Not So Model Home - By David James Page 0,14

biggest names in Hollywood. I can’t tell you who they are because of therapist–patient confidentiality, but believe me, I’m talking big names. I’ve written several books you might have read”—she looked at the empty-headed expressions on the faces at the table—“or heard of: Kick Your Own Ass; You’re Not a Victim . . . Just a Pathetic Wimp; and Lonely? Get Over It! I believe in the individual taking charge of his life and not whining a lot about it. I’m tough, I’m smart, and I don’t suffer bullshit. Okay, gentlemen, let’s go make history, let’s get ratings, and good luck to all of you. Some of you are going to need it,” she finished, looking squarely at Gilles.

I didn’t know whether to clap or storm the beaches of Normandy. I didn’t know what to think of Aurora. Yes, I did. I thought she was a bitch.

Gilles, true to his nature, made a mumbling comment about Aurora’s being “vertically challenged.” I’m surprised Gilles would know a word that was so, well, American.

Aurora’s head spun in Gilles’s direction so quickly I thought I was going to hear neck bones cracking. “When Katharine Hepburn first met Spencer Tracy, she was wearing high heels and commented that maybe she was a bit tall for him, to which he responded, ‘Don’t worry, I’ll cut you down to size.’ I may be short, Gilles, but don’t forget that I am here to make sure Ian finds a suitable partner who thinks with more than his dick. I’ve seen your type before.”

Boy, I wish the cameras were rolling just then. That would have made a Kodak moment. Aurora had shut up Gilles for the time being.

Suddenly, I liked Aurora a lot more. She was starting to grow on me.

Jeremy jumped in like a trendy ringmaster. “Well, that’s the cast! You all know each other. When we start filming on Monday, the context will be a pool party here at Ian’s house. I want to you to arrive in street clothes, but bring sexy swimsuits to wear for the party.... That means you, too, Amanda—I plan on having a lot of lesbians following this show too. That means a Brazilian wax,” Jeremy announced, pulling an imaginary strip of waxed pubic hair from his crotch with a ferocious jerk of his arm. “For those of you who could use a little touching up on the tans, I’d spend a few hours brushing up over the weekend . . . but don’t overdo it. And please hit the gym as much as you can. I want you all looking sexy, pumped, groomed, and with bulges in your swimsuits. There will be several cameras roving around, taking down your every word, so if you’re going to say something to the camera, be yourselves . . . but be nasty. I want conflict, I want competition, I want men here wanting to win. I want big ratings.”

I raised my hand timidly.

“Yes, Amanda?”

“As Ian’s long-time friend, what is my role exactly?”

“To be his friend.”

“I know that, but how am I supposed to interact with these gentlemen?” I trailed off.

“Just be yourself, Amanda. Do what friends do. Comfort Ian . . . er, look, Amanda, I’m a producer. Everyone hates me. What would I know about friendships? In my business, you befriend someone and they stab you in the back, wipe their shoes on you, then climb over your lifeless body. That’s why I have no friends; can’t trust ’em in Hollywood. Plus, I’m a driven, obnoxious, toxic person. Who in their right mind would want to be my friend?”

There was no argument there. I didn’t know how to answer him. Jeremy was so stereotypically narcissistic that if I called him what he really was—a total dickhead—it would bounce off his protective exterior without so much as a dent. I decided to stick with what manners my mother taught me: If you don’t have anything nice to say about someone, say it behind their back.

“I guess I’ll make sniping and bitchy comments about the other contestants, have others give me the finger, duck when someone throws a wineglass at my head, and get swept up in what promises to be a tsunami of self-manufactured and unnecessary drama. You know, like what happens on a typical realty show.”

Jeremy clapped his hands, the twenty-odd, trendy silver bracelets on his left arm jingling like a slot machine jackpot. “Excellent! This chick’s got it. I hope the rest of you gentlemen heard that. I want you to