Reality Jane

“You have arrived! I’m so proud of you,” Penny, a lawyer and my closest friend from college, said from the other end of the phone line, 2000 miles away.

It was a huge day for me. After a month of unemployment, and all the stress and self-sabotage bundled with that, I had landed the job of a lifetime. Just in time too. Plan B was to beg at Naomi’s doorstep—we hadn’t talked in weeks—and pucker up for Karl.

“Oh, come on,” I said. “It’s just a field producer position.”

“The Fix Your Life show? Are you kidding? He’s America’s advice guy. He’s on the news practically every night. And now he’s going to be on TV every single day! That’s huge!”

“Okay, it’s awesome,” I agreed, unable to contain my excitement. “It’s so great to finally work on something that matters.”

It all happened thanks to a text message I’d received a few days after walking away from Danny and the supposed “wedding of the decade”:

Greetings from Jamaica! It’s been too long. Busy. This show I’m hosting is awesome—met Ziggy Marley yesterday. Hey, not sure what you’re doing for work, but my friend is looking for a producer. She’s head cheese on Ricky Dean’s new show. Told her you kicked ass: Meg Cohen, 323 589 6117. . . Miss you. Big smooch, Alex

Yes!

The text message hadn’t come completely out of the blue. Throughout the past few months, Alex had sent me a few e-mails with similar themes: “just checking in” and “how’s my little field producer?” They were harmless enough, so I always replied with the latest details of my career, including various Danny shenanigans. He never asked about my love life, and I never asked about his, though I mentioned I was dating. We were friends—friends with a bit of a past—and now friends involved in an innocent cyber-flirtation. With this latest message, though, he had turned out to be a better friend than I could ever have imagined.

At first, I thought it would be Naomi’s boyfriend, Hank—“Mr. YBC”—who would get me inside the hottest new talk show in television history. But our Grammy night meeting hadn’t gone well. So I decided to go it alone and simply submit a blind resumé, along with hundreds of other skids without a leg up in the competition. This accomplished nothing. It wasn’t until I got Alex’s auspicious text and made a direct call to Meg, dropping Alex’s name ever so casually, that I got an interview. The rest was history.

Penny continued with enthusiasm. “No kidding, from Sex Kittens to saving the world! Maybe one day you’ll host the show with him. I can see it all now: Sanity Tips with My Little Janey!”

“Don’t joke. I want to go all the way with this.”

“Great. Just call me when you attend your first party at his Malibu mansion. I want to come!”

Penny was the fourth person to call that day, all of them welcoming me to the big leagues. It was a first—friends calling to congratulate me for getting a job. And word got around fast. Even some of my new producer colleagues were calling with their kudos.

My mother, on the other hand, called every time I got a job—any kind of a job. She’d even sung my praises when I landed my crappy waitress gig in Vancouver: “Good for you, kid. Just a temporary stopover.” But this time, I could tell she was glowing.

“That Ricky Dean, I’ve read so much about him lately. He’s tremendous, helping people improve their lives! And he’s written all those bestselling self-help books. Get in real tight with him, honey. Hitch your wagon to his star!”

It was my first big Hollywood deal. YBC required me, along with the rest of the senior staff, to sign two-year contracts. A lot of producers would have killed for one year. Typical job security in TV production was two months, not two years!

Once I saw the contract, I understood the significance of my career leap. The contract was 70 pages long, full of mind-numbing detail, and not exactly negotiable:



$2000 per week—firm;

zero percent raise in the first year—firm;

zero benefits the first year, and no obligation for any in future years—firm;

zero chance of getting out of the contract, unless they want me out—firm;

sign on the dotted line, please—done.



Hundreds had sought my position, and I was just some wannabe producer who needed a job. But, besides my inside connection, I had an edge: a blinding desire to work on a show that mattered! Ever since that night at the Purr Mansion, I knew: If not now, when?

Meg, who was Alex’s buddy and the show’s Executive Producer, was a powerhouse—as edgy as a Himalayan cliff, and as sharp and dangerous. But she felt like a kindred soul to me. In my second interview for their single, solitary, hugely coveted field producer position, I told her: “This show will improve lives. It will make TV a better place. And I’ll help deliver that with riveting interviews and creative story-telling that will keep audiences glued to the tube. I was born to work for Ricky Dean!” Meg smiled contentedly.

It all felt like destiny unfolding—my life as I dreamt it should be. But there was a bittersweet taste in my mouth. It was because of Naomi. Fix Your Life was my fourth show in LA, but the first one Naomi had no hand in. It was my first win—sans Naomi! Sure, Alex had opened the door for me, but I’d brought in the goods. I should have been proud and, for the most part, I was. I wanted to share my accomplishment with Naomi. But something stopped me from calling her. Was it shame? After all, I had walked out on Matt and Sally Get Married (yes, that was the title) and thereby her.



