Reality TV Bites (8 page)

“I don't think so—”

He puts a finger lightly over my lips. My body slumps with relief. Thank God something has finally made me shut up.

“A new designer, Ciara St. Loren, shows her fall collection at a private venue Friday evening. You have heard of her, yes?”

“Perhaps,” I say evenly, but my heart has started pounding harder than it was a moment ago when he…well, it's pounding hard.

Ciara St. Loren was
the
new designer in Milan last year. The fashion gods called her spring collection both spectacular and innovative. This fashion disciple called it ridiculously expensive. Even I hesitated to spend that much on clothes, so
Mitsy bought me one of Ciara's outfits for my birthday. It must have cost my parents over a thousand dollars, but it looks so good on me, it's worth the price.

“My invitation allows me to bring a guest. Would you consider accompanying me?”

I should say no. All the reasons against getting involved rear their ugly heads, and the more time we spend together, the more involved we become.

I'm also thinking it might not be a good move to be seen together again so soon or so publicly. As it stands, only about five people really care what I do, but be seen repeatedly with a prince and pretty soon reporters are digging through my trash, there are topless photos of me in the tabloids, and my mom is buying a wedding dress to match the royal jewels.

Nicolo and I should just go back to my apartment, have wild sex until we've gotten each other out of our systems, and then go our own ways—his to rule a country and mine to decorate people's bathrooms. But as reasons to go, Ciara St. Loren is pretty damn persuasive.

“Friday?” I say. “I think I can reschedule a few things and join you.”

“Good.” He smiles, and I can tell he's genuinely pleased.

Not as pleased as I am, but not too many guys could stand up against Ciara St. Loren. I frown. No doubt he figured I'd jump at the chance to see her new line, and when I accepted, he got exactly what he wanted.

“I will see you Friday. But about tonight”—he leans in and kisses me again—“I have business tomorrow and will be away until Friday afternoon.”

I glance up at him. “You won't be at the taping Wednesday?”

“Regretfully, no. But I am here tonight.” He kisses my jaw, then my neck, and his hands slide under my shirt to hover,
warm and solid, at the small of my back. “Let me take you home.”

His hands slide around to my belly, and I almost gasp at the sensation. I'm aching for his fingers to stray higher. My bra clasps in the front, and it would be an easy matter for him to snap it open…

I pull away. “Good night, Nicolo.”

He scowls, looking like a little boy who's had his chocolate chip cookie taken away. He reaches out and catches my hand before this Chips Ahoy! makes her escape.

“What do you want?” he says as though this is some kind of negotiation. “You want me, Allison, and I want you. I do not like to wait.”

“Too bad.” I can't hold back a laugh. I mean, did this guy ever grow out of the terrible twos? “Look, Cookie Monster, I'm not some petty official you can pressure, or one of your staff, forced to scamper whenever you say ‘boo.' I'm going home. Alone.”

His eyes darken with what looks like anger, but an experienced eye like mine sees arousal. The thrill of the chase and all that. Men. They're all the same.

Finally, Nicolo manages a smile, though it doesn't quite reach his eyes, and releases my hand. “I do not understand you American women.”

 

Wednesday morning I'm lying on my couch, listening to the
Today
show and sporting cool, wet green tea bags on my eyes. I didn't get in from work until after midnight, and now my eyes are all puffy. Great. I'm going to be on national TV, and I look like I've got balloon implants above my cheeks.

My cell rings, and I answer without moving. “No, Josh, you don't look fat in whatever outfit you have on now.”

“This is Rory.”

“Oh. You don't look fat, either.”

“Thanks. I was calling to wish you good luck on the show today. And I want to take you out for a gossip session and a drink. If you're too tired tonight, how about Friday?”

“Can't Friday. I have a da—professional outing.”

“The prince?”

“No comment.”

“Ooh, you're good. If I were a reporter, I'd back off.”

“That's why you're not a reporter.” I lift one tea bag and peer at the clock. “Rory, I have to go.”

“Okay, how about Saturday?”

