Elimination Night - By Anonymous Page 0,49

from Rabbit’s advertising sales department. This was almost certainly bullshit. The real explanation, I guessed, was that Sir Harold had finally gotten around to watching the footage from Houston and Milwaukee, and had issued another cancellation threat. Cutting the budget was probably Len’s way of trying to buy us some more time.

I wished there was something I could do, other than talk to Bibi again, which wasn’t even worth thinking about. Not that Len knew what had happened between us, of course. As far as he was concerned, I’d at least managed to get rid of Teddy from the set, which was an achievement of sorts. He’d even slapped me on the back and done that pointy-clicky-winky thing that bosses do when they’re pleased. But with Edouard now on the scene—a.k.a. The Man With The Very Itchy Nose—it would only be a matter of time before he figured things out.

And then?

Hello again, Square One. Great to be back.

At least the routine of the auditions was now becoming comfortably familiar: the judges faking their arrival at the hotel where they were already staying; the contestants doing their thing, first for the decoy panel, then the real one; Joey consulting his “golden gut”; Bibi consulting Edouard’s facial signals; JD saying “booya-ka-ka” interminably; and then, finally, the verdicts being reached, followed by Wayne Shoreline’s ambush and interrogation of the winner/loser beyond the deliberately hard-to-find exit. Not to forget the countless delays for the Glam and Mojo Squads, plus snake breaks and outfit changes… all of which left us behind schedule on Day One by two and a half hours, even before lunch.

Still, there was a sense that something was different in San Diego. The stakes had now changed: We needed to have a moment, as Nigel Crowther used to say, or just pack up and go home. And sure enough, that moment came toward the end of the first afternoon, just as I was beginning to think that another day had been lost. Daylight was fading, the judges were tired and cranky (I’d caught Joey yawning at least four times), we’d failed to get back on schedule, and—aside from a couple of exceptions—the contestants had been a bore.

Then at five o’clock, Len called my cell. “Okay, Billy the Kiddo,” he announced, “something a bit different next. Tell everyone to hold tight, I’m on my way.”

This was unusual, to say the least. When Len wasn’t busy messing with contestants’ heads on the decoy panel, he tended to watch the auditions from a mobile control room, located in the back of an eighteen-wheeler parked outside the hotel entrance. This allowed him to issue orders to the judges through me—then deny all knowledge if something went wrong. So the fact he was coming upstairs to take personal responsibility for a segment was nothing short of a Major Event.

I looked down at my clipboard. It told me that the next contestant due to audition was “Bonnie Donovan—with husband Mikey.” I groaned internally. That’s all we needed: another husband-wife duo, thus giving Len the opportunity to send one of them home, just to see what would happen to their marriage. (That very scenario had already led to three Project Icon divorces and one very expensive lawsuit—which, admittedly, had improved season five’s ratings.)

But wouldn’t I have remembered a married double act from our first visit to San Diego back in August? Maybe not… I was one of twenty prejudges, after all. Still, these things tended to be discussed at production meetings. And I hadn’t heard a word about it.

Seconds later, Len strode into the room in his usual manner—i.e., with an impatience that suggested his time was more valuable than everyone else’s. “Listen up, everyone,” he commanded, smoothing his tie and adjusting his cuffs. “It’s time for our last audition of the day. But there’s a twist to this one. Here’s the deal: Two people, a man and a woman, are gonna come through that door”—he pointed to the entrance—“but only one of them’s gonna sing. Now, be warned: It’s a heartbreaker. He’s a U.S. Marine, back from Afghanistan. She’s a public-school teacher. Childhood sweethearts—they met in eighth grade. I’ll say no more.”

A groan of protest went up at the unnecessary suspense.

“C’mon, Len, what’s so heartbreaking?” complained Bibi, her chin tilted at a strange angle so the Glam Squad could perform some microadjustment to her foundation.

“You’ll see.”

Bibi rolled her eyes.

As Len left the room, the Glam Squad packed up its cases and brushes, the set was cleared, and the