Reality Jane

He thrust his naked torso against her pelvis and began a dry-hump. As they throbbed and heaved in unison, her head knocked against a priceless oil painting.

“Dags, you’re so f*cking hot,” he grunted forcefully. “I love you. I love you.”

“Just do me!” Dagmar moaned.

“Marry me. I want you to marry me. Please,” Dominic panted as he continued to bang her against the wall.

“Yes! I’ll do it. I’ll marry you! Yes! Yes!” she screamed, biting at his navel.

My face turned white. Was I seriously watching two filthy rich heirs have sex? I turned to my compadré in the control room, blinking stupidly. He was operating Spycam while I directed.

“Is this really happening?” I rubbed my forehead in pain.

“Yup,” he moaned, tossing a Cheezie down his throat.

“Please, tell me we were on a close-up of their faces when he proposed. I think that was our money shot and they were screwing.”

It had been three and a half weeks since arriving at the castle. The execs were biting their fingernails to the bone, nervous that our stars had yet to propose, break up, or do anything to build a show around. To add to the stress, we had less than ten days to get/make/create an ending. Now, we finally had our money moment, a proposal, and it was Triple X-rated hard-core sex—hardly fodder for primetime TV.

“Got a close-up, got a wide, got it any way you want it, Babes. We have four cameras in that room. Remember?” he said, chiding me in his crusty tech-guy way. “And don’t worry, they weren’t actually screwing in that shot. But they are now.” He pointed to the monitor.

“No!” I moaned, covering my eyes. “They know we’re watching. Perverts!”

“You said it.” My colleague had obviously seen this kind of crap before. He was totally unfazed. “Want a smoke?” I did.

He lit up two cigarettes and laughed as he toyed with the camera angles. Dagmar and Dominic were doing it doggy-style with a sheet draped over them, while she gripped the bedpost and moaned. The real dogs in the room, big fat Steak and itsy-bitsy Tofu, were flitting in circles around them, jumping up on the bed, then down off the bed, then up on the bed, then down, then fighting over her purple, diamond-studded, silk G-string as if it was a thick, juicy rabbit. It was a circus.

“I need some air,” I said, grabbing the cigarette, sliding the chair away from our station, and opening the door to head outside. “Whoa!”

I nearly tripped on two bodies camped out in the hallway. It was their highnesses’ TV assistants: Snookums and Sarcasm, whose real names were Sally and Matt.

“You okay?” Matt said lazily while flipping through InStyle, his jeans so tight that, against the wall, he looked like a bent V.

“I’m okay. Just didn’t expect. . . What are you guys doing here?” I asked. “It’s getting late.”

“Oh, they insist we wait out here until midnight, just in case we’re needed,” Sally said, smacking her gum and twisting her hair, her flip-flops dangling off her toes.

“Hmm. Okay. You need anything? We’ve got craft service in there. If you want a drink, I can grab you one,” I said, feeling sorry for the little slaves—actually, for all of us little slaves.

“Thanks. Maybe later.” Matt had stopped to inspect a Guess ad in his InStyle mag. “That girl’s so yesterday,” he said to Sally.

“Totally,” Sally replied.

As I walked down the hallway, it hit me: Those damn assistants are our B-story. The poor peasant romance juxtaposed with our holier than thou royal romance—the servants and their masters. Fantastic! To add to the intrigue, something strange between Matt and Dominic had begun after that very first conversation in the bathroom with Sally. I reached into my holster and beeped for my roving camera—I finally had the radio thing down.

“Hey, Orange Cam. Are you off break?” I said into my walkie-talkie, pressing the big black square on the side of the box.

“Yup, we’re just sitting in the great room, waiting for direction,” he replied.

“Okay, could you guys come film the assistants in the hallway? If they ask what you’re doing, say you’re just getting some B-roll coverage and tell them to act natural. Don’t make a big deal about it. Copy?”

“Copy that, boss.”

“Oh, and please get some close-ups of them holding hands and being romantic. And let’s use the boom—no lavalier mikes—and from a distance, please. I don’t want them to think anything’s up.”

“Copy, copy.”

Using surveillance cameras since the show began, I had been quietly recording Matt and Sally’s conversations in the bathroom every time it was my shift—tonight was the first night I’d get our big cameras on them. Something interesting was bound to happen considering their proximity to two of America’s hottest quasi-celebs. Plus, they were in love, and everyone loves a good tryst.

It was pitch black when I finally made it outside. The rain had left behind a scent of fresh evergreen and mint that reminded me of home—home-home, not LA. I leaned against the castle wall wondering what parallel universe I had happened upon. This was the first time I’d ever watched two people having sex. Live! Not only that, but I was asking for different camera angles.

I couldn’t decide if I should throw up or quit. If I quit, what would I do? Go back to waiting tables? Audition for a reporter’s job? Host a reality show? Right. They’d laugh me back to Canada: “Hey, wannabe, come back when you’ve had a boob job and veneers.”

