A Not So Model Home Page 3

  “Let’s go into the dining room and we’ll talk about the show and what we can all do to make it the hit of the season!”

  The guys filed in with a veneer of civility, but you could see the tiny, imperceptible sprint that shot into their steps in order to secure a chair near where they figured Ian would sit—at the head of the table, naturally. Then, within seconds after entering the room, you could see the faces fall like so many shoddy apartment buildings in a Chinese earthquake. There were place cards on the table indicating where everyone should sit. Based on the slight mouth movements, you could tell there was a chorus of “shits” being uttered at frequencies only dogs could hear. Once everyone was seated, the show began. Once, that is, Ian took his seat. Everyone managed to flash a smile at Ian and score a point or two, depending on the whiteness of their teeth. The sets of choppers on some of the guys were so white they could have starred on episodes of Baywatch. My porcelain toilet should shine so brilliantly.

  Jeremy began, “I’d again like to welcome you all to the show. Let me tell you a little about the concept of the show and the arc we hope to follow.” This comment fell on a sea of blank stares. Jeremy, ever in a world of his own making, continued unabated, “But before we begin, Ian would like to have his spiritual advisor bless our undertaking. Ian?” he said, giving way to Ian with the wave of his hand.

  “Thank you. As some of you know, I am a very, very spiritual man,” he said, holding up the string of black wooden beads he was wearing around his neck this morning as proof. “So I have asked my spiritual guru, the Sai Baba Shu Baba, to bless us as we begin this remarkable journey today. Several of the guys rolled their eyes, no doubt familiar with Ian’s whirlybird spiritual explorations that were pounced on as soon as they became fashionable, then discarded just as quickly as last season’s Dolce & Gabbana. Buddhism, Cabala, Scientology, Mayan. In one day, out the next.

  From behind a curtain emerged a man dressed in an orange Nehru-collared silky shirt with an enormous Afro. He looked like an Indian Phil Spector—without the guns. His face was henna-decorated with supposedly mystical symbols, one of which looked awfully close to a dollar symbol. He stood and raised his hands as if to welcome his gathered faithful. Ian actually got up from his chair where he held court in order to prostrate himself and kiss the guru’s Gucci loafers. (I noticed, since my ex had a pair just like them.) This was probably the first time that the people present had ever seen Ian humble himself.

  The guru or swami or whatever he was began talking in a foreign language, chuckled to himself several times, raised his arms up toward the ceiling a lot, then departed.

  The man who was sitting next to me whispered in my ear, “That little charade will cost Ian $5,000, plus travel expenses.”

  “I’m in the wrong business,” I whispered back.

  “I’m David.”

  “Amanda here,” I said, offering my hand to shake.

  Ian was trying hard to appear that he was at peace, closing his eyes and holding the palms of his hands skyward. “You may continue, Jeremy.”

  “The show, the show . . .” Jeremy mused. “Think of a cross between The Real Housewives of Orange County and Top Chef ! It’s a slice-of-life reality show and a competitive show at the same time—a powerful hybrid. The show is what we in the industry call soft scripted. That means it’s not written by costly and temperamental members of the Writers Guild of America. Instead, we have a loose plan of where we want the arc of the show to go, and on each episode, we have a loose plan where we might suggest certain actions we would like each cast member to take based on what happened on the previous episode or earlier in a day of shooting!”

  I thought to myself, They’re going to make it up as they go along and convince everyone within earshot that what they’re doing is brilliant and spontaneous.

  Jeremy continued, “Each day, we’ll be shooting with handheld cameras at some sort of event, such as a pool party for the first episode, or a dinner, for example, and based on what happens during each two- or three-hour shoot, we’ll pull you contestants aside to do an interview to give viewers some insight into your more private thoughts and reactions!”

  A hand went up.

  “Yes, Gilles?”

  “I do not understand.”

  “Okay, let’s say that during a pool party, Keith calls you a snotty piece of self-absorbed Eurotrash. Maybe he says it to your face, or he says it on camera during the shooting, but you’re not in attendance at the time he says it. Well, after we shoot a few hours, we’ll recap what we got and tell you that Keith called you a gold-digging piece of Eurotrash. Then you’ll be shot alone, sitting, I don’t know, in a pool chair, in which you can respond, saying you are hurt by his comment, and then you might make a comment about his appalling lack of personal hygiene.”

