Toni turned south onto Lincoln from Pico. She wouldn’t tell me where we were going.

Since the night of the Alex debacle, she and I had grown close again. I’d explained to her my crisis at work, my attraction to Alex and the Hollywood dream, and how it was all just a crock—an imaginary, shapeless pot of gold you chase your entire life, which shifts, disappears, and ultimately doesn’t exist. Abandoning the chase had been such a relief.

Toni and I dredged up the nights of her drunken stupidity, and my days of callous judgment, and decided that friendships weren’t supposed to be all sugar and spice—they’re piss and whiskey, too. And at the end of all the crap was unconditional, you’re-my-best-buddy-friend-and-soul-mate love.

Toni slowed her pace just after we passed the airport parkway along the north end of Manhattan Beach. The yellow neon sign read “Harry O’s.” She swerved and tucked her car into a parking space—one of those true LA rarities—a half block away.

“Parkma!” Toni squealed, cranking her tunes up for one final blast before we exited the car.

“Harry-O’s? Can’t we go to a martini lounge? Please,” I said, looking at her, pleading.

“My choice. Not yours. Besides, my friends from the show are meeting us. They live nearby. They say it’s a great crowd. Come on.”

“All right, but I’m leaving if they have tub-girls in bikinis.”

“Ha!” She hooked her elbow around mine and bounced along the sidewalk.

“Don’t know if you noticed, but we’re like six blocks from Grant’s place,” I said, reading the street signs.

During the past week, I’d also told Toni about my Grant-related epiphany. I wondered if maybe she had a little something up her sleeve. It wouldn’t be unlike her.

“No, I hadn’t thought about it, actually.”

“Guess it doesn’t matter,” I said coyly, thinking Toni’s poker face wasn’t fooling me. “He wouldn’t come here. He’s not into pick-up joints.”

We squeezed past the beefcakes at the door. Toni somehow got us out of paying the $5 cover charge and nuzzled up to the bar, paying little attention to the stares of the wispy femme-bot with the micro-mini whom she’d just hip-chucked out of her spot.

Toni giggled. “Oh, bartender,” she said, batting her eyelashes, “two lime margaritas for us, please. Oh, and also little Miss Christina Agu-Foo-Foo-Lara’s next.”

She pinched out a smile to Miss Evil Eye, who was obviously one of many teenage girls brandishing fake IDs and sparkly halters. As for the guys, it was a strange mix of furry old dog-town types shlumping around in surf shorts and flip-flops, and nineteen-year-old wannabes encased in crotch-hugging denim and nipple-tight vintage t’s.

Toni’s friends had wrangled a row of prime real estate at the end of the bar. One of the guys dragged me out onto the dance floor. Normally, I would have resisted, but at this point, I had on a hearty buzz.

In my university days, I was a regular Madonna on the dance floor. Now, I had both arms ricocheting above my head and my hips gyrating a quarter-second after the beat. Toni was gripping the bar in laughter. Her friend grabbed my waist and pulled me onto his leg for a bump and grind. I giggled as I swirled around him, my final day at the office a lifetime away.

A hand tapped me on my shoulder. I looked at my dirty-dancing partner like: How did you do that? He gave me a shoulder-shrug and kept going. The hand tapped again. A burst of excitement ripped through my body. It’s Grant. Toni set this up. My big surprise for my big night out. I pushed my tango-ing cohort aside, closed my eyes, and turned toward the mystery tapper, donning a sexy, pouty smile for what I hoped would be the love of my life come to rescue me.

“Hey, Jane.”

It was Craig.

I pressed my lips into a scowl. He chuckled, in a self-absorbed way that seemed to say, “It’s your lucky day.”

“What are you doing here?” I said, more than a little disappointed.

Girls from the bar were pointing at him. They’d probably seen him on The Single Guy, which was now at mid-season, not that I was keeping track. I wondered if he’d obtained a wife from the deal, knowing full well he wasn’t able to talk about the show finale until after all the episodes had aired.

“Looking good, Jane. Have you lost weight?” He grabbed my hips. “Great to see you.”

Before I could slap him, he pushed in for a kiss on the cheek.

“Guess what, babe? I’m in talks for my new show, a series MTV is creating about me and my adventures. . .”

He kept talking as if I cared, the same way he always did— all about him—and grinning stupidly from ear to ear.

Yuck! I was done with Hollywood, and I was through with its predators. He was the worst of them because he looked like something else, something kinder and gentler, but in truth, he was as vicious as the next guy.

“Shut up, Craig!” I finally said. “You’re an opportunist and an egomaniac. You use people!”

“What’s that? I can hardly hear you. The music’s so loud in here,” he said, bopping his head to the beat in his stony way.

What did I ever see in him? Craig was so used to doing all the talking that he’d lost all ability to listen to anyone else. I snatched my purse from where I’d tangled it around the foot of the barstool and marched stoically for the door. Toni grabbed my shoulder.

“What’s Craig doing here?” Toni said. “Do you want me to kick his ass?”

