I shove the thought away with a shake of my head.
When Haley’s focused stare finds me again, it’s a signal that she doesn’t buy it. Because she’s the one person who knows what a toll that particular disaster had on me.
I look away and squint at my computer screen. Just then my office phone rings. I look and see my boss’s extension.
“Hey, Brooke. Happy Monday.”
“Happy Monday indeed.” Judging by her chipper tone, it sounds like she’s smiling. That’s a first. Usually Brooke loathes Monday mornings with a passion. She’s my favorite producer turned showrunner here and has become a mentor and a friend after our years of working on shoots together. But we also get along because we have similar work styles when we’re in the office. She usually holes up in her office most mornings, slowly sipping a giant mug of coffee and a green smoothie to energize herself while refusing to answer the phone until at least 10 a.m., just like me.
“I have some news,” she says. “Can you come to my office? Like, now?”
“Oh. Sure.”
I hang up, confused about whether I should be happy or nervous. The fact that Brooke was so chipper is encouraging . . . but it’s not usually a good sign when you’re called into your boss’s office to receive some mystery “news” with zero explanation.
As I walk down the hallway toward Brooke’s corner office, I mentally leaf through every recent project I’ve done and what I’ve got on the docket, but I come up empty by the time I make it to her door.
Brooke’s typing when I walk in, but she immediately stops and beams up at me before asking me to shut the door. The muscles in my shoulders relax a tiny bit. Wide smile is definitely a good sign.
She gestures for me to have a seat, then turns her chair to face me. She runs a hand through her wild blond curls.
“So you said something about news?” I ask, trying to keep my tone light and professional.
She nods while pushing up the sleeves of her green paisley-print wrap dress. “Really, really good news, Alia. Your Utah series just got the green light. And you’re gonna be the showrunner.”
“What?” A wide grin nearly splits Brooke’s delicate and fair face in half. “But I thought Byron passed on it.”
“The other network execs changed their minds.”
This time when I say, “What?” my voice ticks up in excitement. “But I thought Byron—”
Brooke lifts an eyebrow, her smile morphing into something smug. “Byron can suck on a lemon.”
I stifle a laugh. It’s no secret that Brooke loathes Byron. He’s the old-fashioned, boring counter to the open-minded and free-spirited concepts Brooke comes up with.
“That ancient-ruins show the network planned to air this fall fell through,” she explains. “The execs rallied over the weekend and chose your series to replace it.”
My jaw falls open. “Are you serious?”
She nods, beaming wide once more.
Shedding all professionalism, I jump up and round the corner of Brooke’s mahogany desk to hug her. She doesn’t seem to mind, though, since she returns a tight hug and pitchy squeals of excitement that rival mine.
I pull away, my head spinning.
“Brooke, thank you. For whatever you said to them to make them choose my series as the one to go with.”
“Don’t thank me. They made this decision on their own—I’m just relaying the good news because they’re all in meetings and conference calls today and apparently can’t spare a minute.” She rolls her eyes before that bright smile returns to her expression.
I cup my hands over my cheeks. “Oh my God, my own series!”
Another ear-to-ear smile splits my face. We sit back down and chat logistics, how the network wants a dozen twenty-one-minute episodes shot over six weeks on location in Utah starting at the end of March, which is just a week away. The budget is tight, but I don’t even care. As showrunner, that means I’m in charge of the entire shoot, from every aspect of production to script writing to the creative side. Butterflies soar inside my stomach.
“You get to handpick your crew,” Brooke says. “Whoever you want, as long as they’re free for the scheduled shoot time, they’re yours. And, look, I know six weeks is kind of tight. And I know that the weather in Utah in March and April is iffy. I would have fought for you to have longer and at a more convenient time of year, but they honestly just sprung it on me, like, twenty minutes before I called you in here. And from the way everything fell apart with the first option, they’re not in the mood to extend the filming time.”
I shake my head. “Don’t even worry. I can work a miracle with six weeks. I’ve been on shoots that were half as long where it was just you and me, and we did everything from writing the script to scouting the locations,” I say. “Besides, the good thing about shooting in March and April is that I’ll avoid the worst of the busy tourist season. This is going to work out perfectly. I promise.”
Brooke gives me budget details, then looks at me once more, pride dancing in her blue eyes. “Congrats, Alia.”
I cover my face in my hands once more. “I just . . . I can’t believe it.”
“Let it sink in for a bit. And then hit the ground running,” Brooke says. “Byron insisted that he pick the host, since this is all last-minute, but you should know tomorrow who it is.”
I nod, then stand up to leave her office. Before I walk out the door I turn back to Brooke. “I couldn’t have done this without you.”
Her expression turns warm. “Thank you for the kind words, but all the credit goes to you. You earned this, every bit of it.”
Brooke’s words echo through my head as I make my way back to my office. I finally got my shot—my big break. I’m finally where I’ve wanted to be for so long: my own travel show, set in one of my favorite places in the world.
When I make it back to my office, I shut the door behind me, draw the blinds over the glass wall that overlooks the floor, and then I jump up and down, silently cheering.
