take my suitcase up the stairs to unpack. Just as I began to settle in, Mom, looking rather strange, walked into the doorway of my bedroom. She was holding a copy of Star magazine.
“Mom, you never read that crap,” I said.
“I was going to wait,” she said, smiling an awkward smile, “but I thought you should look at this—tonight.”
“Okay,” I said solemnly, wondering what could possibly be so important.
“This is today’s issue,” she said, handing it to me.
I read the headline on the front cover: “Fix Your Life Needs Fixin’!”
I gulped and flipped to the article:
SELF-HELP GURU HELPLESS TO COUNTER COMPLAINTS BY ANGRY STAFF MEMBERS. Seems Mr. Fix Your Life needs to fix his show. An anonymous staff member claims working conditions are “torture”. . . that they are instructed to use unethical methods to make show guests cry. . . all for ratings that have insiders talking Emmy. . .
“Sorry, sweetie,” Mom said, rubbing my shoulders. “I just figured, after what you told me tonight, you might get a few phone calls tomorrow.”
I took a deep breath. Meg had let me go. I hadn’t done anything wrong. She knew the truth. That e-mail was intended only for Gib!
“Jane,” Mom said, “this isn’t the first negative article about Ricky Dean. This sort of thing happens all the time when you’re in the limelight.”
“I know,” I said, still feeling horrible. “But it’s the first article that I wrote, albeit indirectly.”
I fell back onto the bed and considered my fate. Then I remembered: Meg’s assistant had given me her cell phone number. I rummaged through my bag’s loose papers and actually found the sticky note.
“Meg?” I said, my heart pounding. “Sorry to call so late, but have you seen the Star?”
“Jane, it’s midnight,” she replied crossly. “You’re only allowed to do this once. Next time, I kill you.”
“So sorry. I just wanted to make sure you knew that I didn’t. . . I wouldn’t—”
“We know. Ricky Dean knows. The studio knows,” she said with composure. “We also know who the culprit is, and they’re being punished accordingly. Don’t worry, Jane. It’s a disaster,” she said. “But it’s show biz.”
“So I’m okay?”
“You’re okay.”
“Thank you,” I said. “Oh, and Meg? Can you tell me who—”
“Move on with your life, Jane.”
Click.
The next morning, I had a jumbo-sized hangover, only I hadn’t been drinking. The Star magazine was sitting on the table, reminding me of everything I’d left LA to forget.
“Jane, you need to stop thinking about it,” Mom said. “Besides, serves them right! Who knew the Star actually reported the truth?”
I hesitated. Mom was right. In all the fuss, I’d forgotten about the truth. Too worried that I’d be made the scapegoat, I’d forgotten how I’d given serious thought to fighting a system far too big and entrenched for me to tackle.
“You’re right, Mom,” I replied, with conviction. “But I’m not so sure I’ll ever work in that town again.”
“You will if you want to,” she said with a smile. “You can do anything you want.” She nodded convincingly as she handed me a plate of beautifully rolled crêpes.
I picked up the magazine to flip through the fluff, turning my focus to pictures of celebrities’ bikini bodies. Suddenly, I ran into this titillating headline: “Popular Single Guy Series Pulled Mid-Season Due To Scandal.”
My jaw dropped as I read the story, buried in the back, on page 58. I looked at Mom. Then I looked at the pictures. Then I looked at Mom again.
“Have you seen this?” I asked, totally floored.
Craig had somehow merited a full-page article and pictures: Craig hugging Marty, his Venice pad roommate, in a non-platonic embrace. A baby girl held by a really pretty woman. The really pretty woman and Craig together in Mexico. . . It was all too much, at least for me. The story read:
The swinging bachelor won’t know what hit him. Producers plan to yank this season’s Single Guy from the air, citing negligent background checks for their series super-hero. Turns out Craig Anders was not exactly prime chick-magnet material, despite his macho exterior.
Pictured here: Anders with gay lover Marty Sanchez around the same time Anders was getting busy with Hollywood B-actress Charlotte Jenner. Jenner is mother to Anders’ baby daughter, born at Cedars-Sinai last month. Anders denies relations with Sanchez, claiming the two are friends and nothing more, but admits he is the father of Jenner’s daughter Liza. . .
“Oh my God! Mom! That’s my almost-life written up in the Star! What the hell?”
Mom read the article