Reality Jane

“Are you sure everybody does this?” I asked warily.

“Of course. Time for you to clean up this sugar shack!”

No female had ever ventured this intimately into this part of my body, and I was pretty sure no man had either. Laser Lydia’s Aurora light beam was focused somewhere between my bikini line and my butt cheeks, in a place that should not have had hair. She nudged my legs further apart, her goggles—and gloves—firmly in place.

“Ow,” I bellowed, straddling her table on my hands and knees—the height of inelegance.

“Just let it out, babe. Almost done!” she announced, like a surgeon who’d been sawing through bones for years.

This was all standard fare in the beauty biz. Clients on all fours, hair follicles burnt—in this case lasered—to a crispy black death.

“But all I care about is the hair on my actual bikini line,” I said, my butt in the air. “Nobody will see that.”

“Nobody?” Lydia stopped to make eye contact, extracting her fingers from what felt like my butt crack and nudging her purple space goggles onto her forehead for emphasis. “How about your husband? Hmm?”

“You know I don’t have a—”

“Exactly.” She paused, scolding me for my naiveté. “Men notice. Don’t kid yourself, babe.”

“Lydia, you do remember I have a guy, don’t you?” I said, wondering how she could forget about my man-angel, love-Buddha, and more-than-likely if-there-was-a-God future husband Craig. “We’ve been together almost eight months!”

“That’s great, sweetie,” she said, focused on the task at hand. “I have to turn up the intensity for you because your hair is fair.” Lydia patted my now splotchy, neon-red, bikini line. “This machine works best with dark hair, but it’ll still work for you blondes. That is your natural color, isn’t it?”

“You mean down there?” I moaned as she continued her New Age torture.

If anyone had the scoop on whether the carpet matched the drapes, it was Lydia. After all, this was the woman who had promised: “You’ll never have to shave or wax again!” The first time Toni took me to her shop, a big white machine hummed from the corner, alongside an operating table neatly covered in a plain blue hospital sheet. I watched in shock as this stylish middle-aged woman pulled down her pants and underwear past a well-trimmed patch of pubic hair to reveal the cleanest, silkiest bikini line I’d ever laid eyes on. “See this?” Lydia said, swiping her finger past the woman’s privates. “Three treatments. Perfect, isn’t it?” I was sold. A 50-year-old woman I didn’t know had shown me her landing strip—this could only happen in Beverly Hills.

“Hey, chiquitas!” Toni announced unexpectedly, yanking the curtain aside, which had been the only thing separating me from total humiliation.

“What the f*ck?!” I shrieked, collapsing a rather cheap cat pose into a belly flop.

“Crotch cam!” Toni yelled, laughing and positioning her phone to snap the first ever digital photograph of my ass.

I squealed while Lydia and Toni buckled over in hysterics. “Shut the damn curtain!” I pulled the blanket around my hips. “Are you two crazy?”

They were too busy laughing to respond.

“This one’s on the house,” Lydia bellowed. “You girls made my day.”

I could have killed Toni. But inasmuch as she was my new best friend, if you can call someone a best friend after barely seven months, it was better to just go with the gag and run with it. Besides, she was a bit of a force.

At 26 years old, Toni, it seemed, had it all figured out: men, production, her head, my head, Los Angeles. By appearances, she was quintessential Hollywood: from her brand new, base model BMW (which she leased); to her dyed yellow blonde hair; to her first shots of Botox two weeks ago (complements of Lydia and totally unnecessary, but who was I to question prevention?); to her bling sunglasses (worn indoors and out); to her endless texting (even in meetings); to her required daily dose of steaming NSA lattés (CBTL of course); to placing her name on VIP lists at the five most exclusive night clubs in Hollywood (how she accomplished that remained a complete mystery to me); to insisting on shopping only at Fred Segal (though it was miles beyond her budget); to her IV vitamin therapy (?); to losing ten pounds’ worth of body curves and claiming she was still “chunky” with a 27-inch waist; to getting drunk with Toby McGuire and Aerosmith’s Steven Tyler (but not at the same time); and finally, to completely mastering the art of celebrity name-dropping.