Three different blenders with three different neon-colored slushy drinks crowded the cupboards. Bodies swarmed the kitchen and balcony. All of our production friends, with the exception of Danny and Naomi, were jammed into our new beach pad for the party. Both Toni and I had called Naomi to invite her to the bash, but we hadn’t heard back. I tried not to think too much about it.

“To Jane’s new job and her two-year contract!” one of the crew girls from the France show shouted, raising her glass in the air.

Perfect. I couldn’t help but think my life was falling into place. Not only had I landed the job of all jobs but, thanks to rent control, Toni and I had managed to sublet a semi-affordable apartment on the beach, one with a balcony and killer view, thereby grabbing my dream pad, too. Waves smacked against the beach in the background as Adele crooned from the speakers.

“Thanks, guys! You’re awesome,” I toasted back, remembering to check “dream dude” off my list too.

“My night is complete,” I said to Grant as he made his way toward my perch on the balcony. The tea lights radiated a fuzzy yellow glow against the white wooden panels separating us from miles of sandy beach. “Did you just get here?”

“Yeah. Long shoot day. Just pulled up a few seconds ago.” He kissed me on the cheek. “What’s all the toasting about?”

“Oh, you know,” I said flirtatiously, admiring the fact that without a second of thought put into his wardrobe, Grant looked gorgeous in jeans, flip-flops, and a t-shirt that pulled just so across his sculpted chest. “I missed you,” I said, leaning into him. “How are you?”

“I’m good,” he said, a funny furrow in his brow, “but your roommate is a little. . .” He made the cuckoo sign beside his head.

“What do you mean?”

“Well. . . she’s a little wasted.”

“What else is new?” I laughed.

“Well, I probably shouldn’t say so,” Grant said carefully, chuckling to himself.

“What?” I said.

“It’s not a big deal—”

“What?” I said, now curious.

He cleared his throat uncomfortably. “She grabbed my ass.”

“What a spaz!” I laughed it off.

Grant did one of those awkward half-smiles that spoke volumes.

“What?” I pushed. “What else did she do?”

“It’s nothing.”

“Grant!”

“It’s not a big deal.”

“Tell me.”

“She, uh, sort of, uh, kissed my neck.”

My jaw dropped.

“You know, she kind of pasted her body to me,” he said half-laughing. “I had to peel her off.” Another chuckle. “Then Donut asked me which one of you I’m ’doing.’ ”

I nearly choked on my 40-proof slushy. “Donut?”

“My camera assist from France.”

“I know who he is. I just can’t believe he’d say that,” I said.

“Ah,” Grant said, “Donut probably didn’t mean it, and I’m sure Toni’s macking on all the guys. I shouldn’t have said anything.”

The kitchen was jammed. I found Toni contorting herself like a second skin, smothering Grant’s audio guy from France. Her gangly arms were looped around his neck, practically strangling him, and she was whispering into his ear as her drink inadvertently trickled down his back.

“Jane!” she bellowed when she saw me enter the kitchen, then quickly became side-tracked by a fresh jug of margaritas.

Meanwhile, I was boxed into a conversation with an editor, asking me why I’d quit the wedding show and wanting leads so he could get himself on Fix Your Life. When I peeked over my shoulder, I noticed Grant sandwiched between Toni and a group of guys doing tequila shooters.

“Grant, honey,” Toni slurred, “I heard you’ve got an in on an adventure show.”

She hiccupped and slipped her hand across his chest, giggling, unaware of my gaze. Grant smiled nervously.

“So, can you get me on the show? I’d give Jane a run for her money. Tee hee.” Toni drooled into Grant’s ear. “I’ll make it worth your while.” She winked.

“Excuse me?” I said, making my presence known.

“Hey, sweetie.” Toni leaned over to give me a kiss. “We were just talking about you.”

Grant did the “uncomfortable guy” shrug that said “I didn’t do it!”

“Toni, what’s up?” I attempted to remain calm. “This is not cool—”

Toni interrupted, each word smeared clumsily against the next. “Grant, isn’t Jane the best? You know, she’s the greatest producer, like the greatest. We’re exactly alike. Same school of producing, I swear. Right, Janey?” Toni wrapped her bare arm around my shoulder and kissed me sloppily on the cheek as her halter-top gaped, revealing her fleshy breasts.

“That’s enough, Toni,” I said, clenching my teeth.

“And Grant, Jane is so in love with you. Which means a lot because she’s had a few men. Know what I mean? In fact, a lot of men—”

“Okay!” I interrupted, “Toni, I can’t believe you.”

