A Not So Model Home

by David James

  Drake left the room and went into the kitchen, where we were treated to the sound of the glass being thrown at great velocity against a wall, shattering into a million pieces. This followed by what sounded like someone kicking in the side of an aluminum pizza pan.

  “The way that man spends my money!” Ian complained.

  “David,” Jeremy said, moving things along, “would you like to introduce yourself? Tell us a little about you.”

  Gilles was about to let loose another volley when Aleksei clapped a hand over Gilles’s mouth. It worked!

  “I’m David Laurant.” Like the others, he was abnormally handsome in a young, waif kind of way. But David had a different kind of look. His hair was dyed a bright white and was spiked up, and between the hair and the oversized Tom Ford tortoiseshell horn-rim glasses that made up most of his face, he had a constant look of being surprised. His eyes were bright and mischievous. I could tell right from the start he was going to be bubbly, energetic, and a whole lot of entertainment and drama. But not a lot of substance. And I was not disappointed.

  “I’ve modeled since I was sixteen for Armani, Gucci, Tom Ford, and I was the lead model at Alberto Garelli’s 2006 Hobo Show.”

  “That show set the standard. Fabulous!” Aleksei said with a didactic seriousness.

  “I know, wasn’t it?” David agreed. “The show director said I actually looked like I had tuberculosis. That’s how I got to be the opening and closing model. They don’t have shows like that anymore!”

  “Having the models crawl out of cardboard boxes at the beginning and the end of the show... totally brilliant!” Aleksei relished.

  “The press was really unkind to Alberto because of that show,” David defended. “Everyone is so PC nowadays. You can’t even make fun of the homeless anymore. I personally have nothing against them, but if they didn’t smell like sour milk . . . Hey, I have an idea. Perfume for the homeless! Genius! I thought of it first,” David added, then pulled out his iPhone and began texting his million-dollar idea to what I presumed was his good friend, Karl Lagerfeld.

  “Is there anything else that you’d like to tell us about yourself, David?” Jeremy plied.

  “No, I’m a very in-demand model. What else can there be worth telling?”

  Then we came to the square peg in the round hole: Marcus Blade. Marcus was the complete opposite of everyone at the table. Unlike the skinny, androgynous physiques that made the other men into perfect, human clothes hangers, Marcus was built like a brick shithouse, his body so puffed up by steroids that he looked like an overstuffed knockwurst engorged with blood. He was short, too: a sapling in this forest of redwoods. I managed to get a good look at him when we were milling about earlier and he couldn’t have been much taller than five feet six inches. He didn’t even attempt to squeeze himself into the fine European clothing the other guys were sporting. Oh no, little Marcus had obviously spent much of his life in the gym and he wanted us to be sure of that fact, with a T-shirt stretched so tight you could actually see his abdominal muscles through it: a rare eight-pack. I counted. The other models probably had visible abdominal muscles, too, but there’s a difference between those created from strenuous crunches and those induced by frequent bulimic vomiting.

  “I’m Marcus Blade. Most of you know me. I’m Ian’s personal trainer.”

  There was a violent fit of coughing around the table. One look at Ian’s blubbery body and it was clear that either Marcus was a miserable failure as a trainer or he was Ian’s stud. I guessed the latter. The participants around the table looked at Marcus, expecting more, but nothing came. There were some whisperings about his height, followed by some tittering. I guess that was it for Marcus. He was obviously paid to screw Ian and didn’t care to pretend that he was anything else. At least he was honest.

  Jeremy then turned to me. “Amanda here,” he explained, “is Ian’s good friend.”

  This comment got even blanker stares from the contestants than Keith’s comment about being a bulk texter. There were a few disbelieving snorts, and no wonder. Those close enough to Ian would know that Jeremy’s proclamation was patently false, and those who were just bedmates for Ian probably didn’t give a shit. I was a woman and, therefore, no threat. Of course, I could have explained that I was a Realtor there to eventually list Ian’s house for sale, but I was forbidden by contract to let on to this fact. The smarter boys would no doubt go online and in 2.5 nanoseconds, figure out that I was a real-estate agent, and know instantly what I was there for. These boys probably couldn’t discuss Cartesian metaphysical and epistemological principles, but you could bet that they could figure out when there was a threat to their financial well-being.

