Reality Jane

Pajamas on, I climbed into my king-sized bed at the Loews Santa Monica and stared dreamily at the water. Why can’t I just live here in the hotel? I yawned as I began to justify how much better it was that we were all staying in. My body felt like a lead weight. The perfect Savasana: first my head, then my feet and legs, into my arms, all body parts sinking deep into the mattress, like being vacuumed into the bed, vacuumed into sleep.

“Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.” The company phone vibrated from the dresser.

“Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz,” it vibrated again.

“Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz,” and again.

“Shit!” I said, smushing a pillow into the side of my head.

“Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.”

“No!”

“Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.”

“You’re going to just keep buzzing every three minutes or so, aren’t ya?” I said, lifting my head.

I dragged my listless body from the bed to the dresser, picking up the phone.

“Three missed calls,” the small screen read. I hit the “1” key for messages.

“Please enter your pass-code,” the electronic lady insisted.

“Crap,” I said to the invisible lady.

She asked again.

“Double crap.”

“Please enter your pass-code,” she insisted for the last time, oblivious to my frustration—they always shut down after three tries.

“I don’t know the piece-of-crap pass-code.” I shook the phone violently.

It was shocking. I didn’t actually know the pass-code and I’d been using the phone since Tuesday. No one gave it to me and I hadn’t needed it, given I was putting in ten-hour days surrounded by anyone who could have possibly needed to reach me. Meanwhile, my Canadian cell phone was dead weight—roaming at a buck-fifty per minute and seventy-five cents a text.

I dialed Toni knowing she would have the code. Toni didn’t pick up. So I tried Rose. No answer. Then Corinne. Her phone was off. I was reluctant to call Lucy—she would have blasted me for wasting her precious time, especially knowing she had just begun her “period.” So I tried Toni again. No luck. It occurred to me that Hollywood types might not be as completely addicted to their phones as the world assumed. Seemed all my girls had shut theirs off.

Because I’m a sleuthy journalist type, I figured my next step was to collect home numbers from “reverse look up” and catch everybody settling down for the night. Natch, I tried Rose first. She was supposed to be plugging away at left-over shepherd’s pie and logging some Tivo time with “Dance Your Ass Off.” Couldn’t reach her. Then Toni, then Corinne, and then even Lucy. All the calls proved fruitless.

No longer in the mood to sleep, I was bleary-eyed, grumpy, and wide awake. After splashing the entire Colorado basin on my face, I stripped out of my pajamas into a pair of old-school Sevens, slipped on a pair of Aldo slouch boots with a sensible heel for walking, and a tulip-sleeved t-shirt I’d picked up during my location scout with Toni—she insisted they were all the rage—and made my way up to the promenade, where I’d begun my day. Now I was in search of a fresh LA fusion salad—yes, “salad, extra dressing please!”—and a fresh outlook.

Never mind that I owed about six grand on my Visa, a mere five hundred shy of maxing out, and had over 30 G’s in outstanding student loans. I rightly declared that tonight would be my night. Whatever I wanted. Thirty-dollar salad nicoise? Go for it. Eighteen dollar mango cheesecake from the Viceroy? All mine. A bottle of Duckhorn Vineyard’s 2006 Merlot to smuggle back into my room? Charge it. I suddenly felt carefree.

“Ouch.” I pinched my side. “That hurts.”

As thrilled as I was about my food prospects and my exciting first week in Los Angeles, something wasn’t sitting right. None of the girls answering their phone was the first bit of strangeness, but I tried not to think about that. There was also the fact that the company would only cover my hotel expenses until Sunday, giving me a mere two days, over the weekend, to find and lease an apartment. Never mind that I’d become fully accustomed to the hotel’s crisp linens, the spectacular view, and having a world class Belgian chocolate waiting for me on my pillow every night—amazing how quickly one settles into luxury.

“Hey, Canada!”

I looked around for the voice. Who the hell else is calling me Canada? He sounded vaguely familiar.

“How was your first shoot?”