  “So ve have ze everyday, reality part, zen the interview?”

  “In a nutshell, that’s pretty much it. Then the shoots all go to the editors and they put it together, and voilà, we have an episode. Before the next episode, we all sit down and watch the previous episode of rough cuts again so it’s clear where we want the trajectory of the next program to go. All the while, Aurora and Ian react to what’s going on. And in the final show, we announce the winner, and that man becomes Ian’s boyfriend and heir to a substantial portion of Ian’s personal money. Now, as you’ve seen in the legal papers we asked you gentlemen to sign, the winner immediately receives $15 million to be held in a trust account until Ian’s demise, which will be monitored by Lance Greenly, Ian’s CEO. You’re free to spend the $15 million. Upon Ian’s demise, another $57 million will pass to the winner.”

  “Who’s Aurora?” someone asked.

  “Ian’s psychiatrist, therapist, whatever,” Jeremy replied. “And mine. She’s the one who selected you from a list of previous boyfriends that Ian drew up.”

  “So, ze winner marries Ian and gets a lot of money?” Gilles asked.

  “What we’re looking for is a suitable partner for Ian, since he is dying.”

  You would have expected a round of gasps, but there were none. I swear to God, I thought I saw faint smiles on several of the faces gathered around the table. This was followed by a sudden burst of faked concern for Ian, which he accepted with a wave of his hand like a Pope accepting well wishes from the faithful in St. Peter’s Square.

  “Yes, Ian is dying of pancreatic cancer, but let’s not get off track here or get mired in all the little details! What we have to remember is that this will be a first in television history! The Bachelorette has the promise of love. Dancing with the Stars can give the winners big-time recognition and fame. This show has DEATH! And MONEY. Fuck Survivor! This is going to make American Idol look like Mr. Rogers! This is big, Big, BIG!”

  Gilles spoke up. “I dun’t knew why ve have to go on viss dis charade? Ian was in love with me until chose zeese, how do you say, skanky ho zitting next to me,” he said, pointing to Keith (his name card said).

  I had to give credit to Gilles. He pronounced one somewhat-current American phrase completely right and without an accent.

  The fur was beginning to fly already and we’d just barely started.

  The skanky ho seated next to Gilles spoke. “I think that we should try and keep this civil, no matter how much of a piece of Eurotrash we are.”

  Gilles reacted in a typically French manner. I half expected sabers to be drawn. Gloves to be struck across startled faces. Hair being pulled and eyes being scratched.

  “Is he inzulting me?”

  This time it was Jeremy who was licking his lips. Already, the mix of men here was explosive. Helen Keller could see it.

  Jeremy said, “Fellows, let’s save this for the show, although you are getting the hang of it. Drama! But let me get back to the meat of the matter. So, we will film this series mainly here in this house, and occasionally around town. Basically, the show is a contest. Aurora Cleft will be here starting at the first episode. She and Ian will see how you handle different situations, an
swer questions, and how you live your everyday life. But never forget, this show will fail or succeed on the kind of drama you give me and your best friend, the camera. Just remember, at the end of the show, the winner could be a titanically rich man!”

  Ian coughed ever so slightly.

  “Oh, and the winner will also have the love and companionship of Ian!” Jeremy finished, then added, “Ian wants to spend his last days with a loving partner.”

  You could feel the disappointment in the room from this realization. It was like being awed by a stunt plane doing figure eights in the sky, which then suddenly plunged into an open field. This offer had a big and paunchy string attached to it.

  “Oh, one last thing,” Jeremy added. “We are promoting the hell out of this show both on Q Channel and the Internet. YouTube, Twitter, Yahoo trending, celebrity Web sites! You won’t be able to turn on a computer and not see something that has to do with Things Are a Bit Iffy.”

  All the contestants flashed toothy grins, while some tossed smoochy air kisses Ian’s way. It was clear that the men sitting around the table would have no problem with the money part, but having Ian thrown in with the deal was a problem that would have to be tolerated until a quick death solved everything. I sat there stunned, thinking that a reality show was going to decide how a certain man at this table was going to inherit more money than any of us could probably ever spend.

