Reality Jane

All I saw was a sheath of lavender and blonde, carried by two perfectly shaped sun-kissed calves in purple stiletto heels. Somewhere in the storm of opulence, there was a toy poodle (also dressed in lavender), a bulldog with a butchy studded collar, a man, and six sniveling assistants purling anxiously in their path, probably lobbing lavender rose petals at their feet.

I searched Naomi’s face for signs of disapproval. She looked at me. Looked at my cameraman. Looked at me again. Looked again at my cameraman.

“Did you get that?” she said nervously.

I looked at my cameraman. “Did you?”

He looked at us. “Of course I got that. Just filmed them walking down the hall and into the room. Like you’d said. Piece of cake.”

Thank God at least one of us wasn’t shaken by the presence of what was truly a demi-goddess: Miss Dagmar Bronson. Naomi apparently had had a five minute pow-wow with Mademoiselle Dagmar and her boyfriend, Mr. Dominic Girbaldi, in the limo when they arrived, just before they entered the castle, streamed up the stairs, down the hallway, and into their room, closing the door firmly behind them. Our instruction from Dags? No cameras in the room tonight. We start tomorrow.

So, I did what any good producer, who was totally out of her element, would do: had a mild panic attack while Naomi grabbed my shoulders, told me to breathe, and asked me to place my three cameras in position to catch the arrival of our stars. Gathering every cell of competence I could muster, I promptly sent one camera to the exterior: “Get them exiting the limo!” One to the lobby: “Get them entering the castle!” And one to the bedroom hallway: “Get them entering the boudoir! Oh, and let them walk through frame!. . . Please!”

Naomi breathed a sigh of relief. “You did well,” she said as I regained composure. “No one said this would be easy.”

“Thanks, boss.” I felt elated at successfully completing my first assignment.

“Now, let’s see what they’re getting on the surveillance cameras.”

Naomi pushed a button about eye-level and a hidden door slipped open to reveal a wall of monitors that made me feel as if I’d stepped into a Jason Bourne movie. Four monitors were dedicated to every angle of Dagmar’s bedroom, eight monitors dedicated to the entrance and hallways, three monitors dedicated to the kitchen, two monitors dedicated to the dining area, etcetera, etcetera.

“Wow!” I remarked, completely blown away.

I could never have imagined the technology and expense that went into making a prime-time reality show—it was like a space mission. It was big-time. And I, a Tic Tac sucking, Tivo worshipping, closet tabloid obsessing, coffee swigging jejune, was not just a part of this hip new television team, but a senior part of the team—a producer.

“Naomi, this is so outrageous. I mean—whoa! This must’ve cost—”

“You like it?” a voice said melodically as he spun around in a chair holding a joystick á la Dr. Evil.

Get out of town! I screamed inside. Danny? As in my ASSISTANT Danny?

He squeezed out a Cheshire grin that briefly made me want to swing him around the room by his fuzzy purple tail.

“Hey, Jane. Good to see you,” he said. “Guess who’s directing the surveillance cameras?” His face lit up like a firecracker as he nuzzled up to Naomi. I thought she might actually pet him. “Naomi, just want you to know, the red lights on the corners of the monitors mean we’re recording those cameras. As you know, we can record four cameras at once. So, I got camera 16 to catch them entering the room on a wide shot, 15 was on a close-up of Dagmar and her dog Tofu, 17 got Dominic entering with his dog Steak, and 18 followed the assistants.”

“Wow, looks like you guys have this covered beautifully,” Naomi said, sounding pleased, as if Danny, despite his cotton-denim-leotard, was capable of orchestrating something so utterly logical. Until now, I had never even seen him actually work!

Not that I was bitter, but over the course of six months as my assistant, Danny had hardly proven himself to be director material. Cripes, he was hardly AP material. He didn’t deserve this! Truth was, the guy was always late, egged on Lucy when at her worst, had me negotiate all locations (his job description), and consistently forgot to copy my scripts for me before meetings. He exhausted me! His greatest talent was as Karl’s production mole or personal kiss-ass—that, and distracting Karl with his perky body.