That was her exterior. But on the inside, she was vanilla pudding. She worshipped her parents. Loved her friends to a fault. And was incredibly generous. On top of that, we had a blast together, both on and off the job. After months of dealing with Looney-Balls Lucy, the two of us had ample opportunity to bond.

“So, back to work now, you two?” Lydia said, powering down the laser. “How is that crazy Kitten Show coming along? What’s it called again, Purrfect Life? Ha! What next?”

“Fine,” I grunted, still sweating from the ordeal while gingerly zipping up my jeans.

“Oh my God,” Toni continued, “talk about high maintenance. Those girls are driving me crazy. Lucy was in Star magazine last week, on their Who’s Hot list. Can you believe it?”

“Isn’t she like forty?” Lydia asked. “A little old to be taking her clothes off.”

“Totally,” Toni agreed. “Jane, how old is she, anyway?”

“I’m still mad at you two.” I shot a fierce look their way, trying not to laugh.

“Don’t be upset. Tonight’s a big night for you,” Toni chided. “Craigy-poo is coming home. Three weeks away in the Himalayas and cutting the trip short to see his little Janey Pants. How sweet.”

“Wow. Himalayas,” Lydia said, half distracted, as she pulled her streaky red hair into a ponytail and adjusted the size two Jordache Vintage jeans on her hips.

Tonight was a big night for me. It was the culmination of seven-plus months of relationship bliss with my Hollywood demigod, my 21st century cowboy, and the Jesse James of mountain climbing. We hadn’t seen each other in three weeks thanks to a Himalayan jaunt that had him harnessed cliff-side in a perma-blizzard. Unfazed, the guy hadn’t even touched American soil yet and was already making plans for his next expedition to cross Antarctica alone, on a hefty sled-like contraption, and film it—I had just finished the proposal. Craig was hell-bent on directing and starring in his own adventure show, which explained our deep connection: me Jane, me producer—he hunk, he director/superstar. We had become the real deal—true partners. In my spare time away from Lucy’s show, I would write his reality show treatments or sponsorship pitches and he would e-mail ideas back and forth with his typical postscript: “Let’s screw.”

“Of course I remember him,” Lydia said casually, now sipping and gagging on her sea greens concoction. “Adventure Man! See, good thing we got you cleaned up!” Lydia declared with pride. “And Toni, you’re due for your final upper lip laser. Number three and you’re all good.”

“Oh?” My ears perked up. “You mean a mustache laser?”

“It’s just a couple hairs.” Toni looked embarrassed—a first.

“Guess you’ll be deleting that crotch cam shot, eh, Toni? Or should I say, Anthony?” I said, stroking my upper lip and delivering the line with my best Italian swagger.

By the time we got back to the office, I could barely rest my arms at my side and my underwear felt as if it was scraping against my last layer of epidermis. Ligaments and bone would probably be next.

Robert, the office receptionist, looked at me, eyes wide, like a child at Christmas. “Well? How was it? Are you a hairless wonder?”

Toni sped off. “Jane can explain. I gotta run. Tapes to log.”

“Shhh, I don’t want to get in trouble for taking lunch,” I whispered to Robert. “Plus, it really hurts.”

“Damn, should I do my balls?” He laughed.

“You’re gross, Robert. Now don’t tell anyone,” I said, loving the little repartée he and I shared.

“Oh, and Jane, Karl the Snarl wants you and Danny for a meeting at 1:30.” He pointed to his watch, with its neon pink band and giant silver buckle that made his bone-thin wrist look even skinnier. “That would be in, like, five minutes.” Robert knew that Karl didn’t love me. “Don’t be late, Hotty Pants.”

“Mwaa!” I blew him a kiss—the only person in the office I felt comfortable air-kissing.

I loved that my office was like a giant gay sleepover, though it was almost a pity because we had tape after tape of tits, ass, and drunken debauchery from our Purrfect Life shoots that went completely unappreciated, except for the occasional, “Is that rack real? Good for her.” Gay men seemed to hate fake boobs unless they’re allowed to touch them, and there was no way Lucy was going fag-hag, or so she told me one day when she was furious at Danny. She seemed to enjoy flip-flopping about who she hated most, although it was usually me.