  “Yes, I’ve been best friends with Sean for years,” I said, making my first big faux pas.

  “You mean Ian,” Aleksei corrected me like a tired schoolteacher giving the answer to a simple question to a dumb student.

  “Ian. Yes.”

  “I know how easy eet eez to call out zomeome else’s name,” Gilles retorted, jumping right in. “Especially during sex. I hear that Aleksei does it all the time when he’s with Ian.”

  While everyone was incensed with the way Gilles ceaselessly lobbed flat-footed insults like show-me-your-breasts Mardi Gras beads, Ian seemed to cherish the tussles that he instigated. Ian, it was clear, thrived on conflict and liked being fought over.

  Jeremy attempted to wrap things up. “Now zat we all know each other . . .”

  “No, we don’t,” Gilles spoke up. “Who’s zat?” he asked, pointing at a rather plain-looking, middle-aged man standing off to one side of the dining room.

  “That’s Lance Greenly,” Ian explained. He’s my CEO and business manager for my hair-products empire. You’ve met him a dozen times. He comes here all the time on business.”

  More blank stares.

  It was becoming clear that unless you were muscled or handsome, you didn’t register here. At all.

  Don’t get me wrong, Lance wasn’t ugly by a long shot. But being surrounded by these abnormally handsome men was enough to make George Clooney look like a skank. Lance must have been around forty, with a receding hairline that he wisely kept short. He had a long, drawn-down face with a heavy five-o’clock shadow and red eyes that made him look like he had been crying for decades. I guessed he was about five feet eight. Lance, working for a style Nazi like Ian, dressed very, very well, but he didn’t stand a chance in this room of mannequins. Like the attitude of the boys at the table, whose motto surely had to be “amaze me or I will dismiss you,” Lance was probably cast off long ago due to his lackluster appearance and his terrifying potential to use scary and hard-to-understand corporate terms that could upset the guys now sitting at the table.

  Tony Marcello, Jeremy’s silent servant, tiptoed up to Jeremy, whispered in Jeremy’s ear, then departed the room walking backward like a peasant in King Henry’s court.

  “Well, we were going to save this surprise for later, but Ian’s therapist, Aurora Cleft, is here in town a few days ahead of schedule. We might as well have her come in and introduce herself,” Jeremy said, waiting for our surprise guest to appear.

  A minute later, she entered the room and clattered across the soft pine floors on heels so tall, they pumped her petite frame up almost five inches. The soles of the shoes were a bright red: Christian Louboutin. Though she was very small, she walked with an intensity that suggested that very little would stand in her way, and anyone who did would end up like flattened roadkill. She dressed in a voluminous black knitted dress cinched tightly around her wasp-waist with a huge black belt. She wore black tights that completely covered her legs. She looked like a female superhero: Black Spandex Woman. In contrast with her preference for dark clothing, her hair was shocking Annie Lennox white, parted severely in on the right side of her head, with the left part perpetually covering her left eye like an eye patch. I suppose in parts of Los Angeles this was supposed to be fashionable, but to me, it looked sinister—an effect that probabl
y wasn’t lost on Aurora. If she were suddenly thrust into a fashionable woman’s prison, Aurora would be nobody’s bitch.

  Aurora didn’t take a seat at the table even though there was a chair open for her. Instead, she leaned forward and placed her widely spaced hands (with talon-like fingernails, painted black) firmly on the table as if to remind a reluctant board meeting that she was in charge.

  “I’m sure Jeremy introduced me already, but just in case he hasn’t, I’m Aurora Cleft. I am Ian’s psychiatrist, and I’m here on the show as a relationship counselor, to help him choose a suitable boyfriend—and heir. I’ve had a very successful practice in Los Angeles for over a decade, and I’ve treated some of the biggest names in Hollywood. I can’t tell you who they are because of therapist–patient confidentiality, but believe me, I’m talking big names. I’ve written several books you might have read”—she looked at the empty-headed expressions on the faces at the table—“or heard of: Kick Your Own Ass; You’re Not a Victim . . . Just a Pathetic Wimp; and Lonely? Get Over It! I believe in the individual taking charge of his life and not whining a lot about it. I’m tough, I’m smart, and I don’t suffer bullshit. Okay, gentlemen, let’s go make history, let’s get ratings, and good luck to all of you. Some of you are going to need it,” she finished, looking squarely at Gilles.