“Well hello,” I said, picking out my homeless buddy on a park bench beachside of Ocean Avenue, sitting gleefully across from a strip of glam hotels and restaurants.

“It was interesting,” I replied.

“Interesting good or interesting bad?” He adjusted the volume on his ghetto blaster, circa 1982.

“Always good,” I laughed. Something about this guy made me smile.

“Rock on,” he said, smiling warmly. “And hey, watch out for those Hollywood vultures—they eat nice folk for breakfast!”

“I’m tougher than I look,” I said, forcing some bravado. “See?” I flexed my bicep á la Arnold.

“Go, girl!” He winked as he cranked up the volume on his radio, blasting Steppenwolf. “See you around.”

I waved happily and crossed the street. At least I had one good friend in the city.

My next sighting was of beautiful people, by the dozens, who popped in and out of Mercedes sedans and BMW convertibles driven away by valets. I thought I could be one of them, flashing the keys for some fancy German car. Jeez, if both Toni and Rose could own such cars on assistant salaries, why not me? It was finally stamped on my brain: not only did I live in the mecca of all things TV, but I was an actual TV producer with a staff (albeit a small one) and a regular paycheck. For real!

I checked my phone to see if I’d missed a return call or still had it on vibrate. Nope, no calls. Needing to check my phone every minute or so was further proof I was an industry mogul, or so I told myself.

The sky was turning a brilliant psychedelic pink, making the sidewalks glow orange. Faces, each blessed with their very own heaven-made spotlight, took on a golden hue. The street reminded me of a scene from Some Like it Hot, with the retro hotels sitting sweetly on the boulevard and the ocean twinkling out to the horizon. Palm trees shuffled their fronds as the scent of salt air swept me away into full surreal mode. I imagined meeting my very own Mr. Hollywood.

“Hey, babe!” the Clark Gable type would call. “You, me, dinner, and candlelight.”

“Fiddle dee dee, naturally,” I would reply with eyelashes fluttering.

Then I would co-star in his next movie, we would turn up at the Oscars, with me in Valentino and he in Prada, and I would enjoy a cushy ride to the top—driver, personal assistant, et al. Stranger things have happened.

These thoughts, miles away from my day, made me giggle and I nearly began to skip when I noticed a sign jutting out from the corner of a building. Its sharp metal edges caught the slivers of light from the street lamp and made it glisten. It read: Rebecca’s.

I stopped. The street went silent. I thought about the lounge Lucy had mentioned earlier in the evening. Could it have been Rebecca’s? What were the odds of that? Smack dab in front of me, beckoning for a peek, Santa Monica’s chillest chill lounge, the place to see and be seen in the city, and only the hippest city in the world at that. . .

Then it hit me. “They didn’t,” I whispered. “They wouldn’t.”

My stomach was in my throat. The only thing between me and the answer was a wall of thirty-foot timber bamboo.

I heard the buzz of animated discourse wafting up from the patio. I imagined beautiful, chiseled women swilling mojitos while equally beautiful men lit their cigarettes and downed dry martinis.

“This is crazy,” I said under my breath. “Keep walking.”

I shook my head and turned away. But the pang became a wallop. I stopped again. I had to know. I had to find out if that sick feeling my body felt was there for a valid reason. Would these women who I so admired, who had befriended me, who were to be my new colleagues, bully me out of their evening? Not possible.

I crept up to the bamboo with my fingers shaking and my breath shallow. I didn’t notice the line-up behind me, or the bouncer giving me the once-over. It was as if time had stopped. I reluctantly pushed the bamboo apart and peered into the patio: a wall of people, with so many heads and bodies that, in the dim light, I couldn’t make out the faces. I let out a deep sigh. Not there. You’re being ridiculous.

