hand as if I was too far across the table for the effort.
I silently cursed all Europeans and anyone else who air-kissed business colleagues. What was with kissing strangers anyway? What the hell was wrong with a good, old-fashioned handshake? And how did you know what kind of air-kiss to give? Was sweeping the cheek a foul? Were wet lips bad form? Could bumping chins be okay? What about a firm grasp of the shoulders? Or should it just be a lean-in? I did know this much: Getting passed up altogether was a deliberate slight.
“Jane was just discussing how she plans to shoot the new series format,” Karl said, updating Lucy.
Lucy’s eyes lit up devilishly. “Can’t wait to hear this.” She leaned onto her hands as she folded them under her chin.
Barely over the air-kiss snub, I noticed all eyes—Lucy’s in particular—back on me.
Hate to disappoint, but looks won’t actually kill, I wanted to say. But I was too focused on every last one of my sweat glands as they decided to explode in unison. A glaze of salty liquid began to form a fine film on my forehead. Was it really this hard for all Hollywood recruits?
“Uh, okay, well, uh—how many cameras will there be?” That’s it—answer with a question.
“You’ll have two, sometimes three.” Naomi seemed happy to help.
“Okay, and what have we defined as our objective? I mean, beyond great TV.” I’m new, I assured myself. I’m allowed to ask questions. “Are we trying to show off Hollywood nightlife? Are we playing up the star factor? If you have three, four girls and one guy, sounds to me like we can’t really take the idea of a date too literally. It’s more like we’re watching a group of gorgeous people live a fabulous life in a fabulous city. It’s about living an untouchable life. That’s what people covet, and that’s what they want to see. The audience needs to feel as if they’re getting a glimpse into something no one else gets to see—behind-the-scenes with true-blue Hollywood glamour girls and their studly A or B-list rocker boyfriends. Is that correct?”
“Vicarious glamour, for sure,” Naomi said, again helpfully.
“Okay, good,” Karl said, not necessarily impressed and probably just wanting to move on. I had passed the test, if only barely, and the only disappointed face in the room belonged to Lucy. No matter. She was quickly distracted by her wardrobe budget and hoarding all the clothes for herself.
“The other models will have to supply their own wardrobe,” she insisted. “Fifteen grand for the whole series is hardly enough for me.”
After three hours of hashing out a new format and discussing whether Karl would move into the corner office or the back office of Naomi’s plush production headquarters, it looked as if we might actually finish.
“One last thing.” Karl darted his eyes to me. “Wednesday’s shoot location has been changed. We’re starting at the Van Nuys airport, where we’ll be shooting MC Toke arriving in his private jet.” Karl looked at Naomi for kudos. “Our own little Lucy secured him this morning. She’ll meet Jane at noon with two other models. We’ll shoot Toke’s arrival, get him and the girls cruising in the limo, then off to party Hollywood style. Got it, Jane?”
“Got it,” I said. I knew Toke was the biggest rap star since rap itself, but I still felt confused.
“Something wrong?” Karl asked.
“I just. . . thought. . . Well, the schedule says Wednesday’s shoot is host pick-ups in studio,” I said, running my finger through the call sheet. “You know, just so I could get the lay of the land, get my footing, so to speak, before the big date event.”
“Lucy,” Naomi jumped in, “why Wednesday? This is a little quick for Jane.”
Lucy groaned. “It’s the only time we can get MC Toke. And he’s a get.” She looked down her nose at me. “It has to be this Wednesday.”
“Do we have permission to shoot at the airport?” I said sheepishly. I already knew the answer.
“No, that would be the producer’s job,” Karl said, matter of factly. “As well as the limo and a suitable bar or restaurant or—I know, let’s get them into Koi. Jane, book them into Koi for Wednesday night. That’ll be hot.”
“Very hot,” Danny repeated.
“Okay,” I said weakly. My heart had just leapt from its standard 40-plus beats per minute to a drum roll. Airport permits were a nightmare to get, even with weeks of lead-time. I had less than two days. Not to