Reality Jane

On a brisk, sunny Los Angeles morning, Toni picked me up at the airport, over-the-top excited to have me back. We had “catching up to do.” In her mind, that meant several nights of consuming bone-dry martinis, chain-smoking in musty, cave-like nightclubs, and picking up twenty-year-old hotties driving Escalades.

At LAX, awaiting the arrival of my baggage, Toni took one look at Grant, then one look at me, then another look at the two of us, and her balloon began to slowly deflate. She would now be sharing me.

“Have you slept with him yet?” she asked matter-of-factly.

“Actually, no. Not sure we’re ready yet.” I had no intention of spoiling what Grant and I had together by blabbing about it.

“If the sex sucks, the relationship sucks. How do you know you like him?”

“Toni, I like him. . . a lot.”



I pulled my sweater tighter as Toni peeled away from the curb at the airport, the roof of her Beemer convertible tucked neatly into its compartment, the breeze whipping my hair onto my face.

“What if he has a small shlong? That’s grounds for Dumpsville,” she said, wagging her finger at me, completely certain of the truth behind her statement.

“He doesn’t,” I said.

“What about Alex-hotty-host? You like him. You should give him a chance!”

“He’s done,” I said, wondering if that was true.

“Why? What happened?” Toni’s face contorted in disappointment. “I’ve been prancing around here, proud of your scandalous behavior. And now you’ve gone all goody two-shoes on me and settled for just one man? Oy! I give up.”

“Well, first, he has a girlfriend. And, second, I heard from one of the chambermaids that she’s like eighteen.”

“So?”

“So, he’s like thirty-six.”

“So? And what the hell does a chambermaid know?” Toni grunted. “Next thing you know, you’ll be consulting Star magazine for stock tips. Anyway, you should at least confront him before you dump him,” she said as we sped down Lincoln Boulevard toward my apartment.

It had all happened so fast. The show ended—or should I say collapsed—in Paris after Dominic leapt out of the closet. Grant, the boys, the mutts, and I were picked up in a van about an hour later and driven back to base camp, where an emergency meeting was called. Grant and I were at the center of it, explaining in detail our ridiculous day. The after-party, which at this point was all I really cared about, was about to become an after-thought, when Naomi decided to end the show on a high note and broke the bank with an elaborate bash featuring endless amounts of booze. This is where I discovered Alex’s duplicity. Mid-shot, the sleazy French maid, who had had her eye on Grant, revealed that Alex and she were “amis,” and that he had told her all about his 18-year-old Slovakian model-girlfriend who lived in Milan hauling in $3,000 a day, and that they were still together. I wanted to slap him, but I couldn’t—he’d already caught a plane back to LA for a gig starting the next day.

This was not altogether horrible. I still had Grant, and Grant was certainly no consolation prize. Before hearing any of the Alex-related rumors, I had been leaning toward Grant as the man to choose. Our van ride back from Paris put me over the top. He was scrumptious, and very much a gentleman. Plus, he was the commitment type. I could just tell. He and I sat alone in the backseats while the other two crew members, up front, played video games, the heirs’ pooches Tofu and Steak nestled blissfully on their laps. It was probably the happiest those dogs had ever been—they weren’t stuffed into a purse or choking on dried sea-kelp doggy bones.

Finally, with some alone time, Grant and I got to know each other. He told me about his surf trips, his three years in Chile on an oregano farm, his family, his start in the biz, working his way up the ranks as a camera tech, and now owning and running a small company with a full set of camera gear and lighting equipment. There was nothing about him I didn’t like. Not one single red flag appeared.

At one point during the drive, he stopped to let one hand drift across my chin, while the other pulled my body tight against his. I’d forgotten whether or not he was a good kisser—I couldn’t remember from our drunken night together. But in this pristine moment, in the back of a white crew van, it was all coming back to me: his gentle touch, his meandering kiss. It was sexy and intimidating, and probably wrong to let it happen here in the van, with people and dogs only inches away. But I acquiesced, hoping the rattle of a van, bouncing on its hinges, would drown out the sound of our kisses.

“More,” I whispered, unveiling my sultriest tone.

Grant pressed his lips against my ear and communicated to me in an exquisite fusion of kissing, breath, and whispers. I soaked it all in. After much smacking and twisting, we finally pulled away and stared at each other, cheeks touching, my legs resting on his. Content.

After the show ended, Grant and I spent two extra weeks touring France. With Craig, for the most part, replaced, and Alex mostly forgotten, I had in Grant a man who was better than any before him. Now, my only issue was that itty-bitty thing called a career.

As far as I could tell, I was unemployed. Karl had already lined up his producers for the edit suite, and I hadn’t talked to Naomi in ages. She had been too busy.

The honeysuckle glistened as Toni pulled her car into the driveway of my sunny one-bedroom. For the first time ever, Los Angeles felt like home and not some temporary stopover. I couldn’t wait to settle in and have a little girl-talk with Toni while sipping wine on the porch.

As I dragged my bags up the front walk, the phone rang. I stopped to suck in the moist salt air—we were a mere seven blocks from the beach.

Never one to miss a call, Toni fumbled to get the key in the door as quickly as she could, and ran to grab my phone. “Jane, it’s for you,” she said, disappointed.

“Who else would it be for?” I laughed.

I gently placed the phone on my ear and gave a soft “hello,” assuming it was Grant calling to say that he missed me already.

“J. . . a. . . n. . . e?” the caller said in a high-pitched drawl, the grating hum of an eleven-year-old boy entering puberty. “How are you, Sugar Blossom?” It was Danny. “I have great news. Karl wants you to produce the wedding! I’ll be supervising to make sure everything’s perfect! I’m so excited.”

Supervising?

“What wedding? How did. . .? Are you. . .?”

Danny, please tell me you’re not suddenly my boss!

I cleared my throat in an attempt to understand. “So, wait. . .” I was about to launch into the whole supervising thing. Then it dawned on me.

