Reality TV Bites (6 page)

“Still think I don't want you?” he murmurs, his voice like velvet next to my ear.

“I don't know.”

“Still crying?”

I stiffen. I hate that he saw that. “No.”

He moves to nuzzle my ear, whispers, “Still hate me?”

“Yes,” I moan. He kisses my neck then my jawbone, his mouth like a slow-acting drug.

“Sure?”

“I never want to see you again,” I say, trying to catch his mouth with mine.

He manages to evade my lips, then kisses me softly on the forehead. Not what I had in mind, and before I even open my eyes, the toad steps back, opens the door, and says, “If you change your mind, you know how to find me.”

It's the first day of filming, and I take deep breaths in the elevator to calm
myself. When I get off on the seventeenth floor, the camera crew will be there, ready to film my every moment. I smooth my navy Carolina Herrera wrap dress. I thought about wearing something flashier—my wool Schiaparelli military brisk suit—but then I decided I didn't want to look like I was trying too hard.

When the elevator door opens, I consider going back down. I hadn't expected things to look quite so crazy. There are three guys toting huge black cameras and followed by guys holding furry gray mops on the end of sticks. The staff is trying to look busy, and at the same time, talking really loudly to be heard by the furry mics. Miranda is in her office. It looks like she's posing for publicity photos, and Josh is standing next to Natalie's desk while a woman holds up
what looks like a little tape recorder and points to it. Josh is the one who prevents my escape.

“Sweetie, you're here! Finally!”

Finally? It's quarter to nine. I'm early.

At Josh's words half a dozen people turn to look at me. A moment later, they descend, and I'm wired and propelled into my office for my own publicity photos and an interview. You know how on
The Real World
the cast gets pulled aside to explain their personal take on something? Or on
Queer Eye
how the friends and family of the straight guy make comments throughout? That's what this footage is for.

They hook me up to a wireless body lav mic, and since I don't have a pocket or waistband, a woman attaches the transmitter to the back of my bra. I look like a hunchback, and I have to lean forward when I sit. While they're hooking all of this up a guy who reminds me of Ron Howard reviews the rules for me.

“Okay, Allison, just want to remind you that everything you do or see today and in the weeks ahead falls under the confidentiality agreement. Don't talk to your friends, your family, and especially not to the media about anything. You got that?”

“Sure,” I say. Like anyone's going to care about a show pitting interior designers against one another.

I've been sitting and talking for what feels like hours when I spot Nicolo through my office window. He's standing in the middle of the office talking with Miranda, and I wonder how long he's been here. One of the producers has a book of questions—I swear, it's like two hundred pages—and they just go on and on. The lights are hot, my back is starting to hurt from leaning forward, and Natalie's been giving me frantic looks for the past forty-five minutes. My
phone hasn't rung once, which means she's holding my calls. I've gotten no work done this morning, and it's past eleven.

The
Reality TV Addict's Guide to What's Real
says that producers often try to wear you down, so they can get footage of you all harried and bitchy. I'm resolved to stay as cool as Antarctica. And yet still friendly and approachable.

Nicolo looks up, sees me, and smiles. His blue eyes crinkle when he does that, and it looks really sexy. Miranda gives me an annoyed frown. What's up with that? She's married. I think.

“So would you call interior design a hobby then, Allison?”

“Huh?” I look back at the Ron Howard producer interviewing me. “Oh, um. No. It's my job, not a hobby.”

He waves a hand. “But you don't need the money. Your parents are quite well off.”

“I don't want to talk about my family,” I say. Then, at his raised eyebrows, I add, “My parents are rich, but it's not my money. In any case, I like interior design. I'd do it even if I didn't have to.” I just wouldn't work for Miranda. Speak of the devil, Miranda catches my eye, taps her watch.

“Is that all?” I say. “I really have to do some work.”

The producers try to throw a few more questions at me, but I swivel toward my computer and pretend to ignore them. I always thought it would be fun to have people asking me all sorts of questions about myself but believe it or not, after half an hour I was sort of sick of me.

I glance over my shoulder, and the film crew is still there, still filming. “Just go about your usual routine,” the Ron Howard producer says. “We want some footage of you working.”