“Jane,” said Naomi, turning to me, “what do you think? We got Danny on the show last minute too. He just arrived this afternoon.”

“I took the red eye. Jet lag doesn’t bother me,” Danny snorted in his quick voice, blinking and smiling merrily. “Heard you had a rough morning. Feeling better now, Sweet Cheeks?”

Why I ought to— “Yes, thanks for asking, Danny. Thanks very much—”

I considered asking him how surveillance really worked and what story lines he was following, but I couldn’t bear the thought of hearing this from him. I suddenly felt competitive, even territorial, knowing Danny had suddenly usurped me, or at the very least, become my equal. I could have sworn he was a busboy six months ago. Is there a gay Mafia? I was beginning to believe the rumors when my head-speak was quickly silenced by my gossip radar.

I tapped the technician sitting beside Danny. “Is camera 22 rolling? There are two figures in the bathroom. Looks like they’re whispering. Might be something good. Should we check it out?” I turned to Naomi while pointing at the monitor.

Camera 22, the bathroom mirror camera, was picking up two shadows. The lights were off, and there was whispering.

“Of course,” Naomi said. “Dagmar’s on her phone, just playing with her hair. Go for it.”

The technician pushed a bunch of buttons and the screen for camera 22 lit up in black and white reverse—infrared. He cranked the volume. We all leaned into the great wall of monitors to listen to the conversation.

“I’m tired of it,” the female voice said.

“It’s not a big deal,” the male voice said. “He’s European.”

“But he smacked your ass,” she said.

“It was an accident,” he said. “Snookums, don’t worry. It’s okay. Nothing’s going to happen. Now, let’s go before they call us to massage out their toe jam. A-holes.”

Oh my God, it’s Snookums and Sarcasm from the bus—the couple whose noggins nearly got a lap dance on the ride up here. They were part of Team Heirs’ entourage of assistants. Who knew?

“Well, that was meaningless,” Danny said, reaching for a tin of Olestra Pringles from the craft service table. “Let’s see what Dags is up to,” Danny said, chasing his phony chips with a Diet Coke. “Turn up the volume in the bedroom.”

After an hour or so of the assistants unpacking, massaging, acquiescing, cowering, and otherwise doing what they do, Dagmar rose from her bedside slump and told them all to leave, as if she were the Ice Queen, insisting, “Be gone with you,” and they all turned to stone. Naomi said goodnight shortly after that, leaving Danny and I to brood in each other’s company.

I couldn’t help but notice how a promotion had changed him—he no longer had a string of compliments for me—not even a “cute sweater” comment or three. With nothing to say to each other, we both silently stared at the monitors and reveled in an insider’s look at the other side of life.

Dagmar and Dominic’s room was adorned gaudily in creamy silks and sheepskin. Their bedposts dripped of solid gold, and the wardrobe furniture was bejeweled in aquamarine and sapphires. It was even more lavish than I’d imagined when I secretly pictured myself in a “Freaky Friday” moment of cosmic justice, actually living her life as Nice Queen Dagmar, not Greedy Queen Dagmar.

“Hey! Hey, you!” Dagmar said, waving her finger into a camera lens, hidden within a horse statue. “Can I get some caviar?” she whined. “We were told we’d have food, and this corner store fruit basket is not cutting it. . . I know you heard me.”

Danny looked at me as if he had just shat his drawers. “I think this is your deal,” he said, mouth full of petroleum oil potato chips, pointing at me. “You’re the producer.”

“Okay,” I said, reluctantly. “She’s just a girl. Right?”