“Group hug!” Karl squealed as he swung himself around a faux fur room divider and into the arms of a very willing subordinate. Meanwhile, I tiptoed behind them, en route to my desk.

It surprised me that Karl still made me nervous. Lucy I could handle—she was just plain crazy. Karl was not so easy to figure out.

“You rock in that shirt!” one of the guys remarked to Karl while playfully tugging at his nipple.

“Stop that!” Karl teased, giggling girlishly.

I had hoped that with all the commotion of the DGF (Daily Group Fondle), Karl wouldn’t notice my off-premises lunch break. He generally frowned upon such mid-day escapes. I was supposed to love my job so much that I couldn’t bear to leave until the lights went out. Karl, with his back to me, pulled his wrist to his Bioré-stripped nose, glanced at his watch, and sighed melodramatically, as if my lateness was just too agonizing to endure.

“Afternoon, guys,” I said carefully, as if I had leaked a big drop of drool.

“Hi, Jane,” the boys chirped.

“Uh, Karl,” the token hot straight boy muttered from the hall. “Here’s your tea.”

“Well, bring it here,” Karl said, motioning flirtatiously. “Come on!”

The production assistant dutifully handed Karl his tea. The boy looked more embarrassed than I did, which wasn’t easy.

“Ouch! That’s hot!” Karl nipped, then playfully slapped the assistant’s hand. “Just kidding,” he said, batting his eyelashes. “Thanks.”

Despite his humiliation, I was glad the assistant provided a diversion from my rather pathetic entrance. I needed a moment to nurse my beleaguered, laser-pocked body with an XL, ginseng-laced Jamba Juice while I reviewed the next day’s shot list at my desk. That’s when Danny bounded toward me.

“Time for the big meeting, Miss Fabulous,” he whispered into my ear, as if it were some big secret. “We’re getting our final marching orders.”

In six fast months, Danny had become my shadow—an agro-friendly, completely over-the-top, honey-coated sugar cube with saccharin sprinkles on top. He wiggled around the office in snug Hudsons and tight t-shirts, ready with a “Hello, Sassy Pants” and a frisky smile for everyone. Karl and Naomi got the royal treatment with a “that outfit looks gorgeous, Hot Stuff” and a finger wave, threatening to “eat them” if they persisted in looking “so tasty.” Sincere? I hadn’t a clue. Most of the time, I wondered what he was up to. In any event, he provided sure-fire office entertainment on a daily basis.

“Well, Jane, you coming?” Danny said, in his sing-song timbre, tapping his toes. “I’m your date for our big meeting.” “In a minute, uh, thanks.” I was wholly unable to match his enthusiasm. Besides, his idea of a big meeting was me, him, and Karl. “Oh, Danny, did you input the photos of the girls yet? The editor keeps asking me for them.”

“Soon, Babes! Got to grab my snack.” He scurried to the kitchen to fetch his daily mango yogurt. “BTW, love your hair today!” he shouted. “Very Paris, sans extensions.”

I had come to learn that getting Danny to actually work, per his job description of “show researcher,” was an impossible task. It was magic how he put off anything that resembled real labor, but continued with his playful ass-kissing and maneuvering to maintain Karl’s good side. This he was genius at.

Tired of being usurped by my assistant, I entered the boardroom prepared to impress. My contract was up in a month and I needed some financial security. Time to out-kiss the office’s biggest ass-kisser! My plan was to remind Karl of his three Emmy nominations from the late 90’s—a little factoid I dug up and something that had yet to be mentioned during my time at the shop. And that was just my warm-up.

“Hi, guys,” I started. “Hey, Karl. I wanted to congrat—”

“Fancy you.” Danny had slipped into the boardroom from behind me, plopping himself down beside Karl, whom he was already addressing. “Did you get that at the Barney’s sample sale? That’s hot on you.”

“This old thing!” Karl winked. “I just picked it up at. . .”