Okay. I turn back to my computer and try to look busy. Normally, the first thing I do is play a game of solitaire, then read my hotmail, then play another game, then read my horoscope. Obviously, that's out. I decide to check my work
e-mail, and when I open it, the camera guys zoom in. The first thing I see is a message from Miranda with the subject line all in caps: STOP TALKING ABOUT YOURSELF AND GET TO WORK.

I scramble to close the screen before the camera gets a shot of that. Okay, I'll check my voice mail. As I pick up the phone, the producer says, “Can you put it on speaker, so we can hear, too?”

I'm not thrilled with the idea, but I guess it's part of the show. I press the button for my voice mail, and a computerized voice says, “You have sixteen new messages.”

“Shit,” I mutter. Then I glance at the camera. “I mean, super.” I smile—or at least try to.

“First message. Nine twenty-one
A.M
.,” the computerized voice says.

“Ms. Holloway, this is Edith M. Bilker-Morgan. You were to call me at nine sharp to discuss my choice of side table for the study. I do not like the photo of the yellowish white one you sent. You called it”—there's the sound of paper rusting—“distressed. I am
most
distressed. Please call me back. If it's not too inconvenient.”

“Ouch,” the cameraman says, and I keep on smiling.

“Second message. Nine twenty-seven
A.M
.”

“Ms. Holloway, this is Sherrie from Dr. Orion's office. I'm calling to confirm your appointment for a pelvic exam and Pap—”

“Next message!” I say, hitting the forward button.

“Nine forty-two
A.M
.”

“Hi, darlin'. It's Daddy. I know it's still a week away, but are you coming to the lake for Memorial Day? You know how your mother gets when—”

“You know what?” I hit the button to disconnect. “Maybe I'll check messages later.”

The intercom beeps, and I almost jump. “Allison?” Miranda's tone is short and sharp.

I clear my throat and smile at the camera again. “Yes, Miranda?”

“Quit playing around and get out here. Mr. Watanabe has arrived, and we need you in the meeting.”

“Thanks, Miranda. I—” But I hear a
click,
and she's gone.

“Excuse me.” I head for the conference room, and the camera crew follows. On the way, I pass Nicolo. He's leaning against the desk of a petite blonde junior designer we hired about a month ago and flirting with her. Note to self: Fire Britney. Or is she Katie?

I give him a smile, and his eyes follow me. I glance back, but the camera crew is still following, and wouldn't they just love to get a shot of me flirting with Nicolo?

About halfway through the meeting with Watanabe and the rest of the Japanese contingent, which Nicolo never does bother to join, I motion to Miranda to speak privately. We won't miss anything anyway as the meeting is being conducted in Japanese and Yamamoto is translating about a tenth of it.

In fact, for the past twenty minutes, Josh and I have been playing tic-tac-toe. Miranda meets me just outside the door, and I cover my mic with my hand. I don't know if that will mute my voice or not, but I can't get it off by myself.

“Miranda,” I say as soon as she closes the door. “Do I have to be in on this meeting? I need to get the details and schedules together for the Wernberg project. We were supposed to have a team meeting on that at one.”

Miranda glances at the conference room, keeping her mic covered, too. “That's not going to happen today, Allison. We'll do it Monday.”

“That's a big contract, and I still haven't seen the budget.
I've got Josh's numbers on the lighting and some preliminary numbers for the furnishings, but I haven't talked to Lila or Dylan about the flooring or the interior finishes. And who's checking on the codes?”

“I need you in there, Allison. Give what you have to Dylan and tell him to be ready to present a complete budget Monday.”

I frown. “Dylan's only been here a year.”

“And it's time he proved himself. Your budgets are always off anyway.”

I gape. “One multiplication mistake and—”

“It was a five-thousand-dollar multiplication mistake. Now go talk to Dylan, then get your butt back in there.” Miranda goes back to the conference room, and I head across the room to Dylan's workspace. He's got his Luxo lamp over his drawing board, and he's erasing something from canary-colored tracing paper.

I cover my mic. “Dylan?”

“Yeah?” He doesn't look up.

“Miranda and I need a favor.”

Now he looks up. He's got brown eyes and long dark lashes. Very cute, except that he's about twenty-two and engaged.

“We need you to get the budget together for the Wernberg project. I'll have Natalie give you everything I have so far, but it's not much. We'll need the numbers by Monday.”

He swallows. “Okay. You know, I haven't really done a budget before.”