“Dagmar and Dominic are still Quitsville, right?”

“Honey,” he said condescendingly, “Sally and Matt. The assistants. One of the surveillance guys, in an act of brilliance, recorded them the entire month in France. We’ve got reams of footage of the little lovebirds together. So Karl persuaded Matt to propose to Sally, and now the network wants to pay for their wedding. It’s a great twist for our show. We have our happy ending. It’s the big payoff.”

“What?”

“Yeah, the network saw our killer surveillance footage and dished out a million dollars for the wedding. For. . . the. . . rights! It’s going to be a two-hour special that airs after our last episode.”

“A million dollars?” I said, still stumbling over my words. I was completely floored. “Two-hour special?”

First of all, it was my “act of brilliance” that had recorded the two little lovebirds. Second, who gets a million dollars and two hours of primetime to tie the knot just for showing up? I wanted to say all this, but nothing came out.

“Yes, my little French Fry. Those two assistants are now millionaires, and soon to be famous millionaires at that. CRP-TV believes that, once the Dagmar show is a hit, people will be fawning all over their two assistants. They’re going to steal the show! Karl says the various networks will come to blows over the chance to air their wedding. Now, no one can touch it. It’s all ours. Anyhoo, babe, are you in?”

“Uh, well, I just, I’m not. . .” I couldn’t. Only in Hollywood could these things happen: a glitzy over-the-top wedding for two former assistants, and Danny, suddenly, my SUPERVISING PRODUCER!

“Sweet Cheeks, whaddya say?” Danny whined. “I need an answer today!”

The idea of Danny as my boss made rubbing balsa wood up and down my naked chest sound pleasant. But somehow, I said yes. My student loan wasn’t about to pay itself off.

“Peachy. Can’t wait!”

Click.





Sun guns and flash bulbs blasted the side of my face. Row upon row of cameramen and reporters pressed tightly against the long velvet rope, thousands of lenses pointed in my direction. It was my first time on one of Hollywood’s illustrious red carpets. My knees buckled. It was the Grammys.

Is this what fame feels like? I thought, smiling large for the band of paparazzi and tossing my hair so curls framed my face. I probably should have been ducking somewhere near the limos, or chauffeuring one, but I couldn’t help but revel in this small taste of fame.

“Someone get that blonde out of the shot?” a producer barked.

“Moi?” I said sheepishly, glancing side-to-side to help grumpy-producer-man find his real target.

Justin Timberlake stopped to talk to E! while I hovered over his shoulder in awe, catching my reflection in the frame of someone’s wide-angle lens.

“Jane, this is crazy! They think we’re celebrities,” Toni beamed, probably believing it.

Usher brushed my shoulder in a full-court strut down the red-rug runway. I sidled up to him. With all the pappa-nazis yelling at him, he hardly noticed the extra body moving in stride with his. I was just about to snap his photo when his publicist bulldozed me.

“Ouch!” I bellowed into my kneecaps, picking my purse up off the ground. “You could say sor—”

“Let’s go, babe.” Naomi popped out of nowhere, linking one of her elbows in mine and the other in Toni’s, racing us away from Usher’s entourage through a sea of celebrities. “Okay, girly-girls, keep abusing your tickets and I’ll put you in the nose-bleeds.”

“But Naomi, I just heard Ryan Seacrest ask who we were!”

“And I’m Jenny from the block,” Naomi teased as she straightened her black blazer to fit her cleavage and flipped her chocolate brown hair off to the side of her curvy body. “Fifth row. Got it? I’ll catch up with you after the show.” She lightly shoved us into the Staples Center and toward the attendants. “Please help them to their seats. I don’t want them getting lost, again!” Naomi winked and quickly disappeared down the long corridor, en route to her boyfriend backstage, bigwig YBC exec Hank Griffin, who was the real reason we were all here.

“We’ll miss you!” I crooned in her direction while the usher began guiding us down the stairs with a flashlight.



We were barely fifteen minutes into the show and I was shifting madly from cheek to cheek. Fortunately, the Grammy soundtrack flooded the Staples Center auditorium, signaling a commercial break. Fingers clutching the armrest, I lurched from my seat, sprinted up the stairs with forearms folded to contain a bloated belly, and scrambled to the bathroom, praying to God to wire me a new bladder and somehow get me back to my seat before the start of the next number.

En route, Naomi instant-messaged me:

Bono’s next. Amazing! You gals hav’g fun?

Peeing!—Jane

Spaz!;) Don’t miss Bono!

It was my first Hollywood awards show. In my whole life, the closest I’d ever come to an event this big, or this cool, was an AC/DC concert in Edmonton. When the bells chimed and Angus Young began screeching Hell’s Bells, I couldn’t have imagined anything more exciting than sparking up my lighter. And as I swayed side-to-side in a pair of zip-around jeans and black concert t-shirt, it all felt so meaningful.

Despite having just two-and-a-half minutes to pee, fluff my hair, and race back, I made it back by a millisecond. The Grammys’ ushers had already placed a seat-filler into my chair—she looked so excited. Toni and I were fifth row center and thinking ourselves quite special, surrounded by A-list celebrities and rock stars.

“Excuse me, Miss.” I gestured respectfully for Ms. Filler to get up and out of my seat in the half-second before the show resumed. “I’m back.” I looked at her sympathetically.

She slipped out inconspicuously while I nearly took Snoop Dog’s foot out allowing her to leave. Toni was leaning sideways, trying to eavesdrop on the man who owned Purr Magazine, Brock Barrington, one row up and to the right.

“It’s pretty juicy,” she whispered. “Apparently, Brock is pissed. During the commercial break, when his three Kitten girfriends went to the bathroom, they put seat-fillers in their chairs. Then he kicked the fillers—three, you know, regular looking girls, dressed nice—out of their seats because, he said, “I don’t do dogs. I do Kittens!”

