Reality Jane (31 page)

Ashley Allan, I’d recently learned, was Ricky Dean’s new girlfriend. She was 31, and without a stitch of TV experience, unless you counted posing for a Lancome ad in France. Her college major was Latin, and she’d been working and traveling in Europe for years doing modeling assignments. She moved to LA to study acting a year ago—this I’d gathered from my favorite supermarket tabloid while scarfing down dinner at the studio cafeteria a few hours earlier.

“Ashley’s on Hollywood’s ‘It List’ thanks to her years as a supermodel. She’s becoming a real on-screen talent,” said Meg, looking for Mr. Dean’s approval.

Guess the ass-kissing never ends
.

“We’re lucky to have her,” Meg continued, “and you’ll be directing.”

Jackpot!
I marched back to my office with a skip in my step. Gib was checking over scripts.

“Guess what, Gib? Turns out I’m going to Vegas with you tomorrow,” I said, trying to cheer him up. “Better book my Massachusetts replacement.”

For the past few weeks, Gib had been in planning meetings for Mr. Dean’s Vegas forum. He was to oversee the field production.

“No, that’s not correct, Jane.” Gib looked at me sadly. “You’re going in place of me.” He sounded more dejected than ever. “I just got the text.”

“Oh shit! Are you serious?” I heard myself say, still too excited to quash it all with pity or regret. “That’s not right! And
they told you by text?”

I looked at Gib with genuine sympathy.
If Gib doesn’t go, then I’ve just taken his place. Which means I’m doing his job, which means technically—
I quickly did the calculation—
I’m a supervising producer! Wow!
The little voice in my head cooed, sounding a little too Meg-ish. I hated that sound, but it was a big break and I couldn’t help the facts.

“Jane!” It was Meg standing in the doorway, looking very scary—again. “We need you to get Mr. Dean a helicopter to Vegas arriving at three o’clock tomorrow. I’ll be joining. Oh, and cancel his noon flight.” She turned toward Gib painfully, as if she couldn’t bear the sight of him. “
You’ll
be doing Jane’s field shoot tomorrow in Massachusetts.”

Meg clomped away. My jaw gaped wide enough for a bus to drive through.

“Can’t believe this,” Gib said with a sorry look. “Here’s the file.”

I nodded and watched him for a while, to see if he needed consoling. Gib began shuffling through papers. Unsure what else to say and not wanting to draw more attention to what was ultimately embarrassing for him, I decided to drop it.

Immediately, I tried to wrap my head around the helicopter assignment. Who knew how to find a last minute chopper to Vegas? And since when was a forty-five minute flight in business class not good enough or convenient enough for a talk show host?

There was always Pal Porter’s private chopper that got him from Malibu to the studio lot every other day.
Not an option
. And I didn’t dare ask Meg. That would have been
un-excellent
. So I did what any other seasoned producer would have done—I began surfing the web, leaving messages with every helicopter tour company I could find. With no budget limitations, chartering a chopper was the way to go, I figured.

Corinne poked her head in the doorway. “Why don’t you borrow Pal Porter’s helicopter? It’s got a mini-bar,” she snorted. “I heard the news. Good job. Oh, I want to remind you, I still need ‘The Hitter’ finished for tomorrow morning.”

“ ‘The Hitter?’ ” I said, not bothering to make eye contact,
smug in the fact that I’d just been given an unofficial promotion.

“The Brenda Wambetti story. We’re calling her ‘The Hitter’! Isn’t she awful?” Corinne laughed as she strutted back to the edit suite with her Diet Coke in one hand and, in the other, an unlit cigarette between her perfectly manicured fingers.

“Working on it,” I said, robotically.

I quickly muddled through the logistics of my Fat Forum shoot, left countless messages at helicopter companies, then began my draft of the Wambetti script. Corinne and the other show producers had been making fun of the woman all night. “She’s a horrible mother! She should be prohibited from having any more children!” I didn’t have the energy to stick up for Brenda. They’d already pegged her, and anything less or different would have ruined their angle. Sadly, “emotionally abusive mothers” was the new tagline for the show. The Ricky Dean team was waiting for the devil incarnate, and I was about to deliver her. It was 12:30 a.m. when I gave Corinne the final script with time-code.

