a lifetime— “show producer” on The Purrfect Life with Lucy Lane, thank you very much—I had nabbed this star-studded collection of true-blue tinsel-town girlfriends who, as far as I could tell, pretty much walked on water. Cue golden sunbeam. These girls were velvet cool—hybrids of Hollywood hip and New York street smart.
The host of the show, Lucy, was gorgeous, a curvy blonde with chutzpah galore. Famous for posing in Purr Magazine at the age of 19, and marrying and divorcing Purr magnate Brock Barrington in the span of a month, Lucy had built an online empire—$25 per month to watch her on sexy dates with B-list actors and bad-boy rockers. She was now on her second reality show. The first was titled, Who Loves Lucy Lane?, a Bachelorette derivative where fifteen hunky, monosyllabic dudes vied for her affection. It bombed. But the networks still loved her.
Then there was my co-producer, Corinne, a sassy redhead with an angled bob whose machinations could make Machiavelli look like an amateur. She had the goods on everyone from Bobby De Niro to Tyra Banks. I saw her chew some poor sap a new a-hole at the W Hotel on Tuesday and thanked sweet Jesus she was on my team.
Finally, besides Rose, who was my associate producer, there was Toni, the production assistant. Together, their job was to support me. They handled everything from research and craft service to locations, all with a helpful glint. Day two, Toni lined me up with my first ever lunchtime laser pedicure/facial at America’s only human car wash: “We’ll buff you out from head to toe in 20 minutes or less. Satisfaction guaranteed or your next buff is free!”
Rose and I pulled up to Lucy’s abode in Beverly Hills, where we were scheduled to shoot pool-side portraits of Lucy looking Sex Kitten sultry in a bikini. This included Lucy wet, under the waterfall, climbing out of the water, slinking over rocks, and myriad other sexy poses to be wallpapered over the opening credits. A nice man in a black suit shuttled Rose’s car under-ground.
“Okay, Janada, follow me.” Rose held the elevator door open as I wandered semi-awestruck by the yellow-swirl marble columns and roof-free hallways, with palm trees thriving amongst the concrete. This was beyond exotic next to the bricks, blocks, snow, and evergreens that framed my childhood memories.
“This place is posh,” I said, entering Lucy’s home.
Her living space had a warm vibe with neutral colors, gold trim, crystal chandeliers, and impressive twenty-foot ceilings. The bedroom, no surprise, was pink, with a life-sized picture of Lucy above the headboard, naked but for a g-string hiked high on her hips, and elbows touching across the navel to emphasize cleavage and to hide those pesky triple X-rated nipples.
Rose and I could hear Lucy’s voice from the closet as we ventured closer.
“Tell me the truth,” Lucy glared at Corinne. “Don’t bull-shit me.”
“You look skinny. Trust me,” Corinne said, turning toward us as we entered Lucy’s garage-sized walk-in. “Morning, ladies.”
“Morning,” Rose and I said in unison.
“Is this, like, what people call a muffin top?” Lucy pinched a piece of skin that sat nearly invisible above her bikini bottom. “Look at this. It’s disgusting! I hate fat! How do people do it? Like fat people. I would shoot myself! I swear.”
“Relax. Women would kill for your body,” Corinne said indifferently, as if she had told her a thousand times.
“Seriously, I’m not as tight as I used to be,” Lucy whined. “Somebody call Dr. 9-0-2-1-0!”
“Ladies,” Rose interrupted, “now this is what you call badonkadonk!” She stepped into the mirror and shook her over-sized booty for the girls.
Lucy’s eyes bulged in momentary disgust before all the girls burst into gales of laughter. I chuckled awkwardly, thinking Rose remarkable for rising above some serious big-girl bigotry.
No doubt it bothered her. En route to Lucy’s, Rose had me open her online shopping purchase: two pairs of Addition Elle black skinny jeans, size 16, which she intended to pass off to “the girls” as tailor-made originals, so “mum’s the word, Canada.” Apparently, Corinne would have killed her if she knew she shopped at a plus-size fashion depot. I decided then and there to keep any Old Navy tags tucked far, far away.
After slinking in and out of no less than fifteen bikinis, Lucy finally made it to the pool, where the crew sat patiently, knocking off the occasional scenic shot while sipping coffee supplied by our ever efficient production assistant, Toni. She bounced up and down effortlessly with tape