“Say what?” I responded in shock.

“Yeah, he’s a total a*shole. And he’s old enough to be Grandpa to those porn stars.”

“Speaking of porn stars, I wonder how our little Lucy’s doing,” I said, leaning into Toni’s ear.

During my time in France, Naomi and Karl had the network’s legal department fire Lucy. They were able to prove that, because of her complete lack of professionalism, she was legally unable to fulfill her contract—there were at least two hours of temper tantrums caught on tape to back their claim up.

In the meantime, Naomi’s production company was on fire, with three reality shows in production at the same time. Naomi could barely keep up. To boot, she now had this famous mover and shaker boyfriend. I knew very few of the details. With all the Dagmar drama in France, Naomi and I barely had a moment for girl-talk, and hence hadn’t had our post-shoot chat.

Our Grammy tickets were a guilt gift from Naomi for ignoring her favorite Canadian protégé. Toni told me the tickets were free thanks to her highfalutin’ Hollywood exec boyfriend. Didn’t matter. I was just happy to be there.

“Shhh!” Toni whispered, pointing toward someone emerging from a shadow stage right. “It’s Bono! I love him.”

“Me, too,” I said, completely awed. I could practically touch him. “Do you think he’ll be at the after party? How cool would that be?”

“Jane, quiet!” She pinched my hand.

Toni wore a tight-fitting, copper-colored, floor-length gown that squeezed in her ’50s bombshell curves. She also looked very old Hollywood with her deep-set eyes and ample breasts. It wasn’t until my move to LA that I felt the need to classify women’s boobs. Now, it was part of just about every description, like: “Oh yeah, she’s nice, about 5’5’, red hair, fake boobs.” Toni’s brassy brown-blonde hair sprouted funky tentacles from her French roll. It was the kind of hairdo that either took hours of painstaking assembly, or two minutes, a bobby-pin, and a shot of tequila. With Toni, which one was anyone’s guess.

“Quit fidgeting.” Toni bumped me. “What are you doing? Your dress looks fine. God, this woman is amazing!”

Beyoncé was onstage, accepting her Grammy.

“It’s caught on my underwear,” I said. “Damn! Shouldn’t have worn these stupid. . . They’re snagging my dress. On the crotch!” I pulled my dress from where its sequins had velcroed to my underwear. “This is why women used to wear slips,” I whispered, attempting to straighten the run that afflicted my scant nylon swath. “Whatever happened to slips anyway? Do people still wear them?”

“They’re called Spanx! And I’m trying to listen!”

Despite a few snags below the belly button, I was looking satisfyingly Hollywood for a relative newbie. Toni had convinced me to wear one of my mom’s retro gowns I’d snuck from her dress storage last time I was home. The gown was slinky green nylon with a psychedelic gold pattern. It fit snugly, with a bold slit that zoomed high-thigh, a back that plunged past the curve of my spine, and halter ties that swung over my shoulders and trickled toward my rump. It was groovy. And thanks to its retro authenticity, it looked like a dress any of these rock stars or their dates could have worn.

“Hey, Toni, Antonio Banderas checked me out on my way back from the can. I put an extra hip-check in my walk just for him,” I giggled.

“Isn’t he like 100 now?” Toni poked me and belted out her signature laugh.

“I don’t care,” I swooned. “Ever since Mambo Kings and the way he crooned ‘Beautiful Maria.’ Yum!”

“Too funny. Did Melanie see?” Toni asked.

“Hope not,” I gushed. “They’ll probably be at the after party.”



None of the big stars from the Grammys were at YBC’s after party. So much for “Jane and Toni: Celebrity Insiders!” Somebody said they all went to the Vanity Fair party at Chateau Marmont. It was apparently the party to go to, but without some celebrity connection, we didn’t stand a chance of getting past security.

“That one—grab me that one.” I pointed while nudging Naomi. My plate was too full to add anything else.

“Just eat it,” Naomi said, stuffing a pink glazed chocolate truffle into my mouth. It looked like a Christmas ornament with a delicate and edible chocolate treble clef teetering on its center. “I need the room for that hazelnut thingy on my plate.”

Naomi dug into the pile of intricately decorated hedgehogs, which were surrounded by shelves of crystal and ivy. On the other side sat a giant chocolate fountain, burbling Belgian’s finest. Being with Naomi, here at the Grammys, momentarily reminded me of our time in Mexico. She had been relaxed there.

“They need bigger plates,” I sneered, stacking another pink treble-clef truffle on my overloaded plate.

“We should find Toni,” Naomi said as we shuffled past endless buffets of food. “And my boyfriend,” Naomi said, laughing as if she didn’t really care if we did or not. “By the way, how’s it going with Danny and our wedding special? I’ve been under a pile of legal mumbo-jumbo developing this new game show pilot for ABC.”

“Another new show?”

“Jane, honey, we’re always pitching,” she said in her best mentoring voice. “This biz is pitch or plummet. And I’ve got to make my millions before 50!”

“You’re my idol,” I said to Naomi, toasting her with my glass. “Can I be you?”

“Don’t get all sucky on me,” Naomi said, never one to hang on a compliment. “Now, how’s my wedding special coming along?”

“You know, it’s busy.” I tried to read Naomi to see if I could tell her what I really thought of Danny as my boss. Truth was, after two months under his control, I wanted to poke my eyeballs out. I did all the work! Could I tell the boss that her right-hand man was a right-hand phony and, if so, how? I also wanted to tell her that it was thanks to me that we had the secret footage of Sally and Matt in the first place.

“And?” Naomi pushed.

I readied myself for the big reveal, “Well, you know, Naomi, those late nights working the surveillance cameras in France, I really got my sea legs, and when I saw this side story blooming—”

“Jane, you don’t need to tell me,” Naomi interrupted. “I always knew you were a talent. You were my strongest producer in France. I noticed. You’re best when you’re face to face with the subjects. That’s your strength.”

