Reality Jane

After leaving Craig in a heavenly pile of sheets, the early morning sunbeams glimmering through his hair, I found myself somewhere in Valencia in what looked like Planet Corn—row after row of thick green stalks, cropped and manicured into a quagmire of dead-ends and crooked paths. The perfect place to get the goods on Lucy (my newly assigned task), I thought to myself, and record three nudie models on a very unlikely date with a country rocker who has no clue what he’s in for.

It was 9:00 a.m. and we were already an hour behind schedule.

“I want pigtails!” Lucy shouted from behind a row of corn.

Minutes away from rolling our first shot of the day, Lucy was already losing it. On the sidelines were Chaz, our leather-vested cowboy crooner, and Brit and Leah, in sexy sundresses and cowboy boots. They awaited the glamorous task of fumbling their way through a corn maze and into our chariot, an ultra-stretch black limo, pimped out with a hot-tub, jets firing, water swirling, and a disco ball.

“Well, go get them,” spat Lucy, referring to the elastics that our resident hair/makeup girl had forgotten to bring.

I wasn’t sure who to be madder at: the hair girl for turning up without the most basic of professional tools, or Lucy for freaking out because Brit had these “adorable braids” and she had only a “crappy, boring ponytail.”

“Roll,” I whispered to Joe. “Seriously. Now!” Adrenalin coursed through my body as if I had just stolen a purse and was preparing to leave the scene of the crime. I turned to the soundman. “Please tell me she’s miked.”

He nodded.

“Jane, deal with this!” Lucy stomped up to me. “Can you believe her? Look at this hairdo. I’m the host! She’s pathetic, a goddamn amateur. This whole production is goddamn amateur.” She then turned to the PR team as they witnessed the spectacle. “Sorry about this, but as you can see, I work with morons who don’t deserve a job at McDonald’s, let alone on my show!”

“That’s a take,” I said quietly to Joe. I could barely contain my smile. I felt fiendish and wrong but oh-so-good. Everything they said about revenge was true: intoxicating, sweet, satisfying. I couldn’t wait to show Karl.

I suddenly felt a mystery hand on my shoulder. “Jane,” Danny said, handing me his cell. “It’s Karl and it’s urgent.”

Karl began talking before I said hello. “Pop the tape. Let Danny finish the shoot. I need you in my office by ten!”



“Have a seat.” Karl didn’t look at me as I entered his office and sat myself carefully on the edge of his couch.

“Well, um, we got her freaking out,” I said nervously, hoping for approval. “I have the tape right here.”

“Jane!” Karl roared. “This isn’t about that.”

Is this a trick? Am I about to be fired? Will I have to go home to Canada, to Vancouver? No, High River! Oh God, please don’t send me back to report on curling championships or the arrival of bridge girders. Don’t turn Hollywood Jane, Producer Jane, Reality Jane back into Regular Jane, Failure Jane, Jobless Jane. A nothing!

My head spun in fear. I was reminded of one of the most humiliating moments of my career. There I was, a medieval sausage with legs in a tight brown leather jumper, frilly white sleeves sticking out, mindlessly slinging drinks at a pub and working the occasional day at the CBC newsroom, filling in for real reporters, when six former colleagues from the Z-Channel showed up. Naturally, I hid behind the bar, only to be busted minutes later, on my hands and knees, by Chatty-Catty-Kathy of the Z-bunch, and my former home-town rival reporter Katrina. “That you, Jane?” she said. “I thought you were off to make it in a major market?”

After chiding me about my get-up, she finally realized the little wench suit was for real. She proceeded to give me the “you look great” pity eyebrows, which really said, “Can’t wait to tell everyone.” It was devastating to admit that my making it as a reporter in Vancouver consisted of serving ale in a micro-mini and subbing for the very occasional news segment. Part of me felt justified: I’m holding out for my big break. Any day I’ll be asked to anchor the six o’clock news. The other 98 percent of me wanted to be eaten by a hamster.

Where was that bloody hamster now?

Naomi flew through Karl’s door. “Well? Have you told her yet?” She turned toward me enthusiastically. “Jane, what do you think?”