I wanted to kill Toni. I’m “in love”? I never use the L-word first.

“Jane and I are roomies,” Toni gurgled. “We’re a team now.” Toni pulled Grant and me in tightly and began a doggy-style hump between us. “Can’t have one without the other. Right, sweetie?”

By now, half the kitchen was watching. I’d never seen Toni so base.

“Okay, stop!” I yanked myself away from her and pushed through the crowd.

Grant found me stewing outside on the sidewalk with a Big Gulp-sized lime margarita in hand.

“Why didn’t you just take the whole pitcher?” he joked.

“I did,” I sighed. “Does the entire party think I do threesomes?”

Grant laughed. “Just the pervs,” he said, caressing my back. “Jane, it’s not that bad. Obviously, she’s drunk.”

“I thought she was. . . one of my best friends.”

“Maybe she’s jealous or just insecure. Talk to her in the morning when she’s sober. You’ll work it out.”

His eyes had a way of softening me, of melting my shell, as if he always could and would protect me. Even Toni’s ridiculousness didn’t affect him. He had not the smallest speck of suspicion about his little Janey. This guy really liked me. Everything would be okay.



Grant was still asleep. There were melted candles, a condom wrapper, and two wine glasses sitting on my nightstand. The sun beamed a harsh white light through cracks in the blinds. The sound of crowds on the beach suddenly came alive—they hadn’t been audible a minute ago, when my eyes were closed. I crawled out of bed, fumbled for my baby-blue terrycloth housecoat, and ran to the beckoning phone.

As I reached for “hello,” the blood drained abruptly from my crown. Sparkly white flashes spun like tinsel around my periphery—the dreaded hangover head-rush. I stumbled to catch my balance, propping myself against the table in an attempt to compose myself for whoever was at the other end, and silently promised myself I’d get on the wagon. . . immediately afterward.

“Hey, is this Jane?”

“Yeah, who’s this?” I didn’t recognize the voice.

“Alex. Forget me already?”

“Oh my God. Alex,” I whispered his name so Grant wouldn’t hear. We hadn’t actually talked voice-to-voice since France. “Of course not. Nice to hear from you! How are you?”

I tried to sound enthusiastic while I buckled onto the hardwood floor, kneeling, my arms wrapped around my stomach, waiting for the pain to go away, and wondering why I’d answered the phone in the first place.

“Were you still sleeping? I thought you’d have gone for a swim to the pier and back by now, little Miss Sporty Spice.”

“Yeah, right. It was a late night. We had a bit of a celebration. You’ll never guess why.”

“You’re on Fix Your Life?”

“Yup. Their new field producer. I’m the only one. That’s it. It’s big.”

“Congratulations! Meg told me she had hundreds of resumés.”

“Thank you so much for the hook-up.”

“Of course. Hey, we’ve got to celebrate,” Alex said. “What are you doing tonight, now that I’m finally back in town?”

My mind spiraled as I conjured up a million excuses. I’ve got to tell Alex about Grant! Like now!

“Um, maybe later in the week?” I said sheepishly, avoiding the inevitable.

“Don’t make me wait,” Alex whined. “It’s been long enough.”

“Well, I start Tuesday.”

“Let’s meet Tuesday night then. I’ll take you for a celebratory dinner.”

“Um, oh, okay. That’ll be fun,” I said, but not entirely sure it would be fun at all.

“Done.”

“One thing,” I said, the guilt burbling up. “I have something to tell you—”

A belt clanged from the bedroom.

“What’s up?” Alex said cheerfully.

“Never mind. It can wait,” I said. “See you Tuesday. Text me where to meet and when.”

A shirtless Grant stepped out in his jeans, looking positively sexy with his angled pecs, bed-head, and squinty eyes. He looked at me sideways.

My heart knocked against my chest. I worried he’d heard me. I felt putrid. I wanted to tell him about Alex and what had happened between us in France, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. It felt wrong: too late, too soon, too something. Instead, my plan was to see Alex face-to-face, come clean with him, explain that Grant and I were together, then ask if we could “just be friends.” No one need be the wiser.

Grant was silent. “I overheard you.”

“What?” My heart thumped.

“You start Tuesday?” Grant looked surprised. “On Fix Your Life?”

“Huh?” I was relieved it wasn’t about Alex. “Oh, yes, isn’t it great?”

“I don’t know.” Grant’s face turned somber.

“What’s wrong?”

“I don’t think you should do it.”

“Are you joking?” I said, amazed. I’d been raving about the show for only the last three months.

“Just yesterday I shot a promo for the debut.”

“And?” I could hardly take the suspense.

“The guy is a snake.”

“What?” I was perplexed.

