Don’t bet on it, he responded.
Connor met me at the door for a tour before everyone else arrived. The first thing I noticed was those awful glass walls, polished to invisibility, daring me to spend the next week bouncing off them, like that first summer. My brilliant plan to mark each one with lipstick had been foiled by the Network’s cleaning crew, so I knew better than to try that again. Hopefully they hadn’t moved the walls in the past two years.
“Why are you giving me a tour?” I asked Connor. “Aren’t you too big and important for this job now?”
“Probably, but I volunteered to show you around. It’s not every day my second-favorite reality star comes to visit. Or one of my favorite people.”
I grinned at him. “I’m just glad to see you and not Janine.”
During Real Ocean: Caribbean, I’d thought the tall production assistant named Janine seemed nice enough, until I found out she’d concocted the plan to strand me in Jamaica. Then, when Justin and I finally patched things up, Janine stole a video I’d made of Ariana and aired it on national television. Sure, I shouldn’t have made the video, but I hadn’t expected anyone to see it. If Ed hadn’t helped explain to Justin what happened, this wedding wouldn’t be possible. Janine was literally the last person I wanted to see, anywhere, ever again.
“Well, don’t get upset, but she’s here.” My gut urged me to turn and go, but I clasped my hands together and pasted a smile on my face. Even though I knew this was a possibility, I’d allowed myself to hope she wouldn’t come to the house. Connor said, “Not right this minute, but she’ll be around. She’s Leanna’s assistant now. I’ll run as much interference as I can, but I need this job. Until an opening comes up with the Discovery Channel or LOGO, the Network owns my ass.”
The living room hadn’t changed a bit, down to the plush green cat tower–looking couch, which provided several levels of seating. I rubbed one side, remembering all the hours I’d perched on the top while plotting to stay on The Fishbowl.
When I moved in with Sarah, we’d spent weeks scouring the Internet and furniture stores for anything remotely similar. Unfortunately, custom-made furniture hadn’t been in our budget, so we’d settled for something a little more economical, less of a conversation piece: a regular couch. At least it was also green.
Something about the kitchen seemed different. It took me a minute to realize they’d moved the fridge to the wall between the kitchen and the living room. I laughed and nodded at the new glass wall above the counter space. “No more hiding in the laundry room?”
Although there were cameras in the tiny space beyond the kitchen, early in my stay on the show, Birdie found a spot that couldn’t be seen from the rest of the house. With the window created by moving the fridge, that corner now stood visible to anyone standing at the counter. Ah, well.
Connor laughed and nodded before taking me through the rest of the house.
Upstairs, the guys’ bedroom hadn’t changed a bit. Rows of twin beds lined the space, a pirate’s trunk standing at the foot of each. It seemed like a lot more beds than necessary for the wedding party.
“How many people are staying here?” I asked.
“Here? You, Birdie and Rachel, sleeping upstairs. Sarah, once she arrives. Brandon, Ed, Justin, and Justin’s roommate.”
I shifted from one foot to the other, then back. “Then why so many beds?”
“This is already set up for Season 3. We’re not using all the beds for your show. Everyone else lives nearby or is staying at a hotel. They’ll only be here if needed for filming and for the ceremony. After the rehearsal dinner next Friday, we’ll take you ladies to the hotel. You’ll sleep there, have a spa day, then get ready onsite. A limo will bring you back.”
“That sounds amazing,” I said. “What about my family?”
“We figured your mom would be more comfortable at a hotel. She flew in this morning; Adam and Lynne get here Wednesday. They’re also staying at a hotel. Your brother’s girlfriend didn’t seem too interested in the show.”
“She doesn’t speak much English,” I said. “Born and raised in Quebec. They met when Adam was in college in Montreal. I’m just glad they’re coming.”
“Well, we’ve got an interpreter on standby for her, if need be.”
We continued the tour through the giant bathroom, designed to be shared by thirteen people. I wondered if the smaller, private shower stall still ran only cold water, the Network’s transparent attempt to force us to pile into the larger group shower to get clean. (Which just meant showering took forever; people almost never went in together.)
Upstairs, a thick rug covered the once all-glass floor of what would be my bedroom. They’d made a few minor changes since my season. Blue and green curtains draped two rows of twin beds, each beside a white dresser with starfish- and seashell-shaped handles. One of the beds was surrounded by sheer white curtains. A sign reading “Bride” hung off the end.
“I’ll leave you here to rest and unpack,” Connor said. “When you’re ready, head down to the old School Room. We’re calling it the Chapel now.”
I chuckled. After spilling all my secrets in the School Room and the Guppy Gabber, I’d wondered what punny name they’d come up with for the show’s confessional.
“Sounds good. I’ll check in after I get a nap,” I said. “Where’s Ed?”
“He’s finishing packing, picking up groceries, and he’ll meet you here at six. I’ll see you then. The PAs are taking you to a spa in about an hour. We’ve got a full day booked for you and your mom: waxing, exfoliation, nails, everything.”