I sat gasping, confused. Naomi was far too jovial for a firing.

Karl pouted as if he hated what he was about to say. “As you’ve probably heard from the buzz around the office these past few weeks, we’re putting together a new reality show. It’s about Dagmar and her boy toy heir, boyfriend, Dominic. This is big.”

“The heiress show?” I said with excitement. “You guys are doing that?”

Naomi nodded.

“You’re the bomb! That’s amazing!”

“Thank you. We are quite pleased,” Karl said.

“Quite.” Naomi smiled, another conquest to add to her list. Soon she’ll be running for President. “But we’ve had to keep it quiet from the press. We didn’t want the premise of the show to get stolen.”

“So what is the premise?” I practically vomited enthusiasm.

“It’s going to be called Marry an Heiress,” Karl began. “In a nutshell, the on-again, off-again glamour couple will tramp around Europe, be tempted by other similarly excessive Eurotrash heir-types who hope to break them up, and blah, blah, blah. By the end of the trip, we’ll have either a wedding or a funeral to shoot,” he snorted. “Whether it’s Dagmar and Dom’s, or Dominic and Doolittle’s, I don’t give a shit. We start filming next week, and this morning, our main field producer dropped out because of a death in the family or something.” He waved his hands in the air, dismissing the would-be producer’s pain, as if a family death was a lousy excuse to drop a gig. “So, bottom line, we’d like to put you on, in her place.”

“Wow,” I said, my mouth gaping. “That’s fantastic! What does it involve?”

Naomi butted in. “Jane, you leave for France Monday morning and you’ll be there five weeks. It’s a great career move. We’ve booked your ticket, but I’ll understand if you need to say no. It is a little sudden.”

“That’s in. . . like. . . a day,” I said, silently screaming in delight. I even imagined myself circling the room, arm-in-arm with Karl, doing a polka. I gave them an immediate yes.

It was the second best day of my life.





“Get up!” Toni yelled from outside my door. “Jane! Get up! You’re going to miss your plane!”

“I can’t. I won’t. Maybe if I stay here in LA, I can fix this,” I said, smothering my face in my pillow.

Somehow, Toni freed the lock on my door-handle and was now clambering through my bedroom, accidentally kicking over my half-empty box of beloved See’s chocolates.

“If you don’t get on that airplane, and as far away from that sonofabitch, I will kick your ass!” she said, yanking my arm and body from the bed.

I hit the floor with a thump and went limp like a sack of potatoes, then curled into the fetal position. Toni grabbed a chocolate and pressed it into my forehead so hard that truffle cream exploded into my hair.

“Do you really want to pig out on gajillion-calorie chocolates? You won’t get Craig back that way!” It was her attempt at tenderness and understanding. “Not that you’d want him.”

I lunged for the box of chocolates, tossed one truffle in my mouth, and smashed another into Toni’s chest. We burst into giggles, but mine were mixed with tears and self-pity.

“Get in the shower,” she said, swiping chocolate crumbs from her t-shirt, acting mad but chuckling under her breath. “I’ll drive you to the airport. But you have to hurry. You barely have two hours.”

I reluctantly grabbed my robe and another truffle, and made my way to the shower in my underwear.



“I just can’t believe it’s over,” I said to Toni as we pulled up to the airport in her silver convertible.

“Forget him. Just go have fun!” Toni said defiantly.

Other than the three hours this morning when I’d locked myself in my bedroom, refusing to budge, Toni had been consoling me for the past 24 hours—she’d even slept in my chair.

“It’s a new start for you. Forget about that ass,” she ordered. “I always knew Craig was the wrong guy.”

“He is, isn’t he?” I said woefully, wiping the tears from my eyes while forcing myself to believe it. “Totally wrong.”

Deep down, I knew he was wrong for me; I just didn’t want it to be true. I was too caught up in the idea of having an action-hero for a boyfriend. Being attached to someone so profoundly cool was supposed to make me profoundly cool: It Girl and It Boy together forever. My very own Hollywood.

“Do you think it’s because I gained a few pounds while he was in the Himalayas?” I said self-consciously.