  “Now, since we don’t all know each other, I think we should go around the table and introduce ourselves, tell us a little about you . . . starting with you, Drake.”

  “Hi, I’m Drake Whittemore. I’m Ian’s property manager. I was born and raised in Darien, Connecticut. I’m thirty-five. I graduated from Yale. I’m a world-class technical mountain climber, up to 5.10c. I’ve climbed Mount McKinley in Alaska; I placed in the Olympics rowing trials; I’ve placed in the top final heat scores at the ASP World Surfing Tour, the Billabong Pipeline Masters in Oahu and Tahiti, the Quiksilver Big Wave Competition, and the O’Neill Surfing World Cup; I work out five days a week at the gym; and volunteer time helping autistic children. I guess that’s all.”

  Drake had effectively let the air out of the men in the room. A pair of Dries Van Noten pants and Gucci-clad feet weren’t going to score a lot of points right now. Drake was everything the other men were not: masculine, honest, and smart. He didn’t have the Euro-sleek look of the other men; but make no mistake, he was strikingly handsome in a wholesome, all-American way. His predatory looks, dark hair, eyebrows that sat overshadowing deep-set eyes and slanted downward in a straight line toward the nose, and prominent, chiseled jaw gave him both a smoldering and somewhat dangerous—shall I say, almost sinister in a sexy way—look. He could have walked right out of an early Ralph Lauren Polo ad.

  All eyes went to the next man at the table, Mr. Frenchy.

  “I ham Gilles Moreau, I ham six feet tall . . . and eleven inches,” he said with a not-so-subtle wink.

  Since we were seated, it was difficult to ascertain how tall anyone was, but it was clear what Gilles was hinting at. Plain and simple, Gilles was cute Eurotrash with a big dick, and apparently a desire to get his hands on a lot of money. He had longish black hair as thick as the bristles of a shoe brush, swept back and up from his face, as if he lived life in a wind tunnel filled with hair spray. His two lips were permanently pursed into a perfect heart shape at the middle, revealing two beaver-like incisors that forced his lips to part in a tempting look of come hither. He had no brutish jaw like Drake. It simply eased back to disappear into his swan-like neck as if it wanted to slip away gracefully, unnoticed. Even though he was male, he had this light, gossamer overlay of femininity.

  Gilles continued, “And I am so qualified to be the boyfriend of Ian, I sink zere is no reason for the others to stay! I win!” Gilles laughed . . . all by himself. What might have been a knee-slapper in Paris landed like the carcass of a deer on the table. You could smell the contempt in the room.

  Jeremy spoke up, “Anything else, Gilles?”

  “No, ze contest is over. I am ze best.”

  A very satisfied smile rose in the corners of Jeremy’s face. Gilles was just the match to throw into the ammunition pile. Arrogant. Narcissistic. Sociopathic. “Very well, then, Gilles. Next?”

  “I am Aleksei Kikorov. Big surprise: I am a fashion model. I’m currently taking a break from a busy career here in Ian’s house,” he reported dryly without a hint of an accent of any kind—despite the exotic name.

  Gilles was not done talking. “You forgot to zay zat you are a kree-stal meth head in rehab here.”

  “I have nothing to hide. I have been clean for six months now.”

  “Seeex months! They always go back to ze drugs,” Gilles added.

  “Gilles, could you just shut that sewer that you call a mouth for one goddamned minute?” Keith MacGregor (name card again) said as he was texting from his BlackBerry phone, not bothering to look up. “Unlike others, I will wait my turn to talk,” he added, raising his eyebrows in unison and nodding his head slightly in the direction of Mr. Eurotrash. “Continue, Aleksei.”

  Aleksei continued, “Gilles, I’ve spent sixty days in rehab,” he retorted snottily while taking a rather large gulp of wine. “I’m clean.”

  What wine was doing at a breakfast table was a mystery to me, but I did notice that Aleksei was the only one with it in front of him. To be fair to Aleksei, the others merely had Bloody Marys. Alcohol was apparently the one acceptable carb.

  “So you drink ze wine now?”