“Thanks, Naomi.” I shrugged my shoulders, anxious to finish. “I know it was months ago now, but I just thought you should know. I was the one who told the cameras to film Sally and—”

“Great, Jane. There’s Toni!” Naomi wrapped her arm around me, abruptly ending the conversation.

Having missed my window, I decided to drop the discussion. The show had wrapped in France nearly three months ago, and had been on the air for a few weeks now—to huge numbers— and Naomi clearly appreciated me and probably knew my contribution already. Besides, with about a month left on the wedding project, I would soon be through with Danny, through with Snookums and Sarcasm and, if I had my way, onto bigger and better things with Ricky Dean.

Toni, never big on sweets, was gorging on the salmon mousse, then flitting between the pâté and foie gras. “Which room next?” Toni said, looking blankly at us, salmon cream on her nose.

It was the ultimate in decadence. Everyone dressed to the nines. B-list and pseudo-celebs criss-crossing in the grand hallways of the Biltmore, shifting from room to room, dabbing their lips and sipping drinks, their vertical pinkies obtained from open bars around every corner. There were at least ten rooms to choose from, each with its own theme party: the Cuban room with a saucy band ticking out a rumba, the French room with bellowing horns, and of course the Mexican room.

I showed my enthusiasm for all things south of the border by being the first to belly up to the Tequila Luge. The polite waiter tried to guide me, but this was old hat for me. In a rather unladylike stance, I fell back onto the chair, positioned my face just so, wrapped my lips around the spout, and proceeded to swiftly suck back the equivalent of three shots of Patrón from the foot of a gigantic totem-pole ice-sculpture.

“Ah,” I slurped, wiping my lips with my arm.

“Well done,” said Hank, applauding my efforts.

Naomi giggled at me as she cuddled comfortably in her boyfriend’s shoulders.

“Wow, Hank Griffin! Nice to meet you!” I said, suddenly making the connection between YBC’s chief and the launch of its much anticipated Fix Your Life show. “You must be very busy with Ricky Dean.”

“Well, aren’t you on top of the industry buzz? In fact, we are,” he beamed. “It’ll be our biggest daytime talk show yet.”

“I so admire Ricky Dean. He’s brilliant,” I said, trying to impress Hank. “If I could produce on any show, it’d be Fix Your Life. I’d actually feel as if I was making a difference in the world, helping people. Not like this reality pap we’ve been doing.”

Naomi cocked her head in surprise.

I began a swift back-pedal. “Don’t get me wrong. It’s great. I mean, Naomi’s a genius. I’ve learned so much. It’s just. . . apples and oranges. You can’t compare.”

“Enough business talk,” Naomi said coldly.

“Well, young lady,” said Hank, who hadn’t caught the nuance, “they’ll be hiring producers in the next month or so. Toss your resumé in.”

“Oh, uh, thank you, Hank,” I said, feeling a bit like a traitor. “I’m actually busy producing the wedding of the decade now. Right, Naomi? It’ll be another surefire ratings winner for you.”

And before I could apologize properly, Naomi yanked Hank off to another conversation.

“Come on, Jane, free sashimi downstairs.” Toni grabbed my arm.

“Huh?” I said, feeling like an ass. “Did I just screw up a friendship? I’ve hardly spent any time with Naomi and I go and say that!”

“Forget friendship. What about your career?” Toni laughed. “She’s like your job ATM. Cha-ching. Next!”

“What?” I shivered at the thought. “You serious?”

“No. Don’t be silly. Naomi doesn’t care,” Toni said convincingly. “She loves us. And you’re great at what you do, so don’t worry.”

I nodded, knowing Toni didn’t get it. Naomi and I had something different together. She was more than just a boss; she was a mentor and a friend. Naomi had taken me under her wing and made things happen for me, even when she wasn’t around. She cared. And I needed to respect that.

“The sushi isn’t going to swim to you,” said Toni, nudging me down the stairs.

On the lower level was a disco with two giant sushi kiosks, and a crowd of pretty people whirling their hips to the music. I recognized a few of them from reality shows. They looked awkward in their new-found fame, nervously shoulder-checking to see who was watching them or if anyone wanted an autograph.

Suddenly, beside the dance floor, a commotion broke out near a news camera. Toni and I angled for a better view.

“Oh. . . my. . . God,” Toni slurred. “It’s Craig!”

“What?” I nearly choked on the yellowtail.

“Craig’s being interviewed by Celebrity Watch Television!” Toni cried.

“And not just CWT!” I gulped. “Dagmar.”

We pushed through bodies to get a proper look and listen.

“. . . and you, Dagmar, can call me The Craig,” Craig said, unleashing one of his dopey guffaws. “You know, like The Donald, only cooler.”

“So, you’re what they’re calling the adventure bachelor,” Dagmar said without any of the energy an entertainment reporter clone should bring to the table. “So what exactly does that entail?” Dagmar’s eyes seemed to glaze over in snobbishness.

“Basically, Dags, unlike the other Single Guys, I kick ass,” Craig said with another cheesy guffaw. “No, seriously, I’ll be taking the girls climbing, snow-boarding, heli-skiing, you name it, to determine which one is right for me. We’re stepping it up and she’s got to keep up. You want to go first?”

Her? No! I ski. I snowboard. I climb. Why wasn’t I good enough? Was it really possible that I was still brooding over this guy? No, Jane, stop it, my little voice said in desperation. It’s just the IDEA of Craig you like, not the actual Craig.

“The Craig?!” Toni gasped. “Is that clown for real? He’s worse than that cheese-ball Jake Pavelka!”

“He’s disgusting,” I said, though not sure I meant it.

“And what about Dagmar?” Toni laughed. “She’ll stop at nothing! Her own TV show and now CWT’s reporter? Gag. This better be a one-off—like they haven’t hired her, I hope.” Toni was lit up like a Tiki torch at a luau, excited to be frontline for all this TV gossip. “She really is a media whore, isn’t she?”