But Dagmar was more than “just a girl.” She was an oil heiress from the castles of England transplanted to Beverly Hills. At 20, she had more money than God, with the clout to boot, and somehow she’d amassed the support of half of Hollywood. It had all started with her Saturday morning cartoon about fighting crime in her private jet and pink unitard—she and the glam-girls primping, shopping, and busting ass on behalf of a better world. Then she parlayed that success into a voice-over as the perky pet poodle on Hollywood’s latest blockbuster animation movie, and, presumably, the sequels to come. And now she had her own reality show, flaunting her everythingness, with cameras, producers, me, hanging on her every self-centered move and word.

I slid out the door, into the hall, and knocked delicately on Dagmar’s door, wondering how it was possible that a 20-year old woman, a fellow chick, a sister (if I accessed my inner yogi), could have me trembling. Maybe it was the fact that the entire thirty million dollar production was resting on her cooperation. Maybe it was the fact that I had never spoken a word with anyone as famous as her—Lucy didn’t come close. Maybe it was because I’d bought into the hype.

It was that last thought that brought me to my senses. I took a deep breath and vowed to remember who I was: a smart, capable woman who could kick her ass on a downhill slalom course any day of the year. Me, Jane. Me good at sports. Unk! As if that mattered. But it was the place I went to when I felt intimidated.

“What do you want?” she said, eyes darting up and down my body, landing on the emblem of my Molson Beer shirt.

“You’d like caviar? Want some champagne or crackers or anything else?” I said gulping. “Just want to make sure we get you everything you need.”

“Uh, yeah,” she nodded, her face frozen in aloof non-expression with a well-rehearsed lip pout. “Sounds good.”

“By the way, I’m Jane Kaufman.” I stuck out my hand and smiled nervously—it was like meeting royalty. “I’m one of the producers.”

She put her wax-soaked orchid-soft hand in mine as if I should kiss it. I nearly did, then shook it gently, awed by her beauty. I had never seen or felt anything quite like it.

“Okay, thank you. We’ll get right on that,” I said, walking away, nearly gleeful. Man, I handled that like a pro!

“Hey,” she snapped.

Exit cool. Enter fear.

“Where’d you get that shirt?” Her nose angled toward the ceiling. “I want one.”

This is what she did best. Want. . . and get.

“I’ve had it since high school,” I said, smiling, relaxing ever so slightly, and feeling downright dandy that a fashion icon had just approved my taste in clothing, even if it was recycled retro from the last century. “Crazy, huh?”

Regret poured in the moment my words left my mouth. It’s cool to be real with your friends, to tell them about your bargains, about the 70 percent off the 70 percent off sales, or the hand-me downs from your brother, or the fact you still own a shirt from over a decade ago, but sharing that information with an heiress?

“Real crazy.” She smiled with only half her mouth. “It’d look cute on my dog.” Then she swiftly closed the door.

Defeat: I tried not to think about it and immediately called down to the chef to place her late-night order. Danny turned up the volume on Dagmar in the room, drowning out my phone conversation with the kitchen.

“Anyway, she’s a chunker. And that shirt is so tight on her, it would fit my dog. Wouldn’t it, Baby Tofu?” Dagmar’s voice whined from the monitor, distorted by the volume.

Danny sneered. He couldn’t help himself. He’d enjoyed it.

“Was she talking about me?” I said pitifully, the phone dropping to my shoulder.

My mouth popped open in revulsion as I sank into my chair.

Danny froze.

“Was she?”

More silence.

Then, as though reconsidering his foul conquest, “Jane, she’s a C-U-Next-Tuesday,” he said, sounding surprisingly believable as he turned down the volume even more. “That’s not right. And Babes, you ain’t fat. You’re fit. And that’s better than being anorexic like that bitch.”

“Thanks.” I hung up the phone and sulked. “It’s been a tough couple of days and I was just starting to feel good about things.”