Just as I released the bamboo, I noticed a familiar shape. Triangular. It was a bob—a shimmery, copper bob. A cold shiver ran through my body. I looked closer. There, legs crossed, arms flinging in pulsating conversation, and outfitted head-to-toe in Lucy’s garb, was Corinne. Then I saw boobs—big, fake melons tugging away at a red- and gold-striped bustier. Lucy. Then chomping away on crunchy, gourmet deep-fry. Rose. Leftovers my ass. Then long, bony fingers taking a big fat draw on a cigarette. Toni. Finally, I saw the make-up girl and Lucy’s clothing stylist. Everyone from today’s shoot was sitting comfortably, drinking, laughing, enjoying—everyone but me.

I felt an overwhelming urge to throw up. My body became feverish; my face turned fire-engine red. It was complete and utter disgrace.

This isn’t happening. This isn’t real. I wondered how to reverse the day, undo whatever I’d done. What could I pull off to make them like me, to make them take it all back, to make it all better?

Fight or cry? Fight or cry? Fight or cry? Adrenalin pumped through my body as I teetered: knock their faces in or bawl my eyes out? Tears welled up in my eye sockets, curtailing any conscious decision. I felt crushed, defeated, pummeled, all before the end of the first inning.

Then it came to me: Nobody messes with a prairie girl!

My legs moved me forward. The decision was made. No turning back now.

“Excuse me,” I said to the bouncer, my heart pounding.

“Sorry, Blondie, we’re full.” He moved into the doorway.

Why the hell is everyone here suddenly calling me Blondie?

I smiled a sadistic smile. “I have a reservation on the balcony with Lucy Lane of The Purrfect Life. You might have heard of it.” I almost sounded sweet, but for the eerie screech of claws bursting from my cuticles.

“All right, they’re on the balcony.” He waved me through.

“I know,” I said, practically bull-dozing his ape-like body.

The music pounded. Legs, torsos, and arms attached to sticky drinks flew across my path as if providing a shield to the enemy. But my mind was still. Only one thought consumed me. Confront.

Suddenly, I was before them, stone-faced at the end of their table.

“Oh. . . s. . . h. . . i. . . t,” Rose, the first to spot me, said in slow motion.

Everyone froze. I trembled, folding my arms across my chest to mask my weakness. My lungs tightened as I gasped for breath. “Why?”

Nothing. Toni dropped her head in embarrassment, unable to look at me.

“Why would you do this?” My eyes went to Corinne and Rose. My lips wavered.

Silence. Nobody moved.

“Well?” If I said one more word, I’d cry.

Corinne spoke first.

“It’s my night!” she spat. “I’m the one leaving. I wanted a night out alone with my friends.”

I fully expected red horns to sprout from her skull.

“What?!” This was total horror.

Where could I go with that? I expected an apology, sympathy, an appeal for forgiveness, not Mean Girls the movie. I mean, that was a movie, wasn’t it? People didn’t act like this in real life! Did they?

“But we work together. This is the crew, the team. You guys planned this night in front of me, with me included. I mean—I don’t get it. I wouldn’t do this to a sworn enemy!”

“Sit down,” Corinne hissed. “You’re making a scene.”

“No. I’m not sitting with you—you. . . phonies.” Oh, that’s good—“phonies.” Harsh, real harsh. That’s telling ‘em, Blondie!

Corinne grabbed my arm and pulled me into the empty chair beside her—it must have been Lucy’s, because she was conveniently missing. I looked up at Toni and Rose and shook my head.

“You two, you’re my new assistants. I need to trust you.” I felt lost.

Maybe my sudden promotion was too good to be true. Maybe I didn’t deserve any of this: the job, LA, the supposed uber-cool friends. It was the universe getting back at me for playing out of my league—the cement boots’ equivalent of emotional payback.

“Look, just have a drink. It’s no big deal,” Corinne said sternly as she motioned for a waiter. “And whatever you do,” she leaned into me, “don’t tell Naomi.”

Lucy pranced to the table, all boobs and booty, with a hearty martini buzz. She nearly hit the ceiling at the sight of me.

“Hi, Jane. Awesome you made it,” she said about an octave higher than her normal range. “I was wondering where you were.”