My moment was lost to Señor Gay Camp. Next to this guy, I was Debbie Downer. How was I supposed to compete with the master? But for Naomi, I would long ago have been replaced by a big beautiful gay man. For the last month, she was so buried in developing a top-secret pilot that I’d only seen her through the glass of her door. This didn’t bode well for my future employment, so I decided that, rather than interrupt Karl’s dissertation on his lame shirt, I’d pretend to be as interested as Danny.

Then Karl dropped his smile and addressed me. “Down to business, girls. We need to record all of Lucy’s flare-ups from now on. This can’t continue.”

“Huh?” I said, feeling once again on the outside of a big secret. “I’m sorry, Karl. What can’t continue? I thought you were happy with the show.”

“Jane, it’s really quite simple. Lucy could ruin the franchise. This has been a long time coming. Bottom line, we can’t have a drug-addict and neurotic representing us. We’ve already found a replacement host and I need Lucy out. In order to do that, legally, we need proof that she’s impossible to work with, which I understand from Danny and from comments you’ve made to Danny, is quite true.”

Since my first week disaster, my motto had been: “Eyes open, mouth shut, and just say no to air-kisses, except for Robert.” But Karl had just given me carte blanche to reverse the mouth mandate, so I began, unimpeded. “Oh my God, Karl, she’s made my life a living hell. Drug addict? Now it all makes sense! I mean, I’ve never seen anything like it. She’s berated me, humiliated me, she’s—”

“Okay!” he said, cutting me off. “This isn’t Gossip Girl. I just need you to ask the cameraman to roll on her indiscretions, whether they’re towards you,” Karl peered down his nose, “or anyone else. Roll on it, time code it, mark the tape. Then we take it all to Legal.”

“Got it. Sorry. I got carried away. It could be a much better show without someone thwarting the crew. Thanks,” I said, shriveling inside my skin. “That all?” I stood up to leave, knowing Karl and Danny liked to chat alone after a good hearty meeting. To think I thought I could out ass-kiss Danny.

“No,” Karl said. “Jane, one more thing.”

I looked around, slightly cowering, as if Karl might throw a snowball at me—something my brother might have done in a bullying moment.

“Thanks.”



It was about an hour from sunset and I was in my Volvo on my third pass through the airport loop, slowly circling the international terminal at LAX. I pulled over for a better look. The security cop with the menacing face glared at me as if I had Al Qaeda missiles in the trunk. Then, I saw him.

Christ, does this guy have his own sun bolt? I wondered, as I got out of the car. Craig always seems to be glowing. Then I threw myself into his arms.

“Missed you, babe.” He squeezed me tightly as the porter tossed his bags into the trunk. “You look great.”

We settled into the car. “So, Ivy tonight!” I announced. “Our reservation is at 7:30.” I suggestively stroked my hand along Craig’s thigh, thrilled to be next to him again.

“Jane, that’s in, like, twenty minutes,” Craig replied.

“I figured we could go straight there. You must be starving!”

“No can do, babe,” he said with nowhere near the regret the turndown required.

“But it’s our anniversary. I made us reservations on the balcony. You know it’s impossible to get a seat on the balcony on a Thursday night,” I said pleadingly.

“Babe, seven months does not an anniversary make. But that’s cute. Anyway, I can’t. I promised these computer geeks in Pasadena I’d come to their party—met them at base camp. They can really help me on my next production. They’ve created the latest web-streaming software I can use in Antarctica. Real-time footage of me on the ice!”

Plans? His first night back? Computer engineers in Pasadena? “But Craig, what about us?”

Ever since our second date, when Craig took me to Santa Monica’s Ivy on the Shore, I’d been hankering for an excuse to get back there with him. Drew Barrymore sat two tables over, and the waiter, a rather impressive and gorgeous model/actor, told Craig and I that we should have kids together. “They’d be gorgeous!” he crowed. I blushed, trying to maintain some cool. Plus, I drank my first gimlet there, which I quickly figured out was not the Green Giant’s miniature side-kick, but trendy, boozy fire-water that had me kissing the servers and offering them free rounds by night’s end.

“You’re invited too,” Craig moaned while nuzzling into me. “We can still have a good time together.”