Danny awkwardly wrapped his arm around me. Did I hurt? Of course I did. Not because of that smug, brainless, six-foot hanger with her mug all over the monitor, but because of Craig. And though I wanted to be over him, and maybe even thought I was over him, I couldn’t escape the fact that he had dumped me. And for all I knew, he did so because I was fat. Well, not fat. Because I knew I wasn’t F-A-T. He dumped me because I wasn’t perfect. I didn’t have a model’s body, or fake boobs, or really boobs at all, and my legs were muscular from sports. It sucked, moving to LA, surrounded by perfect-looking women, and not getting to be one of them, even for a day. And what sucked even more was that this absurd, unattainable perfection was starting to feel necessary for my survival! Whatever happened to saving the world—me and Diane Sawyer? And whatever happened to the world I wanted to save?

An hour later, the caviar had been delivered, inspected, picked at, nibbled, and basically left to the elements by the heirs. Dagmar and Dominic made a run for their rooftop Jacuzzi as Dagmar modeled the latest in Euro-string swimwear for the 2015 summer collection, and Dominic followed along in his matching skort. Seriously, a man-skort. Only in Europe. They settled into the bubbles as our Jacuzzi spycams recorded a half-assed attempt at conversation, which went something like this:

“I’m tired.”

“Hear that.”

“What kind of champagne is this?”

“Cheap stuff.”

“I’m so sick of them thinking Cristal is the bomb.”

“It’s so yesterday.”

“I need a new fur.”

“Done.”

“They don’t appreciate anything,” I muttered to Danny. “Not a thing. Is this what money does?”

“Dunno, Sweet Cheeks,” he replied, “but I know good caviar when I see it. And that shit’s eight hundred bucks a tin.”

“Caviar—it’s just so decadent,” I said, as if we were buds. “I’ve always wanted to try some.”

“You know, Sugar Plum, they’d never know the difference.”

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying, you only live once.” He giggled in his funny voice. “And they’re busy in the Jacuzzi.”

“I don’t know—apparently I’m a porker.”

“Fugdat!” he said convincingly. “Besides, we didn’t get a meal break.”

“We did skip dinner, and a girl’s got to eat.” I smiled devilishly.

“These guys will stand guard. Right, guys?” Danny said to the camera techs—all two of them—as he rubbed his palms together in excitement.

If I couldn’t have her money, or her clothes, or her private jet, the least I could do was get a wee taste of her sweet life. “Let’s do it!” I whispered to Danny.

Danny and I gently pushed the door open, tiptoed toward the food table, and began picking at the fresh beluga and yellowtail sashimi. Great big grins of gourmand delight overwhelmed our faces. My mouth watered as I spooned the delicate black caviar capsules onto my tongue. They were salty and potent and sensual, all wrapped into a balmy bud. Yum. After a giant nosh of that, I turned to the cheese plate, then to the fruit, then to the truffles, then—

Squawk! My radio beckoned from its holster. “Jane, what the hell are you doing?”

It was Karl. And I was busted mid-chew in Dag’s bedroom with truffle powder under my fingernails and a slimy black beluga egg stuck to my chin. Danny was suddenly AWOL.

“I need to see you here. Now!”

Gulp. I swallowed warily and walked over to the camera hidden inside the bronze horse statue. The horse had a mocking expression on its muzzle. Even her damn knick-knacks were pretentious. As if I was adjusting a wire, I leaned over the statue and delicately scurried out of the room.

“What were you doing in there?” Karl spat as I closed the door.

Alex the hotty host was sitting beside him. What the hell was my replacement Adonis doing here? Embarrassment rattled through my body. Not only was I about to be scolded and God knows what else—maybe a good stomach pumping—in front of the hottest guy in France, but it was all for gorging on left-over table scraps like Aunt Bunny at Barney’s Buffet. “Hi, Alex, remember me? I’m a big fat food whore.”

“Well?”

“Um, I was,” I sputtered, obviously flustered, which was nothing new for a meeting with Karl. “Danny and I were checking one of the cameras.”

“That’s what the techs are for!” Karl screamed.

“Well, we noticed that one of the dogs pulled out one of the wires,” I said, thinking myself rather clever for such quick thinking. “Just thought we’d jump on it.”