Before I could answer, she turned around to return to some drunken richy-rich manager/agent type at the bar.

“I can’t do this.” I got up to leave.

“Naomi doesn’t need to know,” Corinne whispered sternly.

I shook my head in disgust. “You guys are—never mind, not worth it.”

“Jane, stay!” Corinne said, forcing civility into her voice. “Your drink is here.”

I turned to walk away.

The earlier pink sky now was a smoggy gray, with dots of burnt orange. The street lamps hummed painfully, as if even they wanted to hide. I smelled garbage and exhaust. The wind poked and spit at me. Strangers seemed to sneer. Even the bums lost their hobo charm.

I knelt beside a back alley dumpster and cried.





I had met my new boss, Naomi, almost a year earlier, at a surf camp in Sayulita, Mexico. About halfway through our respective vacations, she gave up on catching waves and opted for mid-morning Yogalates on the beach, with a post-stretch margarita.

“The lime is very cleansing,” she’d say convincingly.

“And the tequila?” I’d retort with a smile.

After a long day on the beach and in the water, we would grab dinner, laugh a lot, and go back to the resort, where she would read cards for whoever was interested.

“Oh, I see here you have the five of spades,” she’d say to me, posturing.

“What does that mean?” I’d say warily.

“It means you’ll meet the man of your dreams by your next birthday.” As if it was that simple.

She oozed big-city charm with a hint of hippy eccentricity. I didn’t doubt her for a minute when she casually mentioned her Hollywood production company, home of two of America’s most popular reality shows. Watching her haggle freebies was proof enough she was a Hollywood shaker. Naomi had been comped two extra days at the resort, meals and massages included, all because a booking mix-up had forced her to spend her first night in a nearby (and “dreadfully inferior”) two-star hotel.

But it was her expect-the-unexpected vibe that intrigued me most. She could let it all go in an instant. One night, after boozing at a Puerto Vallarta disco, proved she had a little crazy in her.

“Let’s hit the slots,” she slurred to the taxi driver.

“Qué?” the driver said, unable to understand her.

I was barely paying attention, busy rifling through the contents of my purse for a tube of Rolaids. Mixing sangria, cervesa, and tequila with a giant after-bar burrito ain’t pretty.

“The slots!” Naomi slurred loudly to our Mexican driver. Apparently, she liked to gamble, too.

Next thing you know, the cabby pulled over at a dank street corner in the middle of nowhere and three barely dressed, chain-smoking hookers peered into our window with curious grins. We giggled about that for days.

Before my vacation ended, I thought of subtly hitting Naomi up for a job. After all, I was in television, she did own a production company in the choicest place on earth to make television, and her ten years on me made her the perfect mentor. But that plan was quickly kiboshed when two surfettes from Colorado beat me to the punch. On the last night, they fed Naomi coconut drinks and put the hard sell on her to “hook them up.”

“They’re waitresses,” Naomi crowed the next morning. “Can you believe it? It’s fine for actors to schlep drinks pre-career-breakthrough, but producers? Yeeesh.”

After that, I decided to keep it strictly a friendship, which was fine, because as far as friends went, Naomi was damn cool. I also decided never to mention the fact that I waitressed in the evenings for extra cash—necessary when your “glamorous” reporting job is only part-time.

Before I knew it, the vacation ended and I was on an airplane back to Canada. With the exception of a postcard from Prague, I heard nothing from Naomi for ten months. Then I got a call.

“Jane, I have a position here. You’re perfect for it.”

I was over the moon, until reality struck. “What about a work visa?” I said.

“Work what? Canadians don’t need a visa.”

She didn’t quite get the whole “Canada’s a foreign country; there’s a great big border between us” thing. She figured she could just sign me up and have me at work the next day.

Though the offer excited me, I had a hard time seeing me accept it. It wasn’t that I couldn’t handle the job: the reporting and five-minute news segments I did for the 6 p.m. newscast were much like being a producer, and I had been cranking them out for years. The problem was deeper than that. Things like having my dream job drop out of the sky never happened to me—at least they didn’t happen when I tried to make them happen. Maybe that was the point. Maybe I’d been trying too hard. This gig just fell in my lap—producer on The Purrfect Life with Lucy Lane, working for Naomi.