Seconds later I’m breathless and leaning against the door. I grin to myself. “I did it.”
3
I refresh my work email inbox. Still nothing. One day after I got the best professional news of my life, I’m a ball of nerves. I still have no idea who’s hosting the series.
Brooke and I have been calling and emailing the casting department nonstop since I got the news Monday morning, and we’ve gotten nothing other than noncommittal hemming and hawing.
And with Brooke gone today for the preproduction of an upcoming series she’s producing about sailing in New England, that leaves me to panic all on my own.
When my phone rings with a call from Brooke, I answer it right away.
“Hey.” The way she breathes through her greeting, I know something’s up. “You busy?”
“Always free for you. What’s up?”
“Okay, well . . .”
My heart pounds as she hesitates for several more seconds. This is so unlike confident and decisive Brooke. Ever since I’ve known her, she speaks with certainty—and I don’t think I’ve ever heard her hesitate.
“Is everything okay, Brooke?”
She sighs. “I finally got word on the host.”
I start to smile. Finally. But then she once more falls into a few seconds of silence and stumbling.
“I guess there’s no way around this,” she finally says. “Check your email. And I just want to say I’m sorry in advance.”
Half an hour later my eyes are bulging as I stare at the screen of my computer. It doesn’t matter how many viral videos I watch featuring the soon-to-be host of my series. My reaction is always the same. Disbelief. Disgust. Confusion.
When Brooke told me an hour ago that the network cast Blaine Stephens to host Discovering Utah, I didn’t react. I had no idea who he was—and I had no idea why Brooke was so upset about i
t. But then I clicked on the video links she sent me.
Blaine Stephens is a former reality star and D-list celebrity. He’s also a train wreck in human form.
That thought repeats over and over in my brain as I watch yet another video I found online when I searched for his name. There’s Blaine standing on top of a car that’s parked on a busy street in San Francisco, his hands in the air as he’s screaming something unintelligible, totally nude.
People walk past while staring and pointing. A few parents cover the eyes of their children. A handful of people stop to film him on their phones.
“What the . . .”
I don’t even finish my sentence before Blaine starts jumping up and down on the car, denting the roof. Then he loses his footing and plummets to the sidewalk, hitting his head on the cement.
I whip my head to Haley, who’s hunched over and watching along with me while eating the gluten-free breakfast bar I brought her this morning.
“How the hell is this guy still alive?”
“He apparently dropped acid that day,” she says between bites. “Must have been one hell of a trip.”
The moment I realized who this Blaine person was, my internal panic began. How in the world is a guy like this going to host a show? Brooke apologized while on the phone with me, saying that she initially told the execs that no way would he work as host, but it was a done deal. The contract was already signed, and Byron said Blaine was a nonnegotiable. He claimed that since Blaine already has an established fan base, it would translate into guaranteed viewership for the series.
I emailed Byron stating my case for a new host, but he wouldn’t budge. Once I realized I wouldn’t be able to fight him on this, I texted Haley to come to my office ASAP. I need help gathering as much info about Blaine as possible so I can prepare myself to deal with him.
Haley leans over to do another search on my computer. “Why did they tell Brooke the news about the host and not you? It’s your show.”
I let out a slow hiss of breath while remembering what Brooke said to me. “They want her to oversee things for me during the shoot.”
Haley stops typing and turns to look at me. “So, like, micromanage you?”
“Yup. They don’t think I can pull it off on my own. They assume I’ll need help from someone more experienced.”
Haley shakes her head, clearly annoyed. “Buncha dicks.”
“Brooke had my back. She told them I don’t need to be micromanaged and that I can pull this off as the one in charge.”
“Good. I mean, I’d expect nothing less from Brooke. She’s amazing and so supportive of you. I just can’t believe how insulting the execs are being.”
“All the more reason why I need to just accept this host casting. I need to show that I can handle whatever they throw at me without needing my mentor to babysit me.”
Haley mutters a curse word as she turns back to the computer screen while I scroll through the links.
“How is this guy so famous? I’ve never even heard of him.”
“We’re too young,” I say. “He’s some big reality star from the early nineties who was in a bunch of straight-to-video movies. And his agent is Byron’s golfing buddy.”
“Of course,” Haley mutters.
I click on another video. This one shows Blaine shouting profanities at a valet who didn’t bring his car out fast enough. The poor young guy in the maroon vest looks like he’s about to cry.
“Jesus,” Haley mutters.
“Wait until you see this one.”
I lean over to click on another video. In this one, Blaine’s walking out of a courthouse wearing sunglasses and dressed in jeans and a shirt that says “Save the Whales.” Next to him is an older mustached guy in a three-piece suit holding a briefcase. They stop at the bottom of the stairs, where there’s a podium and a microphone.
“Due to a court gag order, Mr. Stephens will not be taking questions at this time,” the fifty-something mustached man says. His lawyer, I assume. “He’s asked me to express his deepest regrets and apologies for his behavior on the night of January 7.”
Behind his sunglasses, Blaine frowns and lowers his head.