Much as I didn’t want to admit it, a pattern was emerging. Nearly every meeting/outing/person seemed to be a link to Craig’s future adventures—someone to help him reach his goals. Well before he left for Nepal, Craig and I had rarely enjoyed a night when we just relaxed, went to a movie, or ate dinner, without some business objective in mind. I knew I was sacrificing a normal relationship to be with my Adventure Ken, but it had become a bit much. I had to remind myself: Stand by your man. He’s ambitious. This is what it takes to have it all!

“And babe, I really need your help with this next pitch. I wrote most of it on the plane.” He handed me a single sheet of paper with a few scribbles torn from his steno pad.

With one eye on the road, I pretended to read it, unsure what to say.

“This is the big one. It’ll make my career. They expect it next week.” He slid his hand on my leg. “Damn you’re hot. I can’t wait to take you.”

Fifteen minutes of rush-hour traffic later, Craig and I were rolling down Lincoln Boulevard en route to Malibu and Craig’s palatial abode when he suddenly grabbed my arm. “Turn here,” he said as he read off an address from his day timer. “My new digs in Venice. Pretty nice, I hear.”

“What?” I squealed, completely taken aback. “But what about your house? On the ocean? Your Malibu beach palace?” Where we made sweet love to the sound of waves pounding the beach, with the giant mural of the Lichtenstein girl staring at us with that ‘Oh, no, Mr. Bill’ expression, and the Buddha facing out from the wall of sliding glass doors. Oh, and the kitchen with the marble counter-tops and columns where we cooked Aunt Jemima pancakes and sipped espresso and you joked about marrying a Canuck!

My heart sank. I was confused. Again.

Craig began nonchalantly, almost as if it didn’t require explanation. “Oh, that was just temporary. This is a great new condo. It’s huge. On the beach, too. Just closer to things—you know, downtown, LAX, my meetings, you!”

“But, how’d you. . .? You’ve been gone. Did you sell? Did you—”

“Oh, I didn’t own that place. I was only renting. Actually, Pal Porter owns it. That dude has more money than God.”

“Pal Porter? The studio executive icon? How’d you. . . weren’t you his nutritionist?” I said. I could have sworn Craig said he owned that house. Was I imagining things? And isn’t Pal notoriously bi? Why would Pal want Craig living with him? Actually, I know the answer to that one. I’m not THAT naïve.

“Yeah, when he got sick, right about when I moved in to keep him on his program, make sure he ate right and all that stuff. Totally better now. Anyway, hon, I’ve got to really focus. I need to call these guys and get directions. And we should leave in about an hour. Maybe while I shower, you can pick up some food for us. Then we’ll roll.”

“Oh,” I said, sinking into my seat.

As we pulled up to the condo, I noticed the name on the keypad wasn’t Craig’s. It was that of his friend—another very wealthy friend. As we walked into this gorgeous structure of glass and steel beams, I noticed something else. Craig’s room was not the master bedroom. It wasn’t even the guest bedroom. It was an over-sized laundry room.

“Great pad, eh?” Craig nodded at me, not caring to hear my response as he went about his business of tossing bags on the bed and searching for toiletries.

I nodded back, the truth about him an ever-expanding mystery.

Craig’s cell phone rang as we hit the I-5, halfway to the party. I had just begun to rationalize in my head how unimportant it was that Craig should own a house on the beach, or even a house at all. I didn’t even care that he didn’t seem capable of renting a condo on his own or that he had to sleep amidst piles of dirty clothes that didn’t belong to him. Don’t let it ruin the night. He’s doing something most people never do. He’s giving up everything for his dream! I half-listened to his cell phone conversation while listening to the radio and having a conversation with myself about the state of Craig.

“Hey, what’s up?. . . Good. How are you?. . . Same old. Yeah. Just got back. . . Amazing, totally amazing. . . Hit the summit. . . Yup, filmed the whole thing. . . Not too much. Mainly prepping for the next big one. . . Oh, just going to a BBQ with a friend. . .”

Friend? I glared at him. FRIEND? I was suddenly just a friend! My heart began to thrash. How dare he? Am I that big a loser I think I’m in love with someone who considers me just a friend?

Craig hung up the phone. I waited, attempting to collect myself, not sure whether to cry or to sock him.