“Seriously. I wouldn’t touch that guy or his show with a ten-foot pole. You don’t know what you’re getting yourself into.”

“This is totally out of left field! What’s going on?” I heard myself getting snappy, the hangover kicking in.

“Jane, Rick Dean is a total phony.”

“How would you know?” I was still crouching on the floor.

“We were in the middle of the shoot, he was doing his spiel, and the batteries went down on his microphone. My sound guy asked to change them. Standard issue. All of a sudden, Rick Dean loses it. On us! Totally went off. ‘I don’t work around TV! TV works around me! Get it right or you’re through!’ I was like, ‘What? You joking? We’re changing batteries here!’ Then he threatened to have us fired. Complete a*shole. Then my camera assist sat at his table for lunch and Rick Dean got up and left. He left his plate there and everything—had his assistant bring it to him in a private booth. God forbid he sit with the great unwashed.”

“He was probably having a bad day. Who knows what he’s going through right now?” I said, feeling protective, not just of Ricky Dean, but of my dream. “You know, Mr. Dean’s dedicated his life to helping people.”

“Oh, yeah? At the end of the day, he shook hands with the senior producers and said to us: ‘You guys are lucky to have a job.’ This just before he sped away in his red Ferrari. Like he owns us. We’re freelance. What a jerk!”

“Well, it’s not easy being a host,” I said snottily.

“Jane, I’ve filmed Tom Hanks, Steven Spielberg, Mel Gibson—some of Hollywood’s biggest stars and directors—for movie promos, and I’ve never seen anyone as rude as him. Unless you can prop him up or make him money, he’s not interested.” Grant was visibly upset. “He’s a megalomaniac! And it will only get worse.”

“Why did you wait until now to tell me—to burst my bubble?”

“Because I just met him and I didn’t see you until last night, which was a bit of a shit show, in case you didn’t notice. Your roommate’s passed out with some random dude. Anyway, I didn’t even know you’d been offered the job—or that you’d accepted!”

“I wanted it to be a surprise. You knew how badly I wanted this!” I sat totally stunned—my dream boy disapproving of my dream job. “Well, I’m not going to base a major career move on something so trivial, a one-off incident.”

“I’m just telling you, I have a bad feeling about this.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t care. You had one day with him. You guys should have had your gear prepped properly. Batteries, Grant? That’s pretty bad.”

“Give me a break, Jane!”

“You know what this is?” I said, my eyes squinting, suddenly struck with an unexplainable thirst for vengeance. “You’re jealous. You’re afraid of getting upstaged!”

“Excuse me?” he said, taken aback. “Jane, we’re not in competition.”

“Oh yeah?” I huffed.

“I just want you to know the truth, especially if you’re signing one of those two-year deals. Those studio contracts are impossible to get out of.”

I sat quietly, my lips pursed.

“I think you’re making a mistake,” Grant continued.

“You know, Grant, Fix Your Life is big league stuff. His radio ratings are unheard of. Half of America tunes into him every single day. It is a two-year deal! It gives me a whole lot more security than I’ve ever had. And it will not just put me on the map, but let me climb higher. Don’t wreck this for me before I even start!”

He waited, staring at me, looking hurt. “Listen, Jane, I care about you,” he said sweetly and soothingly, wiping away any hint of smugness. “I’m just telling you what I saw. I don’t mean to hurt you.”

“Well, you’re wrong,” I snapped, not knowing what had come over me. “He’s brilliant and this is going to be a great show!”

“So take the job!” he snapped. “I’m happy for you! Jesus!”

“I will!” I said sternly. “It’s my life!”

Grant waited again, unsure of his next move, then whispered coldly, “Maybe I should go.”

“What?” I hadn’t heard him.

“I think I’ll go.”

“There’s the door.” I pointed.

Grant looked stunned. I didn’t know what else to say. I felt a “sorry” bubbling up from my throat, but I couldn’t bring myself to voice it. It was easier to tell him to leave.

“Fine. Later.”

“Fine.”

Grant walked back to my room, grabbed his stuff, and began to walk out. He paused to look at me as he grabbed the door handle, waiting for me to say something, to stop him or apologize. Instead, I stared at him with an ugly look on my face. He shook his head and left. I knew I should have stopped him, but I didn’t. My thighs crumpled into my chest, and I knelt on the floor, beside the phone. It had been our first big fight.



“You look nice.” Toni grazed my arm, giving me the once-over as we traded places in the bathroom mirror.

“First day.” I swashed a strip of lip-liner above the cupid’s bow on my top lip.

“A little sexy for your first day,” she teased.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I was still annoyed by Toni’s performance on Friday night.

