Not So Model Home - By David James Page 0,1
sure about that.”
“Knowledge is power,” Regina smiled smugly.
“Knowledge that keeps you from being arrested.”
“Exactly. So tell me, Amanda, what’s wrong with women having all the power in a relationship for once?”
“Nothing, Regina. I applaud it wholeheartedly. But these women are paying for it.”
“And what’s wrong with that?”
“It’s called prostitution, Regina.”
Regina waved away my morals with a flip of her hand. “When I was working for Warner Brothers back in ’53, I had a lot of the actors pay my way and no one gave it a second thought.”
“But by becoming the paid-for girl, you lose your power in the relationship.”
Regina was not to be outdone. “Women and men give up power all the time in a relationship.”
“When?”
“Sex!”
“That’s different, Regina. You wear that horse saddle willingly.”
“Just like when you let Ken handcuff you to the bed.”
“Touché, Regina.”
Boy, you gotta be careful what you tell your friends. Ken, for the record, is a detective for the Palm Springs Police Department. Currently, we are seeing each other casually. Since we’re both divorced, neither of us is intent on running into a new relationship. And furthermore, yes, I let Ken handcuff me to the bed while making love. You got a problem with that?
“But remember, Regina, this is a reality show,” I said, putting vicious quotation marks around the word reality with two fingers on each hand. “There’s very little that’s real about it. I have a theory about these reality shows.”
“Pray tell. What is it?” Regina asked, leaning forward to rest her head on her hand.
“It’s the same thing as the early 1970s.”
“The 1970s?”
“Yes, it was the rise of the ugly, of the unwashed masses rising up into popular culture.”
“You sound like a snob.”
“No, it’s not that. Remember how ugly everything was in the early 1970s? The cars, the clothes, the hair, TV shows, architecture—everything. It’s because the tastemakers were from the uneducated ranks.”
“You still sound like an elitist,” Regina commented.
“No, it’s not like that. Vivienne Westwood, the British clothing designer, said that it’s the role of art, of leaders, to set the pace, style, and manners by raising up the lower classes through good example.”
“I would think she would be the last person you’d use as your barometer for good taste.”
“Regina, you know what I mean. These reality shows reward acting out, bad, trendy clothes, selfishness, lack of consideration for others. It’s similar to the 1970s. But now, it’s vulgarity that’s setting the levels of taste and human interaction.”
“Look!” Regina exclaimed, turning away from my insightful observations of popular culture. “Jasmine just threw a cocktail in Heather’s face! Someone’s gonna get her earrings slapped clear off!”
“I rest my case,” I relented as my cell phone rang. It was Ian Forbes, owner of a huge hair-care empire and a former client of mine. Perhaps it was much-needed business now that the second Great Depression was upon us.
“Ian, how nice to hear from you. . . . Yes, business is really slow . . . and how’s yours? . . . No, not really . . . Well, that is a surprise.... I don’t really think so . . . No, no, really, it’s not my kind of thing.... How much? . . . Are you kidding me? . . . Are you sure? . . . Is this a joke? . . . No? . . . Okay . . . I’ll consider it. Thanks for thinking of me. Okay, we’ll talk more tomorrow. Bye.”
Regina broke away from the fight brewing on the TV. “What was that all about?”
“You won’t believe this, Regina, but I’ve just been invited to be on a reality show.”
“A reality show?” Alex asked. “Go for it.”
It was the next morning in the office and I had spilled the news to Alex, my ex-husband, soul mate, and still-business partner. We were married in Michigan years ago, moved here to Palm Springs, whereupon he confessed to me that he needed to be gay. I knew he was bisexual when I married him, but he was so handsome and exotic and from a family that wasn’t highly dysfunctional like mine was, I jumped at his proposal of marriage. As it turns out, he needed a man, so we divorced amicably and we’re still the best of friends. The trouble is, there’s that soul-mate thing, too, blurring the line between friend and ex-husband/wife. It’s complicated.
I was aghast.
“You heard me,” Alex repeated himself.
“Why? You’re the last person I would have predicted to say that.”
“Amanda, times are tough. Like me, you have investment properties