It was an odd torment: stripped to the absolute essentials, we were getting paid to make undeserving people famous, propping up a rich girly-girl who was little more than eye-candy. The entire crew was in the same boat, making a career of it, despising it at some level, yet buying into it solely because we got paid and therefore continued to do our job. And the worst thing of all was that it was strangely compelling. I felt important for the first time in years. Naomi had even complimented my work—she said my interviews captured the show’s only true emotion. I mattered! I got the job done! I was an integral part of the team! But was I sacrificing my moral fiber? And, if so, what was I to do?

I pulled my hoodie tighter as I stared at my feet. Good feet, I thought, wiggling my toes. When everything else was in doubt, I knew I could rely on my feet. People told me I could be a toe model. I always smiled graciously, but thought it a bit of an insult: “That’s the best I can do? Show off my toes?” But at this moment, I appreciated them—straight, even, nail-bed in proportion to skin, not a bunion or corn in sight, cushioned in baby blue leather thongs, looking decently pretty, as far as toes go.

My mom had good toes, too, which reminded me of a game we used to play years ago: grab a magazine or book and flip to a random page. Whatever page we turned to held a secret about our future—we often did this when confused about things. Seemed it helped make life make sense.

Once, when I was fourteen, I opened a magazine to a page about a car crash and looked at my mom dispirited. “What does this mean?” I asked, thinking I didn’t like the game anymore. She read the nearby ad, “Tonight on ABC, Diane Sawyer Interviews Deadly Drug Runners,” and declared, “Maybe someday you’ll be a great journalist like her.” And to this day, Diane Sawyer is my champion. I admired her journalism, her values, and her brilliant career.

Whatever happened to that dream? I thought, staring out at the black night, unable to rid myself of the image of Dagmar and Dominic screwing like rabbits.

The staff door slammed shut beside me. I noticed an American celebrity magazine tucked under the arm of one of the kitchen staff.

“Excuse me. Would you mind if I took a quick look at your magazine?”

“Take it,” she said, handing it to me and rushing to her car. “Je suis fini.”

“Thanks! I mean, merci.”

I closed my eyes, made a quick, “here goes nothing!” declaration, and sent the magazine on a gentle freefall to the ground, where it landed at my feet. The moment reeked of significance. My destiny was lying right there, on top of my chilly little toes.

Prepared for answers, I lifted the magazine and took a deep breath. “Jamie Lynn Jones Loses 20 Pounds in Rehab,” the headline read. Beside the article was a nearly full-page ad featuring one very strung-out Jamie Lynn Jones posing scantily for the latest diet product. “Great,” I murmured, totally disappointed.

Then, I saw a small item at the corner of the page:

Spotted: Famous radio personality and the King of Good Advice, Ricky Dean, packing up the moving van for LA. He’s leaving NYC for Tinsel Town to move his highly successful radio talk show series, Fix Your Life, to LA and onto television. Fans can’t wait and neither can we. Launching this spring on YBC.

“That’s it!” I ripped the page from the magazine. “I’ll work for Ricky Dean!”

As I stood, reading and re-reading the item, excited for my future, a fellow producer approached me. She was dolled up with a streak of bronzer on her cheeks, coiffed hair, and stiletto heels under tight Diesel jeans.

“Big party tonight, Jane,” she said, a wave of perfume hitting me like a dust cloud. “Get those two nasties off to bed and join us. It’s in the upper chalets.”

“I might just do that,” I said. I thought back to Toni, warning me of a cross-the-pond flogging if I didn’t loosen up. “Besides, I may have something to celebrate.”



In the party cabin, music boomed and smoke seeped from the log joints. The grips had turned their chalet into a thumping nightclub. Just outside the door stood the youngest kid on the crew, the tape label guy. He was also the largest, wearing a long black trench coat and dark sunglasses, with a mean-ass look on his face.

“I.D. please,” he said, grabbing my elbow and sliding his entire body to block the doorway.

“Watch it or I’ll make you grab me some tape stock!”

He laughed. It was amazing how a group of eighty people could become instant friends. Sharing breakfasts, lunches, dinners, bus rides, all-nighters, and the occasional bottle of whiskey will do that. With the exception of a few crew members (like Danny), it didn’t matter who you sat beside at the party. They got it. They knew what you were going through: long hours, pandering to royalty, and tedious shoots more often than not. They lived it too. And all of us were survivors.

I looked around in wonder. In the space of this once ordinary vintner’s suite, the grip department had assembled a no-charge fully-stocked bar complete with every kind of booze and a donation jar. The furniture was cleared for a dance floor. The walls were lined with solid-wood benches constructed from left-over supplies. The crew had cleverly replaced the standard 60-watt hotel lights with red and green mood bulbs. They even dialed in the bathroom with candles and incense. And club tunes blasted from an i-Pod. It was a complete metamorphosis. For a bunch of whiskey-swilling production crew members, it was most impressive.

Alex stepped out from a crowd of bodies and slipped his hand onto my butt cheek for a little squeeze.