“Yeah, that would work—wait, no.” I sit and flip a page on my planner, lying open on the coffee table beside me. “I promised Grayson I'd volunteer at this basketball camp for inner-city kids with him Saturday. He doesn't have his license back, so he needs a ride, and I haven't seen him in weeks. I'm not sure when we'll be done, but I'll let you know.”

“You're volunteering?
You
?”

I frown. “Of course. I'm all for philanthropy.”

“Gray guilted you into it?”

I sigh. “Yep.”

“Thought so. Well, break a leg today.”

“Thanks, Rory.”

Okay, I thought when someone told you to break a leg that was supposed to be good luck. I'm going to have to do a little etymological research here because from the moment I get to work, nothing is right.

Well, it might be right, but it's not the way I want it—and that's really the only thing that matters. No wonder Nicolo isn't here for the taping. If he were, I'd tear him to shreds. We all would.

First problem: The van with the film crew, Josh, Miranda,
and me stops in Englewood. For those of you not familiar with the Chicago landscape, this is a great, big, ugly crater, i.e., a very, very
bad
area.

“Wait a minute,” I say to the guy who's driving. He usually holds the furry mic. “Why are we stopping? I think I saw a body on the corner back there.”

“Everybody out,” he says, opening his door, but Josh, Miranda, and I don't move. The van with Watanabe and the Ron Howard producer pulls up across the street. I glance at the house in front of us. It looks like something out of the war zone in Iraq. I don't know how it's even still standing. It's a one-story shotgun house with a small porch and was probably white at one time or another, but now it's dingy gray. Well, the part of it not covered with graffiti is dingy gray.

I glance at the house next door and realize why the house is covered with graffiti. About six guys in baggy jeans that desperately need belts are kicking back on the porch of the little blue house. They're watching us with interest and drinking bottles of beer, even though it's barely ten in the morning. They're all wearing blue and white hats or bandannas, and when one of them catches me looking, he flashes me a hand sign.

Josh says, “Is that a school for the deaf? I don't know sign language.”

I roll my eyes. “No, Josh, it's a gang. We're in gangland.”

“Duck and cover!” Josh screams and dives to the floor.

I glare at Miranda, then notice that the cameras are filming our reaction. “Turn off the fucking camera.”

The cameraman frowns at me. Thank God for the
Reality TV Addict's Guide to What's Real.
The writers pointed out that network reality shows can't use footage with profanity.

Watanabe gets out of the van behind us and hurries to our door. He says something in Japanese and points to the house.
He obviously wants us to get out, but I'm not moving. I stare at Miranda, waiting for her to tell Watanabe we're not doing it. Instead, she slips out of the van. I grab her arm. “What are you doing? I'm not going in there!”

“It's perfectly safe.”

I shoot another glance at the gangsters next door. “Are you blind?”

“Allison, no one's going to commit any crimes with the cameras around. Come on. We're making a lot of money on this deal.” She starts up the walk.

When I don't follow, Watanabe yells at me again. What is this?
Fear Factor?
I take a deep breath. I don't care what they offer me in there—I'm not eating maggots. I pat Josh on the shoulder.

“Let's go, Josh.”

“You go,” he mumbles, head still between his knees. “I'll cover you.”

I finally manage to get Josh out, and we hurry through the Englewood war zone, diving into the shelter of the bunker (aka the house).

The family is still home, and I smile at them as I enter, my eyes flitting about. There's an elderly black lady with a cane and white hair, dressed in her best: a white blouse, demure black skirt, and sensible shoes. I feel like a tramp next to her, though I'm wearing khaki capris and a white T-shirt, nothing remotely objectionable.

Beside the grandma is a little girl with two braids, secured at the ends with red barrettes in the shape of bows. She's adorable in black Mary Janes, a pink skirt, and a white shirt that says “Princess.” Her dark eyes are wide as she takes Josh and me in. She's holding the hand of an even younger little boy. He's wearing blue overalls. Their clothes are old and worn, but clean and pressed.

The camera guys are setting up to tape footage to use for before-and-after reactions. I'm already miced, but I wait for the crew to finish hooking the family up before I go over. While I wait, I can't take my eyes off the little girl. Who would have thought a child in this war zone would dream of being a princess? Who would have believed I'd have something in common with her?