  Raised eyebrows from a few guys and some dagger eyes from Keith.

  “I was at Beginnings in Malibu for substance abuse. I’m sure you’ve all heard of it. All the big stars have gone there. Charlie Sheen, I think. Anna Nicole Smith went there. I’m clean now. Wine doesn’t count.”

  “Even zo, you like your wine. I saut zat you go there to stop drinking too?”

  “That was for hard liquor. Wine is different. This is California. You get arrested for not drinking wine. Plus, it’s good for your arteries. Keeps them open or something to do with trans fatty acids. How should I know, I’m not a chemist.”

  “I vould zink you know a lot about ze chemicals, Aleksei,” Gilles said, getting in one last dig.

  Aleksei raised his nose in the air. “I will not dignify that comment. That’s about it. Ian has been very good to me.”

  Gilles replied, “I’ll bet he has.”

  “Always trying to have the last word, aren’t you, Gilles?”

  Aleksei was young. I was guessing about twenty, if that. Like any man who attracted Ian’s eye, he was abnormally handsome. Again, we had the huge-hair syndrome, but his was swept upward in a single, light brown wave that made him look like a Russian James Dean. And again, the lips—perfectly pursed. It finally occurred to me how many of them had collagen injections in their lips. Everything was all too perfect, too structured. But if you looked a little closer, you could see that Aleksei was already showing huge amounts of wear and tear from the crystal meth. His cheeks were almost imperceptibly sunken, the face a tiny bit shriveled, and he had a jumpiness that showed up in tapping fingers, restless feet, and gazing around nonstop. He couldn’t stop fidgeting in his chair, and his hands were fluttering like a pair of Monarch butterflies on their way back from Mexico for the winter.

  Gilles was about to lob out another verbal cluster bomb when Keith raised his hand to silence him—again, without looking up from his over-texted BlackBerry. Oddly enough, when I thought even a volcanic eruption couldn’t stop Gilles from talking, Keith’s hand had calmed the waters temporarily.

  Jeremy motioned for Keith to talk next.

  “I’m Keith MacGregor. I’m an event planner, nightclub promoter, and bulk texting expert in Los Angeles.”

  This pronouncement was met with blank stares all around the table.

  “I help build, design, and promote cutting-edge nightclubs in Los Angeles. Like Area, the Skybar, Element.”

  “You had nothing to do with a
ny of soze clubs,” Gilles chimed in again, giving the shit pot another good stir.

  “I said I build and design nightclubs like them. I didn’t say those clubs exactly. I am very much involved in the design of Water, Tube, and Sonic,” Keith replied with a bit of cocky bravura.

  “I figure as much,” Gilles added. “No wonder nobody goes to soze clubs.”

  Keith looked up at Gilles like a dog about to attack. Head lowered, eyes glowing like red coals looking up at you from beneath hostile brows. Then he smiled, poured himself some more cranberry juice, took a long drink, and was quiet. Keith’s appearance? Not like the rest. Instead of the polished, sleek look of most of the others, Keith looked, well, disheveled. Between the wild, longish hair, the beard stubble, and the dark circles around the eyes, he looked like a vampire who partied way too much. Jeremy was right—Keith looked like personal hygiene and grooming took a back seat to everything else in his life.

  Aleksei reached for his wineglass again, which I noticed had been magically refilled. His grasp slipped and the glass tipped over on the table, spilling the contents.

  Ian broke in, “Drake, would you be a dear and mop up Aleksei’s spill?”

  Drake got up with just a hint of frustration on his face, picked up the glass, mopped up the spill, and headed for the kitchen.

  “Drake, where are you going, boy?” Ian sneered with a barrelful of attitude.

  “What? The glass is chipped. I’m throwing it away, Ian!”

  “Let me see that glass,” Ian demanded.

  He studied the glass, turning it this way and that. He then put on his reading glasses that hung on a jeweled chain around his neck.

  “I don’t see anything, Drake.”

  Drake let out a sigh that could’ve woken the dead.

  “Right there, Ian!” he said, pointing to an area on the rim.

  “My God, Drake! You’d have to have the Hubble telescope to see that chip. Okay, throw it away, Drake. You win!”