Damn Miranda. This is so unfair. Normally I would help the guy out, but I have to get back to the stupid meeting. “Just do your best. I'm sorry. I'd help, but—”

Dylan glances at the conference room. “TV calls. Don't worry. I'll take care of it.”

“Thanks, Dylan.”

“Anything I can help with?”

I turn to see Nicolo standing behind me. He's wearing a charcoal suit with a red power tie and his eyes are sapphire blue. “Thanks, but I think we've got it under control.” The way I say it, I almost believe it myself.

“I am looking forward to our date tonight.”

I glance around. No camera crews watching. “Me, too. But it's a professional outing.” I tap his tie with my finger-nail, painted OPI's Wanted…Red or Alive, then run my finger down the length of the crimson silk. Nicolo smiles.

“Until tonight.” And he walks away. I grind my teeth. I'm not liking the constraints this TV thing is placing on me. I have no time to work, no time to flirt…I wonder if this is how Carson feels on
Queer Eye
? Well, if Carson can do it, so can I. We all have to make sacrifices.

 

“Okay, sweetie, I'm here now.” Josh kisses my cheek. “It's all good.” Josh steps into my apartment dressed in black leather. A short attractive guy peeks around Josh.

“Jello. I'm Carlos from Cuba.” Carlos is dressed in sandals, slim Guess jeans, leather belt, and a wife beater with an open button-down shirt over it. His clothes are pressed and the pants hug his ass, but his look is intense, and the five o'clock shadow belies the usual baby face I'm used to on gay Latino guys.

“Allison from Chicago.”

“Ooh, jou look gorgeous.” He waves a hand, indicating I should spin for him. I do, stepping back so he can see the complete effect. The dress is black with a fitted bodice that extends all the way down my hips. Then it fans into a full skirt. My arms and shoulders are bare except for two silk straps that snake behind my neck and cross over my bare back.

“Vintage?” Josh asks.

“Hmm-mm. The thirties. Ever heard of Jeanne Lanvin? This is from her mermaid line.” I motion Josh and Carlos to follow me upstairs and into the kitchen. I have a great kitchen. It's got white marble countertops, white walls, pewter drawer pulls, and a stainless steel fridge. It stays white because I never cook.

Josh and Carlos sit on bar stools, while I lean against the counter.

“So, what am I here for?” Josh asks. “You look scrumptious.”

“Are you sure? I could wear the Paquin or the Schiaparelli.” I raise my hand to my lips, then quickly lower it before I gnaw off my OPI Russian to a Party nail polish.

“No, no,” Carlos chimes in. “Jou look perfect. But jou no look like jou want to go, does she, papi?”

Josh shakes his head. “What's the story, sweetie?

“Bad night last night. I had another run-in with the toad.”

“That's the Davester,” Josh whispers to Carlos.

“Nicolo showed up and Dave was there and—”

Josh gasps and clutches Carlos's hand. “You had a three-some!” he hisses.

“No, I”—but suddenly I'm thinking about Dave on one side and Nicolo on the other, and I wonder what it would take to make that happen—“you know, I've never understood how threesomes work. Is it everybody with everybody? Because—yuck. Anyway, last night Dave was at Rory's after the game, and we started arguing. I said some stuff, and I swear I don't know where it came from.” I put my hands over my eyes, careful not to touch my face and my makeup. “The next thing I know, we're in Rory's bedroom making out, and I'm telling him how mad I am because—you know.”
I don't want to say the part about how Dave rejected me in front of Carlos.

“You were
kissing
him?” Josh looks horrified.

“I know I keep saying I hate his guts, and I do. But when I get around him…”

“You can't resist.” Josh nods. “No need to explain. I have the same problem with Justin Timberlake.”

“You know Justin Timberlake?”

“No, sweetie. I hate Justin Timberlake, but whenever I see or hear Justin Timberlake, I can't resist him. You should see my closet. I have piles of magazines with Justin Timber-lake pictures. I'm like a celebrity stalker or something.”

“Jou scare me,” Carlos says to Josh, shaking his head. “And jou”—he points to me—“jou got it bad. Jou got to forget about the toad.”

“Exactly,” Josh adds, “you've got the princetopolis on the line now. He needs your full attention.”

“I help jou,” Carlos offers. “Jou have any chickens around?”