“I don’t feel so good,” I sulked. “Maybe we should leave.”

“Oh no you don’t!” Toni said defiantly. “To hell with him. Don’t even go there,” she said, grabbing my cheeks. “Remember, you’ve got Grant. And Alex!”

“Well, actually, Grant was supposed to call. It’s been almost a week and I haven’t—”

“Screw it! Let’s have some fun.” Toni licked her lips. “Hey, maybe those hotties from Outrageous Race are here.” She did a quick scan, ignoring me.

Who could blame her? I was tired of listening to me too. Craig was old news. Well, technically, he was new news, but old news for me.

“Ew, there’s Evan Merriott or whatever his name is,” Toni groaned. “I can’t believe he’s still on the scene. Ain’t his 15 minutes up? He’s with that drunky-drunk Bizarre Life girl,” she continued.

Toni knew every reality star since the genre had launched. To her, life began when reality TV began, in the year 2000, with Survivor Borneo, though I always said the genre was born earlier with MTV’s Real World.

“Now that’s a match made in the world of has-beens,” she said as we walked by Ewan. “Damn he’s cute, but I hear he’s dumb.” Toni was oblivious to the fact I was in my own world.

I was still self-consciously watching Craig. The light from the camera reflected off his hair like a golden halo. Girls were ogling him, hungry to get their claws in to him. I hoped he wouldn’t see me.

“There he is!” Toni said, pointing to some tall, dark-haired guy with a soul-patch and an earring. “It’s that babe from The Race!”

“Go for it,” I said, attempting to forget I had just seen Craig.

“No way,” she said, her cheeks turning rosy. “I can’t just approach him.”

“Since when are you shy?” I asked as she gave me one of her help-me-out pouts. “All right. Let’s get a drink and get this done.”

And that was that. Roger, last year’s winner from The Race, eventually waltzed up to the bar for a drink. Toni introduced herself. And they were locked in conversation. It was that simple, which was strange, because it was never that simple. Toni and her new pseudo-celebrity suitor were well on their way to something.

Meanwhile, I sat back with a Corona, alone, wondering if I should have stayed home, wondering why the hell Craig had to be here, and wondering why Grant hadn’t called me yet. Maybe I knew. On our last date, almost a week ago, he went straight home after dinner, didn’t even walk me to the door, and claimed “nothing was wrong.”

“Jane, let’s get out of here,” Toni said, catching her breath. “Let’s go have drinks at our place.” She nudged me as she did one of her cheesy growls: “Check out Roger’s friend Kyle. Well?”

On a scale of 1-10 of out-and-out poseurs, he was a ten.

“Well, what? I have a guy,” I said, not completely convinced I did.

Before I could decline or deny, Toni, Roger, some very-hot, way-too-young kid named Kyle, and I were standing curbside at the Grammy Party valet station, waiting for a guy in a red vest to bring my trusty 1991 Volvo around the loop.

I was dying. There we were, on the red carpet, a fountain spewing multi-colored water droplets in the shape of a swan, surrounded by beautiful people, while brand new Beemer after Beemer, and Mercedes after Mercedes, pulled up to carry guests away, while I waited for my boxy white rust-bucket. Remarkable it was still running. But to add to the spectacle, it had suddenly begun to burn blue smoke, which made for a lovely picture. Toni’s car, which was a Beemer and was nearly new, was in the shop—her power window switch broke yesterday morning.

“I could kill you for not having your car here,” I whispered to Toni.

“Who cares?” she said, eye-balling Roger. “No one will notice.”

The valet finally pulled my car up to the red carpet. Even he looked embarrassed.

“If it isn’t my favorite Canadian,” I heard from over my shoulder.

It was Craig, with his arm around some girl. But it was not just any girl. It was Dagmar, heiress extraordinaire and CWT’s newest famous face!

“This your car?” the valet said, looking at both me and Dagmar.

“Are you crazy?” Dagmar said, totally disgusted. “Did I just get teleported to India? Do people still drive cars like this in America?”

It was one of those moments when I wanted the earth to open up and swallow me whole. Make me invisible! I pleaded to God, or whoever would listen. At this point, I, like everyone else in this damned city, was more than ready to make a pact with the little red man below.

“Still got the Volvo, I see,” Craig teased.

“Craig, your friend’s wreck is blocking my limo,” Dagmar said, any remnant of her I’m-approachable façade clearly reserved for the TV camera lens. “Let’s get to Vanity Fair before I choke on these fumes,” she sneered.

“Good seeing you, Jane,” Craig smirked. “Call me sometime.”

He and Dagmar bent into the limo, driver et al. Dagmar hadn’t even recognized me! Could I be more of a L-O-S-E-R. A rocket ship couldn’t have gotten me out of there fast enough. These last few minutes felt like hours. They more than justified drinks.

Many.



I woke, still in my dress, covered in cat hair and sweat, and apparently swallowed up by the couch. The food truck rumbled by, tooting La Cucaracha, reminding the workers in the apartment building next door it was lunchtime. The clock said 11:35. I was thankful for the ocean breeze streaming in through the window, a temporary lift from the stench of rum (yes, rum, Captain Morgan) and stale cigarettes. Then, I felt it: a big fat foot lodged in my butt cheek. What in hell?

“Jane, Jane, look at this.” Toni scrambled out of my bedroom, waving my pillow. Then her face contorted at the sight of Kyle curled up with me on the couch.

“You didn’t—we didn’t. . .” I said sleepy-eyed, turning to Roger’s hunky friend.

He was a strappingly handsome, anything-but-naïve, 21-year-old fireman/model/actor, and he was lying beside me, half-naked in blue-striped boxers, looking inconceivably chiseled. It didn’t matter. He could have been Jude Law and I still would have felt that knot forming at the core of my belly, screaming “you whore” while images of Grant coursed up my brainstem.