“Hi.” I reach for the grandmother's hand, and we shake. She's so little, and her hand feels like it's made of bird bones. “I'm Allison Holloway. Nice to meet you.”

She nods. “I'm Eulalia Jackson, and this is Lena and Duke.”

I smile. “Like Lena Horne and Duke Ellington?”

The tiny woman's eyes light up. “That's right. They're my daughter's kids, and she named them some Zulu names, but I can't remember them. She's in prison, so I call them Lena and Duke. Much better, don't you think?”

“Much.” I look at the little girl. “How old are you?”

She holds up five fingers, then, reluctantly raises her other hand and lifts one more.

“Six?”

She nods.

“What about Duke?”

She holds up four fingers.

“Four? Wow. You guys are pretty grown-up.”

“Excuse me, Miss Holloway. We need to get some footage of them alone,” one of the production assistants says, and I scoot out of the way. An hour later, Mrs. Jackson has shown us around the small, neat house, and then the family's taken off to God knows where for the eight hours we've been given to do the kamikaze makeover. A carpenter and painter have arrived, and we're ready to start. Josh and Miranda are making notes and pulling out tape measures and yardsticks when Mr. Watanabe, the director, gives us our decorating staple.

A dozen vibrators. In various colors. Batteries included.

“What the fudge is this?” I ask when Yamamoto hands me the box.

“Sweetie, if you don't know—”

“Shut up, Josh. I know
what
it is.
Why
is he giving it to me?”

I look to Yamamoto, our little translator, and he turns to Watanabe, who says something in Japanese, smiles, and walks away.

“Uh-oh,” Josh moans.

“Where's he going? What did he say?”

“He say that the Japanese group have same challenge. You must use sex toy in every room. He say, be creative.”

I look at Josh and then Miranda, who's come to examine the box o'vibrators. I hold them out to her. “Did you know about this?”

“About what?” She smiles innocently. Aha! Miranda
never
smiles.

“Miranda, I'm not doing this. This is not decorating. Did you meet that woman and her grandkids? They don't want vibrators in their house.”

“They agreed to the contract or we wouldn't be here,” Miranda says.

“I don't give a fudge. I'm not going to make that nice woman's house look trashy. My parents are going to watch this show. My grandma. I am not decorating with vibrators.”

Miranda lowers her voice. “Then don't make it look trashy. Look at it as a challenge.”

I glance at Josh. He appears undecided, but I'm firmly unconvinced.

“Fine,” Miranda says, “then go back to the office. But you
might as well clean your desk out while you're there because Dai Hoshi is going to sue us for breach of contract, and when I'm done paying the legal bills, I won't have enough for your salary.”

Fudge it! Why did I sign that goddamn contract without reading it? I feel like I've made a deal with the devil. Josh gives me a wobbly smile. “I think we're screwed.”

I hold up a safari-print vibrator. “Well, we've got the right equipment.”

Despite my reservations, I get to work. No one can say that I'm not a team player, and to my surprise, things go really well for the first hour or so. Josh and I are used to working together, and even Miranda can be tolerable when she wants to be.

First, Miranda outlines what she'd like to do to the house. The walls are white, so she wants to paint them and add touches of color to the living room with different fabrics and materials. We've brought a varied supply with us, so this shouldn't be a problem. A pillow here, a slipcover there, a throw rug over there.

Then Josh suggests we build some shelves. The Jacksons have a lot of books, but they're all in piles on the floor. I suggest we stagger the length of the shelves and offset them with artwork, and Miranda orders me to find some family pictures and frame them, using materials in the van.

There are only two photos in the living room, so I head to the bedrooms to find more. One of the cameras follows me, of course.

In the main bedroom, I find a photo album on the dresser and flip through it, looking for pictures to frame. I start at the back with pictures of Lena and Duke at Christmas and work my way to the front, where there are lots of black-and-white
photos of women in forties-style dresses and men in hats leaning on shiny cars. Bingo.