Thank God at least one of us wasn’t shaken by the presence of what was truly a demi-goddess: Miss Dagmar Bronson. Naomi apparently had had a five minute pow-wow with Mademoiselle Dagmar and her boyfriend, Mr. Dominic Girbaldi, in the limo when they arrived, just before they entered the castle, streamed up the stairs, down the hallway, and into their room, closing the door firmly behind them. Our instruction from Dags? No cameras in the room tonight. We start tomorrow.
So, I did what any good producer, who was totally out of her element, would do: had a mild panic attack while Naomi grabbed my shoulders, told me to breathe, and asked me to place my three cameras in position to catch the arrival of our stars. Gathering every cell of competence I could muster, I promptly sent one camera to the exterior: “Get them exiting the limo!” One to the lobby: “Get them entering the castle!” And one to the bedroom hallway: “Get them entering the boudoir! Oh, and let them walk through frame!. . . Please!”
Naomi breathed a sigh of relief. “You did well,” she said as I regained composure. “No one said this would be easy.”
“Thanks, boss.” I felt elated at successfully completing my first assignment.
“Now, let’s see what they’re getting on the surveillance cameras.”
Naomi pushed a button about eye-level and a hidden door slipped open to reveal a wall of monitors that made me feel as if I’d stepped into a Jason Bourne movie. Four monitors were dedicated to every angle of Dagmar’s bedroom, eight monitors dedicated to the entrance and hallways, three monitors dedicated to the kitchen, two monitors dedicated to the dining area, etcetera, etcetera.
“Wow!” I remarked, completely blown away.
I could never have imagined the technology and expense that went into making a prime-time reality show—it was like a space mission. It was big-time. And I, a Tic Tac sucking, Tivo worshipping, closet tabloid obsessing, coffee swigging jejune, was not just a part of this hip new television team, but a senior part of the team—a producer.
“Naomi, this is so outrageous. I mean—whoa! This must’ve cost—”
“You like it?” a voice said melodically as he spun around in a chair holding a joystick á la Dr. Evil.
Get out of town! I screamed inside. Danny? As in my ASSISTANT Danny?
He squeezed out a Cheshire grin that briefly made me want to swing him around the room by his fuzzy purple tail.
“Hey, Jane. Good to see you,” he said. “Guess who’s directing the surveillance cameras?” His face lit up like a firecracker as he nuzzled up to Naomi. I thought she might actually pet him. “Naomi, just want you to know, the red lights on the corners of the monitors mean we’re recording those cameras. As you know, we can record four cameras at once. So, I got camera 16 to catch them entering the room on a wide shot, 15 was on a close-up of Dagmar and her dog Tofu, 17 got Dominic entering with his dog Steak, and 18 followed the assistants.”
“Wow, looks like you guys have this covered beautifully,” Naomi said, sounding pleased, as if Danny, despite his cotton-denim-leotard, was capable of orchestrating something so utterly logical. Until now, I had never even seen him actually work!
Not that I was bitter, but over the course of six months as my assistant, Danny had hardly proven himself to be director material. Cripes, he was hardly AP material. He didn’t deserve this! Truth was, the guy was always late, egged on Lucy when at her worst, had me negotiate all locations (his job description), and consistently forgot to copy my scripts for me before meetings. He exhausted me! His greatest talent was as Karl’s production mole or personal kiss-ass—that, and distracting Karl with his perky body.
“Jane,” said Naomi, turning to me, “what do you think? We got Danny on the show last minute too. He just arrived this afternoon.”
“I took the red eye. Jet lag doesn’t bother me,” Danny snorted in his quick voice, blinking and smiling merrily. “Heard you had a rough morning. Feeling better now, Sweet Cheeks?”
Why I ought to— “Yes, thanks for asking, Danny. Thanks very much—”
I considered asking him how surveillance really worked and what story lines he was following, but I couldn’t bear the thought of hearing this from him. I suddenly felt competitive, even territorial, knowing Danny had suddenly usurped me, or at the very least, become my equal. I could have sworn he was a busboy six