Oh, that sounded amazing. I squealed at the thought.
Laughing, Connor hugged me and left.
Although I’d lived in this house for eight weeks two summers ago, I’d never spent even a second alone. I spread my arms, flung my head back, and twirled in a circle, because I could. They’d probably started filming the second I walked in, but it didn’t matter.
When I finished, I turned my face to the camera in the ceiling by the closet. “Home sweet home!”
* * * *
Before I finished unpacking, the front door slammed downstairs. I was debating whether to see who had arrived when a familiar voice screeched up the stairs. “Jennifer Reid, get your perfect ass down here! Don’t make me waddle up these stairs. #Pregnant.”
Laughing at the way my old friend still spoke in hashtags, I left my open suitcase on the bed and pelted down the stairs where a familiar freckled face peered up at me from under red bangs. One of my favorite former co-competitor’s warm brown eyes crinkled with laughter.
With my own whoop, I shot down the remaining steps, arms outstretched. I hadn’t seen Birdie since the day she asked us to eliminate her from The Fishbowl because she broke her ankle and couldn’t compete in the remaining challenges.
“It’s so good to see you!”
Her arms enveloped me. I pulled her close, but her bulging belly got between us. I pulled back. “Sorry. Am I squishing the baby?”
“Don’t be stupid. A hug can’t squish an O’Brien. Let’s go catch up. I can watch you drink coffee and cry about my lack of caffeine. Oh, and let me see that ring in person.”
She led me into the kitchen. It’s one thing to get texts from your friend that she’s having a baby and to see pictures online, but another to see her in person at more than seven months pregnant. At five feet tall, Birdie’s stomach swallowed her.
“I’m so glad you’re here,” I said. “I was worried you wouldn’t be able to make it.”
She shrugged. “I have seven Los Angeles ob-gyns programmed into my phone, just in case. But I’m not due for another few weeks.”
“You shouldn’t be here if you’re that close.”
“Shut up. I wouldn’t miss this for anything. I’m still pissed I had to find out about the proposal on TV with the rest of the world. You couldn’t
have called me?”
“Nope. Confidentiality. You should’ve come on the cruise.”
“Sure I should. America would have loved watching me throw up for a week. #MustSeeTV.” She wrinkled her nose at me, but her eyes twinkled. “So what’s the deal? Can we find me a bridesmaid muumuu by next Saturday?”
About an hour later, Birdie went to nap while the Network whisked me away for the first of seemingly a zillion planned activities. Inside the limo intended to take me to the spa, I found an ice bucket chilling a bottle of California-made sparkling wine. Someone had been listening when I said champagne was too stuffy. Bouquets scattered around the interior filled the car with a sweet scent. The buttery leather seats felt like leaning against a cloud. On The Fishbowl, the contestants had been blindfolded and herded into vans when we needed to go anywhere. I could get used to this treatment.
Two production assistants sat across from me, both having steadfastly refused to give their names. Apparently, the Network had been cracking down on staff interacting with “the stars.” (I still couldn’t think of myself as a star, even after three reality shows, one of which was entirely about me and Justin.) I blamed Ed for this change in policy. The Network hadn’t minded his relationship with Connor as long as they kept it quiet. But they changed their tune when Connor helped me retrieve the video of Ariana that Janine had stolen. He’d been on probation for months.
The assistant on the right sat stiffly, her long legs folded under her, hands clasped in her lap. She had flawless brown skin, different colored nail polish on each finger, and perfect black curls. My own hair never held a curl well, but I suddenly wondered what possibilities these extensions opened up for me.
The PA on the left was shorter, slight, dressed all in black, and so pale I wondered why he lived in LA. He wore chipped black nail polish on most of his fingers and a stud in his nose. Without names, I dubbed the female PA Great Hair and the male PA Chin Dimple.
Although Birdie and I didn’t get as much alone time as I would’ve liked, I couldn’t wait to see my mom. When I lived in Seattle, we got together every Tuesday night to watch our favorite reality shows. But I hadn’t seen her in ages. Mom spent the holidays in Montreal with her new boyfriend René, who she met when visiting Adam. I wondered if René would be attending the wedding. His kids were too young to be on TV without parental consent, but I’d included their names on the guest list, just in case.
Apparently, traveling back and forth from Seattle to Montreal agreed with her. When I entered the waiting room and spotted Mom sitting on the couch, I almost didn’t recognize her. She looked ten years younger. She’d lost at least thirty pounds since I moved away, blond hair dye covered her previously gray strands, and…
“Mom? Did you get Botox?” I pulled her close, peering suspiciously at her unmoving forehead.
“Of course I did! My only daughter’s getting married on television. I have to look good for all these Los Angeles people.”
“You’re beautiful,” I said. “Before and now.”
Together, we stepped up to the front desk to check in for our appointment. The receptionist didn’t even do a double take at the cameras following us, so either this kind of thing happened all the time in Los Angeles, or she’d been paid not to react.