“Hey, careful,” I said, glancing around for watchful eyes. “Someone could see.”

Ever since Alex’s late-night visit to my room, he had “happened” into my room on many more occasions. He had one rule: don’t tell anyone. I had one rule too: no intercourse. I just wasn’t ready.

We had developed a friendship. For a former Zoolander, Alex was surprisingly funny, and mostly unfazed that he was so really, really good-looking. But, it wasn’t all peaches and cream. The occasional red flag would surface just as I started thinking “potential boyfriend,” like the time he said he had trouble committing. And the other time he mentioned a girlfriend. He said they had broken up, but she was still attached. Messy! So I didn’t bother with questions. Uncommitted romps could be part of my vernacular too.

“What’s up?” Alex asked. “You seem kind of different tonight. Everything all right?”

“I’m actually fine. Tonight I had a bit of a revelation,” I declared, waiting for him to ask.

“Listen, I can’t stay.” He placed his hand on my shoulder and angled for the door. “I have host wraps mega-early in the morning. But I’ll call you after. Maybe we can do dinner in town. On me.”

“Whatever works,” I said, ignoring the slight. “Good luck tomorrow.”

He winked and headed for the door.

Seeing him felt different tonight. Not good different, not bad different. I couldn’t place it. It would have bothered me had I not been distracted by thoughts of my dream job with the Ricky Dean.

After a few drinks and chit-chat with friendly crew members, I was starting to get my buzz on, the thought of dream jobs filed neatly away in my brain cavity to be accessed at a more sober time. After all, this was my first party night with the crew and I had to make my appearance a memorable one.

Then, like the parting of the Red Sea, a stream of bodies separated on the dance floor, and I had a straight eye-line shot at Surfer Boy. Instant butterflies. That uncomfortable gurgle. What the hell? I self-consciously grazed my hand across my nose to check for runaway boogers, a habit I’d picked up in high school—you only make that mistake once. Nope. All cars parked neatly in the garage. Then, eye contact. My heart skipped a beat. My body reminded me that though I was light years away from that gawky Margaret Simon phase of periods and B.O., my life could still be littered with awkward social stuff á la Judy Bloom until the day I died.

Surfer Boy and I hadn’t worked together since the production began. We seemed permanently on opposite shifts. But then Alex had provided a terrific distraction. At this point, Craig was barely a blip on the map. And I liked it that way. Seeing my surfer sweetie tonight made me realize just how smitten I was.

He seemed to notice me just as I noticed him. He looked surprised. I shifted my gaze. I guessed that undoing that last button—on my tight, black, stretch-silk, short-sleeved pouf-blouse á la Stella McCartney—yes, real! Street sale in Santa Monica—to reveal the stitching on a sexy black tank wasn’t such a bad idea after all. And a little beauty sleep and 20 minutes of primping never hurt anyone.

“Hey, babe, let’s see you move it/move it!” One of the guys from the grip department grabbed me to dance.

I went along, the whole while searching for Surfer Boy. Alex’s face flashed into my head. He wouldn’t do that to you? My little voice sounded particularly schoolmarmy. This was the same voice that reminded me I was plummeting to super-slutdom every time Alex tried to unzip my jeans. Didn’t matter. I hadn’t done anything—yet.

“Let’s see what you’re made of, Jane,” the grip guy said, handing me a shot of Jaggermeister snagged from a bar tray. “Your turn!”

“What is this, high school?” I said, promptly chugging the shooter, planting it upside down on the tray and waving at Mr. Bartender to keep it coming.

A collection of shooters and three beers later, I was feeling no pain. I kept searching the room for Surfer Boy. He was swirling around, looking cute as ever in a plain blue sweater that matched his icy blue eyes. Unfortunately, I wasn’t the only one looking. Some of the castle’s female staff had caught wind of the party. I noticed a particularly busty chambermaid swooping awfully close to my prey.

“Mmm, look at zose muscles. You ah zo. . . How do you zay, mmm, ztrong,” she said, her hand rubbing up and down what clearly was, even from my vantage point, a set of lean wash-board abs.

“No!” I said, lurching from the barstool.

I took a large slug of an inappropriately titled cranberry martini that was less martini and more mystery drink, and in a moment of recklessness, slinked toward Surfer Boy to hip-check chamber-skank out of my way.

“Bonjour,” I said, sitting beside him and leaning my back against the wall.

“Hi,” he said, turning toward me.

“Oo are yoo?” the chambermaid asked.

I ignored her and listened instead to my old friend Toni: “If you want him, take him. Otherwise, men take whatever is easiest, i.e., the chamber-ho beside you. Now get to work!”

“Hi,” I said to him again, sucking on a Tic Tac, praying I smelled as minty fresh as the tiny pellet eating a hole in my tongue.

“I vaz seeting ere,” the chambermaid continued. “Beetch.”

“No yoo veren’t,” I slurred, the Jagermeister talking, “becauze if you ver, zen I vood be zeeting on your vase.”