It took some very dicey negotiating with the immigration authorities to get my paperwork done, but after a lot of hard work, there I was, visa in hand, and the job was real.

It was now the Monday morning after my Friday night from hell. I sat at my desk waiting, without word from anyone—not an apology, not a text, not so much as a smiley face. It was anyone’s guess how Naomi might react to my Friday night e-mail and whatever the other four girls had told her. No part of me was going to pretend it didn’t happen. Their behavior was mean and unprofessional, and so traumatic it might well send me into months of expensive therapy. Time would tell on that one. In the meantime, triple shot vanilla lattés from Coffee Bean would have to suffice.

“House call!” a perky well-groomed twenty-five-ish guy exclaimed while rapping on a pygmy palm that sat between my desk and the door of my new office. His lips shimmered with the latest boy balm.

“Hi,” I said, gulping my latté. I was anticipating cat-calling, not Avon calling.

“Shall I get you a straw?” he said with a smirk, helping himself to my guest chair.

“I think I’m addicted,” I said sheepishly.

“Hear that,” he nodded. “I’m Danny, your new associate producer.” He cupped his chin as if he knew he was precious. “Naomi sent me in here to tell you I’m your new Rose.” He winked. “And also that we have a meeting with Lucy and the network at eleven.”

“That’s in five minutes,” I gasped.

“Indeed, Miss Fabulous,” he snorted.

“And Rose? Where is she?”

“Canny-can-canned! Now we better get our fannies moving, Sunshine.” He wiggled his body, worm-like, apparently clueless to what I’d been through two days prior. “Let’s go.”

That was the last thing I’d expected—Rose gone, a new AP, and an impromptu meeting with the network brass. A double wave hit me: first relief, then Indiana Jones-like fear, complete with rolling boulders, quicksand, fast-talking villains, and who knew what else.

I shuffled behind Danny to the boardroom sorting my papers and my thoughts, preparing a mini dog-and-pony show to sell myself, just in case that was what this was all about: Okay, so, uh, I’ve got a BA in history, journalism minor, studied at NY Film School for six months, five years as an on-air reporter—no, scratch that, five years producing news. No, five years of producing documentary and lifestyle programming for Channel Z—no scratch that, too. Americans don’t know Canadian television. Make that programming for Canada’s largest network, CBC, which is like the BBC, only bigger, with the highest ratings ever on my, um, my piece on homeless people, no, homeless showgirls, no, homeless cross-dressing showgirls—

“How are you doing?” Naomi patted me on the back as we entered the boardroom. “It’s going to be okay. I can’t believe those girls.”

Her face looked sympathetic. It bore the same expression my mother had after I’d been dumped, or after I crashed my car, both of which, strangely, happened more often than I care to discuss. Naomi truly felt sorry for me. A lump gurgled up my throat as I felt the urge to cry.

“Jane, I want you to meet Karl.” Naomi motioned to a large-set man in a black suit looking very dot.com in Converse sneakers and a Volcom t-shirt peeking out of his jacket. “He’s our official network liaison from CRP-TV and our executive producer.”

“Great to meet you.” I held out my hand for Karl, morphing from poor-me to bright-eyed and professional.

He nodded and pulled his hand from his pocket, about to shake my hand when—

“Danny!” Karl cried, jumping from his seat and embracing Danny’s slender body in a giant bear hug. “Good to see you. I didn’t know you worked here.”

“First day on this show, Sugar Cakes,” Danny responded in delight. “Guess that means, technically, I’m working for you!”

Toni walked in with a tray of organic muffins, coffee, and various other goodies. “Pardon me. Who ordered the wheat grass shots?” She avoided my eyes.

“Right here,” Karl and Danny responded in synch.