“Could you please dislodge your foot from my ass?” I glared at him and his perfect boyish features—smooth, flawless skin; thick, kissable lips; long black eye-lashes curling out in a fan—and wondered how my night had gone so wrong.

“Morning, babe,” he said with a devilish grin.

Is he joking?

“Oh my God!” I said, finally noticing what Toni had run out to show me. It was my pillowcase, stained an unholy-looking orange flesh-tone. “Is that my friggin’ pillow? What did you do to it?”

Toni cracked up. “I don’t know, but you better come and see the sheets!”

I ran toward the bedroom, leaving Kyle in a pile on the couch.

“What the. . .? Was that dude wearing make-up? On his body?” We broke into a fit of laughter. “Gross!”

“Or tanning cream? Ew! I don’t even want to think about it!”

Apparently, Roger had already departed for an early morning audition. Toni had offered him breakfast before he left at 7:30, but he eats only egg whites—all I had were Tatertots. He left his card on her bedside table and a huge orange mess on my bed.

“You know, Toni, straight boys should never wear make-up. The world is not functioning as it should when straight boys wear foundation.” We giggled again.

“Where I come from, a straight boy with pancake make-up would get his face pancaked with a fist.”

“I guess the real question is, when straight LA boys wear make-up, how do we stay prettier than them?” I added.

Toni laughed, then dropped her head into her hands and moaned, “I’m such a loser.”

“Don’t be silly. He didn’t look like he wore make-up.” I tried not to laugh. “I mean, he was pretty cute.”

“Loser!” she cried.

“Do you think it’ll come out? I like those sheets.”

“It had to be tanning cream. His chest was like a bright orange color,” Toni yelled down the hallway. “And he was totally hairless, like he’d shaved. . . or waxed. Hey, Kyle, does Roger wear make-up? On his chest?”

We heard a groan from the couch. Guilt swept through me as I thought of Grant. Then, realizing I was still in my dress, and my undergarments were still intact, I felt slightly relieved.

Kyle walked into the bedroom to join us. On the back of his hair were mini-dusters, and his right cheek was prominently creased from the couch pillows. He looked like a teenager.

“I should probably go,” he said, trying to play it cool. “So, uh, your digits?”

Something about dating a guy who carries a mirror in his back pocket didn’t interest me. Then again, what if Grant really had changed his mind about me? What if I had been just a fling? What if I was destined to be alone for the rest of my life? Even the questions were depressing! And the mere sight of Craig had sent me slipping into self-demolition. Poor Grant. I don’t deserve a boyfriend. I suddenly felt stupid and immature. Girls back home were getting married and having babies, while I was single in LA and crashing out with my own boy baby.

“It’s okay,” I said, trying to lighten an awkward moment. “Not necessary.”

He bowed, did a half-wave, and walked out the door. I peered through the window to make sure he was gone. Toni giggled, waiting for me to join in on a good laugh, as if we could have carried on like this forever.

But I didn’t laugh. My face became serious. “We didn’t—”

“No, you didn’t,” she said, still smiling.

“So what then?” I asked earnestly.

“I don’t know,” Toni said blankly.

“Did I kiss him?”

“Not that I saw.”

“What did you see?”

“Nothing.”

“Come on! Spill!”

“It’s all good,” Toni said, sounding a bit riled.

“Come on, Toni! I kind of need to know if I just destroyed my relationship with Grant. I mean, I really like him!”

“Believe it or not, Jane, I was busy with my own thing.” Toni was now fully wound up. “It’s not always about you!”

“Who said it was?” I said, irritated. “I pick up the pieces whenever you get drunk, which is a helluva lot more often!”

“Fine. You want the truth?” Toni was now in my face. “You were too busy feeling sorry for yourself to even notice Kyle.”

“Really?” I said, fully relieved.

“Yeah, and crying into your drink about how Craig had dumped you, Alex had used you, and Grant was an MIA pecker-head, just like the rest of them.”

“I said all that?” I cringed, now backing off.

“Mm, hmm. Consider yourself lucky. You’ve got, or had, the choice between two awesome guys. Not even the hottest chicks in LA are so blessed! Every one of them’s looking for a decent guy, and this town has a massive shortage of them. Then there’s you with a goddamn horseshoe up your ass and you don’t even recognize it! You see Craig and get all blubbery. One look at that a*shole and you fall into the pits of despair! Frankly, it’s getting old.” Toni looked at me, her nostrils flaring.

“I’m sorry,” I said, relenting.

Toni exhaled forcefully.

“Toni, I’m sorry,” I said again. “I had no idea.”

“Well, now you do.” Toni softened her tone. “Let’s just forget about it. You know I love you.”

She reached over to hug me. I felt like an ass.

“Nothing like a little hangover to get our juices going.” I sighed into her ear as we hugged. “Thank you for being so honest.”

From that moment forward, I decided my life would be about two things: advancing my career and making good with Grant. No more sulking over losers or acting like an infant. Good-bye self-absorbed, insecure Jane. Hello successful, together Jane.

“Sorry about your sheets,” Toni giggled.

We grabbed our coffees and plunked ourselves onto the balcony lounge chairs. The sun poked through my angel trumpet while passing cars formed our morning backdrop.

“Do you think he’ll call?” Toni asked.

“Make-up boy? Do you want him to?” I said, surprised.

“I don’t know.” Toni sipped her coffee. “Hey, maybe we should move in together. What do you think?”

“Could be fun.” I smiled.

“Could be dangerous.” Toni winked.





Before moving to LA, the last place I thought I would ever work was the Sex Kitten Mansion, the so-called Purr Palace. But there I was, on a Sunday, two months after the Dagmar show launched to huge ratings, waiting, with my crew, for Sally—former assistant to Dagmar and otherwise known as Snookums—to arrive in her limo for her Purr Magazine semi-nude Hot Brides photo shoot, to be followed by a post-production party. It was another one of the many perks of co-starring on a CRP-TV reality show. Thanks to my diligent spy-cam efforts, Sally and Matt were co-stars on Marry an Heiress, now the hottest new reality show on network TV, and soon to be stars of their very own wedding special—America’s very own Wil and Kate! (In their dreams.)

