Not So Model Home - By David James Page 0,42

think if he were here today, he would have wanted this show to continue. Remember, Keith was in show business, and you know what they say: ‘The show must go on.’”

“Keith designed nightclubs and texted people to get them into those clubs,” Drake corrected Jeremy.

“Drake?” Jeremy continued, rushing up to Drake and getting in his face . . . lovingly. “Drake, Drake, Drake, Drake. What are nightclubs but show business? You’ve got lights”—he emphasized by pointing up at imaginary lights—“music”—he cupped his hand to his ear—“and PEOPLE! It’s all showbiz!”

Several of the guys shook their heads in agreement. Like a fundamentalist preacher, Jeremy paused for a few calculated seconds, then changed gears.

“Now that we’ve got Keith’s wishes to think about, I want to say something else that you might want to consider. I’m as upset as you are and I want to always respect Keith’s memory—but the studio executives are saying that this latest development could send our little show into the ratings stratosphere. Higher than it’s climbed already. Even higher than American Idol!” he said as he threw in an are-you-with-me face, complete with raised eyebrows. “Think about it. You will be household names which could lead you—I don’t know—anywhere after this show. A-N-Y-W-H-E-R-E!”

There was complete silence as what Jeremy uttered insinuated itself into our heads.

Ian, a man used to getting a fair amount of press (not all of it favorable), swallowed Jeremy’s bait—hook, line, and sinker. “Jeremy’s right,” he said enthusiastically. “Keith would have wanted us to go on.”

This sentiment was echoed by the other members of the cast, including one that sort of shocked me: Aurora. But as I learned, the more we filmed, celebrity—no matter how petty and short-lived—had a power and momentum of its own. It was like a train, and once started, it was hard to stop. Plus, these people didn’t want the ride to stop. And to be totally honest, I wasn’t sure I wanted that either. I mean, why not make a little more money, grab a little more fame, and get a lot more business? It’s not like any of us could bring Keith back to life, right? So sitting around feeling sad for him wasn’t going to accomplish anything. It would be better if we were out there being famous and making a buttload of money, okay? The show must go on. And what a show it turned out to be.

A show of hands indicated that everyone wanted to continue shooting. Even my hand went up. Reluctantly, but it did go up.

“Oh, one last thing,” Jeremy said. “Because of the studio’s concern for the safety of our cast, we’re going to have twenty-four-hour security on any set and in Ian’s home.”

“That’s a wonderful idea, Jeremy,” Aurora said. “I think the cast needs to feel that this show is a safe haven, a place where they can talk about their emotions and compete in the show without being distracted. They are armed, aren’t they?”

“Yes, Aurora, you are perfectly safe.”

Jeremy’s assistant, Tony Marcello, entered the room as quiet as a mouse, whispered something in Jeremy’s ear, then left as quickly and as silently as he entered.

“Okay, since we’re all on board with continuing the show, I have an exciting new announcement to make. We have a new member on the show: Darryn Novolo. His plane just got in from New York.”

The guys were even more stunned than when they found out that Keith was dead. The reason was obvious: Just when they were settling in to the idea of one less contestant, Jeremy comes in and screws it up royally.

David Laurant leaned over toward me. “Uh-ohhhhhh,” he muttered.

“Bad news?” I asked.

“Just wait.”

“A model?”

“Supermodel. The supermodel. I didn’t know Ian had slept with him.”

“Maybe he hasn’t yet, but it could be in his plans.”

Jeremy motioned for Darryn to enter the room and enter it he did. He was easily one of the most striking men I had ever seen. A perfectly elongated, slightly rounded, triangular face, with catlike green-gray eyes set perfectly far apart under deep and chiseled brows, offset the most perfectly formed pair of lips that pouted ever so slightly in the middle. His hair was slicked back in a rather rakish way. And his clothes! They were expensive, looked it, and fit like it. Probably custom tailored. No off-the-rack for this boy. It was hard to look away—you had to stare at him. You just had to. It was funny. The more you looked at him, the more he looked