Reality Jane

The next morning, I had a jumbo-sized hangover, only I hadn’t been drinking. The Star magazine was sitting on the table, reminding me of everything I’d left LA to forget.

“Jane, you need to stop thinking about it,” Mom said. “Besides, serves them right! Who knew the Star actually reported the truth?”

I hesitated. Mom was right. In all the fuss, I’d forgotten about the truth. Too worried that I’d be made the scapegoat, I’d forgotten how I’d given serious thought to fighting a system far too big and entrenched for me to tackle.

“You’re right, Mom,” I replied, with conviction. “But I’m not so sure I’ll ever work in that town again.”

“You will if you want to,” she said with a smile. “You can do anything you want.” She nodded convincingly as she handed me a plate of beautifully rolled crêpes.

I picked up the magazine to flip through the fluff, turning my focus to pictures of celebrities’ bikini bodies. Suddenly, I ran into this titillating headline: “Popular Single Guy Series Pulled Mid-Season Due To Scandal.”

My jaw dropped as I read the story, buried in the back, on page 58. I looked at Mom. Then I looked at the pictures. Then I looked at Mom again.

“Have you seen this?” I asked, totally floored.

Craig had somehow merited a full-page article and pictures: Craig hugging Marty, his Venice pad roommate, in a non-platonic embrace. A baby girl held by a really pretty woman. The really pretty woman and Craig together in Mexico. . . It was all too much, at least for me. The story read:

The swinging bachelor won’t know what hit him. Producers plan to yank this season’s Single Guy from the air, citing negligent background checks for their series super-hero. Turns out Craig Anders was not exactly prime chick-magnet material, despite his macho exterior.

Pictured here: Anders with gay lover Marty Sanchez around the same time Anders was getting busy with Hollywood B-actress Charlotte Jenner. Jenner is mother to Anders’ baby daughter, born at Cedars-Sinai last month. Anders denies relations with Sanchez, claiming the two are friends and nothing more, but admits he is the father of Jenner’s daughter Liza. . .

“Oh my God! Mom! That’s my almost-life written up in the Star! What the hell?”

Mom read the article and gasped.

“And, do the math,” I continued. “He got her pregnant while we were still together!”

“Please tell me you had an AIDS test after you broke up,” Mom said.

“Yes, Mom—two!” I said, still in shock.

She looked at me with mom eyes, as if she could swallow me with her concern. I blinked, totally unsure what to feel. Actually, I felt rather empty, but in a surprising, perfectly good way.

Mom let out a chuckle. “Geez, Jane, quite a time you’ve had in La La Land!”

“No shit!” I squealed, and let out a guffaw.

We were soon rolling in laughter. It was either that or scream like a baby.

“I just can’t believe how in love with him I once was,” I said. “What does that tell you about my background checks? Some journalist I am,” I said, still giggling.

“You’re a great journalist, and don’t you forget it,” Mom said, becoming serious. “My little Diane Sawyer.”

“Yeah, right,” I said. “I’ve got a long way to go for that. Trust me.”



A week passed while I soaked in the warmth and security of home and much-needed mothering. I had made all the difficult phone calls I needed to make: first to Naomi, to apologize for being such an opportunistic bitch. She was gracious and told me I did her proud for taking a stand. Then I called Gib, to make sure his family was all right and to apologize if I’d stepped on his toes in my flight to the top. He said he got his job back, which he said he needed to support his family. “That’s life,” he said, sounding defeated. I wondered if anything would be different at the show.

Eventually, I decided it was time to cut the cord at home. I’d fluttered between feelings of exhilaration, newfound freedom, confusion, and perhaps occasionally, depression. But this newly contracted case of schizophrenia didn’t frighten me. In an odd sort of way, it was comforting. It was where I needed to be. I loaded the car for a trek to the mountains and a stab at figuring out my life.



It was day five of being on my own. I was strolling Banff Avenue, a hazelnut latté from Evelyn’s nestled in my gloves. With nowhere in particular to go, I put one foot in front of the other, no longer bothered that things weren’t as I thought they should be, or that my career hadn’t turned out as I had hoped. Mom always said, “Reach for great things but prepare for the worst. That way you’re not disappointed when you fall somewhere between the two.” I was somewhere in-between and didn’t seem to mind. Perhaps life was showing me that “in-between” was where most people are. I’d better get used to it, or better yet, enjoy it.

That evening, as the sun settled behind the peaks, a light snow began to swirl in the sky. The snow flakes seemed to dance around the street lights, presumably happy in-between, and in no rush to land on the ground. I walked slower than usual to take it all in. I stopped to inhale a final breath of the outdoors before making my way into my hotel’s front entrance. I unzipped my down jacket and stomped the snow off my hiking boots. Then, before I headed to my room and retired for the night with a book and room service, Bam! I saw him. Sitting beside the fireplace in the lobby, he was reading a brochure, a single bag at his feet, his hat, looking perfectly pristine, perched on his head.

At an earlier time, in a different place, I would have rubbed my eyes and thought I was seeing a mirage. But for some reason, seeing him, here and now, made sense. He had come to find me. This was my closure.

I walked up to the side of his chair, unsure what might happen. He glanced up. I wanted to cry, but a smile overtook me. He stood, reaching his arms out to hold me. I threw myself against him and he held me in silence.

“I’ve missed you,” said Grant.

He squeezed me tighter.

It felt as if he might never let me go. I wanted it to last forever.

