Skinnydipping (30 page)

T
he space was incredible—a huge apartment with a beautiful living room filled with couches and comfy chairs and a long dining room table covered in buckets filled with ice and champagne bottles. “Three in a bedroom,” Polly said before closing the door, leaving the camera crew in the room with us. One of them directed the blonde whom I was still trying to place toward a card on the dining room table.

She picked it up. “Hey everybody, listen to this!” she said. She read it out loud: “Welcome everyone to the Loft. I hope the accommodations are suitable. Please enjoy a glass of champagne, but not too much. You’ll be receiving your first challenge in the conference room tonight at seven p.m., and I expect you to be prompt. Do not be late. Cordially, Sybil Hunter.”

“Are we supposed to remember how to get back there ourselves?” said an anxious, dizzy-looking girl with wispy, feathered hair. “I would get completely lost. Hey, is that rosé champagne? I could really use some bubbly.” She sounded like she’d already had a few glasses.

“I’m sure they’ll send someone to show us where to go,” I said. “From what I can tell, they run this thing like the military.”

Chaz opened a bottle and the cork popped and flew across the
table. “Oops, I got a little excited!” he said. We all took our glasses and I sat down between him and Shari.

Everyone looked nervous and stressed and pretty tired. I guess I wasn’t the only one who hadn’t slept the night before. Shari stood up as soon as I sat down. “So, I think we should all introduce ourselves,” she said, taking the group in hand. “I’ll start. I’m Shari Jacobs, and I’m the one Sybil referred to as ‘the housewife.’ I’m very proud of that title. I have a wonderful husband and two beautiful daughters, and my husband owns a floral design center in Manhattan. We’re the largest flower importers in New York.” She said “flowers” like “flowiz”—pure Brooklyn. “If you see flowers at the Plaza, Le Cirque, Balthazar, those are our flowers.” She glanced at the camera, then addressed us, articulating carefully: “And if any of
you
ever need flowers, just go to flowersflowersflowers.com.” She sat back down looking pleased with herself, then gestured to me.

I cleared my throat. “My name is Faith Brightstone, and I’m also from New York, although as you all know
now
, I did live in L.A. for a while. Now I own a vegan baking company called Have Faith Bakery. My signature muffin is banana oatmeal chocolate chip.”

“Wait!” said the blonde girl. Suddenly, I realized where I’d seen her. She was Katie, the party girl I used to see at clubs in L.A., the one who liked to dance on the bar with her shirt off—the one who’d been at Carol Kameron’s Hearst Castle party! “So … you and Ian McGinnis. That’s not really fair, is it? You already have an advantage.”

I sighed. “Really, we were just casual friends, I didn’t even know him that well. It’s no big deal.” I wondered if I should mention that Katie and I had met before. I decided to wait.

“Don’t you think he’s too old for you?” said a man with strange spiked hair and little glasses. “I mean, look at you. You’re a Ferrari. He’s a … a …”

“A Model T?” said Chaz. “What I want to know is, did you sleep with him?”

“Yes,” I said, wryly. “I was giving him a blow job while Sybil was
introducing him in the meeting room, didn’t you notice?” Chaz and Shari laughed, but nobody else did. Tough crowd. “Kidding! No, I didn’t sleep with him!” I said, trying to lighten the mood. “He’s old enough to be my father! He was just a nice man I met at a party and we socialized a few times. That’s all.”

Katie looked scandalized. What a faker. I remembered her swinging her shirt around over her head while dancing on the bar. I had a feeling she was no stranger to a blow job.

“You can’t put that in the show,” said Katie to one of the cameramen, pointing at me. “You can’t put her talking about giving a blow job to one of the
judges.
That’s not fair. The viewers will be biased!”

“Miss, you can’t speak to us. Please just pretend we’re not here,” he said.

“The audience isn’t voting, you idiot,” I said. I was tired and irritable and suddenly didn’t care if I was on camera or not.

“How do you know?” Katie said. “We don’t know how the show works.”

“Reality!” one of the cameramen said.

“What?” said Katie.

“Please don’t refer to the show,” he said. “When you refer to the show, we call ‘Reality!’”

