Reality Jane (5 page)

“The lime is very cleansing,” she’d say convincingly.

“And the tequila?” I’d retort with a smile.

After a long day on the beach and in the water, we would grab dinner, laugh a lot, and go back to the resort, where she would read cards for whoever was interested.

“Oh, I see here you have the five of spades,” she’d say to me, posturing.

“What does that mean?” I’d say warily.

“It means you’ll meet the man of your dreams by your next birthday.” As if it was that simple.

She oozed big-city charm with a hint of hippy eccentricity. I didn’t doubt her for a minute when she casually mentioned her Hollywood production company, home of two of America’s most popular reality shows. Watching her haggle freebies was proof enough she was a Hollywood shaker. Naomi had been comped two extra days at the resort, meals and massages included, all because a booking mix-up had forced her to spend her first night in a nearby (and “dreadfully inferior”) two-star hotel.

But it was her expect-the-unexpected vibe that intrigued me most. She could let it all go in an instant. One night, after boozing at a Puerto Vallarta disco, proved she had a little crazy in her.

“Let’s hit the slots,” she slurred to the taxi driver.

“Qué?” the driver said, unable to understand her.

I was barely paying attention, busy rifling through the contents of my purse for a tube of Rolaids. Mixing sangria, cervesa, and tequila with a giant after-bar burrito ain’t pretty.

“The slots!” Naomi slurred loudly to our Mexican driver. Apparently, she liked to gamble, too.

Next thing you know, the cabby pulled over at a dank street corner in the middle of nowhere and three barely dressed, chain-smoking hookers peered into our window with curious grins. We giggled about that for days.

Before my vacation ended, I thought of subtly hitting Naomi up for a job. After all, I was in television, she did own a production company in the choicest place on earth to make television, and her ten years on me made her the perfect mentor. But that plan was quickly kiboshed when two surfettes from Colorado beat me to the punch. On the last night, they fed Naomi coconut drinks and put the hard sell on her to “hook them up.”

“They’re waitresses,” Naomi crowed the next morning. “Can you believe it? It’s fine for actors to schlep drinks pre-career-breakthrough, but producers? Yeeesh.”

After that, I decided to keep it strictly a friendship, which was fine, because as far as friends went, Naomi was damn cool. I also decided never to mention the fact that I waitressed in the evenings for extra cash—necessary when your “glamorous” reporting job is only part-time.

Before I knew it, the vacation ended and I was on an airplane back to Canada. With the exception of a postcard from Prague, I heard nothing from Naomi for ten months. Then I got a call.

“Jane, I have a position here. You’re perfect for it.”

I was over the moon, until reality struck. “What about a work visa?” I said.

“Work
what
? Canadians don’t need a visa.”

She didn’t quite get the whole “Canada’s a foreign country; there’s a great big border between us” thing. She figured she could just sign me up and have me at work the next day.

Though the offer excited me, I had a hard time seeing me accept it. It wasn’t that I couldn’t handle the job: the reporting
and five-minute news segments I did for the 6 p.m. newscast were much like being a producer, and I had been cranking them out for years. The problem was deeper than that. Things like having my dream job drop out of the sky never happened to me—at least they didn’t happen when I tried to make them happen. Maybe that was the point. Maybe I’d been trying too hard. This gig just fell in my lap—producer on
The Purrfect Life with Lucy Lane,
working for Naomi.

It took some very dicey negotiating with the immigration authorities to get my paperwork done, but after a lot of hard work, there I was, visa in hand, and the job was real.

It was now the Monday morning after my Friday night from hell. I sat at my desk waiting, without word from anyone—not an apology, not a text, not so much as a smiley face. It was anyone’s guess how Naomi might react to my Friday night e-mail and whatever the other four girls had told her. No part of me was going to pretend it didn’t happen. Their behavior was mean and unprofessional, and so traumatic it might well send me into months of expensive therapy. Time would tell on that one. In the meantime, triple shot vanilla lattés from Coffee Bean would have to suffice.

“House call!” a perky well-groomed twenty-five-ish guy exclaimed while rapping on a pygmy palm that sat between my desk and the door of my new office. His lips shimmered with the latest boy balm.

“Hi,” I said, gulping my latté. I was anticipating
cat-calling
, not Avon calling.

“Shall I get you a straw?” he said with a smirk, helping himself to my guest chair.

“I think I’m addicted,” I said sheepishly.