Surfer Boy laughed. “Nice accent.”

Then, strangely, he and I just sat there, staring into each other’s eyes, saying nothing, as though we had been waiting a long time for a closer look.

Finally, I broke the silence. “So, what do you think when you think about me?”

“What?” He smiled with a perplexed look.

“What do you think when you think about me? I know you think about me. I saw you looking at me.” I smiled coyly. “I want to know what you think?” Did I seriously just say that three times?

“Well, I haven’t really seen you since the bus ride. But you’re right. I have thought about you.”

“You have?” I attempted my cutest pout. “So tell me what you think.”

“Well, I think you’re pretty.”

I hesitated. “Anything else?”

“Well, what do you think when you think about me?” he said.

“I’m asking the questions.”

“I think you’re interesting,” he acquiesced.

“Uh-huh.”

“It’s your turn now.” He placed a hand on my knee.

Gulp.

“I think you have great hair,” I said. In fact, I found the whole package absolutely delicious.

I hadn’t realized it, but our noses were practically touching. We were millimeters away from a kiss. I could feel his breath against my lips. It was as if no one else was in the room. I couldn’t hear the music anymore, just the sound of him breathing.

“And, I think—hey!” I yelped, yanked from my delicate state of bliss. “Danny?!”

“Come on, Honey Blossom. Drinks are on me!” Danny pulled me through the crowd.

“But wait, I—”

“No buts. I got them to make us something special. It’s called a Beluga martini. I made it up. Do you love it?” he said, pushing me onto a barstool, leaning into my neck for a little girl talk. “Oh my, you and that hotty cameraman, Grant, were getting awfully fresh. You should do him. I would.”

Working on it, you tool!

I had barely tasted Danny’s blackened firewater when I turned to check the bench for Surfer Boy. He had disappeared. Just like that. I scanned the room. Nothing. Nowhere. Then I looked for chamber-twinkie. Her friends were there. She was not.

Shit! Leave it to Danny to screw this up!

After twenty minutes of listening to Danny prattle on about how fabulous Karl was “as a boss” (yeah, right, more like lover), I checked my watch: 2:00 a.m. Before I did any more damage, I decided I had better get back to my room, especially considering the fact that, just minutes earlier, I was poised for not one, but two affairs. I was also considering kicking some chambermaid ass to make that happen. Probably not a great idea for an aspiring producer in a business where you’re only as good as your last show. After all, I needed a solid reference for my new dream job, Fix Your Life with Ricky Dean. With an air-kiss, I said goodnight to Danny as I slid out the door.

Outside, people were milling around, smoking dubes and looking for stars—the real ones in the sky. The ground seemed to move. Suddenly, my elbow brushed against a wall, and I thought someone had pushed me. As I staggered between strides, I realized I was on my own. Holy crap! I’m drunk! I stopped for a minute to collect myself and to stare up at the black sky, thinking: Got to get back to my place. This is stupid! Hardly know Surfer Boy. Must stick with Alex. . .

As I plodded my way back to my chalet, I opted for a shortcut. It was late, but there were lights and mini-parties going on everywhere. I tripped over tree roots and rocks and wended my way through a short and nippy vineyard trail. It spit me out near a group of chalets that were hardly familiar. I suddenly felt lost and silly and wished I’d taken my normal route.

Then, as if the alcohol had finally tainted every last one of my brain cells, I felt an inexplicable urge to find Surfer Boy. I had to see if he was with that woman. I had to know.

One chalet after another, I peered inside the windows, squinting to catch a glimpse. If I find his chalet—and she’s not there—that means we’re meant to be together. Any sense of professionalism, or the fact I was being paid good money to be in France, didn’t enter into my “thinking.”

On the final set of rooms, a beam of light flickered through a half-shut curtain. I slid up the window frame and poked my head around for a closer look.

“Voila!” I mumbled.

There he was, alone, an electric toothbrush vibrating between his chops.

“I shouldn’t. I shouldn’t. I shouldn’t.” I watched my hand reach toward the door.

Knock knock.

The door creaked open. He stood shirtless in front of me. No words, just a consenting smile.

“Grant?” That’s his name, isn’t it?

“Yes.”

“I can’t believe I came over.”

“I can.”

“I think I’m drunk.” I self-consciously swept my hair over my shoulders. “And what do you mean ‘I can’?”

“I thought you might.”

“You thought I might? But, I didn’t even know your chalet number.”

“It just seemed like you might.”

“Oh,” I said, disappointed. “Am I that predictable?”

“No, you’re not.” He swept his hand across my chin. “And I’m glad you’re not.”

We began to kiss. All I could think about was how this had to be a dream. I was probably—actually—passed out in a bush somewhere, imagining the whole situation: two hunky men, both wanting me, one an earthy surfer dude with a brain and a conscience, the other, a successful model and TV host so brazen and self-assured he was planning to take over the world. How was it possible that pre-LA, I had gone three long years with barely a date, then, suddenly, I had relationships with three hotties in less than a year?

