The F List - Alessandra Torre Page 0,31

but this schedule looked intense—sixteen-hour days for six weeks. I looked at Trevor. “Has Frank seen this?”

“Yeah. He wants you to call him.”

I fished my phone out of the pocket of my board shorts and dialed my manager’s number. Frank, as always, answered in the last possible moment before it went to voicemail and was mid-rant by the time the phone hit his ear.

"—And ringing me like it's 2002. You hear me? I'd put salami between my toes if it were paying like this."

“I didn’t catch any of that,” I said dryly.

“This baby is going to be gold for you. Let me ask you something. What’s your aversion to Reebok? Could you wear some sneakers for me? I’m just talking about during the show. You wouldn’t believe the deal I’m looking at for you. It’s right here in front of me. On my desk. Seven figures, Cash. Seven figures, though we got to get the producers to agree to eight seconds of screen time per episode. So put your feet up on shit. Tie the shoes. Maybe hold one in your hand while you talk to someone. I talk to people all the time when I’m putting on my shoes.”

“Have you seen the shooting schedule?”

He sighed. “YES, Cash. I have seen the shooting schedule. What? You don’t like it?”

“It’s non-stop. I can’t keep that pace up for six weeks.”

“Keep what up?” He squawked. “You’re lounging on yachts. Drinking and partying and slapping titties. I’d pluck my head bald to get this sort of schedule. It’s your normal life, plus cameras. Come on. You’re used to cameras.”

I flipped to the second page, which held a short breakdown of the episodes were. In the third one, Emma and I were supposed to secretly hook up. Fourth episode, come public with our relationship to the others.

I glanced at Trevor, who shrugged. Paul flipped a pancake. Frank forged on.

“Now, they want a segment at your mom's house. Full-on Beverly Hills. Bring out the servants, the butlers, all the snooty stuff. We’re going to play it off between your grandeur and Emma’s white trash upbringing. A has and has nots episode and—wait—because I know what you’re thinking.”

“You don’t.”

"I DO. And, I don't want you to worry about it. You're going to come out of this thing smelling like a rose. A gorgeous, manly rose. I swear it."

Right. Because that’s what I needed. More bullshit press. More attention. More followers. Years ago, I craved the approval and attention. Now, as my fame grew and my unhappiness lingered, I was beginning to understand it would never be enough—for them or me. It was like pouring water into a cup riddled with holes. “Have the other cast members signed off on this episode breakdown?”

There was, for Frank, a rare moment of silence.

“Frank?”

“Emma Blanton may be pulling out.”

They say that you don’t appreciate someone until you lose them. I was a self-aware guy. I knew that my emotions toward Emma were an interesting mix. I knew that a small part of me, no matter how much I disliked her, kept wanting to inch closer.

I told myself that she was like a fire-breathing dragon. You wanted to look, you just didn’t want it to turn its attention to you.

But right then, when I thought she was going to leave the show—I suddenly lost interest in being on it. And that told me something, something I didn’t necessarily like.

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#dontbelieveeverything

EMMA: 22,149,036 FOLLOWERS

I was never going to pull out. Are you kidding me? I was emotionally lassoed to that show tighter than a baby to her pacifier. It was my entire world. My entire future.

But yeah, Michelle called them and told them I wanted out. We had an entire meeting where we examined the contract I'd already signed, and I huffed and puffed over the binding language, and threatened to sue them, and marched out loudly enough to make them believe it.

But no, I wasn’t going anywhere.

35

#newroommates

CASH

The producers had filled our roster with fake celebrities, all birthed after Kim and Paris proved it could be done. I was a trust fund baby with a famous parent.

Layton was a kid from Texas who made 219 video reviews of barbecue sauces before Tosh featured him, his brand blew up, and everyone subscribed to his channel.

Johno was a child star who fell in love with drugs, got arrested a handful of times, and was now a DJ who lived off performance fees and sponsored posts.

I couldn’t imagine carrying on a single conversation with either of them,