sipped her coffee. “Hey, maybe we should move in together. What do you think?”
“Could be fun.” I smiled.
“Could be dangerous.” Toni winked.
Before moving to LA, the last place I thought I would ever work was the Sex Kitten Mansion, the so-called Purr Palace. But there I was, on a Sunday, two months after the Dagmar show launched to huge ratings, waiting, with my crew, for Sally—former assistant to Dagmar and otherwise known as Snookums—to arrive in her limo for her Purr Magazine semi-nude Hot Brides photo shoot, to be followed by a post-production party. It was another one of the many perks of co-starring on a CRP-TV reality show. Thanks to my diligent spy-cam efforts, Sally and Matt were co-stars on Marry an Heiress, now the hottest new reality show on network TV, and soon to be stars of their very own wedding special—America’s very own Wil and Kate! (In their dreams.)
The mansion was everything my Hollywood peers said it would be. It sat high on a hill with a long line of marble stairs carved in perfect symmetry alongside meticulously maintained flowerbeds and greenery—like a manor you might find in Italy, not a house a few blocks off Sunset Boulevard. There was a large yellow traffic sign that read “Kittens at Play” reminding us this was no proper manor. The driveway wound around freshly plucked lawns and thick evergreens shaped like perfect cones. There were tennis courts and plenty more manicured shrubbery beside the driveway fountain, shadowed by the hotel-sized home and another mini-manor made entirely of stone. The groundskeeper told me that Mr. Barrington’s current litter of girlfriends lived in the main manor with him.
“Oh, Cherry Blossom,” Danny sang from the distance. “I just confirmed Shakira to sing at Sally and Matt’s wedding. How hot am I?”
“You’re hot,” I chirped, squirming in the awkward recognition that I had just mimicked Danny’s singsong timbre.
It was so unlike the old me. But as per number one of my two new goals (focus on advancing my career), I was starting to realize my future in television production might be limited if I didn’t at least get a Yellow Belt in ass-kissing. And who better to learn from than the very best—Danny. It certainly worked for him.
“No, seriously, Jane, how hot? Come on. Give it to me, baby,” he said.
Was he trying to annoy me? “Very hot!” I said, no longer amused, given I was the one who had negotiated the deal. I had practically begged Shakira’s manager to do the wedding in exchange for shameless promotion during all commercial bumpers.
“Oh, and Jane,” Danny started, obviously loving the bossman role, “did you confirm my meeting tomorrow with the. . .” Blah, blah, blah!
In the three months since Danny had established himself as Mr. Supervising Producer, he had abused nearly every boss privilege imaginable, such as sending me out for meaningless errands, picking up lunch, and getting wedding decorations, while I also performed my real job, producing television vignettes about the new “it” couple.
Now, up the mansion driveway rolled an extra-stretch stretch limo. Sally squealed as she bounced out of it. “I just love this place.” She was talking to her new stylist. No trace of her broken-down, pre-fame apathy in sight. In fact, no indication that she’d ever been anyone’s assistant.
And yes, the ex-assistant now had her own assistants. She had a stylist, a publicist, and an agent, all three of whom followed her around like bossy self-important puppies.
After the show aired, Sally and Matt had become an overnight hit, garnering millions of fans across the country. I had no idea Karl and Naomi’s editors could turn a show around so quickly, but it was all part of the reality TV wars newly erupting between the networks, and CRP-TV was dominating. They were also advertising the bejeezus out of Sally and Matt’s upcoming nuptials: “Reality TV’s greatest wedding extravaganza ever!” At a million bucks a pop, the execs at CRP-TV were, I guess, trying to get their money’s worth.
My phone buzzed from my cargo pocket. It was Grant.
“I don’t think I can do this anymore,” I whimpered to him after answering.
He knew exactly what I was talking about.
A day after my Grammy night couch adventure, which Grant never found out about, he called me to explain why I hadn’t heard from him for the previous seven-day stretch. Turns out he had received a last-minute call for a weeklong gig in Florida with his gear. Translation? Mega-bucks. Between an urgent flight out, 16-hour