“Only if they’re vodka wheat grass,” Naomi laughed. “Okay, folks, we’re just waiting on Lucy. She’ll be here at 11:15. Let’s get started without her.”

My heart jumped at the mention of Lucy. I imagined her entering the room, pointing a long red Cruella de Ville fingernail at me, and shouting: “Off with her head!” before dumping me on the guillotine.

“Apologies for the last minute meeting, folks, but things have been changing, right up to the hour,” Naomi said in her friendly way, “including some staff reshuffling. Welcome, Danny.”

“Yes, and also,” Karl said, nodding to Naomi for permission, “we’re adding a few new Sex Kittens to the show to mix things up a bit. Three or four Purr Magazine girls on a date with our Hollywood IT guy is more exciting than just one.”

“I know what you’re thinking, and yes, Lucy knows,” Naomi continued. “I’ll just say this really quickly. She’s not thrilled about it, but we’re doing it for the show. The ratings are down and it needs a facelift.”

Somehow I knew this wouldn’t be good for my already tattered relationship with our star host.

Karl looked at me as if sniffing out my discomfort. “Jane, you’re our new producer. Have you thought about how you might treat this new format, as director?”

Crap. This was NOT the dog-and-pony show I’d prepared for!

I gulped audibly.

Danny twitched. “This ain’t ‘all sounds welcome,’ Jane.”

Karl laughed.

“Just kidding. Must be all those milky coffee drinks,” Danny said in a motherly I-told-you-so tone.

“Aren’t difficult coffee drinks out?” Karl asked flippantly.

“Yes,” Danny answered as if discoursing on a serious issue. “Wheat grass is all the rage. It’s the new espresso!” He raised his shooter cup of cow’s cud to Karl’s, green swill dripping from the rim. “Kidding, Jane. You got to do what feels right for you!”

Okay, I knew shoes and hairdos go out of style, but coffee, too? My morning pick-me-up was now hopelessly uncool, tossed in the pile of yesterday’s “what’s hot and what’s not” along with Tom Cruise and Jen’s chunky layers. Great.

“Jane?” Karl motioned his hand across my eyes. “What are your thoughts on a fresh look for the show?”

“Uh, well, haven’t had too much time to consider this change.” I knew that was the wrong answer.

“It’s been a week,” said Karl, unimpressed.

“Well, in Canada, we just follow the puck,” I squeaked. “You know, get the story. . . story, story, story.”

Everyone stared and looked confused. It was something we often said at the CBC. It always got a few laughs back in the newsroom.

“That’s cute, Jane,” Naomi interrupted with a chuckle, nodding toward Karl. “It means follow the action.”

Did I really just say “follow the puck?”

“Yes, that’s what I meant.”

“Now, Jane,” Karl said, “I take it you’ve never worked with Sex Kittens. Do you have a style in mind for shooting the world’s most notorious nude models?”

Again on the hot seat. “Well, I, uh—”

Lucy threw open the door and tossed her bags on the table, trailed by her petite pink-haired assistant pushing a rack of the latest designer clothing—only the best for our host. Karl stood up for an air-kiss, then Naomi, then Danny, then Toni, then Karl’s assistant, then Naomi’s assistant, then—nothing. Lucy smiled at me and waved her hand as if I was too far across the table for the effort.

I silently cursed all Europeans and anyone else who air-kissed business colleagues. What was with kissing strangers anyway? What the hell was wrong with a good, old-fashioned handshake? And how did you know what kind of air-kiss to give? Was sweeping the cheek a foul? Were wet lips bad form? Could bumping chins be okay? What about a firm grasp of the shoulders? Or should it just be a lean-in? I did know this much: Getting passed up altogether was a deliberate slight.

“Jane was just discussing how she plans to shoot the new series format,” Karl said, updating Lucy.

Lucy’s eyes lit up devilishly. “Can’t wait to hear this.” She leaned onto her hands as she folded them under her chin.

Barely over the air-kiss snub, I noticed all eyes—Lucy’s in particular—back on me.