Karl looked at me sideways—also nothing new—and to add to the calamity, I was wearing a very tight cream-colored shirt with a beer label forcibly unraveling at the seams, with a tiny beluga egg sitting squarely on my chest. Nice! Great look for a public flogging. (There’s that word again!)

“Fine, then, just keep that heiress under control. She’s going to be a major pain in my ass.” Karl turned from me abruptly, toggling from tirade to total apathy in a nanosecond—and continued his tour with Mr. Adonis, who seemed to be smirking. Fabulous!

To sum up my day:



Missed first and most important meeting of show—check.

Missed chance with hotty surfer dude after the humiliating morning meeting—check.

And now, busted for pigging out on cast’s priceless munchies in front of Adonis-host-boy—check.



Off to a great start!



The wine was going down swell for a one o’clock in the morning pity session; my professional life was going down like a missile over Tripoli. My legs dragged my carcass to the sink. The water, cranked on hot, ran until it was mostly steam exiting the tap. I threw my hair in a band, tossed a towel over my shoulders, and leaned over the sink for an extraordinarily cheap facial. Ahhhhh!

Knock, knockity, knock, knock.

“Huh? Who’s there?” I said, slightly startled.

“It’s Alex. I saw your light on.”

You’ve got to be kidding me. It’s one in the morning.

“What? Oh, okay, coming. Just a second.”

This guy must dig homeless chicks or sloppy epicurean grub-poachers.

I looked in the mirror for a quick once-over while water dripped from my chin. This was not going to work. First, I was pretty sure Raggedy Anne on crack was not the look he had in mind: swollen lips from the beluga salt, eyeliner smudged six ways from Sunday, and red splotches on my cheeks like a blush-stick gone wild.

Knock. Knock.

“Hurry it up. Someone’s coming,” he whispered.

“Oh, coming!” I tried to say sexily.

I slipped on a kiddie-sized pink t-shirt and a pair of old boxers, fingered my hair into a ponytail, squirted lotion into my hand, and peeked through the door while rubbing eyeliner off with my fingertips.

“Hi. What’s going on?” I poked my head out the door, trying to disguise my panting.

“I just wanted to make sure you were okay.” He leaned towards me, as though inviting himself in.

“Okay? What. . . uh. . . yeah, I’m okay. Come in,” I said, covering my mouth, certain my breath smelt like Camembert and he was some sort of heavenly apparition.

“I was wondering what happened to you.” His eyes darted around as if he thought he’d been followed, then he slipped by me to get comfortable.

“How come you’re still up?”

Actually, how come you’re here? Did I win the Cosmic Justice Sweepstakes? Is Ed McMahon with you?

“Karl. He flew in late tonight from LA, so it was our only time to discuss how he wants me to handle the talent.”

“Aren’t you talent too?”

“No, I’m the host. Don’t lump me in with those crazy beyatches.” He winked.

“Someone has to give you a hard time for your cushy job,” I said, pretending to be cool while continuing to rub the mascara grease from my eyes. I hoped that, by some miracle of God, at least my face had an au naturel glow to it.

Alex grabbed the chair beside the desk. I sat on the edge of the bed, self-consciously crossing and uncrossing my legs, and trying various lady-like positions to make my healthy thighs look not so healthy. Meanwhile, my heart was doing triple axel salchows at the prospect of a James Bond ringer sitting within three feet of my sheets. As a late night bonus, he was wearing a basic gray Hanes t-shirt that read “Joe’s Fish Supplies,” and it looked like the real deal.

“Have you been crying?” He reached for my towel, which I was neurotically using to dab at my face like someone locked in a sweat lodge.

“No,” I said, thinking, Should I? Would it help my chances? Because I do good cry.

It was sort of sad that I could have someone so luscious in my grasp, who came to me, unprompted, unasked, unexpected, and still be so insecure about it. I should’ve been bouncing around my hotel room, singing Billy Squier, “Everybody wants me!” Instead, I felt like Roseanne Barr at Fashion Week.