“
Anyway
, I’m Chaz,” said Chaz, patting my knee supportively. “I’m an interior designer and right now I live in Philadelphia. I own my own firm and I specialize in gallery spaces, although I also do a lot of
fabulous
homes for a lot of
fabulous
artists.”

He looked at Katie, who was sitting on an ottoman next to the couch Chaz shared with Shari and me. She rolled her eyes and looked annoyed. “I’m Katie Swindell,” she said, shifting back and forth. “I live in L.A., where I own my own business.” She seemed restless and a little hyperactive. “I love astrology, and I design headbands with astrological art on them. Movie stars go crazy for my headbands. My business is called ‘Crown of Stars.’” She gave me a look, almost a sneer. I was so tempted to ask if she still liked to dance topless on bars, but I bit my tongue. She touched her temples so everyone would notice
the wide headband painted with fish that she wore in her long blonde hair. “I designed this,” she said. “I’m a Pisces.”

“My name is Nadine La Charlotte,” said the regal-looking woman who’d silenced us with her presence in the conference room earlier in the day. She had what almost sounded like a British accent, but it wasn’t quite right—like the way Madonna talked after she moved to England. “I’m an antiques dealer living in London with my husband, Clark La Charlotte.” She paused, meaningfully, so we all had a chance to recognize that of course she meant the heir to the La Charlotte steel fortune.

“La Charlotte, as in
the
La Charlotte family?” Chaz asked.

“I don’t like to brag …” she said, smiling.

“I can tell,” I said under my breath. She gave me a dirty look.

“Are you… from England?” Chaz asked. “I’m trying to place that accent.”

She reddened slightly. “I’ve lived there for many years. And as I said … I travel.”

“Where are you from originally?” Chaz asked.

She paused. “Queens,” she said.

I almost spit out my champagne. Chaz smiled serenely, as if he’d just been handed a great gift. “Ah,” he said. “I see.”

A girl with very long hair braided down her back was next. “I’m Sadie Danielson, and I’m from Texas,” she said. “I have to say, I’m feeling a little homesick, but I’m also very happy to be here.” She had a calm, even voice and a blank expression. “I’m the organic farmer. I have a farm outside Dallas, and I also own a large and very successful market in Dallas.”

“I’m Mikki Winn,” said the next woman. She was tall and incredibly thin, almost skeletal, with a cloud of gold hair that seemed to hover around her face, and an unusual dress that looked very expensive. “I’m an event planner in New Jersey, with a bad shopping habit.” She looked around shyly.

“I’m Jodi Sue Jerry,” said the next woman, the one who had been in the simulation audition with me. She wore a tight scoop-necked
blouse under a very closely fitted suit. The outfit showed her enormous cleavage and curvy figure to its greatest advantage. “I’m a celebrity chef in Beverly Hills,” she said.

“Aren’t you Ted Jerry’s wife? The heavy metal rock star? My daughters have posters of him all over their room!” Shari said.

“I am,” she said proudly. “But I have my
own
career.”

Chaz then leaned into me and whispered in my ear, “We have some mutual friends. Her rock star husband finances her business and she just cooks for his celebrity friends because he makes them hire her.”

I somehow resisted snickering.

Next up was a tall woman with broad shoulders, large chiseled features, long brown hair, and a Midwestern accent. “I’m Linda Pavlovski, and I just have to say that I don’t like the way we’re being treated, led around like children. I’m a professional headhunter in Chicago,” she said. “I specialize in placing executives with Fortune 500 companies.” She talked loudly and aggressively, and had a belligerent expression like she wanted to punch someone. “And I really don’t even know why I’m here. My boyfriend made me try out, and of course, I got it.”

“He was probably trying to get rid of her,” Chaz whispered.

The dizzy girl with the wispy blonde hair spoke up next. “I’m Monica Reynolds, and I’m a lifestyle coach. I live in Santa Fe, New Mexico, and I help people manifest their dreams.” She paused. “Is there more champagne?” She stood up and wandered over to the table and started peering into the bottles. “It wasn’t rosé, but it was OK.”

Chaz and I looked at each other and smiled. What a group.