I knew I’d truly changed when turning down an In-’N-’Out burger had become a source of pride, not loss, and I had convinced myself that I actually enjoyed my Tic Tac renaissance. This was all pre-Craig break-up. Now, all I could think was: Bring it on—the See’s, the burgers, the friggin’ carbs.

“You haven’t gained weight! You’re athletic! Now, I swear, if you don’t go to France and have meaningless sex with some hot crew dude, I will personally swim the Atlantic and flog you,” Toni said, stroking my hair, trying to make me feel better.

“Flog?” I said. “Seriously, did you just use the word flog?” Toni had finally made me smile.

“Shut up,” she said. “Remember, these big-scale reality crews are all hedonists. They party and mack down the minute the cameras are off. I should know,” she snickered, “and I want you in there!”

Before her six months on Purrfect Life, Toni had worked on Heavenly Hotel as a PA, where there was intensive behind the scenes hoochie-coochie, including Toni and one of the male contestants. She made her move after he got the boot. But it was still considered a giant no-no. Naturally, Toni got away with it. That and more made her an expert.

“Remember, Jane, any guy who breaks up with you because his career takes precedence is a self-centered shit-ball. That bastard will wake up one day regretting it all,” Toni announced with utter certainty while yanking my bags from the trunk.

“But it happened so fast. I felt sideswiped,” I said pathetically.

After Karl and Naomi presented me with what felt like the opportunity of a lifetime, I immediately called Craig to share the news. He was excited for me, until I told him I’d be away for five weeks and couldn’t complete his expedition pitch. He barely let me explain when he said, “We need to talk.” The entire ride to his condo, I contemplated how I might juggle writing his pitch, packing my bags, and the first few days of the production.

When I finally arrived, he told me that with me going away, and his career needs booming, maybe we should take a hiatus. “At this stage, I need to go after my calling and you yours,” he muttered, all the while unable to make eye contact. Then, placing the final nail in the proverbial coffin, he said, “Besides, Jane, sometimes I think you’re too good for me,” which really meant, “I’m too good for you.”

It was the perfect, impossible-to-rebut clincher for any breakup. You would have to be a real dishrag to hang on after that! So I did what any self-respecting woman would do: wept profusely until mascara dripped from my chin, swiped it off, and pranced out the door with a “you’ll regret this!”

“Love you!” Toni called, as her car began pulling away from the airport. “Text me when you get there!”

Determined to start anew, or at least hoping to, I waved and rolled my bags through the airport doors.



“I hear Dagmar was named after a 1920s sports car.”

“My cousin from Canada told me that Dag means milk and mar means maid—and they speak German there. That makes her a milkmaid, not a sports car,” the California girl said with a forced laugh.

“Whatever. She’s on top of the world. And we’re along for the ride.” Big sigh. “Now, how about that Dominic?”

“I think he’s a homo.” Another laugh. “Remind me why we’re not aboard their private jet.”

A chorus of giggles. My new colleagues. A cynical pretty boy in a body-cinching button-down and ass-scrunching emo jeans that no sane person would wear for travel, and the fit, trim California girl in navel-baring skinny cargos, flip-flops, and a t-shirt that read, “Stop staring. My boobs are shy!” These people made me nervous. Their seats reclined so far that their freshly coiffed domes were practically in my lap. I couldn’t help but eavesdrop.

Surprisingly, their chitchat was proving therapeutic. Other people’s lives as lame as mine? Maybe they’d just been dumped too. It was less than 48 hours since I’d been expelled to the depths of sexual purgatory by the offspring of a Greek god. The dreaded self-loathing virus was threatening to infect my brain, sending me into fits of self-analysis: Almost 30 and no prospects. Unwanted by anyone. Will die an old maid. Friends all married. Friends’ younger sisters all married. Should never have dumped Sheldon, the only guy who loved me. Never mind. I was 19. Pathetic. Gotta find someone my own size. . . Ramone?

I could either throw myself off the bus, or throw myself into work.

“Hey, when you’re that rich and that bored, the only thing left to do is to star in your own reality show,” the pretty boy droned. “Why just be rich when you can be famous too?”

“I’m tired of all those whores,” California Girl said, smacking her gum.