“Perfect. She’s downright wicked. I love that you got so many shots of Oliver sick in bed, especially the one with the hot water bottle and the thermometer. Oliver is sick because of that evil woman.”

“Yes, I know, Corinne,” I said, not amused and just wanting her approval so I could deliver the goods to the editor.

Corinne hugged me. “It could be my best show! This is awesome!”

I handed off the approved script to my editor. It was 1:00 a.m.

“I won’t need you for a few hours. Go have a cat-nap on the cot,” my editor said sympathetically. “Come back at three.”

It would take him at least two hours to string together the interview and basic pictures. Then I would join him for final touches and an executive sign-off. Between that and a ten o’clock call time for my Vegas flight, I was supposed to get some sleep.

My phone beeped from the bottom of my bag. Grant popped into my head. It had been more than two weeks since I’d seen or heard from him. I’d hoped he might call to apologize after
our argument on the boat. Part of me wanted to call him—he had been, after all, an important part of my life. But as I sat twisting my hair, thinking of the career heights in store for me, beginning with one very exciting multi-camera shoot in Vegas, I wondered if there was any room in my burgeoning career for Surfer Boy.

The face of my Blackberry read:

1 new message.

Call me! Doesn’t matter how late. Alex

We’d been trying to get together ever since his return from Florida. As I called him back on the office landline, I realized it was no longer about confessing or telling him goodbye.

“Hey, it’s Jane,” I said when he picked up. “Got your message. Sorry it’s so late.”

“You know me. I’m a night owl. What are you doing?”

“A little slave labor in the office. I was about to take a nap.”

“Why not nap here? I’m ten minutes from the studio.”

“No, I can’t. I need to be here in case something comes up.”

“Nothing’s going to come up. Take a breather and get your rest here. I’ll give you a back rub.”

“You’re talking my language.”

“Good. Get your ass over here.”

Scrambling to the bathroom, I hoped I could make myself look human. But unlike my pending promotion, this was not something I could accomplish at this late hour: any color from my skin seemed to have bled into my eyes, which were totally bloodshot, and then there were the circles! On the bright side, I was skinny. The “Ricky Dean Airplane Diet” was paying off in spades. I thought of suggesting it to tomorrow’s Fat Forum contestants: “Forget dieting. Get a job on the
Fix Your Life
show and melt away the pounds with 90-hour work weeks!”

As I tossed my handbag onto my shoulder, I caught a glimpse of my body in the mirror—it stopped me in my tracks.
Meg?
I turned for a better look and took it all in: It was a new me, a different me, a nearly unrecognizable me. Thin. Powerful. Enviable.

“You’re looking good.”

“Thanks. I feel tired.”

“This skinny look is working for you.” Alex eyeballed me up and down. “I like it.”

“You’re not supposed to talk about a girl’s weight,” I said.

“Don’t get me wrong. You looked good before, but now,
mm-mm
. I might just have to get me a piece of—” Alex grabbed me from behind.

“Stop it!” I bounced playfully on the couch in a futile effort to hide behind the pillows.

He pinned me and stared into my eyes. “It’s good to see you.”

“Good to see
you
.” I was breathing heavily from the brief chase.

“I’m really proud of you, too.” Most of the time, Alex kept his conversations light, but he had an unusual expression in his eyes, as if he wanted a serious moment.

“That’s very nice of you,” I giggled. “What spurred that on?”

“I know you’re amazing at your job and you’re working really hard.”

“Aw,” I said, cuddling into his shoulder.

“I had coffee with Meg the other day. She told me you’re kicking ass. She also told me something in confidence.”

“What? Tell me!”

“What do I get in return?” Alex gave me a sultry once-over.

“How ‘bout I
don’t
smack you?” I tackled him onto his back. “Now tell me.”