The mansion was everything my Hollywood peers said it would be. It sat high on a hill with a long line of marble stairs carved in perfect symmetry alongside meticulously maintained flowerbeds and greenery—like a manor you might find in Italy, not a house a few blocks off Sunset Boulevard. There was a large yellow traffic sign that read “Kittens at Play” reminding us this was no proper manor. The driveway wound around freshly plucked lawns and thick evergreens shaped like perfect cones. There were tennis courts and plenty more manicured shrubbery beside the driveway fountain, shadowed by the hotel-sized home and another mini-manor made entirely of stone. The groundskeeper told me that Mr. Barrington’s current litter of girlfriends lived in the main manor with him.

“Oh, Cherry Blossom,” Danny sang from the distance. “I just confirmed Shakira to sing at Sally and Matt’s wedding. How hot am I?”

“You’re hot,” I chirped, squirming in the awkward recognition that I had just mimicked Danny’s singsong timbre.

It was so unlike the old me. But as per number one of my two new goals (focus on advancing my career), I was starting to realize my future in television production might be limited if I didn’t at least get a Yellow Belt in ass-kissing. And who better to learn from than the very best—Danny. It certainly worked for him.

“No, seriously, Jane, how hot? Come on. Give it to me, baby,” he said.

Was he trying to annoy me? “Very hot!” I said, no longer amused, given I was the one who had negotiated the deal. I had practically begged Shakira’s manager to do the wedding in exchange for shameless promotion during all commercial bumpers.

“Oh, and Jane,” Danny started, obviously loving the bossman role, “did you confirm my meeting tomorrow with the. . .” Blah, blah, blah!

In the three months since Danny had established himself as Mr. Supervising Producer, he had abused nearly every boss privilege imaginable, such as sending me out for meaningless errands, picking up lunch, and getting wedding decorations, while I also performed my real job, producing television vignettes about the new “it” couple.

Now, up the mansion driveway rolled an extra-stretch stretch limo. Sally squealed as she bounced out of it. “I just love this place.” She was talking to her new stylist. No trace of her broken-down, pre-fame apathy in sight. In fact, no indication that she’d ever been anyone’s assistant.

And yes, the ex-assistant now had her own assistants. She had a stylist, a publicist, and an agent, all three of whom followed her around like bossy self-important puppies.

After the show aired, Sally and Matt had become an overnight hit, garnering millions of fans across the country. I had no idea Karl and Naomi’s editors could turn a show around so quickly, but it was all part of the reality TV wars newly erupting between the networks, and CRP-TV was dominating. They were also advertising the bejeezus out of Sally and Matt’s upcoming nuptials: “Reality TV’s greatest wedding extravaganza ever!” At a million bucks a pop, the execs at CRP-TV were, I guess, trying to get their money’s worth.

My phone buzzed from my cargo pocket. It was Grant.

“I don’t think I can do this anymore,” I whimpered to him after answering.

He knew exactly what I was talking about.

A day after my Grammy night couch adventure, which Grant never found out about, he called me to explain why I hadn’t heard from him for the previous seven-day stretch. Turns out he had received a last-minute call for a weeklong gig in Florida with his gear. Translation? Mega-bucks. Between an urgent flight out, 16-hour days on a boat in the Gulf of Mexico, and losing his cell phone somewhere en route—and thereby my number, which he hadn’t memorized and wasn’t listed—he couldn’t reach me, even if he had the time, which he didn’t. This was, of course, music to my ears. He soon showed up at my door with a bouquet of flowers and a massage table. We’d been together every weekend since.

“Seriously, Danny is driving me nuts. Everyone’s gaga over him because he’s Mr. Cheery Pants, which is fine, except when you have a job to do,” I said. “Hire him as a staff comedian, but don’t make him my supervisor!”

“Brutal,” Grant sympathized. “Sounds like you need out.”

“Plus, Karl doesn’t want to pay me for the weekend days I’ve worked. I’ve only asked for three hundred per. That’s fair, don’t you think?”

“Of course,” Grant said. “And what does Naomi say about all this?”

“I guess she’s sided with Karl. She makes all final money decisions. I don’t know, Grant. I love Naomi, but I’ve got to cut the cord one of these days. I need a new gig! I need something that’s more me! I need Ricky Dean!”

“I don’t know about him,” Grant said dismissively. “But just today, I recommended you to a friend of mine producing a documentary on lowland gorillas in Uganda. A month of filming in Africa and three months of prep in LA—I thought it was right up your alley. Plus, I’d be DP’ing. He’s still waiting for funding, but I’m pretty sure he’ll get it.”

“Are there any Dannys on staff?”

“No. I promise,” he laughed. “It still cracks me up that he was your assistant less than a year ago. Only in Hollywood!”

“Ha, ha, I’m not laughing.” I pretend-sulked, comforted by the sound of his voice.

“Hey,” he said, “how about I take you out for a late dinner tonight? Cheer you up. I’ve never been there before, but I hear the Ivy on the Shore is great.”

“The Ivy!” I said, brimming with delight.

Then I thought of Craig, and the difference between Grant and Craig, and how funny it was that Grant, who was born and raised in LA, had never been to the Ivy, and that he could not have cared less that it was a celebrity hangout, and probably wouldn’t want to go there if he knew it was.

“How about something a little less. . . I don’t know. . . garish,” I said, hoping to please him. “Like that Indian place near the Promenade.”

“Jane,” I heard Danny whine from the distance. “CWT’s here to film us filming Sally for tomorrow’s film, I mean. . . show. . . you know, their celebrity news-feed thingy. Whatever. It’ll air tomorrow night. And CBS News is here too. Anyhoo, let’s roll.”