“Friend?” I said, staring into his eyes, expecting him to beg for mercy.

None came.

“I’m just a friend?”

“What?” he said, suddenly perturbed.

I felt my heart pounding, “That person, whoever that was— you told them I was your friend?”

“They’re not important. I hardly know them.”

I was seething. “If they’re not important, then why didn’t you say ‘with my girlfriend’? I am your girlfriend, aren’t I?”

“You’re acting crazy, Jane. Calm down.”

“I am calm,” I said, feeling broken. “I’m just trying to understand.”

I couldn’t believe he had no explanation, no story. He’d nonchalantly called me a “friend” and was okay with that. My whole world seemed to collapse.

“Friend? Come on, Craig. That hurts.” I felt the tears forming.

My wheels began churning. I thought back to Craig’s many mysterious rendezvous during the last few months, his endless evenings of work, his surprise weekend trip to Mexico with a “buddy.” Did he have someone on the side? Through my head raced visions of him curled up naked with some uber-girl: his fingers exploring her impossibly thin body; his head ensconced between gravity-defying cleavage; her thick brown mane framing her face and pillow like those in a Victoria’s Secret lingerie ad—both of them giggling with delight.

How can I compete with that? I’m sporty! Cute. My mom says beautiful, but she’s my mom. I’m tall. My mom also says I’m swan-like—again, she’s biased. I suppose I have good posture, but I’ll never have that perfectly firm butt you can bounce a quarter off of, or those super slender legs that look so good in skinny jeans, or when wrapped around a guy’s head in bed.

“This is stupid. Just drop it, okay?” he said, trying to end our conversation.

For a moment, I regretted saying anything. He was angry and it was my fault. I had let my imagination get the better of me. This had probably ruined our first time together in three weeks. Really, it was no big deal.

I sat silent, staring out the window at grid-locked traffic, thinking about the time Craig and I were camping in the Sierras on my 29th birthday and he surprised me with a brand new Burton snowboard and told me I was “the one.” Then another time over dinner, he saw a pretty, pregnant woman and rubbed my belly, insisting, “That’ll be you soon.”

He loves me. He’s just scattered sometimes. Love’s supposed to be complicated.

The sun had disappeared as we pulled up to a large gray five-story apartment building. There was nowhere to park. This I expected near the beach, not on the streets of quaint, charming, and oh-so far-away Pasadena.

“What time is it?” I asked Craig. It was my attempt to break the silence as he grabbed the wine from the back seat, three blocks from our disappointingly humdrum destination.

“Dunno.”

“Must be 8:30, huh? Too early for the sun to set. It’s summer. You know, back home, it’s still light out.”

I waited for his response. He nodded.

“Until, like 10, or maybe only 9:30 now that it’s August, but still. . .” I began to think I missed Vancouver, and the clean sunsets where the sun beams a frothy yellow before settling into a clear blue ocean. “Hey, Craig, do you want to live in LA forever? Or do you love it here?”

“Not forever.”

I waited for him to say more, hoping he had a plan for us, perhaps a ranch in the Rockies, near a ski hill, with kayaks and bikes and horses and maybe even a goat for fresh milk. Like some pitiable wallflower, I pictured him sweeping me into his arms, professing that life had no meaning without me. It was unlike me to be needy. The pre-Craig me had a few simple rules: Let them call you; play it cool; and most important, never say the L-word first. But there was something about him that had melted me, turned me into a child quietly calling out for reassurance, praying for that Cinderella ending.

“I’d probably live in the mountains, maybe the Tetons. Some day, yeah.” He grabbed my hand and pulled me down the sidewalk, set on his destination.

“Craig?” I said, rather pathetically. “Alone?”

“No,” he squeezed my hand. “Course not. With you.”

Craig ended up in the kitchen, talking to some engineer about streaming real-time video of Craig via satellite as he attempted the Antarctic crossing. They lost me at bandwidth, so I saddled up next to the girls at the food table and plucked out a cheese popper, hoping for lighter conversation. Three glasses of wine were helping me forget Craig’s cold front.

The minute the girls discovered I was a reality TV producer, it all started. The bombardment. Everyone wanted to know: real or not?