“Mr. Stephens wants to reiterate that even though he takes full responsibility for breaking into the San Diego Zoo and releasing various animals from their enclosures, he was under the influence of both illegal and prescription substances and was therefore not in his right mind,” his lawyer says.
Haley’s jaw drops once more. “Wait, he’s the guy who broke into the San Diego Zoo last year?”
I nod.
I remember distinctly that story circulating on the news. How some inebriated guy climbed a fence along the perimeter of the San Diego Zoo and started randomly breaking into animal cages. Then he climbed the gate of the big cats exhibit, and one of the pumas mauled him. By some miracle—and a few hundred stitches—he survived.
“Apparently Blaine is trying to clean up his act after the zoo incident because he’s lost a bunch of sponsorships,” I say. “Three alcohol brands and a delivery service for keto snacks.”
Haley mumbles, “What the fuck.”
“All he’s got left is an energy drink brand deal, some new app I’ve never heard of, and a reality show in the fall.”
Haley straightens the blouse she’s wearing, then crosses her arms. “You know, I’m so sick of Byron getting whatever he wants just because his dad started this network. He’s pushing sixty and still useless. He does zero work and collects a paycheck. He’s the dictionary definition of ‘entitled dude who is so beyond undeserving of every privilege he possesses.’ ”
Even though at five foot three she’s a handful of inches shorter than me, Haley’s energy is fierce.
I lean my head back against my office chair, groaning. Then I glance back at the computer screen, which is paused on his press conference. “So . . . this is the host of my show, huh? An insufferable man-diva who’s constantly high and behaves like a delinquent child.”
“Afraid so.” Haley gives my shoulder a soft squeeze.
I lean my elbows against the edge of the desk, then cup my face in my hands. “I knew this was too good to be true.”
Haley rubs that spot between my shoulders that always tenses up when I get stressed out.
“Look, maybe we can petition for a new host,” she says. “If we show the other execs what this guy is like on video, maybe then they’ll reconsider.”
I sit up straight and shake my head. “If Byron put him up for it, the execs already know what he’s like. And they obviously don’t care.”
I click on Blaine’s Instagram account, which popped up when I googled him. Half a million followers.
“Besides”—I point to the massive number on the screen—“I’m willing to bet that Blaine’s follower count trumps all and is why everyone agreed to hire him. No one who has any pull at this network is going to care that he’s a crappy person, because he’s got more than five hundred thousand followers that might translate into viewers for the series.”
Haley crosses her arms. Her shoulders slump.
I sigh, even though I want to scream. Blaine is going to be impossible to manage as a host—but he’s my only choice. And right now, I have to accept it and move on if I want to make this series happen.
Haley offers a sympathetic smile, her deep-brown eyes understanding. “The bright side is the rest of the crew is going to be killer. You’ve got me as production manager, so you know it’s going to be dynamite.”
I laugh and pat her arm.
“I’m your right-hand woman,” she says. “I’ll do whatever you need me to do. Writing scripts, scoping out locations, getting permits, setting up interviews, managing the lighting, going on coffee runs, whatever. I’ll support you in every way possible. You’ve done the same for me on a million shoots before.”
“Thank yo
u. Seriously.”
“Wyatt and Joe will be on camera. They’re the best you could ask for.”
I nod along, thankful that I’ve worked with them both multiple times. They have stellar work ethics and are willing to go from sunup to sundown for days in a row if necessary. And they’re both laid-back and easygoing, which will be crucial for this series with a host as unpredictable as Blaine.
“We’ll need an intern or a PA too,” I say. “How about Rylan? She’s been here since the fall and she’s been great. Always eager and willing to take on work. Brooke said she did a good job as PA on that documentary about oyster farms in the Pacific Northwest.”
Haley smiles. “She told me a while ago that she’s dying to work with you.”
I can’t help but feel flattered. Rylan is a recent college graduate who interned for the network her senior year.
My phone buzzes with a text from Brooke. I look back up at Haley and smile. “Tell Rylan she’s hired.”
Brooke: Just want to say sorry again. I fought them tooth and nail, but those ball sacks refused to budge.
I let out another loaded breath. Of course the execs don’t listen to Brooke and me. We’re not relatives or golfing buddies.
Me: It’s okay. Thanks for fighting for me.
Me: Don’t think that I’m letting one man-child host bring me down. I’m going to kick ass on this project.
Brooke: My girl!
Brooke: Before I forget, here’s the email for a freelancer you’re gonna want to hire. I’ve worked with him on international shoots. He’s officially a field coordinator, but this guy’s done it all. Camera operator, sound guy, intern, production assistant, script supervisor, catering, set assistant. He’ll be clutch on a shoot like this.
Brooke: I already emailed him to tell him you’d be reaching out
I text Brooke thanks once more, wish her good luck on her shoot, and check back in with Haley.
“Just messaged Rylan,” Haley says, eyes on her phone screen. “We’ll see what—”
Just then there’s a soft squeal from down the hall, then hurried footsteps that stop right outside the door. Then there’s a soft knock.
On Location Page 3