“Aw, come here, Snookums. Maybe one day, you and I will have our own reality show,” Pretty Boy said, planting a sloppy kiss on California Girl. That was the capper.

Then, as if the plane ride from LA to Paris wasn’t bad enough, we were given a measly two minutes to stretch our legs and grab our luggage before being shuffled onto a bus leaking diesel and another five hours of ass-numbing travel. Between that and a six-hour layover in Chicago, there wasn’t a blood cell in my body game enough to finish the trip. Now I was witnessing body fluid exchanges, and not my own, inches from my face.

The driver made a sudden turn off the highway and began to drive along a winding road. A sign read “Beaujolais” in bright colors, inviting tourists to whet their palettes. The sight of the countryside seemed to brighten my mood. I lowered the window for a whiff and was hit by a blast of fresh air.

If I’m going to be dumped, best to be dumped on my way to France! I thought, inching out of my depression.

Around every bend, glorious green countryside unfolded like a postcard. I soaked it all in, thinking, praying, hoping that this was a sign—some kind of turning point. My head bobbed out the window like a slobbering sheepdog as wind-tears beaded across my temple. I was surprised—I actually was enjoying myself.

“It’s friggin’ cold, man. Where’s that draft coming from?” Shy Boobs reached for her sweater and emphatically wrapped it around herself.

“Sorry,” I said. “After all that recycled plane air, you know—”

Plop. I fell back into my seat, disappointed, and reached for my book, Feel the Fear and Do It Anyway, cursing myself for not having brought cooler reading material like The Shack or Purple Jesus—might has well have been lugging around my vision board.

Self-help books signaled the end of the rope for me: I was officially desperate, or desperately single, or desperately poor, or desperately desperate, or all of the above. Toni would have skinned my hide! I hid the book cover with my thighs as I pressed my knees against Shy Boobs’ seat, wondering why, in two short days, I’d gone from deliriously happy for landing the coolest reality gig since Amazing Race, garnering bragging rights for the next five decades with an “I toured Europe with Dagmar and Dominic,” to. . . just me, my cheesy books, and some crazy reality show with pretentious, shallow LA types who think Canadians speak German.

Rather than torture myself, I decided it was time to pee. I made my way past rows of crew members and quietly plopped down in a seat to wait for the lavatory user to vacate. The thought of peeing into a hole on the floor of a moving vehicle frightened me. Didn’t the French invent the word “toilet”? I tried not to think about it and watched the backs of people’s heads instead.

Behind my sunglasses, I noticed, past a seatback, an arm that looked delectable. I could always tell if a man was hot just from the sight of a single body part. Yes, even a toe. In this case, it was the way his t-shirt wrapped around his bicep, the shape of the bicep, the rib of the sleeve, the breadth of the forearm— not too big, not too small—and the hands. A man’s hands were everything. I tried to listen to his conversation to see if his mind was anywhere near as beautiful as his hands.

“Surfing is a cerebral sport. It’s not a testosterone fest, that’s for sure.”

“Dude, do you get laid all the time?” his friend interrupted.

“That’s not what it’s about. Sounds corny, but it’s about being one with nature. The wave sweeps you into a swirling blue universe, like sliding across the ocean’s fingers, just a board and your body.”

“Heavy,” his friend snickered. “Chicks dig surfers. You gotta take me with you next time.”

Surfer Boy continued his ethereal ride, oblivious to the doofus beside him. “Early mornings, I just sit there on my board, dolphins swimming beside me, sometimes pelicans plunging for nearby fish, and I wait for the sun to rise out of the horizon. Truth be told, there’s nothing I’d rather do.”

“Even sex?”

“Even sex.”

“Whoa,” I said, half out loud. What are the odds? Handsome and deep!

And by deep, I meant compared to Craig and the other LA wannabes. Thanks to Toni’s own revolving door of dates and male acquaintances, I’d developed some good insight into this topic. Good-looking men were tough enough to handle during the best of times, but put that same guy in LA, and all of a sudden he’s getting manicures, testing cover-up makeup for an emergency pimple, wearing glamour shades, and snubbing man staples like chicken wings and pizza.