“Nothing. It’s a compliment.” She smiled. “Do you want to do dinner tonight? I’ll buy. We can celebrate your first day.”

“Sorry, can’t. I’m meeting Alex for dinner,” I said, opening the closet and reaching for my favorite black boots.

“Alex?” she said loudly. “The hotty-host from France?”

“Yes,” I said as if hearing the words pained me.

We still hadn’t talked about her party antics. She awoke red-eyed, still stumbling, on Saturday morning, unable to recall the details, with the head lighting gaffer from France by her side. “He still had his pants on,” she said later that morning, in her brushing-things-off sort of way. She brought up how drunk she was, how she blacked out for a couple hours, and how funny she thought it all was. She was angling for my approval, but I wasn’t laughing. If she couldn’t realize that humiliating me in front of my friends and colleagues, begging for a job in exchange for sexual favors or God knows what, and hitting on my boyfriend was a totally un-cool thing to do, it wasn’t worth the effort.

“I thought Alex was out of the picture. Is hotty-host back in your life?”

“We’re just friends.”

“You never told me.”

“It’s not a big deal.”

“So, what about Grant?”

“Alex and I are just friends. We’re getting together to talk business.”

“Okay,” she said, confused.

“Oh, and if Grant calls, don’t tell him where I am tonight.”

“Sure. Hey, have a great first day. Break a leg!”

“That’s for actors.” I locked the door behind me.

By 9:15, there was a block-long line to the staff parking structure, jamming traffic from both sides of the street. Producers, secretaries, accountants, lawyers, and folks filling every studio-lot support-job imaginable—all seemed to arrive at the same time in their separate cars. The really important people got to park directly on the lot.

Security was tight. They swiped my brand new Fix Your Life employee card and made me open my bag so they could rifle through the contents: a wallet, a tampon, a day-timer, a sweater, an iPhone, a brush, lip gloss, a Spanish/English dictionary, cinnamon Tic Tacs, gum, some paper clips, three pens, a pencil, and a mini-Leatherman (a present from Grant). I nearly spilled my coffee trying to disguise the end of the tampon—it was poking out of the wrapper.

“That’s one big Q-tip,” I joked.

The security guy looked at me as if I was from Mars.

“It’s not as if it’s used,” I remarked uncomfortably, still trying for a laugh.

“Move along.” He began searching the contents of the next employee’s bag.

“Do we have to do this every day?” I said as I was shuffled onto the studio lot.

Golf carts whizzed by me, expertly handled by execs, assistants, and maintenance types. I pictured myself being chauffeured in one of the carts, and I wondered what it would take to get one. There was a paved roadway to Building AB22. Someone told me it was near New York Street, where they filmed all sorts of movies. I couldn’t wait to see it in action. I peered upwards for a glimpse at the studio’s famous tower. It was all so imposing in real life.

The studio lot was like a mini-city, but with no way to tell the gray buildings apart from one another except for the pink numbers stamped in faded paint on the sides. Passing a set of metal doors that were cracked open a pinch, I couldn’t resist poking my head in. Pictures of famous celebrities adorned the walls: Lucille Ball, Greta Garbo, Mae West. Just beyond, there was a rack of clothing and a familiar living room set that looked lonely, with synthetic plants, pictures, and windows that opened to a mock skyline. I wondered if it was a famous set and wanted to go sit on the couch, but I didn’t, opting to get to work on time instead.

Two glass doors marked the entrance to my new show, with Fix Your Life written in bright bold lettering. The receptionist greeted me with a tough but friendly smile.

“You here for a meeting?”

“No, I’m a producer. First day.”

“Who should I let know you’re here?”

“Meg, I guess.”

“Oh.” She looked impressed.

She placed her headset on, careful not to muss her hair, and typed in a phone extension. I didn’t listen to her conversation, too busy soaking everything in and thinking myself special for my fancy new job.

“Excuse me. Miss Kaufman?”

“It’s Jane.”

“Okay, Jane. Meg says you’re to report to Gib. Straight back and through those doors.”

“Thanks,” I said, hesitating. “Uh, who’s Gib?”

“He’s your supervisor.”

Supervisor? Any of the haughtiness I’d carried into the office quickly disappeared. I thought I’d be reporting directly to Meg, the EP, the woman at the top. That’s how it had been on The Purrfect Life.

I pulled myself together and put on a happy face. “Nice to meet you,” I said, sounding ultra-professional in greeting Gib.

First, he asked me about my experience. Then he asked me what I wanted to get out of the job. Then he asked me where I saw myself in five years, all with a nervous smile exposing tiny teeth and thin lips. I felt myself growing impatient but never would have shown it. Instead, I brooded over the fact that my supervising producer was re-interviewing me for a job I already had.