Hate to disappoint, but looks won’t actually kill, I wanted to say. But I was too focused on every last one of my sweat glands as they decided to explode in unison. A glaze of salty liquid began to form a fine film on my forehead. Was it really this hard for all Hollywood recruits?

“Uh, okay, well, uh—how many cameras will there be?” That’s it—answer with a question.

“You’ll have two, sometimes three.” Naomi seemed happy to help.

“Okay, and what have we defined as our objective? I mean, beyond great TV.” I’m new, I assured myself. I’m allowed to ask questions. “Are we trying to show off Hollywood nightlife? Are we playing up the star factor? If you have three, four girls and one guy, sounds to me like we can’t really take the idea of a date too literally. It’s more like we’re watching a group of gorgeous people live a fabulous life in a fabulous city. It’s about living an untouchable life. That’s what people covet, and that’s what they want to see. The audience needs to feel as if they’re getting a glimpse into something no one else gets to see—behind-the-scenes with true-blue Hollywood glamour girls and their studly A or B-list rocker boyfriends. Is that correct?”

“Vicarious glamour, for sure,” Naomi said, again helpfully.

“Okay, good,” Karl said, not necessarily impressed and probably just wanting to move on. I had passed the test, if only barely, and the only disappointed face in the room belonged to Lucy. No matter. She was quickly distracted by her wardrobe budget and hoarding all the clothes for herself.

“The other models will have to supply their own wardrobe,” she insisted. “Fifteen grand for the whole series is hardly enough for me.”

After three hours of hashing out a new format and discussing whether Karl would move into the corner office or the back office of Naomi’s plush production headquarters, it looked as if we might actually finish.

“One last thing.” Karl darted his eyes to me. “Wednesday’s shoot location has been changed. We’re starting at the Van Nuys airport, where we’ll be shooting MC Toke arriving in his private jet.” Karl looked at Naomi for kudos. “Our own little Lucy secured him this morning. She’ll meet Jane at noon with two other models. We’ll shoot Toke’s arrival, get him and the girls cruising in the limo, then off to party Hollywood style. Got it, Jane?”

“Got it,” I said. I knew Toke was the biggest rap star since rap itself, but I still felt confused.

“Something wrong?” Karl asked.

“I just. . . thought. . . Well, the schedule says Wednesday’s shoot is host pick-ups in studio,” I said, running my finger through the call sheet. “You know, just so I could get the lay of the land, get my footing, so to speak, before the big date event.”

“Lucy,” Naomi jumped in, “why Wednesday? This is a little quick for Jane.”

Lucy groaned. “It’s the only time we can get MC Toke. And he’s a get.” She looked down her nose at me. “It has to be this Wednesday.”

“Do we have permission to shoot at the airport?” I said sheepishly. I already knew the answer.

“No, that would be the producer’s job,” Karl said, matter of factly. “As well as the limo and a suitable bar or restaurant or—I know, let’s get them into Koi. Jane, book them into Koi for Wednesday night. That’ll be hot.”

“Very hot,” Danny repeated.

“Okay,” I said weakly. My heart had just leapt from its standard 40-plus beats per minute to a drum roll. Airport permits were a nightmare to get, even with weeks of lead-time. I had less than two days. Not to mention I had no clue where Van Nuys was, or that LA even had an airport outside of LAX. And Koi? As in pond? What the hell is that?

Karl wasn’t trying to clobber me, I sensed. He was just being unrealistic, with a get ‘er done and don’t bother me management style. He didn’t really care what had to be done to get the permit.

“Do you mind if I just ask what our location budget is so I can get going on this, like—” I looked at my watch, “like, uh, now, if that’s okay?”

Karl guffawed. “We don’t pay for locations. CRP-TV carries beaucoup pull. Just tell them who you work for.”