“Karl totally over-reacted with you. He’s a bit of an ass.” He shook his head and laughed. “I think it’s awesome you had the cajones to go in there to deal with tech stuff. It’s not like you were eating their food,” Alex said with a chuckle as I tried to contain my surprise.

Of course! Why would this gorgeous specimen of a man show up to my room if he actually believed I was pigging out on celebrity scraps? “Right, yeah, total misunderstanding. The stupid wire was loose. I could see it,” I muttered, staring at my kneecaps, half giggling.

“Got any more of that wine?” He grabbed a plastic cup from the desktop. “Can’t sleep. I’m still on LA time. Guess it’s good we ran into each other tonight.”

The fluorescent light bounced off my leg stubble as if it had been hit with the glitter gun. I needed an hour with a blow dryer and a push-up bra, or even just two minutes with a comb.

“So, who are you eye-balling?” Alex said, giving me the once-over and drinking his wine.

“Huh?”

“You know, any dudes on your list?”

“What do you mean? I just got here. I’m not—”

“Come on, pretty girl like you could have any guy you want. Especially with this ratio. What is it, ten guys to every girl? Thank God for the chambermaids.”

Slightly redeems himself with the pretty comment, then wham with the maids.

“Nope, no one. But, uh, the way things are going, someone might pop up,” I said, smiling playfully. “What about you? You’re sorta cute. I’m sure one of the maids is looking for a ticket out of scrubbing toilet sludge.”

“Touché. But seriously, I don’t mix work and pleasure. Too dangerous. Never works.” He continued to sip his wine.

So, why are you here, dumb ass? And please please please can we mix business and pleasure? Just this once!

He changed the subject, telling me about his time modeling, his TV career, his extensive travels, and his patch of land in Colorado overlooking a lake, where he was building a cabin to get away from it all.

“So, I have a question,” he said, leaning forward and placing a hand on my thigh.

Not a great hand, but a good one. Maybe small, but can’t let such a minor detail ruin the moment.

“You’re not one of those girls who just wants to shack up and get married, are you?” he said in a complete deadpan. He was serious.

“What?” I tried not to look offended. What the hell kind of question is that? “No! I’m complete on my own, thank you. I don’t need a man to make me happy.”

“Really,” he said, definitely cocky. “Because you know, it seems every girl I meet over the age of 25 is hell-bent on landing a man and getting on the baby train.”

“Well, I’m different.”

Okay, not entirely different. If I had my way, I’d be on a mountaintop exchanging vows with an explorer named Craig. Not the a*shole Craig, but the imaginary Adonis Craig—the one I’d invented in my head about three minutes after he spoke his first words to me. And since he’s imaginary, I’ll just have to find someone else, whom I’d prefer to find sooner rather than later. So what’s wrong with that? So I want a man I can love! And up until two minutes ago, Alex was in the running! Shit! Women really do size up men for marriage within the first five minutes.

“Lydia said you were cool. Now, tell me about this explorer guy you’re with, your boyfriend.”

Ding! Ding! Ding!

Okay, it makes sense now. He’s playing it cool because Lyds told him about Craig. Ha! Craig? Craig Who?

“No, we broke up,” I said casually. “It was awhile ago.”

Tension gone. Mood relaxed. The thought that Alex was anything less than perfect slipped away into a mass of lusty thoughts. As we talked, he leaned in closer and closer until I could feel his breath on my face. Our cheeks touched lightly and his hands slowly and subtly made their way onto my hips. Before I knew it, he had my hair pinned over my head and his other hand scrambling up my t-shirt. It was happening so fast.

Jesus, what if they’ve planted a camera in MY room?

Nothing about this night seemed real. A hot—no, a gorgeous man—wanting me, needing me, fondling me, and this after possibly seeing me slurp down a can of salt-soaked fish eggs.

Pinch me. Was I working on a reality show or starring in one?