Ka-crunch! The bus hit a pothole and sent me barreling face-first into the seat behind Surfer Boy.

“You okay?” he said, turning to see what calamity had befallen him, his athletic man hand reaching out to grab me as I avoided a death drop to the floor.

“Beautiful,” I said out loud while staring into his startlingly clear blue eyes, my brain having seeped out my ear canal.

“Huh?” he said with a half smile, eyebrows twisted into a question mark.

Crap! “No, I meant beautiful, like I feel beautiful. You know, fine. I feel fine. I’m all good. Life is good. And here we are in beautiful France and uh. . . look at that. It’s open. Thanks for the nice hand. I mean, the hand. I’ll, uh, see you around. Thanks. See yah. Bye.”

I stammered off just in time to catch the door to la toilette as it swung open and cracked me in the nose. “Double crap!” I said, hurriedly shutting the door.

I felt my nose tingling. With great care, I pulled my pants to my ankles and squatted over the hole, pressing my palms into the walls for support, swooping over the five-inch diameter potty hole like a hovercraft in a typhoon.

Ka-crunch! Another pothole. Aaaaand great. Now the jeans. I reached for toilet paper, as if there might actually be some. Jesus! I screamed inside my head while buttoning my fly. I pulled my sweatshirt off to wrap around my waist, then I checked my reflection to ensure that—in addition to everything else—I hadn’t been hit by a double-cream pie. Nope, just a red bump and some swelling, guaranteed to make a great impression, not just on Surfer Boy, but on Dagmar, and everyone else too. When I finally finished, Surfer Boy was waiting outside the door. Fantastic.

“Pretty gross in there.” I motioned to the floor. “Wasn’t me,” I said. “It was like that. Haven’t they heard of toilet bowls?”

He laughed. “Guess it saves paper.”

An environmentalist too. Very cool.

“You okay?” He reached for my face.

Oh, Christ. He’s touching me. Please don’t let me have boogers.

“That door got you pretty good.”

“I’m fine. I’m sort of used to it.”

“Oh, yeah?” He crossed his wonderfully toned forearms as if my explanation would be interesting. “How so?”

Why the hell did I say that? “Well, when I was a teenager, my brother and I would get into fist fights.” Nervous giggle. “He once punched me in the mouth and my braces stuck to my top lip.” I pulled my lip out to reveal an itsy-bitsy scar where the metal had jammed. “My mom had to take me to the hospital to get the metal picked out.”

“Brutal,” he said, scratching his head the way good-looking guys do when they don’t know how to respond to something so insipid.

“Three stitches,” I continued, not knowing why I wouldn’t just shut up. I suck. No, I suck braces.

“Well, glad you’re okay.” Surfer Boy smiled awkwardly as he closed the crapper door behind him.

Somehow, I made it back to my seat without further mishap. I curled into a ball, feeling idiotic for blowing it with the surfer hotty, and nodded off to the buzz of the tires as they rolled along the gravel road. I didn’t even notice that I hadn’t thought of Craig for just over an hour—a personal record. By the time we arrived at the castle vineyard, it was dark, and jet lag had begun to take over. I grabbed my bags and headed sleepily for my cabin.



Knock, knock, knock!

“Who’s there?” I scanned the room for something familiar. Where am I? Let’s see: Solomon bag strewn apart; self-help books on the night stand; chocolate bar wrapper beside the sink; bra on, underwear on, socks on; pillow beside me vacant. Pfew! “Looks like just another night in a strange hotel room,” I giggled while stretching my arms. “Ah, le bon vie.”

A voice called out from the hallway, “Call time is eight o’clock. Your call sheet is under the door. Rise and shine!”

I felt a surge of adrenalin. At least I was important enough to have my own door knocker. I’m back! Me, Jane. Me, Producer. Hear me—

Knock, knock, knock!

“Two door knockers? I must be good,” I said, brimming with delight.

I mean, not only was I helping produce a reality show starring one of America’s hottest new celebrity heiresses (and a woman whose daily perks added up to all the money I would earn in a lifetime), but I was about to do so in France, at a vineyard, with a hot surfer guy and a crew of bona fide reality show types. “The best of the best,” Naomi had called them before I left. Screw ex-boyfriends. Screw their damn baggage. Life was good!