“So, what’s your interview style?. . . Ever edited a vignette?. . . How do you feel about being the first point of contact?. . . Is that something you’re comfortable with?” I kept my answers short and simple.

“What about you?” I grinned, happy to let him talk for a while. “What’s your story?”

“I live a few blocks away. My wife and I just had another baby. It’s hard to find a job with any security these days. . .”

I was torn. Part of me liked him. He was nice—borderline simple. But I also thought I might be able to do his job. After all, I’d survived Lucy Lane and Dagmar Bronson. I had more journalism and fieldwork experience than he had. And he lacked much of a presence. I wondered how he would do with Meg as his boss.

“Here we are,” Gib said, leading me into my new office. “It’s a bit of a squeeze.”

Five of us were to share the space: me, Gib, two guys in charge of post and editing, and a show producer whom I hadn’t met yet. Fluorescent lights gave off a sterile glow, kind of like a hospital, and there were no windows. Everything was off-white, except the carpet—it was beige. And the desks were brown.

Outside of our room, the promo department had littered the walls with posters of Ricky Dean, who always wore the same expression—an I-told-you-so look complete with his signature half-smile that made his left eye crinkle.

In the center was the bullpen, where the researchers— Associate Producers (AP) and Production Assistants (PA)—sat in various stages of spinal degeneration, their days spent cemented to the phone, pre-interviewing potential show guests, their measly cubicles adorned with Buddha statues, maps of the world, scented candles, and assorted knick-knacks.

Ricky Dean’s personal office had been nicknamed The Ricky Ritz Hotel. Rumor had it that it was the nicest executive office on the studio lot, complete with a bar, a shower, plush leather couches, and a desk the size of a pick-up. Gib said a small Indian clan could have lived in the adjoining bathroom.

“Oh my God! Oh my God! He’s coming. He’s coming.” A tall, skinny woman ran into the office, her angular copper bob bouncing alongside.

“Corinne?” My heart beat as if it was on the outside of my body. “What are you doing here?”

“Jane?” she said, her voice sick with surprise. “You’re the field producer?”

It was like a horror movie, and she was Jason, or Freddy, or Damien, or all three. I was practically unable to speak. With the exception of a semi-apologetic e-mail, one I felt she’d been forced to write, I hadn’t heard from her since that awful night at Rebecca’s.

The room went hollow. All eyes were on us. I took a deep breath.

“Nice to see you.” I held out my hand, steady, calm, and confident. “Shake to a new beginning?”

Corinne smiled and shook my hand. “Thank you. Sounds good.”

Oddly, she looked more relieved than I did. I vowed in my head never to discuss the dreadful snub. That chapter was closed.

“Ha-hem!” I heard the sound from the hallway and, for the second time in a minute, my heart pounded like a jackhammer as the Ricky Dean stepped through our office door.

“Hello, sir.” Gib looked as if he might kneel.

Meg stood beside Mr. Dean, looking officious. “Girls, Gib, we want you to meet the man in charge.”

Corinne looked as if she might faint. “A real pleasure, sir.”

Ricky Dean stepped toward us in a perfectly pressed, perfectly tailored black suit, hair coiffed into a round black configuration with a subtle widow’s peak offset by a silver streak above his left ear,. He looked as tall as the doorway, larger than life, with a superhero stance. I would have expected nothing less from a multimillionaire self-help mogul. Ricky Dean was THE most powerful man in radio and soon to be one of the most powerful men on TV.

“Hello, gang! How are things going in the field department?” His expression and bearing radiated gusto and energy.

“Just getting started,” I said with my eyes wide, finding him dreamy in a god-like way. This was a true man of power—a man who, at this moment, could have made a field of flowers appear, or healed the broken, or saved the fallen—I thought I might offer him Corinne.

“Are you liking LA so far?” I asked. I desperately wanted him to know me, to be his pet producer, his go-to girl.

“It’s very nice.” He smiled in a way that could have been rehearsed, but his eyes twinkled briefly, as if just for me.

Then, in an instant, Ricky Dean, Meg, and the entourage of executives strode out the door in a wave of significance.

Corinne turned to me. “Oh my God, he’s amazing.”

The awkwardness of our reintroduction now ancient history, Corinne and I had something to bond over. I watched a tear trickle down her cheek.

“What’s this—a soft side?” I said to her with a smile.

“Shut it!” She smiled, fanning herself. “I can’t believe it.” She laughed while fingers fluttered in front of her face. “I’ve got to call my aunt.”

Corinne sat down to dial as I sank contentedly into my chair, staring at the pictures of the man on the wall.