“Hear that,” he nodded. “I’m Danny, your new associate producer.” He cupped his chin as if he knew he was precious. “Naomi sent me in here to tell you I’m your new Rose.” He winked. “And also that we have a meeting with Lucy and the network at eleven.”

“That’s in five minutes,” I gasped.

“Indeed, Miss Fabulous,” he snorted.

“And Rose? Where is she?”

“Canny-can-canned! Now we better get our fannies moving, Sunshine.” He wiggled his body, worm-like, apparently clueless to what I’d been through two days prior. “Let’s go.”

That was the last thing I’d expected—Rose gone, a new AP, and an impromptu meeting with the network brass. A double wave hit me: first relief, then
Indiana Jones
-like fear, complete with rolling boulders, quicksand, fast-talking villains, and who knew what else.

I shuffled behind Danny to the boardroom sorting my papers and my thoughts, preparing a mini dog-and-pony show to sell myself, just in case that was what this was all about:
Okay, so, uh, I’ve got a BA in history, journalism minor, studied at NY Film School for six months, five years as an on-air reporter—no, scratch that, five years producing news. No, five years of producing documentary and lifestyle programming for Channel Z—no scratch that, too. Americans don’t know Canadian television. Make that programming for Canada’s largest network, CBC, which is like the BBC, only bigger, with the highest ratings ever on my, um, my piece on homeless people, no, homeless showgirls, no, homeless cross-dressing showgirls—

“How are you doing?” Naomi patted me on the back as we entered the boardroom. “It’s going to be okay. I can’t believe those girls.”

Her face looked sympathetic. It bore the same expression my mother had after I’d been dumped, or after I crashed my car, both of which, strangely, happened more often than I care to discuss. Naomi truly felt sorry for me. A lump gurgled up my throat as I felt the urge to cry.

“Jane, I want you to meet Karl.” Naomi motioned to a large-set man in a black suit looking very dot.com in Converse sneakers and a Volcom t-shirt peeking out of his jacket. “He’s our official network liaison from CRP-TV and our executive producer.”

“Great to meet you.” I held out my hand for Karl, morphing from poor-me to bright-eyed and professional.

He nodded and pulled his hand from his pocket, about to shake my hand when—

“Danny!” Karl cried, jumping from his seat and embracing
Danny’s slender body in a giant bear hug. “Good to see you. I didn’t know you worked here.”

“First day on this show, Sugar Cakes,” Danny responded in delight. “Guess that means, technically, I’m working for you!”

Toni walked in with a tray of organic muffins, coffee, and various other goodies. “Pardon me. Who ordered the wheat grass shots?” She avoided my eyes.

“Right here,” Karl and Danny responded in synch.

“Only if they’re vodka wheat grass,” Naomi laughed. “Okay, folks, we’re just waiting on Lucy. She’ll be here at 11:15. Let’s get started without her.”

My heart jumped at the mention of Lucy. I imagined her entering the room, pointing a long red Cruella de Ville fingernail at me, and shouting: “Off with her head!” before dumping me on the guillotine.

“Apologies for the last minute meeting, folks, but things have been changing, right up to the hour,” Naomi said in her friendly way, “including some staff reshuffling. Welcome, Danny.”

“Yes, and also,” Karl said, nodding to Naomi for permission, “we’re adding a few new Sex Kittens to the show to mix things up a bit. Three or four
Purr Magazine
girls on a date with our Hollywood IT guy is more exciting than just one.”

“I know what you’re thinking, and yes, Lucy knows,” Naomi continued. “I’ll just say this really quickly. She’s not thrilled about it, but we’re doing it for the show. The ratings are down and it needs a facelift.”

Somehow I knew this wouldn’t be good for my already tattered relationship with our star host.

Karl looked at me as if sniffing out my discomfort. “Jane, you’re our new producer. Have you thought about how you might treat this new format, as director?”

Crap. This was NOT the dog-and-pony show I’d prepared for!

I gulped audibly.

Danny twitched. “This ain’t ‘all sounds welcome,’ Jane.”

Karl laughed.

“Just kidding. Must be all those milky coffee drinks,” Danny said in a motherly I-told-you-so tone.

“Aren’t
difficult
coffee drinks out?” Karl asked flippantly.

“Yes,” Danny answered as if discoursing on a serious issue. “Wheat grass is all the rage. It’s the new espresso!” He raised his shooter cup of cow’s cud to Karl’s, green swill dripping from the rim. “Kidding, Jane. You got to do what feels right for you!”