The last two to introduce themselves were the remaining men, who had been pretty quiet. I suspected they weren’t as comfortable as Chaz in out-goddessing the rest of us. The first one took a deep breath and seemed to launch himself into the center of the room. “I’m Andy Spencer, and I’m a chef at Jeux de Mots in Las Vegas, and I just have to say watch out, because this may be a show called
Domestic Goddess
, but when it comes to skill in the kitchen, I’m a
god.
” He gave all
the women in the room a blatant once-over and a big salty smile, then sat down looking very satisfied with himself.

“Okaaay,” Chaz whispered to me. “Make way for the Ego of Andy.”

Finally, the tall, strange-looking man with the spiky hair, small black glasses, and expensive suit said with a tight smile, “I’m Christophe Valentine, and I own a concierge business in Miami. We supply all the major hotels. We’re very successful.” He said it directly to Mikki, whom he’d been eyeing since we were all in the conference room. She blushed.

“Oh my God, that was exhausting!” said Shari, standing up. “And I’m starving. But I’m not going to eat. I’ve been so bad today. My diet starts tomorrow! Is it seven yet?”

We had a few more minutes, so everybody explored the Loft and eyed one another suspiciously, trying to figure out who might be a potential ally, and who was a threat. Shari and I immediately gravitated toward each other, and asked Mikki if she wanted to share a room with us. I was interested that she was an event planner and told her I’d been one, too. “Then we’ll have a lot in common,” Mikki said, “because I love to bake!” She didn’t look like she’d ever eaten a carb in her life.

Our room had three single beds, each on a wall, with one small window looking out over the river. As we unpacked, Shari entertained us with a running monologue of her opinions about the other contestants—who was too fat, too stupid, had potential, might be someone to watch out for, and which ones Sybil would probably favor.

She was funny, quick-witted, and gossipy, clearly a woman who liked to know everybody’s business and who reveled in putting people together. Mikki seemed more reserved but smart with a good sense of humor. “I’m aligning myself with you two,” Shari told us. “Faith, you’re connected. And Mikki, you obviously have taste.”

It looked like Katie, the astrology freak designer (and party girl who was obviously pretending not to remember me), had paired up with Monica, the ditzy blonde lifestyle coach from Santa Fe, and Queen Nadine, the antiques dealer with the rich husband. That left
Down-Home Sadie, the organic farmer, to share a room with Jodi Sue Big Boobs, the groupie, and Man-Eater Linda, the loudmouthed headhunter from Chicago.

“Are we already forming alliances?” I asked.

“Sure,” said Shari. “Why not? That’s what makes it fun.” I was more comfortable competing on my own, but I supposed this was how it was bound to go.

At six forty-five, one of the production people knocked on the door. Jodi Sue let her in. “Is everybody ready? We need to go
now.
”

We followed her back through the labyrinth to the conference room. Sybil Hunter was already there. She’d changed into evening attire—a sleeveless gray cashmere sweater dress and low heels.

“Good evening, everyone. I hope you like your living quarters.” Everyone nodded enthusiastically, and muttered words like “Oh yes!” and “Gorgeous!” and “It’s heaven!” Brownnosers.

She nodded. “I have a surprise for you,” she said. “Someone wants to pay you a visit, and he just might have some advice for you.”

We all looked at one another, then at Sybil. When she turned to the door at the back of the room, we all followed her gaze. The door opened, and in walked Hugh Pritzker, megabillionaire and the man almost solely responsible for making cell phones ubiquitous with the invention of the ePhone. We all knew exactly who he was. He was always on the covers of magazines. I’d actually met him briefly before, too. He was a friend of my former employers, the Kamerons, but I didn’t dare say anything, and I prayed he wouldn’t, either. I was beginning to feel like New York and L.A. were two tiny little towns where everybody knew everybody else.

“Welcome to Manhattan!” said Hugh Pritzker. “This is the city of dreams, where anyone can become a billionaire, whether you’re building bridges or skyscrapers, inventing phones or baking cookies. All it takes is a good idea, and the guts to make it come true.” He sounded bored, reading the cue cards in a monotone.