By the end of the day, my freshly blown-out do had formed frizzy curls. The bathroom hand-dryer would have to do as a straightener. I slapped on a fresh coat of bee-sting lip-pump, clipped off a few wayward hair strands with a set of office scissors, and hurried off the lot for my dinner meeting with Alex.

Only ten minutes of primping and I was feeling plush again. It didn’t last. As I stood outside Dolce Enoteca, where Ashton Kutcher and three gorgeous Hollywood cohorts chortled snobbishly, I was reminded I might be happier, and certainly more comfortable, eating sprinkled donuts at the diner truck stop with Marge. I self-consciously fluffed my hair and forced my mouth, which was already mid-puff from the pepper in the lip-pump, into a pout. If I were back home, friends would have harassed me endlessly for posing. But in my new home of Hollywood, women endured all sorts of strange tortures for small improvements.

Alex was late. In the interim, I’d been mulling over what I would tell him about Grant: We’ve been seeing each other. . . No, we’re dating. . . Oh, it happened after we got back to LA. . . Ran into him at a bar. . . No, not during the show. . . No, I was totally hanging with you. . . God, no, I’m not that cheesy. . . What? Two guys during the same show?. . . What kind of banana whore would do that?

It was important to get that off my chest quickly so as not to seem duplicitous. Alex had set me up with my dream job. It was the least I could do. Besides, he was amply connected in Hollywood, which meant I had plenty of cachet as his friend.

When he finally pulled up in his silver Mercedes, thirty minutes late, I wanted to be mad. Then I got my first glance. It had been more than three months since I’d seen him last. His dark hair framed his face like a young Pierce Brosnan, while his fitted black button-down and thigh-hugging jeans amplified his sexy proportions. I hated that he looked irresistible. The moment I saw him, I wanted so badly for this night to be something other than a confessional. But I figured it was the lust talking, not my heart. My heart was with Grant. He and I had been dating since France, and aside from the weekend’s argument, things were quite cozy.

Alex ordered the Pappardelle Verdi, which he said everyone raved about. It looked like lamb, but I was too embarrassed to ask. I munched delicately on my pasta gnocchi, using all my willpower to peck away like a swallow. I really wanted to demolish my plate like Kathy Bates at a Cajun BBQ, then throw my face into a bowl of chocolate bread pudding—now that would have been fun. Instead, I did what everyone else in Hollywood did to curb the urge—drank. I hadn’t planned to, but I figured it might help me to say what I had come to say.

“I’ve missed you,” he said, looking into my eyes with one of his delectable half-smiles.

“You have?” I said, surprised.

“Yeah, I didn’t realize how much until seeing you now.” He looked at my empty plate. “You’re so. . . natural.”

“You’re sweet,” I said, tucking my chin into my chest, blushing.

“Love that outfit of yours,” he said, his eyes dropping to my chest. “I’ve never seen you in a skirt. It’s sexy.”

I wore a silk body-hugging tuxedo shirt with a tight black pencil skirt and tall black boots—not unlike the outfit I’d worn a few weeks ago on a date with Grant, who said at the time he preferred me au naturel, in tight jeans and a t-shirt.

“So, what did you want to tell me?” he said, curious.

“Huh? Nothing,” I said, venturing on a momentary space odyssey with Alex.

“On the phone,” Alex pulled me back into reality, “you said you had something to tell me.”

“Oh, that,” I giggled nervously. “Good memory. Well, um, I just wanted to, well, you know. . . Actually, it can wait. It’s not that important.”

“Come on. Just say it. That’s not how I operate. It’s not how I want us to operate.”

“I know.” Did he just say “us”?

“Well?”

“Well,” I began reluctantly, “I just wanted you to know, that, um, I’m dating, you know.” Dating? What a cop-out! Come on, Jane. Say it! “Yeah, I’ve been on some dates since I got home and, you know, dating, and one sort of regularly, and I just want to be honest with you, and. . .”

“Hey, that’s totally okay. I’m the one with the situation. I’m still trying to get rid of Sam.”

“Who’s Sam?” I’d almost forgotten any mention of a girlfriend, let alone the name of his young Slavic supermodel.

“Oh, I thought I told you? She’s my ex. But we’ve been back and forth, and she came to see me in the Caribbean, and I think she thought we’re still together. Only we’re not. I tried to tell her. She just won’t accept it. Thing is, we never see each other. She’s always off in Europe modeling—and it wasn’t working anyway.”

That’s my out, I thought. Put the ball in his court.

“There’s obviously a lot of history between the two of you,” I said. “Maybe you should try to make it work.” I pretended to be unaffected.

“No, trust me, she and I aren’t right for each other. Sweet girl but, honestly, it’s no good. We’re on two different paths and we don’t have much in common anymore. She’s sort of young.”