“It’s not like me to do this. You know?” I whispered.

“Mm, hmm.”

More kissing. Thirty minutes later, a big heavy sigh.

“Okay. I’ve got to go. I can’t believe I’m here. It’s late. I can’t stay.”

“I’m glad you came by.”

“Me too.”

More kissing, then kissing on the bed, then rolling and kissing, then silence.



I saw the first morning sun ray creep through the window.

“No!” I shrieked, scrambling around the pillows. “It’s morning! Piss! Damn! Hell! I’ve got to go. What time is it? What time is it?” I was in full panic mode.

“It’s 6:10,” Grant said sleepily. “What’s wrong?”

“I’ve got to get back to my chalet. It’s morning! Someone’s going to see me. I’ll never make it back!”

“It’s okay. No one’s up yet. Don’t worry about it.”

“No. I can’t believe I fell asleep! If someone sees me, I’ll die. I’ve got to go!”

All I could think about was Alex’s early morning call. Right now—and probably this very second—he was traipsing around the vineyard grounds, shooting his host wraps for the show. Shit! Shit-crap-shit!

“Let me help you.” He reached for my clothes.

I had my socks on and nothing else. Had we? Did we? No time for questions, much less answers. I threw on my jeans, my shoes, and my jacket, then pulled my underwear and blouse into a ball. I grabbed the door and barely kissed him back as he reached for me.

“I’ve got to go. Sorry. Bye. Shh. Bye.”

As I slipped out the door, my heart was pounding. I felt dizzy from the alcohol and a meager three-hour nap. I was furious that I’d let myself crash, and maybe have sex. I’m GTH, GTH, GTH (a high school acronym for Going To Hell), and definitely the new Queen of Slutville. In horror, I skulked behind the row of chalets and around the back in mortal fear that Alex might see me, and Karl and Naomi, too. Anyone. Could I be fired for this?

Oblivious to my need to remain hidden, the sun began to fill the sky. I fumbled over rocks and jogged through a winding, unfamiliar path that led me to a clearing. When I saw the coast was clear, I bolted toward my place. In my periphery, I noticed someone walking.

No! You don’t exist! I ignored him. If I didn’t see him, he couldn’t see me. Pfew, I thought, nearly home.

I was on the final stretch when one of the lighting grips peeked his head out of the tech shack.

Nooooooooooo!

“Morning, Jane,” he snickered with a funny look on his face.

I pretended to be serious and in a rush. “Morning,” I replied. “Just. . . uh. . . picking up my call sheet.”

“Uh, huh,” he laughed.

The ball of clothing in my fist screamed Walk of Shame! Who was I trying to kid? I kept my head down and continued my walk-jog to my chalet. The floorboards squeaked as I headed up the stairs and snuck through my door, as if wide-eared parents were angrily anticipating my return, which they kind of were—Karl’s room was on the same floor as mine.

Given the alcohol-affected drama of hooking up with two guys, I was firmly and suddenly convinced that this reality show should have been about me!





It was six o’clock in the morning. Two days and counting until the end of production. Two choppers, their engine noise deafening, hovered over the castle towers: one for Dagmar and Dominic, and the second for all their assistants. Everyone was on the way to Paris on a shopping trip for Dagmar’s wedding dress. Yahoo! We finally had our ending.

“So, where do you want me?” I yelled to Karl, sounding as subservient as I could.

He was busy organizing people and shouting orders at the PAs. Ever since Beluga-gate, I’d been unable to step back into his good graces, though I wasn’t sure I’d ever been in them. And even though I’d made the Fix Your Life show my new raison d’être, I still needed a job in the interim. With two days left of employment, my fingers were firmly crossed, hoping that Karl would ask me to post-produce the show.

“Well, I’d prefer you without oatmeal running down your leg,” he growled.

Indeed, oatmeal gruel was sliding down the pant leg of my Gap khakis like regurgitated breakfast. It wasn’t my fault—my alarm clock didn’t ring, I was vacuumed out of bed thanks to an especially keen janitor, then had to jog six flights of spiraling staircases with three five-pound camera batteries in my back-pack, my walkie-talkie bouncing off a pant loop and Quaker Oats sludge in my palm because God forbid I miss a meal.

Grant walked up to Karl just as Karl pointed out my ineptness.

“Did you want to see me?” he said to Karl, a smile ready for both of us.

“You two are a team,” Karl chirped as he looked at Grant. “Good luck with her.”

With the soft early morning light hitting him just so, Grant appeared nearly holy. (I had a thing about men and sunbeams.) I stood there, the perfect embodiment of bush league: a stain on my only clean outfit, my face on the puffy side from three weeks of imbibing, and my butt squished into my now snug khakis, all thanks to a rash of emotionally charged binges.

“I’m just going to dump this,” I said to Grant while fondling my oatmeal cup and gesturing toward the garbage can, hoping he wouldn’t stare rump-side as I turned to walk away.