I scrambled for something positive to say while I cooked like a Christmas goose under my pink- and green-swirl Gucci knock-off blouse—a therapeutic purchase after my Friday night fiasco. A stream of sweat squirted past my rib cage as I squeezed my elbows tight against my sides. Friggin’ hippy deodorant crystals are supposed to keep you fresh. “Try the fancy new roll-on, nature’s anti-perspirant,” my big fat—

“Actually, that’s a good question, Jane,” Naomi said. “We have some petty cash to cover the airport fees.” She looked at Karl. “Charm doesn’t work at airports. However, let’s avoid paying a fee for the restaurant. Come talk to me later, Jane.”

“I’ll get calling right now,” I said, gathering up my things, noticeably ruffled. “Maybe Danny can stay and take notes, get any other details while I line up the airport.”

“Of course,” said Danny, high drama in his voice as he wriggled upright in his chair, preparing for something grand.

Karl nodded. “Don’t forget the limo, Jane.”

“Right. Of course. We’ll make it happen,” I said, managing a toothy smile as I fumbled for the door. “A day with three mega-sexy hosts and MC Toke, the world’s biggest rap star? It’s going to be awesome!”

“Hosts?” Lucy barked. “As in plural? What? Have I multiplied?”

“Ffff. . . uuuuuck” is all I heard as Karl dropped his head into his palms.

Ffff. . . uck is right! I shimmied out the door and made for my desk in a full-fledged race to avoid the aftermath. Wasn’t my fault Karl hadn’t told Lucy she’d just become a co-host, or was it? I thought they said she knew. One morning in the TV cuckoo barn and I’d lost any sense of judgment. And was it really possible that I’d recently left a serious on-air reporting job (albeit part-time) to direct women who paraded their naked beavers in front of the whole world? Drizzly Vancouver was suddenly looking not so drizzly after all.

Thirty phone calls, six hundred dollars, and a lot of begging later, I received permission to shoot at Van Nuys airport on Wednesday. When I finally looked up from my desk, already pasted with a dozen or so scribbled sticky notes, Toni was standing at my door.

“That went well,” I said, laughing painfully, referring to the meeting. Friday night was already banked away in the crappy memories vault—do not open until next night of stay-at-home self-loathing and a Ben-and-Jerry’s-fish-food-binge.

“I am so sorry,” Toni began. “I had no idea the girls were going to do that to you.”

I felt my insides curdle all over again. “Yeah. That was awful.” I shook my head and paused. “Is that what LA women are like? I know Naomi’s not, but the others? Who would do that?”

“Honest, Jane, when I arrived at Rebecca’s and you weren’t there, they told me you’d changed your mind. Believe me, I would never do that to you. But you’re my boss, and Naomi said you could fire me. Your choice.”

“I wouldn’t do that to you,” I said, thinking I’d do well to redefine my concept of dream job. “Tell me this, though: Why didn’t you pick up your cell when I called?”

“It was on silent—it had been on silent all day for the shoot. I’m really sorry.”

“The others?”

“They”. . . Toni hesitated. “They were intentionally avoiding you.” Toni stared sadly at me.

“They hate me?” I braced myself for the answer, willing myself to be strong but knowing it wouldn’t work.

“Hate’s a strong word.” Toni shoved her hands in her pockets uncomfortably. “They’re just jealous. You’re smart and pretty and way more together than they could ever be.”

“I’m not so sure.”

“Look on the bright side. Rose was let go. She’s always been difficult. Naomi got rid of her this morning. Naomi was really mad. I was called in at seven o’clock and got grilled. As for Lucy, there’s nothing Naomi can do to her. She comes with the territory. And Corinne is off to New York on another show. So it’s going to be okay.”

“You’re right,” I said with a partial smile. “Let’s just forget it happened.” I knew full well the idea of me forgetting something so rotten was impossible.

“Thank you,” Toni sighed. “Hey, my friend and I are going to San Diego this weekend to that surf bar. Want to come?”

I hesitated in an effort to not look desperate, but I was doing back-flips at the prospect of a new friend in SoCal.

“Come on, it’ll be fun,” she said smiling.

“You know,” I replied, “I would like that.”