“You guys are too smart to watch reality TV,” I said, wondering if they were just being polite.

“I’m addicted to Top Model!” one freakishly smart girl said.

She had just finished telling me about her doctorate in algorithms and complex system analysis—something I could barely pronounce, let alone comprehend.

“What about Dagmar, that break-out celebrity heiress on all the talk shows? Is someone coaching her? She seems so shallow. Is that for real? I heard she’s getting her own TV show, Hollywood Heiress.”

“According to my sources, Dagmar is a bit of a pain,” I said with a wink, stressing the word “pain” for effect.

Toni had worked with Dagmar for a day on a press junket. This made her, and me, an expert on all things Dagmar.

“And yes, her reality show was greenlit yesterday. But nobody knows who it’s with or the subject matter. It’s all hush-hush.”

The great thing about having friends in “the biz” was all the trade gossip we so eagerly shared. Their stories became your stories, until you’d heard so many yarns about reality show vixens you could no longer remember whether you were there, or just heard about it. The other bonus was the factual accuracy, a sort of ethical gossip grapevine. And Toni, thanks to PA connections on just about every show in the works, was my vine.

“Do tell!” the brainiac purred.

“Well,” I said, leaning in, “my close friend, who’s worked with her, said Dagmar won’t speak to set crew directly, only through her assistant. She insists someone spray the room with lavender oil before she arrives. And, she says that the big bucks she receives for her public appearances, such as at those Miami night clubs and the like, is. . .” I whispered into the back of my hand for effect, “barely worth the cash, if she has to slum it with the riff-raff for an entire hour.”

“That’s just wrong!” Algorithms Girl sputtered, looking disgusted.

“Twisted, eh?” I said. “And, side-bar, apparently she refuses to use public rest-rooms.”

A few years ago, someone like Dagmar would have barely hit my radar—after all, I was aiming to be the next network news anchor, not Perez Hilton. But living in LA, whether through proximity or peer pressure, I couldn’t help but be fascinated by celebrity, even celebrity heiresses. Swapping the Economist for Star magazine had become habit, not guilty pleasure, and I now Tivo’d more shows on MTV and CW than on all the so-called “smart” networks combined (not that that meant much, with their Swamp People and Dog in number one ratings spots).

So much for wholesome smart chick from the great white north. Hard to believe I once did an investigative news story that prompted Vancouver police to take down an illegal Internet gambling ring. My weekend beach clean-ups back home had been replaced by weekend binges in Mexico, where I downed margaritas and got beach-side massages which cost less than an LA studio lunch.

In fairness, I had maintained my strange fixation on the notoriously grounded, immensely bold, celebrity talk show icon Ricky Dean. Now, he had substance. As the syndicated radio host of the ultra-famous Fix Your Life show, he had helped countless people straighten out their cruddy lives. A Ph.D. no less, who had penned at least five bestsellers on the art of a balanced life, he provided no-nonsense good advice, helping people help themselves, and he was damn good at it.

“Remember that show Heavenly Hotel?” someone else piped in. “Those people were so brutal! Total train wreck.”

Algorithms Girl cut her friend off. “Yuck, I hated that show. Hey, I want to hear about those Sex Kittens you’re working with.”

“Well, it’s a show about rock stars and the sexiest groupies on the planet,” I started. “Basically, a day in the life of Kittens on a play-date with a rock star, and we film it! That’s pretty much it.”

“Seems anyone can get their own show these days,” someone said sarcastically.

“Who’s the next rock star on the Kittens show?” someone else asked.

“Chaz Jones,” I said. Three days ago, I had never heard of this country mega-star. Now, we were on a first name basis. “He, our impossible host, and two very hot Sex Kittens.”

Just as Craig walked in to join the conversation, two of the guys went Raaaaar. I saw Craig whisper to them.

“What’s that, Craig? Something you want to share?” I said with the lightness of a woman in love, expecting he’d make up for the car ride by declaring his devotion to my fragile feminine ego.

“Nope. Just that I might once have dabbled in a little meow mix myself.” He thumped his chest like a big ape.

“Whoa,” everybody teased, as if Craig and I were about to have a standoff.

