Reality Jane (18 page)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’ll be here,” he replied.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Production Notes for Dagmar and Dominic’s Overnight to Paris

• Helicopter arriving, limo pick-up, drive through Arc de Triomphe
  
• Talent at the Eiffel Tower, view of Paris, kissing, fans milling
  
• Talent with exclusive designers. Show at least five dresses for montage
  
• Dominic, the happy hubby, waiting patiently—in dressing room lounge
  
• Talent over candle-lit dinner, toasting, Champagne
  
• Talent night on town at Moulin Rouge, etc.
  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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