“I’ll be here,” he replied.

I couldn’t believe it. Partnered with him—finally—and it was the end of the show.

A lot had happened since my lusty evening with Grant. Alex and I had continued back and forth to each other’s rooms: we had a few dinners and late nights, rolled around a bit, talked a lot. But it wasn’t the same. Grant was on my mind, especially when I was with Alex. I didn’t know which one I liked better: the quietly handsome creature of the sea, or the swaggering Mr. Hollywood. I didn’t even know if I had a choice. But there was one thing I knew for sure. This dilemma had pretty much thrown Craig into the Land of the Forgotten.

Grant smiled a confident smile and finished unwrapping his cables with glorious precision. I turned fifty shades of red, and probably my signature purple, sidestepping to the garbage bin. What should I tell him? My heart pounded as if I had just sprinted the length of a football field. What should I say to the guy I think I slept with, who seemed really sincere, but I couldn’t be sure because I didn’t really know him.

Aside from a few awkward cafeteria encounters, we had barely talked since he’d seen my bare ass. He’d called a few times and left messages. But I purposely returned his calls when I knew he was working, leaving borderline whiny voicemails about my busy schedule and how I spent my downtime resting.

I wanted him to know now why I’d previously avoided him. How I felt like a tramp for getting so drunk and showing up at his door and God knows what else. How Alex had found me first and I was confused and perhaps even rebounding. How I couldn’t date two guys at once and shouldn’t have been dating even one guy—not on location, and not on the job. And that he was probably a better catch than Alex, but that none of that mattered because this show was a big deal for my career, and ultimately that was what mattered.

“So, Grant,” I said, ready to launch into an intimate moment amidst thirty gossip-loving crew members, and a half-mile band of 400 watt chimeras lighting the castle roof-top like a Christmas tree. A flock of very loud mechanical birds swirled above our heads, and a nasty breeze was blowing stray hairs between my teeth every second or so. “I wanted to tell—”

“So,” interrupted Grant’s smart-ass camera assist, “what’s the story, Miss Director? Where do you want us? Cause I got this big ole cameraman to take care of. Know what I mean?” The assistant chuckled. So did Grant.

“Oh, okay.” I was totally disappointed that I’d lost my private moment with Grant. “So, um, here’s the plan. . .”

I addressed Grant and his team—the camera assist and the audio guy—attempting not to sound like a sorority girl out for a good time. “We load into the chopper with Dagmar and Dominic. Just follow them in. Grant, roll on everything because Karl’s not going to give us time to set up our shots.”

“Got it,” Grant said, nodding his head, then suddenly looking annoyed.

“Hey, babe.” Alex grabbed my shoulders from behind. “Hey, guys.” He gestured to my crew.

Crap! Not in front of Grant! I inched away from Alex. Grant ignored my small gesture of devotion, unaware it was for him. He loaded a tape into his camera and found his position near the chopper.

“Have a good time,” Alex said as he winked at me. “It’s show time!”

Alex turned toward me as he walked away and signaled for me to call him. I nodded nervously, then scanned my periphery to see if Grant had noticed. Our eyes met. Busted! Grant plopped the camera on his shoulder with forced indifference.

Before I could internalize my unfortunate outing and run through the sorry details in my head, my phone buzzed with two new texts:

1. Yo JK: Something to tell you. + Met hot guy last night @ Hollywood bash. Actor dum-dum. Yours, Toni

2. Call me! Have to tell you something very important. And, surprise—Naomi got us tix to the Grammys! Did she tell you? Toni

“Hello?” I heard Toni’s groggy voice answer on the other end. She sounded far away.

“It’s Jane. I can’t talk long,” I said, over-enunciating, as if actually communicating from across an ocean. “We’re about to start shooting. What’s so important?”

After an earful of Toni berating me for getting my time zones mixed up (she had sent the messages two days ago) and calling her at three o’clock in the morning, she gave me the news. I kept my eye on Karl to make sure I wouldn’t miss anything. As it stood, we were waiting for the royals to make their exalted appearance.

“I was at a party with my friends from The Single Guy and Craig was there,” Toni began. “You’ll never believe this. He might be next season’s Single Guy! They’re actually considering him! They were testing him out at the party to watch him socially,” Toni said with disgust.

All of a sudden, my Grant/Alex drama seemed trivial. Soaked in a wave of despair, I silently considered the possibilities. He told me the break-up was about his career! Now he wants to find a wife on national TV on that ridiculous show The Single Guy?

“Jane! You there? Answer. I had to tell you before you got home. I didn’t want you to hear it from anyone else. You okay?”

“Yeah, I’m okay,” I said, my bubble fully burst, but still attempting to disguise my shame.

“Jane. Jane! Don’t think for a second that he’s replacing you because he can’t! He’s doing it for the fame. It’s a career move. The guy’s a world-class opportunist and you know it. Truth is the poor slob is probably broke and needs the break.”