“Uh, Jane Kaufman?” the voice from the first knock said. “Producer Jane?”

“That’s me,” I chortled gleefully, slipping into my robe.

“Field producers were supposed to attend a private meeting at seven. Like. . . uh. . . thirty minutes ago.”

I raced down the hallway for my meeting rubbing sleep from my eyes, wondering how I had missed the memo. My dreadful habit of quickly scanning show deal memos as if they were written in Chinese was the most likely cause of my oversight. Undoubtedly, buried somewhere in that document was today’s call time.

Naomi hardly noticed when I squeaked through the door of the dining room 45 minutes late. She gave me a nod. “. . . and that is strictly classified, folks. You’ve all signed the confidentiality agreements. You all know the drill. Everyone on the show signed them.” She looked seriously at all five people sitting in the room except me.

Uh-oh. She’s pissed.

“Got it? What I just told you is confidential, for this group of people only. You five. One little leak could blow it.”

What did I miss?

“Okay,” Naomi continued, “could someone open the doors to let the crews in? We’ve got a lot to get through this morning.”

Naomi’s assistant opened the double doors as cameramen, audio mixers, assistants, light and grip, all flowed through— about eighty people in all. I waited for Naomi to acknowledge me, give me the wink, wink, I’ll fill you in later look. No dice.

“Some familiar faces. Great to see you all,” Naomi started. “We’ve got our work cut out for us. Dagmar and Dominic are a handful. And that’s the worst you’ll ever hear me say. These people have about four assistants each that follow them everywhere: make-up, hair, personal trainers, managers, people to scoop their dog’s poop, you name it, they have a slave for it. And those slaves talk. So, learn the lesson now. No gossip, anywhere, anytime. You will be fired for it. Sorry if that sounds harsh.”

Geez. Fired? It’s just a reality show! I wiggled in my chair. We’re not saving lives here! Are we?

“All right, everyone,” Naomi continued, “one thing I do promise you: If we do this right, this show will be a huge hit. Emmy material. Karl and I have assembled an amazing group of people to make that happen. You’re all great at what you do. Now let’s go around the room and introduce ourselves. State where you’re from and your title.”

Boom. Boom. Boom. My heart thumped as if it had suddenly been transplanted into an elephant. My face flushed purple.

Naomi pointed at me. “Let’s start with Jane,” she said.

Was this payback for being late? Yikes! Naomi smiled warmly.

“Uh, well, uh, I’m Jane. Kaufman. And uh, I’m from. . . I live in Santa Monica, but I’m uh,” my heart was banging like a gong. Medic! How embarrassing. “Originally from, uh, Canada. But I didn’t live in an igloo.”

I giggled nervously for effect. Nobody else did.

“And on this show I’m a producer. But I, well, like, a year ago, I was a broadcast journalist.” Then time stopped.

It was him. Surfer Boy. Sitting. Watching me. Was he laughing? Oh God.

“On air. But, uh, this is like my third show producing. But the second show doesn’t count because—”

“And thank you, Jane!” Naomi cut me off. “We’ll get your life story later at the bar.”

She winked at me half-sympathetically. The room broke into laughter. I laughed too. But I wanted to cry. Surfer Boy gave me a special smile. He felt sorry for me. Crap. No man wants a charity case.

The rest of the morning session, I barely heard him or anyone else speak. I was too flustered. Not only had I missed this morning’s private producer meeting; I missed the entire crew briefing. In fact, I walked away from a morning packed with crucial information about my new job with nothing more than “Dagmar and Dominic arrive tonight, so be ready,” and a severely bruised ego.

When I left the meeting, the castle grounds were teeming with men, which almost made up for this morning’s performance. Everywhere I looked, it was a testosterone-fest: lighting directors, cameramen, sound mixers, and set dec construction types with hip-belts swollen with weighty tools. Every time Craig entered my mind, another crew dude would pass by with a smile. Were there any women on this production?

“Hey, Jane!” Naomi called, as I walked under some pergola dripping with grape vines.