  I didn’t know whether to clap or storm the beaches of Normandy. I didn’t know what to think of Aurora. Yes, I did. I thought she was a bitch.

  Gilles, true to his nature, made a mumbling comment about Aurora’s being “vertically challenged.” I’m surprised Gilles would know a word that was so, well, American.

  Aurora’s head spun in Gilles’s direction so quickly I thought I was going to hear neck bones cracking. “When Katharine Hepburn first met Spencer Tracy, she was wearing high heels and commented that maybe she was a bit tall for him, to which he responded, ‘Don’t worry, I’ll cut you down to size.’ I may be short, Gilles, but don’t forget that I am here to make sure Ian finds a suitable partner who thinks with more than his dick. I’ve seen your type before.”

  Boy, I wish the cameras were rolling just then. That would have made a Kodak moment. Aurora had shut up Gilles for the time being.

  Suddenly, I liked Aurora a lot more. She was starting to grow on me.

  Jeremy jumped in like a trendy ringmaster. “Well, that’s the cast! You all know each other. When we start filming on Monday, the context will be a pool party here at Ian’s house. I want to you to arrive in street clothes, but bring sexy swimsuits to wear for the party.... That means you, too, Amanda—I plan on having a lot of lesbians following this show too. That means a Brazilian wax,” Jeremy announced, pulling an imaginary strip of waxed pubic hair from his crotch with a ferocious jerk of his arm. “For those of you who could use a little touching up on the tans, I’d spend a few hours brushing up over the weekend . . . but don’t overdo it. And please hit the gym as much as you can. I want you all looking sexy, pumped, groomed, and with bulges in your swimsuits. There will be several cameras roving around, taking down your every word, so if you’re going to say something to the camera, be yourselves . . . but be nasty. I want conflict, I want competition, I want men here wanting to win. I want big ratings.”

  I raised my hand timidly.

  “Yes, Amanda?”

  “As Ian’s long-time friend, what is my role exactly?”

  “To be his friend.”

  “I know that, but how am I supposed to interact with these gentlemen?” I trailed off.

  “Just be yourself, Amanda. Do what friends do. Comfort Ian . . . er, look, Amanda, I’m a producer. Everyone hates me. What would I know about friendships? In my business, you befriend someone and they stab you in the back, wipe their shoes on you, then climb over your lifeless body. That’s why I have no friends; can’t trust ’em in Hollywood. Plus, I’m a driven, obnoxious, toxic person. Who in their right mind would want to be my friend?”

  There was no argument there. I didn’t know how to answer him. Jeremy was so stereotypically narcissistic that if I called him what he really was—a total dickhead—it would bounce off his protective exterior without so much as a dent. I decided to stick with what manners my mother taught me: If you don’t have anything nice to say about someone, say it behind their back.

  “I guess I’ll make sniping and bitchy comments about the other contestants, have others give me the finger, duck when someone throws a wineglass at my head, and get swept up in what promises to be a tsunami of self-manufactured and unnecessary drama. You know, like what happens on a typical realty show.”

  Jeremy clapped his hands, the twenty-odd, trendy silver bracelets on his left arm jingling like a slot machine jackpot. “Excellent! This chick’s got it. I hope the rest of you gentlemen heard that. I want you to write that down and paste it to your bathroom mirror and recite it every day. That’s your fuckin’ mantra! Okay, we start filming Monday. Be here at six A.M. sharp!”

  While everyone got up to leave, I sat in my chair, dazed, wondering how all this happened. Yes, I knew exactly that this show was going to be little more than a gay Jerry Springer with a lot of tight pants. Yes, I signed the contract to be on the show. Yes, I showed up today for the briefing. But as I sat there, I wondered why I had done this? For the fame? Probably not. My low self-confidence made me shun the limelight like a cockroach under a fluorescent kitchen light. For the money? Well, yeah. I had four condo rentals that weren’t going to pay for themselves. And a mortgage on a money pit that I called home (or The Curse, depending on my mood that day). But still, I couldn’t get the question out of my mind. Like a mass murderer at his arraignment, why did I do it? And the answer was that I didn’t know.

