one day off prior to that, and before this last run, nearly a month of all-nighters. Half of those nights he hadn’t gone home at all. He slept on the community cot that one of the AP’s had brought into the office and put near the edit bays for any of us to snatch a nap. An editor brought in old pillows and blankets from home. I couldn’t stand the thought of either of us spending another night on the cot.
“Yeah,” he said, “but you’ve been on a plane for almost three months. You’ve had less sleep than me. And we’ve got you off to Massachusetts late tomorrow.”
“Massachusetts? As in east-coast-time-change/seven-hour-flight Massachusetts?”
“Yeah. Sorry. Should have told you earlier.”
“Whoa,” I said. “Maybe I’ll just pitch a tent at the airport.”
Gib laughed.
“Seriously,” I said, “I can handle it. I don’t have a family like you do. Besides, Gib, you really do look worse for wear. These people are killing you. What’s going on, anyway?”
“Ah, it’s nothing.”
“Tell me.”
He shook his head, reluctant to speak out.
“Really, you can trust me.”
“Just endless meetings,” Gib began. “Things are getting messed up. Some of the tapes weren’t ready this morning when they went to do the run-through. I don’t know what happened.”
“Well, that’s not your fault.”
“Apparently it is. They gave us a 9:30 deadline. What they say goes. But what they don’t realize is that when they come in at 7:30 in the morning after a good night’s sleep and make a bunch of last minute changes in the edit bay, that screws things up. Even if we could make Ricky Dean’s changes that quickly, we could never get it up-res’d and dubbed in time to be sent to VTR to air at ten. It’s bullshit.”
“Hey, Gib,” we heard from outside the door, “if you don’t like it here, there are other places to work.”
Meg walked in with long fingers spread firmly across bony hips, her porcelain skin and thin pink lips expressionless. She was terrifying. Gib’s face contorted as if he’d seen a ghost. Neither of us could have imagined she would still be in the office at this hour.
“Jane, Mr. Dean would like to see you,” Meg said, now ignoring Gib.
I got up quickly and followed her out the door, replaying the conversation with Gib in my head. THE Ricky Dean wants to see me? Now? Crap! Did I dish on the show too? Was I “un-excellent”?
“Hello, Jane.” Mr. Dean shook my hand. He was sitting at the head of the table in the conference room. “Heard you’re a bit of a star in the field.”
“Thank you, Mr. Dean,” I said, wholly intimidated.
“We need you to head up our Fat Forum shoot,” Meg said in her commando voice. “It’s going to be in Vegas. We’ve got couples in their 20’s and 30’s going to fat camp to see who can reach their weight goal first. Ashley Allan will host the forum and Mr. Dean will oversee.”
“Think you can handle it?” Mr. Dean asked with a serious face.
Ashley Allan, I’d recently learned, was Ricky Dean’s new girlfriend. She was 31, and without a stitch of TV experience, unless you counted posing for a Lancome ad in France. Her college major was Latin, and she’d been working and traveling in Europe for years doing modeling assignments. She moved to LA to study acting a year ago—this I’d gathered from my favorite supermarket tabloid while scarfing down dinner at the studio cafeteria a few hours earlier.
“Ashley’s on Hollywood’s ‘It List’ thanks to her years as a supermodel. She’s becoming a real on-screen talent,” said Meg, looking for Mr. Dean’s approval.
Guess the ass-kissing never ends.
“We’re lucky to have her,” Meg continued, “and you’ll be directing.”
Jackpot! I marched back to my office with a skip in my step. Gib was checking over scripts.
“Guess what, Gib? Turns out I’m going to Vegas with you tomorrow,” I said, trying to cheer him up. “Better book my Massachusetts replacement.”
For the past few weeks, Gib had been in planning meetings for Mr. Dean’s Vegas forum. He was to oversee the field production.
“No, that’s not correct, Jane.” Gib looked at me sadly. “You’re going in place of me.” He sounded more dejected than ever. “I just got the text.”
“Oh shit! Are you serious?” I heard myself say, still too excited to quash it all with pity or regret. “That’s not right! And they told you by text?”
I looked at Gib with genuine sympathy. If Gib doesn’t go, then I’ve just taken his place. Which means