“Oh, I like this,” he said all flirty. “Okay, she said that you’re due for a promotion.”

“Really?” I said, unable to believe my ears. “She said that?”

“Sounds like you deserve it. It’s a career launcher. Get supervising producer on
Fix Your Life
and you can write your own ticket in Hollywood.”

“Well, it’s not that easy.” I thought of the look on Gib’s face
when Meg had torn into him earlier in the evening. “Gib might have to be fired for me to—”

“Screw Gib.” Alex sat up abruptly. “You’ve got to do what’s right for you. You think Spielberg worried about the Gib’s of the world when he Rambo-ed to the top? You think Martha was saving kittens while she built her empire? Babe, in the game of money and power, the ends justify the means. Once you get there, and are safe at the top, you can do whatever you want. Give half your salary to Green Peace, start your own relief fund, whatever gets you off, but you’ll never be in a position to give squat if you don’t get there first.” He grabbed my cheeks. “Now kiss me and let’s have sex.”

“Alex!” I play-slapped him. “Slow down.”

Alex’s roommate was away again. The house was quiet. He had a few candles lit and there was script material strewn across the coffee table that Alex probably had been looking through before I arrived. We kissed on the couch until he broke into a sweat, then he led me to the bedroom.

“Come on. Let’s get you horizontal.”

His bed felt heavenly, like cuddling a cloud. I wanted to sleep for a decade. My bones felt heavy. Every muscle ached. I hadn’t noticed the pain until now. He pulled my shirt off and turned me front-side down for a massage. He began kneading my spine and dug his thumbs between my shoulder blades. Then he stripped himself down.

My mind spun with the details of my day. I wondered if “The Hitter,” sharing her bedroom with her teenage daughter, ever got a sensual massage. She didn’t even have the option of getting laid, at least not in her own house—with little sister sleeping in the dining room, daughter in
her
bedroom, and her 9-year-old son one wall over. I thought of her sacrifices, how hard she was trying to do the right thing, and the reality that she was about to be twisted into an evil mother on national television. It made me wince, but I quickly managed to stop that ugly train of thought.
Box it away! This is your time to enjoy.

“This isn’t how they do it at the Shiatsu School,” I whispered in a sultry voice, my head buried in a pillow.

“No?”

“No. Keep that up and there’ll be no tip.”

“That’s okay. I’ll be the one tipping tonight.” He rolled me over and started kissing my neck, moved up my chin, around to my lips, then down to my breasts. This time, and for the first time since I’d met him, I felt no guilt. No Grant guilt, no bad-girl guilt. His body compressed into my pelvis with a natural rhythm, almost earthy. It was like being rocked, and rocked, and rocked—
to sleep!

“Hey, you still with me?” Alex pulled my chin up to his.

“Yeah, you’re great. I’m just so exhausted.” My eyelids were like brick curtains.

He reached his arms around my jeans to unbutton them. My hand grabbed his. “No, better not.”

“Why?”

“I have my period.”

“We’ve been through this. You know I don’t care. It’s sexy.”

“Trust me, there’s nothing sexy about it.”

He continued to pull my pants off until he had me down to my underwear, which he tugged at with his teeth. I pressed my palm into his forehead, pushing him away. I wanted him desperately, but I was embarrassed.

“Stop it! Really. I mean it.”

“What’s the deal? I said I don’t care. You know you want to.”

“I do. You’re right. But I can’t. My period is heavy right now.”

“That’s nasty.”

“You made me say it. Heav. . . y!”

“Nice.” He looked grossed out.

“Alex, seriously, there might be something wrong with me.”

I sat up to put my jeans back on. I’d used the period excuse back in France, but this time I wasn’t lying. I’d gotten my period the day before. There was definitely something wrong.

Undeterred, Alex pointed to his pants. “So, how about a little something else?” He poked his finger in and out of his mouth.

“Alex,” I whined, “I’m tired and that’s just lame.”

“Come on,” he begged

“What time is it anyway? How long have I been here?”

He dove for the clock, attempting to cover it up.