People chuckled. But I was mortified. It was one of those evenings that had quickly plunged from expectations of glorified bliss—like Christmas morning, or the first day of a vacation, or a reunion with the love of your life—to a period stain on your favorite underwear. It was no badge of honor, not to mention embarrassing, to have my boyfriend telling a roomful of strangers he’d slept with a woman willing to show the whole world her naked beave!

“Why’d you say that?” I asked, halfway home in my Volvo. No clue why we hadn’t driven his brand new Jeep. Come to think of it, where was his Jeep?

“Say what?”

“About sleeping with a Sex Kitten in front of all those people.”

“You asked,” he said, laughing, as if it was funny.

“But, Craig, come on.”

“What?”

“Did you really sleep with a Kitten?”

“Yeah.”

“So, tell me about it,” I said, not understanding why I was going down this combative road.

“It was nothing. I met her in Miami. She told me she posed for Purr, she was hot, and we ended up hooking up. That’s it.”

“That’s sleazy,” I said. “Please tell me it wasn’t Lucy. Who was it?”

“It wasn’t Lucy. And why are you asking?”

“I’m curious. How many women have you slept with anyway?” The dreaded number question. Was I crazy?

“You don’t want to know.”

“I do now.”

“Jane, all that matters is that I’m with you.”

“Okay, fine. If that’s all that matters, then tell me. I don’t care. I’m just curious.”

“Well, a lot.”

“How many is a lot?”

“Do we have to have this conversation now?”

“Yes, now. How many?” No answer. “Over 100?”

“Yes.”

“Over 200?”

“Yes.”

“Over 500?” I was joking.

“Yes.”

I gasped.

He grinned.

“Over 1000?” Please say no.

“I’ve never counted.”

I felt sick. I twisted my head to look out the window, as if the farther I moved away from him, the farther I could get away from the truth. What if he’d given me AIDS? What if I’m going to die from it? What kind of person sleeps with over 500 people? I must be dating a young (significantly taller and better looking) Ron Jeremy!

“Honey, come on,” he said, trying to lighten the conversation.

“Come on what? What if you’ve given me something?”

“Most of it was ages ago! In college. You know, one in the morning, studying, another in the afternoon, smoking a joint at her place, another at night, after the bar. It just happened.” He snickered, seemingly unbothered by my horror. “Hey, that was back in the day, pre-AIDS. I’ve got some years on you. Remember?”

“Then why are you with me? If you’re Mr. Mega-Sexed Alpha Dog, who conquers countless women, why me? Huh, Craig? Why’d you pick me?” I asked, my anger masking my tears.

“Jane, stop. You’re smart. . . and beautiful.” He slid his hand along my chin, as if I should have understood that all men slept with an entire college of women. “And, you’ve got a lot going on. You’re a super good producer. You’re pure. You’re honest. I like that.”

“Pure and honest? I’m not so pure,” I retorted, as if purity was a bad thing. “Well, maybe next to you!”

“Hon, seriously, it’s not a big deal. It was just sex.”

“But a thousand?” I said, my voice weakening, my breath now short.

“I was messed up back then. You know, insecure.”

Silence. I could barely breathe.

“It probably wasn’t a thousand,” he said sheepishly.

“Have you been tested?” I said, leaning forward and gasping for O2. How could the most abundant element on Earth be so shockingly unavailable?

“Yes, when I worked for Pal. And you’re the only one I’ve slept with since.” He reached over to grab my leg. “I swear. . . swear on your life.”

I gasped. “Never swear on my life unless you mean it!”

“Honey, I swear!”

I slid away from him, imagining whether to end our relationship, right here, right now. I hate him!

But I knew a breakup would be stupid, and I hoped that my declining willpower would allow me to say no to him, at least tonight. Not give him what seemed to come so easy to him, as if through abstaining, I could somehow make him pay.

Craig and I both curled into bed in silence, me on one side of the bed, Craig on the other.

“Hon, don’t be mad,” he said quietly. “I love you.”

I didn’t respond.

“Hon,” he said, rolling towards me, “you’re my everything— the most important person to me in the world.”

Three minutes later, I was his.