“Uh-huh,” I said, thinking—no, knowing—that I didn’t measure up. Me, Miss Hollywood Producer, was not good enough, and never would be good enough, for the very flawed, very opportunistic Adventure Boy. Even on my list of Craig pros and cons, where the cons outnumbered the pros five to one, all the pros were such superficial things as “he’s hot, he’s buff, he’s sexy”—wasn’t enough to soothe my pain. Every ounce of insecurity flooded through my body. I felt stupid, shallow, helpless.

“Jane, he’s not worth it!” Toni insisted. “Listen, from what you’ve been saying in your e-mails, you’ve got your choice of two awesome guys. Both way better than Craig. Girls would kill to be in your shoes. You’re so lucky!”

I couldn’t help but be mad at Toni for springing this on me. But I shooed away any thoughts of single-white-female anger and opted for self-pity instead.

“I know. You’re right. I am lucky, and much better off without him.” I said it not because I believed it, but to appease Toni, and maybe to pull myself together again.

“Plus, we’re going to the Grammys. . . thanks to Naomi! She had her assistant send us tickets in the mail. Isn’t that awesome? I wonder if she’s doing it for everyone in the company or just us.”

“That’s great,” I said, unable to appreciate the favor.

And before I had a chance to brood over my new reality— that I might be seeing Craig’s mug all over my prized television screen, and that the man who I once hoped would be the Brad to my Angelina, could be in line to marry someone else—Karl called for places. Dagmar and Dominic were about to exit the castle.

“Cameras speeding? Come on, guys, we only do this once! Red team? You good?” Karl waited a second for Grant’s reply. “And. . . action!”



Production Notes for Dagmar and Dominic’s Overnight to Paris



Helicopter arriving, limo pick-up, drive through Arc de Triomphe

Talent at the Eiffel Tower, view of Paris, kissing, fans milling

Talent with exclusive designers. Show at least five dresses for montage

Dominic, the happy hubby, waiting patiently—in dressing room lounge

Talent over candle-lit dinner, toasting, Champagne

Talent night on town at Moulin Rouge, etc.



“I’m bored,” Dagmar said as some preppy French girl in a nautical t-shirt and navy-blue silk gauchos ran behind the curtain for extra pins. “Is this thing hideous?” She looked at me, with her breasts full-frontal and the dress slipping further south to reveal her nakedness.

Grant was rolling tape. Secretly, I hoped he wasn’t turned-on by her near-perfect model-esque appearance. Maybe she looks skeletal through that tiny window. Maybe she’s blurry. Maybe she’s invisible because of the mirror in the lens, as any good vampiress would. This was our fourth stop on the wedding dress whirlwind: the House of Givenchy.

“Well,” she demanded, “hideous or not?”

“Dagmar, you’ve got to stop addressing me,” I said in my nicest really-I-love-you-and-I’m-just-saying-this-because-I-have-to voice. “We’re rolling. I’m not here.”

“Whatever,” she said, sneering at me. “Dom!” she called. “Come see this dress. It’s hideous!”

Dominic was lounging storefront with a glass of Krug’s Clos du Mesnil (his Champagne of preference) and being fawned over by women so thin they were transparent. From what I could gather, he was more famous in France than in the States. By contrast, few of the French recognized Dagmar and it was pissing her off. Naturally, I worked this in as a funny little bit for the storyline.

We waited for the pin lady to fix her dress. About ten minutes earlier, Dagmar had thrown a conniption when she discovered the designer had gone home for the day. She loathed being waited on by other people’s slaves. But it was her fault. We were more than two hours behind schedule because we had to check into a hotel so she could use the bathroom. “Dagmar don’t do public restrooms. ” This wee inconvenience only cost the production 850 euros. Unbeknownst to us, she and Dominic polished off the entire mini-bar and decided to have a catnap while we waited in the lobby.

Normally, I would have snatched the opportunity for some alone time with Grant, but with his mega-chatty camera assist and his audio mixer attached to his hip, three was definitely not company.

The dress was hideous, but in an exotic sort of way, like a Madagascan Aye-aye or a platypus. The neck was a wreath of silver twigs with amethyst jewels speckling like tiny rosebuds. Sparkling branches sprawled across her chest like skinny, white-witch fingers. The actual dress, which had yet to connect to the branches, was made of hybrid silk that looked spun by the spider herself, with diamonds connecting the intricate spokes and an infinite number of orbs of stupefying detail. But crazier than that was Dagmar’s absolute lack of appreciation for the craftsmanship and infernal creativity that had gone into making something so exceptionally chic.

“The designer has decided to come back to meet you,” the preppy French girl explained with a thick accent. “Can I get you a drink while you wait?”

Dagmar slumped onto her britches. “No, I need to nap. Tell him to hurry.”

I gave Grant the “cut” sign and motioned for him to follow me into the common room. Dagmar needed some time alone.