“There’s so much I want to say to you,” I whispered into the pillow of his jacket. “I’ve been such a—”

He put his finger to my lips and shook his head. Tears welled up in my eyes and fell gently onto his neck. He reached for his bag and led me down the hallway to my room.

“Tonight,” he said as he closed the door, “let’s just be together, okay?”

“Okay,” I said.

The shock of his arrival, and of his words, now hit me. “Grant,” I said as he pulled me onto the bed to hold me, “I love you.” I said it first.

“I know,” he whispered while stroking my hair. “That’s why I’m here.”

“Grant?” I said. “How’d you—”

“Toni,” he said, gently.

“Grant?” One more question just had to be asked. “Who was the girl with you on the beach that day?”

“My sister,” he said with a chuckle. “Now, shh.”

I tried not to laugh.





The dew dripped from the bushes, wetting my ankles and socks as we trudged through the forest up a steep incline. The morning sun in the Bwindi Impenetrable Forest had just begun to crest over the mountain. Three armed soldiers led us into a clearing. Our guide, who was the leader, ordered us to stop, his rifle ready in his hands.

“Don’t speak,” he said.

A shiver leapt up my spine. I looked at Grant. His “record” light was on.

“There, behind the tree, it’s him,” the guide said in English.

“Whoa!” I gasped.

Sure enough, camouflaged by shrubs, sat a family of endangered mountain gorillas, quietly munching elephant grass. It was extraordinary. Grant, a 30-pound camera on his shoulder, was as steady as a surgeon—this after three hours of intense hiking. He continued to roll.

“If he looks at you,” the guide warned, “look down.”

The sun illuminated the clearing, creating a perfect light—the kind of light Nat Geo photogs only dream of. The Silverback spotted us and sniffed the air with curiosity.

“Don’t make eye contact!” the guide reminded us.

The 400-pound male walked toward us, his knuckles scraping the ground. He fixed his position. I tilted my head down to the ground, in awe.

“Stay still,” the guide said. “Be calm. If he walks over, don’t move.”

The soldiers held their guns tight, eyes peeled for poachers and anyone who might harm us or the gorillas. Standard practice for the region.

My breath turned shallow as the Silverback slowly made his way toward us. I couldn’t help it—I just had to look.

“Wow,” I whispered, totally blown away. “Beautiful.”

The gorilla was three feet in front of me. I kept my chin tucked as I watched him through my hair. He was the most noble creature I’d ever seen—so intelligent, so wise, so gentle. He eventually sat in the grass in front of us and began pulling at the shoots, chewing and chomping contentedly.

“There,” said the guide, “he’s okay. We stay here. No closer. Okay to film. His family will follow.”



For one month, Grant and I had tracked gorillas. We had interviewed guides, soldiers, politicians, and conservationists. We came to see Uganda as a violent country with a complicated situation.

Ours was important work—we would produce an important documentary, miles away from my previous TV experience. In fact, I’d had to make a major pitch to get the job. At first, the exec in charge didn’t think me qualified. I managed to convince him that Fix Your Life was indeed relevant experience. After all, it was the big league place where I’d cut my broadcast journalism chops. At the very least, I told him, I did one hell of an interview.

When the filming wrapped, Grant and I did our usual thing and hung back for a little touring.



“Grant?” I said. “I can’t feel my toes.”

It was five in the morning and my legs were knee-deep in fresh snow. I was bundled up to my eyeballs in Goretex and goggles, with a hand-knit hat warming my head.

“Me neither,” he said. “Keep going.”

We’d been hiking since midnight. “Pole [the Swahili term for ‘slow’], pole,” our guide advised us.

When we rounded a large rock that protruded from the mountain, I saw the guide drop his bag in the snow. “Woo hoo!” he called.

“What?” I asked. I’d been staring at my feet for the last five hours, not bothering to look up, slogging up a final mountain passage to more than 20,000 feet in height.

“Look,” he said. “You’re here!”

Grant wrapped his arm around me as we gazed out from the top of Mount Kilimanjaro. A fiery red ring ignited the night sky around us, a hint that the sun would soon make an appearance. The guide handed us each a cup of hot chai tea from his thermos.

“Good job!” he said with a huge smile, toasting us. It was his second summit that month.

“So, Grant,” I said, “what’s next?”

“Not sure, babe.” He pulled me tighter. “But I know one thing: with you along, it’s guaranteed to be an adventure.”

“Hmm,” I said pensively, “have you heard about the giant plastic vortex in the middle of the Pacific?”

“Of course,” said Grant, raising an eyebrow.

“Did you know there’s more than one?” I asked.

“Uh, no.”

“Anyway, I was thinking,” I said, enthusiastically. “What if we pitched a show where two teams. . .”

“Oh, boy,” sighed Grant.

“So, you think you could captain a boat and shoot video at the same time?”

He smiled a great big smile. “Now you’re talking, Jane,” he said.





If reality television hadn’t been invented, Shannon Nering wouldn’t know what to do for a living! Shannon’s a much-in-demand docu-reality producer and director, whose savant-like understanding of the genre, combined with her ability to create intimate bonds with her subjects, pays off in riveting television. . . and now riveting novels like Reality Jane.

Recent producer and director credits include Peak Season for MTV (Supervising) and the CBC ratings winner The Week the Women Went. She cut her reality chops in Los Angeles, producing on numerous shows from Bachelorettes in Alaska, to Blow Out, to The Dr. Phil Show. Shannon began her broadcast career as an on-air host and reporter for the CBC.

She currently lives in Vancouver, BC with her cameraman husband and two young sons.

To reach her, or to find out more about reality television, click on her website, www.realityjane.com.