I’ll say! The chambermaid had told me she was 18. Then again, with Grant in my life, I wondered why I cared.

“Come on. Let’s get out of here.” He grabbed my hand and threw two hundred-dollar bills onto the table. “I want to show you my pad. It’s killer.”

And before I could stop him, we were off, his car leading the way. In a matter of a few seconds, Alex had done what I hated and loved about him most: took control. He didn’t give me the option of coming over. I was just doing it. There was something so very caveman macho about him.



“Benjamin Hood, the guy who directed Die or Live, owns this place,” Alex said casually. “We went to college together.” He grabbed my hand as we slid through the stacking glass doors to the back of the house.

There, a long, rectangular, infinity-style lap pool stretched the length of the lot in the back garden. It looked as if the water poured off the edge of the earth, never to be recovered, and the pool itself reflected the sky like an enormous mirror. The sky blazed a glorious orange afterglow over an endless backdrop of bush-laden hills. It was a postcard-worthy mansion in the Hollywood hills.

Being here with Alex, I reasoned, was entirely innocent. All he wanted to do was show me this incredible house. As long as he didn’t have an aging gay Hollywood mogul for a roommate, things would be fine—strictly business.

“What do you think?” he asked coyly.

“Beautiful,” I said.

This is innocent. Innocent! I repeated to myself, willing myself strong.

We re-entered the house through a huge bedroom with a yellow marble floor and expensive Matisse linocuts adorning the walls in black and white. Alex, I learned, shared the rent with a wealthy friend, gone to Hong Kong on business for a month. He said they’d been rooming together for the past year. Meanwhile, Alex’s cabin in Colorado was in the process of getting framed. It would soon be his weekend getaway.

“So, this guy, your room-mate? Straight or gay?” I asked, thinking back to Craig and all his weird roommate/sugar daddy scenarios.

He laughed.

“Right.” He rolled his eyes. “If you must know, he’s dating a model, some Amazon from Denmark. John’s awesome.”

“You guys and your models,” I said with a hint of bitterness. Again, I wasn’t sure why I cared.

“Come here.” Alex wrapped his arms around me, pulling me onto the bed as we gazed outside, staring at the last pinkish-orange sliver of dwindling twilight. “Don’t worry, you’re as cute as any model.”

“Yeah, right.” I felt uncomfortable, as if I was cheating on Grant. We hadn’t spoken since the fight. It had been three days now and no call.

“And you’re smart, too.” Alex’s eyes grazed my body.

I smiled inside, absorbing his compliments. Why should I tell Alex to hit the road? Grant can’t even be bothered to call me!

“Stay over.” Alex squeezed me, as if he could hear my thoughts.

“I have to work tomorrow,” I said, surprised. “It’s a new job.”

“Never stopped you before,” he chuckled.

“Very funny.”

“Then just lie with me,” he whined.

“Really, Gr—Alex, I should go.” My eyes betrayed my Freudian slip. He didn’t appear to notice as he pulled me in for a kiss. It was dark. I pushed against his shoulders to stop him, then slowly released. Reluctantly, I kissed him back, softly, easing into his arms—succumbing.

“Mmm, I want you,” he said.

“I should go.”

He kissed me some more. With his hands, he navigated around my body and under my skirt, pulling at the fabric and cinching it toward my waist.

“I should go. Really.” I was uncomfortable. Just a few days ago, I woke up naked with Grant.

“Okay, okay. Let’s have a drink then.”

“All right, just one drink. Then I should go.”

He poured two large glasses of wine and we settled outside. The plush cushions of the patio chairs pulled us deeper into their grip while we stared at the night sky. There would have been a blanket of stars, but it was LA. I searched for the odd twinkling light, wandering satellite, or shooting star, as Alex talked about Samantha in a repeat pseudo-sermon on why she wasn’t right for him, as if she was why I’d resisted him.

He leaned over to kiss me again, this time less aggressively, his hands at bay. I kissed him back. His retreat made me want him more—he was so handsome, so confident. It frustrated me that I couldn’t just enjoy the kiss. Feelings of justification roared through my head: Grant and I are not exclusive. We haven’t had the “exclusive” talk. We’re both still technically on the market! But that wasn’t true. In my world, sleeping with someone silently established exclusivity. Tiff or no tiff, Grant trusted me as I trusted him.

It was after 1:00 a.m. when I finally got up to leave. I repositioned my blouse and started for the door. My little secret, I thought to myself, which felt odd, because I’d never been very good at keeping secrets.

“Hey, I think you’re really cool,” Alex said, leaning into my car window for a final goodnight kiss.

“Thanks,” I whispered in my sexiest voice and backed out the car-park to begin my 30-minute drive home.