“Hi, Naomi. Sorry about this morning,” I said. “Jet lag—oh, and I didn’t get my call time until, like, minutes before. How are you, anyway? This is going to be an amazing show,” I said, swiftly changing the subject so she wouldn’t state the obvious: The call time was in your damn paperwork.

“No problem, Jane. When this is over, we’ll have a proper lunch together. No business. As for this morning—don’t let it happen again.” She smacked my shoulder and smiled. “I’ll fill you in later.” Naomi snatched a vibrating phone from her pocket. “And Jane, you’re on first.”

“On first?” I said stupidly. Naomi had already begun her next conversation.

“First shift,” she said, giving me a look that said both “poor girl” and “Did I seriously just hire you to produce on my very first network show?”

“Okay. Thank you.” I wanted to cry out: “Really, I’m good. You won’t regret this!”

Sure I had my spacey moments, but I wasn’t a complete loss. Most of my early life, I had subscribed to National Geographic, and since college, The Economist. I won’t mention my recent habit of chucking a Star magazine in with my groceries, like every week, or Tivo’ing my favorite reality shows as if they were some kind of religion. This was just a phase. I truly aspired to become a person of note. And although this wasn’t obvious by my recent list of credits, I had big plans. Whether it was directing and producing inspirational documentaries, creating a subversive new talk show, or presenting myself on-air as a no-bullshit journalist, I wanted to do what I could to raise the lowest common denominator!

For now, I thought it best to get ahead of the curve and learn my location inside and out. I grabbed a map of the castle and began navigating my way through secret rooms and hallways, stumbling upon the odd housekeeper/chambermaid and learning what I could about this new setting, when suddenly—was it a mirage?

Another Adonis appeared before me! What were the odds? For me? It was like the year of Adonises. First, there was Craig, the BS’ing breaker-upper-loser-jerk Adonis. Then Surfer Boy. Not an Adonis in the traditional god-like-a-halo-round-the-brainbucket-blows-you-out-of-your-Ugg-boots way, but he had the cute thing down pat. Then this one: dreamy brown eyes, thick brown hair with an ever-so-slight wave just long enough to look unkempt, an unsettling confidence and, the piéce de resistance, he wore a well-worn Burton snowboard thermal layer. This pretty boy was no pretty boy.

“Hey,” he said casually, checking me out while giving me an ear-to-ear grin.

I glanced over my shoulder to make sure his “hey” was aimed at me and not some French maid hovering over my shoulder in a garter belt and fishnets. I felt my blushometer rise: from normal, to pink, to pinkish red, to. . .

“Are you Jane?”

How does he know my name? “Uh, last time I checked.” Oh that’s really clever.

He chuckled. “I’m Alex. I’m hosting the show.”

“Nice to meet you. I’m a producer on the show.”

“Cute,” he said, then some very uncomfortable silence. “Hey, I think you know a friend of mine. Lydia?”

“Lyds?” I said excitedly, thinking she was an awesome friend to share. “I love her. We call her Laser Lydia when she’s on the job.” Okay, why’d I just open the door to a conversation about my body hair?

“Laser Lydia? That’s funny. Haven’t heard that one before. Anyway, just talked to her. Good friend from back when we lived in New York. She gave me the dirt on you.” He looked at me deviously.

Huh? What’s that supposed to mean? Christ, he’s the spitting image of a young, perfect Pierce Brosnan. My very own Bond man.

Squawk! My walkie-talkie squealed from its holster like a talking gun. I clumsily extracted it, as if I’d never held one before, which I pretty much hadn’t.

“Dirt? How do you. . . Wait. Hold that thought,” I said, using the best flirty voice I could muster while responding to the radio. “Jane to Naomi,” I said into the radio, stumbling on Naomi’s second attempt to reach me.

The radio squawked again, this time with a piercing blast.

“Looks like you better run.” Alex smiled a Gillette model-man smile as he swaggered past me.

“Hey, what’s this about dirt?” I said in his wake, red-faced like a 13-year-old schoolgirl, knees weak, unsure about my new sensations, and wondering if his breathing on me constituted a quick dash to first base.