Okay, I knew shoes and hairdos go out of style, but coffee, too? My morning pick-me-up was now hopelessly uncool, tossed in the pile of yesterday’s “what’s hot and what’s not” along with Tom Cruise and Jen’s chunky layers.
Great
.

“Jane?” Karl motioned his hand across my eyes. “What are your thoughts on a fresh look for the show?”

“Uh, well, haven’t had too much time to consider this change.” I knew that was the wrong answer.

“It’s been a week,” said Karl, unimpressed.

“Well, in Canada, we just follow the puck,” I squeaked. “You know, get the story. . . story, story, story.”

Everyone stared and looked confused. It was something we often said at the CBC. It always got a few laughs back in the newsroom.

“That’s cute, Jane,” Naomi interrupted with a chuckle, nodding toward Karl. “It means follow the action.”

Did I really just say “follow the puck?”

“Yes, that’s what I meant.”

“Now, Jane,” Karl said, “I take it you’ve never worked with Sex Kittens. Do you have a style in mind for shooting the world’s most notorious nude models?”

Again on the hot seat
. “Well, I, uh—”

Lucy threw open the door and tossed her bags on the table, trailed by her petite pink-haired assistant pushing a rack of the latest designer clothing—only the best for our host. Karl stood up for an air-kiss, then Naomi, then Danny, then Toni, then Karl’s assistant, then Naomi’s assistant, then—nothing. Lucy smiled at me and waved her hand as if I was too far across the table for the effort.

I silently cursed all Europeans and anyone else who air-kissed business colleagues. What was with kissing strangers anyway? What the hell was wrong with a good, old-fashioned handshake? And how did you know what kind of air-kiss to
give? Was sweeping the cheek a foul? Were wet lips bad form? Could bumping chins be okay? What about a firm grasp of the shoulders? Or should it just be a lean-in? I did know this much: Getting passed up altogether was a deliberate slight.

“Jane was just discussing how she plans to shoot the new series format,” Karl said, updating Lucy.

Lucy’s eyes lit up devilishly. “Can’t wait to hear this.” She leaned onto her hands as she folded them under her chin.

Barely over the air-kiss snub, I noticed all eyes—Lucy’s in particular—back on me.

Hate to disappoint, but looks won’t actually kill
, I wanted to say. But I was too focused on every last one of my sweat glands as they decided to explode in unison. A glaze of salty liquid began to form a fine film on my forehead. Was it really this hard for all Hollywood recruits?

“Uh, okay, well, uh—how many cameras will there be?”
That’s it
—
answer with a question.

“You’ll have two, sometimes three.” Naomi seemed happy to help.

“Okay, and what have we defined as our objective? I mean, beyond great TV.”
I’m new,
I assured myself.
I’m allowed to ask questions.
“Are we trying to show off Hollywood nightlife? Are we playing up the star factor? If you have three, four girls and one guy, sounds to me like we can’t really take the idea of a date too literally. It’s more like we’re watching a group of gorgeous people live a fabulous life in a fabulous city. It’s about living an untouchable life. That’s what people covet, and that’s what they want to see. The audience needs to feel as if they’re getting a glimpse into something no one else gets to see—behind-the-scenes with true-blue Hollywood glamour girls and their studly A or B-list rocker boyfriends. Is that correct?”

“Vicarious glamour, for sure,” Naomi said, again helpfully.

“Okay, good,” Karl said, not necessarily impressed and probably just wanting to move on. I had passed the test, if only barely, and the only disappointed face in the room belonged to Lucy. No matter. She was quickly distracted by her wardrobe budget and hoarding all the clothes for herself.

“The other models will have to supply their own wardrobe,” she insisted. “Fifteen grand for the whole series is hardly
enough for me.”

After three hours of hashing out a new format and discussing whether Karl would move into the corner office or the back office of Naomi’s plush production headquarters, it looked as if we might actually finish.

“One last thing.” Karl darted his eyes to me. “Wednesday’s shoot location has been changed. We’re starting at the Van Nuys airport, where we’ll be shooting MC Toke arriving in his private jet.” Karl looked at Naomi for kudos. “Our own little Lucy secured him this morning. She’ll meet Jane at noon with two other models. We’ll shoot Toke’s arrival, get him and the girls cruising in the limo, then off to party Hollywood style. Got it, Jane?”