“He’s not worth it,” I said, laughing at my stupid luck. “Toni, I’m leaving. I’ve got to get out of here.”

No amount of alcohol or frivolous dancing could change the fact that I’d been humiliated—though not by Craig. He didn’t have the power to affect me—not anymore. Rather, I was humiliated by absurd expectations that my knight in shining armor might arrive on his knees, begging to have me, now that “me” was back from her evil activities. Unfortunately for me, no Grant was in sight.

“But. . . but. . . you can’t leave! Not yet. I wanted to surprise you and—”

“And what?” I said, feeling a glimmer of hope. “Grant?”

“Grant?” she said, taken aback. “No, but Naomi’s coming! In about half an hour. It’s been months. I told her all about what you’ve been through and how the show just worked you over and how you’re actually better for it and that our little Janey is back and better than ever.”

“Oh,” I said flatly. I thought I might cry. “I’m sorry, Toni, but I just—I just have to leave. It’s just, this day, these last few months, have been so draining. Please tell Naomi I miss her and that I’m sorry. Sorry for being such a jerk. And that I really do appreciate her—and you—more than ever. I’ll make it up to her. And you, too. Promise!”

“Okay,” she said sadly. “But are you sure you want to leave?”

Toni leaned in to hug me and kissed me on the cheek. She didn’t realize that by “leave,” I meant, “really leave.”





As the plane descended, snow was coating the prairies with a sugar dusting of fresh fall powder. From the sky, the city appeared to be a giant pod of lights and metal. The buildings downtown seemed to spring from the center of urban sprawl like towering behemoths. Past the glare of the city, the mountains—my favorite part of the landscape—provided a gray, luminous backdrop, visible through the cloud cover only because a band of sunshine was crossing a line of jagged peaks.

As I walked the steel plank into the airport terminal, I felt the crisp air envelop my body and slip beneath my jacket. It was frosty, but I liked it. The tingling feeling caused my skin to pimple and invisible blonde hairs to rise on end, reminding me I was alive. My jacket remained in my palm as I loped toward the baggage claim. It felt weird to let people dash past me as I walked the long halls of the airport corridor. One week ago, I would never have allowed it.

Mom picked me up at the airport.

When we reached her house, the fire spit and crackled with fresh cedar, cranking waves of scented warmth through the living room. Mom’s kitties sniffed my bags curiously, mewing at my ankles and pressing their furry white and gray noggins tenderly against my jeans. A stew in the oven smelled heavenly. I was safe now. This was home.

Mom told me to rest, but we couldn’t help staying up late, talking and nibbling on chocolate. She insisted I’d met her motherly mandate, and done the right thing in quitting. “True to your principles—that’s my girl,” she said encouragingly.

After a thorough decompression session, I finally decided to take my suitcase up the stairs to unpack. Just as I began to settle in, Mom, looking rather strange, walked into the doorway of my bedroom. She was holding a copy of Star magazine.

“Mom, you never read that crap,” I said.

“I was going to wait,” she said, smiling an awkward smile, “but I thought you should look at this—tonight.”

“Okay,” I said solemnly, wondering what could possibly be so important.

“This is today’s issue,” she said, handing it to me.

I read the headline on the front cover: “Fix Your Life Needs Fixin’!”

I gulped and flipped to the article:

SELF-HELP GURU HELPLESS TO COUNTER COMPLAINTS BY ANGRY STAFF MEMBERS. Seems Mr. Fix Your Life needs to fix his show. An anonymous staff member claims working conditions are “torture”. . . that they are instructed to use unethical methods to make show guests cry. . . all for ratings that have insiders talking Emmy. . .

“Sorry, sweetie,” Mom said, rubbing my shoulders. “I just figured, after what you told me tonight, you might get a few phone calls tomorrow.”

I took a deep breath. Meg had let me go. I hadn’t done anything wrong. She knew the truth. That e-mail was intended only for Gib!

“Jane,” Mom said, “this isn’t the first negative article about Ricky Dean. This sort of thing happens all the time when you’re in the limelight.”

“I know,” I said, still feeling horrible. “But it’s the first article that I wrote, albeit indirectly.”

I fell back onto the bed and considered my fate. Then I remembered: Meg’s assistant had given me her cell phone number. I rummaged through my bag’s loose papers and actually found the sticky note.

“Meg?” I said, my heart pounding. “Sorry to call so late, but have you seen the Star?”

“Jane, it’s midnight,” she replied crossly. “You’re only allowed to do this once. Next time, I kill you.”

“So sorry. I just wanted to make sure you knew that I didn’t. . . I wouldn’t—”

“We know. Ricky Dean knows. The studio knows,” she said with composure. “We also know who the culprit is, and they’re being punished accordingly. Don’t worry, Jane. It’s a disaster,” she said. “But it’s show biz.”

“So I’m okay?”

“You’re okay.”

“Thank you,” I said. “Oh, and Meg? Can you tell me who—”

“Move on with your life, Jane.”

Click.