“Oh, brother.” I hung up with Grant and rounded the corner to the infamous water park to meet up with Sally and her photographer. It was basically a pool/Jacuzzi/waterfall embedded in a rock façade, with little tunnels that housed exotic birds, private baths, and cheesy 70’s mood lighting.

“This place has seen a lot of bodies,” the groundskeeper had confided to me earlier. “Orgy Central. You might want to wear gloves.” He laughed in a creepy old man voice. “But that was years ago.”

“You the producer?” the blonde rake from CWT asked.

I gasped. It was Dagmar. . . again. And she didn’t recognize me—again! Too busy being fawned over by her make-up girl and puppy-dog producer. She held her microphone distastefully, as if anything work-related, even for a cushy CWT job, was meant for plebeians.

“OhmyGod,” Sally said, running her words together. “Dagmar!” she screamed, brushing past me and my cameraman as if we were bugs.

“Hey, former assistant of mine, isn’t this fun?” Dagmar said. “It’ll totally hype your show, me interviewing you about the wedding that I should have had.” They both giggled.

Beneath a silk kimono, Sally wore a pair of clear-glass stilettos with six-inch heels, a string around her crotch, and nothing more. Her hair had been backcombed into a big, brownish helmet that no mid-grade tornado could undo. I was embarrassed, for all of us. Sally was being mentored by Miss Spring Kitten, who was busy showing her how to simultaneously arch her back, tilt her chin, hold a dreamy gaze, slide one hand across her privates, and stand on one leg, all while resting on a rocky outcrop. For this, and maybe ten more equally intricate poses, Sally got fifty grand. After a second glance at her shoes, I thought she might actually have earned it.

By the time seven o’clock rolled around, the party was well underway. We had been shooting for eight hours straight, and I now knew the grounds intimately. It was kind of like Sex Disneyland: grape-eating monkeys in cages, a very rare white peacock with endless white plumes folded into a tight fan, a cabin house with a pool table, arcade games played by dozens of naked bodies, and last, but not least, a floor bed—a room where the entire floor is a bed.

“It’s Brock!” Sally wailed. “Brock is here!”

Brock puckered up for what looked like a slobbery grandpa kiss on Sally’s lips. The cameras took it all in. How quickly she had grown accustomed to this lifestyle.

“Jane, Jane!” Sally yelled toward me. “Did you get that? Did you get that on tape, like for the show? I want that in my piece. I want my friends to see me kissing the man!” She turned back toward Brock to lick his ear.

“I hope you got that,” Danny said, pulling at my sleeve. “That’s television gold.”

I rolled my eyes. “Yes, Danny, we got it.”

My cameraman was rolling, hence the red light flashing, and the lens was pointed in Sally’s direction, hence filming her. It was that simple.

“Jane, come on!” Danny grabbed my shoulder. “Brock is giving Sally a personal tour of the mansion. And then we’re going to surprise Sally when Matt arrives for the big celebration. We can’t miss it!”

Danny, along with Celebrity TV and various news crews, scrambled across my path, practically crushing my toes in the process. “Look out, Blondie!” a cameraman shouted.

Sally turned and scowled at me for not being thick on her heels with my camera crew. “Jane, are you coming? This is my moment! Jane!”

Then Danny again shouted. “Jane, Jane! Get your crew. Get on this now!”

Clearly, Danny hadn’t noticed my crew already positioned in front of Sally, per my direction, filming the whole thing. After all, it was I who had set up the tour, Matt’s surprise arrival, and the whole damn night in the first place, days ago.

“Jane!” Danny yelped, unrelenting. “We need this now!”

I screamed internally, tucking my phone into my pocket. How had I strayed so far? I had come to LA to make it as a credible TV producer! And so far, my only credits were documenting a sleazy date show with a completely neurotic Purr model; chasing a spoiled celebrity heiress as she snubbed her way through France; and following an uninspired former assistant turned overnight reality TV celebrity/nudie model/bridezilla around Sex Disneyland. What the. . .?

It was punishment—karmic discrimination, even. Why me? At this juncture, any show of substance seemed miles beyond my reach. My great big ridiculous you’re-so-special grin was cracking.

“Jane, I can’t believe you’re just standing there!” Danny clomped back toward me. “Where’s your crew? Why aren’t we filming this?”

“If you look straight ahead, Danny, you’ll see,” I said with my jaw clenched, “that they are filming the entire scene. That’s my crew—sorry, our crew—in the middle of the scrum, taking it all in. The red light is on. That is the record light. You’ve heard of a record light, right? Never mind. And what good would I be doing up there if I were in the shot, as you’ve been all night. That is why I’m ‘just standing here,’ as you so aptly phrased it—to stay out of the way. . . out of the shot. That is what a professional does. You know, someone with experience. Get it? Copy that? Understand?”

“Well. . . I. . . uh. . . just. . .” Danny stuttered, for the first time without something clever to say. “I. . . just. . . thought. . . um. . . Don’t you need to direct this scene? You’re not directing.”

“That’s what the walkie-talkie is for!”

“But. . . you. . . should. . . You. . . need—”

“Danny, what I need is to leave,” I said. My face was completely emotionless. “I’m finished.”

“That’s not funny, Jane,” he said, a terrified smile on his face.

“Not joking, Danny. I quit.”

“You can’t! I’m your supervisor. I say you can’t!”

“Danny, if you’re so damn hot, you direct.”

“Come on! Really, Jane, you’re amazing. Please, just stay,” he said, nicer than nice.

“I’m out.” I grabbed my bag, thanked the cameraman and soundman over the walkie-talkie, and told them to “follow the puck” for the rest of the evening.

“You can handle this, Danny. It’s all you.”

The valet brought my car. I got in, not even remotely self-conscious despite a small line of party-goers forming behind me.

I put the car in drive and didn’t look back.