rapidly approaching its limit. I mean, was it just me, or was #mammarymia kind of brilliant—and funny? And surely it was ridiculous to suggest that caring about the ratings made me a “heartless bitch.” Of course I cared about the ratings. It wasn’t just about saving my job. It was about keeping the entire franchise on the air! Hadn’t Mia been reading ShowBiz? Didn’t she understand that if our numbers didn’t improve before Sir Harold’s return from Germany, Project Icon would be gone, for good?
The ratings were as much about her career as they were mine.
I must have sat there in the green room for ten minutes, going through all this in my head while sipping on a cup of instant coffee that managed to smell—and taste—like burning plastic. Still, at least it was keeping me awake, and it was the best I could get in the studio without having to bribe one of Teddy’s assistants to sneak into the invitation-only judges’ lounge and smuggle out a nonfat cappuccino made by Nico DeLuca, Icon’s implausibly accented in-house barista (“Dude sounds like a Euro retard, but shit, his coffee’s Grade A,” as Joey had announced a few days earlier. “One sip is like mainlining an eightball of coke into both fuckin’ eyeballs… and I say that as a guy who once mainlined an eightball of coke into both fuckin’ eyeballs.”)
I was just about to get back to work when a voice made me jump. “Hey, why so glum? You okay?”
Looking up, I saw Mitch in the doorway, a nerdy little backpack in one hand, a stack of binders in the other. “No,” I replied, not bothering to lie. “I’m not okay.”
“What’s up? Is it the coffee? You didn’t use that instant crap, did you? It’s about ten years out of date. I can ask Joey to get you some of the good stuff if you want.”
“It’s not the coffee,” I sighed. “It’s the contestants.”
“Listen,” said Mitch. “Don’t worry about the contestants. They’re expendable. Oh, and it looks like we’ll get a big pickup in the ratings tonight. Finally, huh? Amazing what you can do with a slutty dress and all those filthy minds on Twitter.”
“Yeah, amazing.” I managed half a smile.
“See ya tomorrow. And, Bill?”
“Uh-huh?”
“Make sure to buy yourself a copy of Cheer the Fuck Up magazine on your way out.”
With that, he was gone for the night.
I couldn’t help but feel pleased about the ratings. Mia had no idea how lucky she was. Len would protect her now. She was a star. That dress had pretty much guaranteed her a place in the Final Three—if the season lasted that long. Better than that, of course, was the fact that I’d been partly responsible for it, and by extension, all the free publicity. Maybe this was leverage. Maybe I could use it to get a raise out of Len… Jesus, Sash, listen to yourself, I thought, you’re becoming one of them.
There was no denying it: I’d changed so much since joining Project Icon, I sometimes hardly recognized the words that came out of my own mouth. Was I becoming a cynic? Or was I just seeing things a lot more clearly now? Another possibility: I was simply getting better at my job. Whatever the case, it was making me think about everything in a different way—even Hawaii. What Joey told me in Maison Chelsea had put doubt in my mind. It wasn’t that I no longer wanted to write. No, I wanted to write more than anything else—especially now, with all this material everywhere—but what if Joey had a point, what if I’d ruin paradise by making it my home? What was it he’d said exactly? “Beautiful place, man, don’t get me wrong. But live there? Try it, I dare ya. Relaxation is stagnation.”
Also—I didn’t even want to admit this—I was getting tired of Brock. Every time he called, he was high. Giggling pathetically. Then he’d start telling me some circular, thirty-minute anecdote about a practical joke he’d played on Pete that was, like, so awesome, and I’d have to invent an excuse to get off the phone. Then he’d call me again, and I’d put him through to voicemail. What kind of person puts their boyfriend through to voicemail all the time? His most recent message:
“Hey, sexy! [Cue ten seconds of giggling.] Look, Sash, I’ve been thinking. I’ve been thinking you should just quit Project Icon. I mean, you hate it in LA, right? Man, I can’t even believe you’ve