you need to pay for, especially if you’re taking cuts in rent just to keep them rented. And you still have some things you want to do to your house.”
“Not too much. The house is almost finished.”
“You’ve been at it for years, darling,” Alex joked. “Your slow-as-molasses contractor finally moved out of the tent in your backyard last year.”
I sniffed pompously. “A work of art is never finished . . . until you run out of money, which is kinda what happened to me.”
“Well, then, go for it.”
“I’m still trying to digest this.”
“Listen, sweetie pie, besides making some money, you’ll get notoriety, which could help publicize your—our—busi-ness. Plus, the show could go big time, and there might be book deals, spin-offs, and on and on. You could be famous.”
“Alex, how could a show about a real-estate agent trying to sell a hairdresser’s big Spanish house go big time?”
“It’s a no-brainer. There’s a big-time hairdresser involved who’s vain, controlling, shallow, and prone to histrionics. And most likely, there will be good-looking men involved somewhere. The drama is a given.”
“So you think I should do this?”
“Absolutely.”
“You don’t think this whole thing could backfire? That I get on the show and I end up looking like a self-absorbed, slut-bitch Realtor? These shows are looking for drama, Alex. I can just see myself having an open house, with prospective buyers looking around the house, opening drawers and closets. Now that would make for riveting viewing. No, Alex, they’re going to want people yelling at each other, throwing things, driving cars over the cherished possessions of rival cast members. This isn’t going to be pretty.”
“Okay, look on the bright side. Maybe someone will get murdered. If that doesn’t get people to tune in, I don’t know what will.”
CHAPTER 2
An Indecent Proposal
The next day, I met Ian at his sprawling home in the Old Las Palmas neighborhood of Palm Springs. Ian’s Spanish house is over 11,000 square feet, with eight bedrooms in three buildings on an acre of land. While that may not seem like a lot to those of you in Beverly Hills, or Bedford, New York, it’s a lot for Palm Springs. Old Las Palmas is one of the oldest neighborhoods of Palm Springs, filled mostly with Spanish-style homes, some mid-century designs, and a scattering of modern styles. It’s been home to Hollywood stars, captains of industry, and the women who married them. Now, it’s mostly home to the dying descendants of those families or those who want to live in what is hands down the best area in town.
As I pulled through the gates (with Ian’s initials, IF, boldly attached in fancy scripted, gold letters) and drove up the driveway to the house, my car was chased by a pack of wolves who surrounded my car when I stopped, barking endlessly as I made the decision against getting out of the car.
“Zeus! Hercules! Cut it out!. You . . . The rest of you . . . Get in the backyard!” a man shouted as the dogs cowered and started making their way back to hell, or wherever they came from. He was definitely leader of the pack.
He was an extraordinarily handsome man of about forty who looked as if he just stepped out of an Abercrombie & Fitch catalog. He approached my window and rapped on it with his knuckle. I powered the window down just enough to talk, but not enough for a dog to jump through.
“I’m Drake Whittemore, the property manager,” the man said, squeezing his hand through the narrow slot for me to shake. I reached over with my right hand but slipped and ended up putting the window up, crushing his hand in the process. I quickly pressed the window button down, releasing his hand from the jaws of death.
“Damn!” he yelled, setting the dogs off in another frenzy of barking and unbridled excitement.
“Oh, my God, are you all right, Drake? I am sooooo sorry. Please forgive me,” I added, getting out of the car and examining his hand, as if I knew what to do about a crushed hand.
“It’s not too bad,” he replied. “Come inside, Ian’s been expecting you.”
“I’m looking forward to it,” I replied. “I know I can sell this house.”
“Sell it?” Drake replied, giving me one of those boy-you-have-no-idea-what’s-going-on looks. “Is that what Ian told you?” he said, shaking his head and chuckling.
I decided that this was one of those Linda Evangelista moments: just smile, look beautiful, and keep your mouth shut to keep