Dominic was still hanging out with the glow-girls and tossing back glasses of 300 bucks a bottle Champagne, another production expense that, instead of being dumped down his throat like piss water, could have gone to improving our craft service snacks. The Lay’s potato chips and Heath bars, flown in bulk from the U.S. mainland, were not cutting it anymore.

Grant exited the room looking as if he was in agony and motioned for his assistant to grab the camera from him. He began kneading his shoulder with his opposite hand and cringed from the pain of carrying 35 pounds on his shoulder for the last five weeks. Before I could leap obediently from my stark white rubber space chair to help him, someone beat me to it.

“You in pain, man?” Dominic asked Grant, looking awfully snug in Grant’s personal space.

“Yeah, it’s my shoulder. I’ve been operating eight days straight now, so it’s getting kind of worked,” Grant said, sounding hunkier than ever, even as he whined.

Apparently, I wasn’t the only one who thought so.

“Really? Well, let me take a crack at it.” Dominic looked earnest.

And before Grant could get a word in, Dominic dug his thumbs into Grant’s shoulder blades for a little boy-on-boy massage.

“Dude, that’s okay.” Grant glanced at me uncomfortably, with one of those “help-me” looks. “It’s not that bad. I just need to—”

“No, seriously, I’m good at this. Relax. You American boys— you’re so uptight.” Dominic kept massaging, his accent coming on thick.

Dominic was no American boy. He was some rich Italian kid linked in some way to royalty. How exactly? No one really cared. All that mattered was that he was dating Dagmar, and that it could have been serious—marriage serious. That was it. This show wasn’t about history or depth or anything even remotely intelligent. It was, as Karl had put it, “a voyeuristic sideshow for the drooling masses.” And I was just doing my job.

Still on break, and after a few minutes of what actually looked to be semi-therapeutic, Grant relaxed. So did the rest of us. I was thinking I could use a massage, too. Where do I line up? Then, just as all of us were getting comfortable with the fact that Dominic was trying to help our dear, sweet, handsome hunk of a cameraman, Dominic whispered something into Grant’s ear. Slowly, and ever so carefully, his hand drifted down, down, down, and he goosed Grant. Gross!

“F*ck you, dude,” Grant said. Pushing Dominic into a rack of shoes, our camera man seemed poised for a knock-down drag-him-out session with Bi-Boy.

“Hey, man, it’s all good,” Dominic said, brushing it all off with a nervous giggle. “You American men are so square.”

He couldn’t decide whether to be his signature smug self, or frightened for what scraps would soon remain of his manhood. Grant tightened his fist and reached back, ready to deliver a grand sacking. I shut my eyes out of fear for Dominic, but secretly hoped Grant would pound the bejeweled crap out of him. Just then, Princess Dagmar came barreling out of the change room with the $90,000 dress around her ankles, luminous branches draped around her neck, and a flesh-colored panty in between. She took one look at the scene and gasped.

“You sick mother f*cker son of a bitch!” she shrieked, tearing the silver branches from her neck and attempting to stab them at Dominic’s eyeballs. “It’s over! F*ck you!”

Dagmar lifted a three thousand dollar trench coat off the rack, threw it around her shoulders, and ran out the door screeching expletives.

We all stood blinking in horror.

I hesitated, thinking.

“Follow her!” I soon yelled to Grant, as if his very manhood hadn’t just been assaulted. “Grab the damn camera!”

Within seconds, we were chasing Dagmar down the streets of Paris. Camera rolling. Dominic and dogs in tow, like real hounds released into the wild. I couldn’t believe it—a full-on sprint!

Grant was leading the pack with a 35-pound monolith on his shoulder and rolling at the same time. His audio mixer wasn’t far behind with a boom pole, like a spear, clearing the way through startled crowds. The camera assist was leaping small children with a forty-pound backpack and two camera bricks. After about eleven minutes of racing and weaving through traffic, people, statues, and fountains, we saw Dagmar dive into a taxi. For about another ten seconds, the guys thought it a brilliant idea to do a foot-chase after her taxi.

Noooooooo!

About a full minute later, I jogged up to my team as they stood hyperventilating on a street corner.

“We can’t catch her,” Grant panted, gasping for breath.

“We tried,” I heaved, my lungs raw from the chase.

No way in hell was I running any more, even if we could catch her. I, for one, liked my lungs and wanted to keep them inside my body, where they belonged. In my entire life, I had never run so fast. I buckled over, my hands placed firmly on my knees to get air. I thought I might puke. Then, when Dominic walked up, I thought Grant might puke. Dagmar’s European boyfriend was actually a bi-friend, and not a very good one at that.

“Sorry, man,” he said, looking at Grant. “Guess the show is over,” he said, half-laughing and hailing a cab.

“Where are you going?” I said to Dominic. I was coughing and still catching my breath.

“Nothing left for me here,” and Dominic jumped into the cab without waving good-bye.

“Your dogs?” I said, pointing to the rabid little rodents on the sidewalk as they frothed from the only real walk/run of their lives.

“Give them to their bitch,” Dominic said coolly.

With a wave of indifference, he was gone.