  Jeremy, sensing wrongly that I was starstruck, gave me a pep talk.

  “You’re going to be a star, baby. What’s my little girl thinking about?”

  I let the “little girl” pass as just another Hollywood-bullshit-make-small-talk. I looked him straight in the face. “I was thinking that being on this show was going to make spending a weekend with Liz and Dick Burton look like a Girl Scout Jamboree.”

  “That’s the spirit,” Jeremy exclaimed enthusiastically, clopping me hard on the back as I stood up to leave.

  CHAPTER 5

  I’ve Got A Funny Feeling About This

  “So how was my movie star’s first day?” Alex asked as I walked into our decoy office at the real-estate firm where we routinely gave too much of our commissions to our do-nothing brokerage. We mostly operated out of our home offices but used this one to store our huge files, make telephone calls, and more importantly, color copies.

  “There’s less tension at a Palestinian-Israeli summit meeting.”

  “The bitchiness has started already?”

  “Oh, Alex, you have no idea. This show is going to descend into the depths of white trashiness.”

  “The guys look the part? One tooth in the front of their mouths to hook some fruit?”

  “Alex, I didn’t say these guys were from Desert Hot Springs. No, all the contestants are gorgeous models. Most are still working and one is in rehab.”

  “A model in rehab. I never thought I’d see the day,” Alex said, insincerely shaking his head.

  I took a stack of flyers for an overpriced home and dropped them all on the floor. “But behind the Estée Lauder eye rejuvenation creams and plastic Prada pants, their manners and breeding give ’em away. The weird thing is the French guy is the trashiest. Give him just one episode. He’s going to strip the Kardashian family of their class. I always think of the French as being, well, you know, having taste.”

  “They adore Mickey Rourke.”

  “Okay, so there’s a big, gaping hole in my theory. Gilles is nothing more than trash du traileur with a great body and face to match! And these guys are like what Gertrude Stein once said about Oakland, California.”

  “There isn’t any there, there?”

  “That’s about the sum of it, Alex. They spend most of their time texting, or
playing Angry Birds video games. The glitz is the substance.”

  “Amanda, they’re models. What did you expect?”

  “You’d think with all the time they’ve spent in London and Paris and Milan, some sophistication would rub off.”

  “I think the word you’re looking for is not sophistication, but as you said, substance. Don’t hold your breath. These kind of shows would turn Prince William into Snooki.”

  “Oh God, Alex, please don’t mention Jersey Shore. I’m so afraid that Italy is never going to forgive us for letting those troglodytes film the show in Florence. Florence! Can you image it? The birthplace of the Renaissance! The city where all of Europe began to climb out of the Dark Ages, and the cast of Jersey Shore almost put it right back where it started in just a few weeks.”

  “Amanda, the guys on your show might not be Rhodes Scholars, but they could never descend that low. You know this is a reality show, Amanda. There’s going to be bitchiness, cattiness, pettiness, and above all, manufactured drama. But do you think it’s going to have good production values?”

  “Good production values, Alex? This is one step up from a porn film.”

  “It’s not that bad. At least Ian has good taste in his house.”

  “It’s full of penises.”

  “It’s full of male models, Amanda. What else could it be?”

  “No, Alex. There are penises everywhere—sculptures, paintings, illustrations, pool floats.”

  “Oh, then Ian’s not getting any.”

  I brightened up. “That’s what I thought. Exactly.” I sighed. “Well, Alex, there is a silver lining. Maybe.”

  “The paycheck?”

  “No, that’s expected.”

  “Possible future husbands?”

  “No, that ain’t gonna happen. I think I’m the only straight person on the show. Oh, wait a minute. Aurora Cleft . . . I think she’s straight. I think.”

  “Aurora Cleft? What is she? British supermodel? Nazi she-wolf?”