The receptionist handed us each a fluffy robe and directed us to the locker rooms to stow our clothes. When we returned to the waiting room, two women dressed in black yoga pants and fitted black tops appeared as if by magic. Both had long black hair tied back into buns at the napes of their necks, brown eyes, and identical, serene looks.
The shorter attendant spoke first. “Tina Reid?”
“Actually, it’s Tina Carter,” Mom said. “I went back to my maiden name after the divorce.”
“Very well. Right this way, please.”
“Wait a minute. We’re not going together?”
“No, I’m afraid the Network has booked separate treatments for you. You’ll be able to rest and relax together in the lounge between services or when you’re done.”
Mom laughed. “Yeah, I told them there’s no freaking way I’m letting them wax anything. You go and have fun. I’ll be enjoying my facial.”
The other attendant stepped forward. “I’m Sofía. I’ll be helping you today.”
I shook her hand. “It’s nice to meet you. Sorry about the cameras.”
She waved one hand as if to say, Whatever, it’s LA. Chin Dimple followed my mom down the hall, and I hoped he had some idea what was and wasn’t appropriate to actually capture on video. Great Hair trailed me and Sofía down the hall to a small, dark room. The moment I entered, tension faded from my shoulders. Lavender scent made me relax even more. Speakers in the corners filled the air with low, soothing music.
My emailed schedule called for a mud wrap, then a massage, including a scalp massage, followed by a mani-pedi. After my early morning six-hour flight, and the excitement of the last few days, topped off with the joy of getting to see Connor, Birdie, and my mother, I was exhausted. I turned into a puddle of goo before I finished rinsing off the mud wrap and climbed onto the heated table for my massage.
By the time Sofía asked me to roll over so she could do the front of my legs, drops of drool formed a ring on the floor beneath the face pillow. I flipped over, scooted down so my head rested on the table, and was out before she replaced the sheet.
Falling asleep during the day always gave me weird dreams. The Network had hired dogs to do an exfoliation, and they were slowly licking me all along my legs and torso. I groaned and stretched, coming awake slowly.
“Don’t move,” Sofía ordered. “You’ll ruin it.”
Ruin what? The massage?
Her hands were moving in long strokes down my body, which partially explained the dream, but she thankfully wasn’t using her tongue. And why wasn’t she rubbing more? It was more of a…brushing.
I opened my eyes, coming fully awake when I saw Sofía and a stranger running brushes down my body while Great Hair filmed from the far corner. I jolted upright. “What the hell are you guys doing? This isn’t a massage.”
“The massage ended over an hour ago,” Sofía said. “I explained, but you were sleeping. Now we’re painting on your wedding dress to see how it’ll look on the big day. Like a fitting.”
What?
Although I understood each of the words she used individually, my half-asleep brain couldn’t piece them together in any way that remotely made any sense. Then I looked down. And shrieked.
When I’d fallen asleep, I’d been naked, lying under a sheet. Now, I still didn’t wear any clothes, but I barely recognized my torso. White paint covered my entire front, coming up and outlining my breasts. They’d also painted the lower halves of each arm and my fingers to replicate gloves. Intricate silver detailing swirled around my upper body, outlining my belly button, tracing my nipples. The stranger held a brush full of white paint near my left leg; my thigh held a few brushes of color, as if she’d been working on it before I stopped them.
It almost looked like I was wearing a dress. Except I was naked.
Oh. No.
“No way,” I said. “Absolutely not. Who told you I was wearing a dress made of body paint?”
“The producers said this was the hottest new thing. All the big stars are doing it. You’ll be featured in magazines worldwide. An overnight sensation.”
“I’ll be naked.”
Okay, Justin and I agreed to go with whatever the Network wanted, and maybe it was too early to make waves, but this couldn’t happen. I needed to draw a line somewhere, and nudity on national television was it. I could not and would not get married wearing nothing but paint. What if I started sweating? Was body paint waterproof? If it was, how did I get it off?
“What if it rains?” I asked.
Great Hair smirked from the corner. “We’re in Los Angeles, sweetheart, not Florida.
It won’t rain. Especially not in June.”
Ugh. Swinging my legs off the table and clutching the sheet to my chest, I scrubbed one hand across my face, hoping this would all turn out to be part of my dream. “Nuh-uh. No way. I don’t care. Get me Connor on the phone. I’m not wearing this. I want a real dress.”
“Connor’s not the show runner. He may be First Assistant Producer, but this is over his head. You need to talk to Janine.”
“You mean, Pure Evil Janine? Janine, the one person I said wasn’t allowed anywhere near me if I were going to do this show? That Janine?” I didn’t even have to play up my exasperation for the cameras. “I’m not talking to her. In fact, I don’t even want to see her. Let me talk to Connor.”
They wanted a show, I’d give them one. Let them air this scene. Or not, I didn’t care, as long as someone found me clothes for the ceremony.
“You signed a contract.” Great Hair spoke as if I were a very small, unintelligent child. “You agreed to let us make the show. And Janine is in charge of the show. If you want to complain, you need to complain to her. Your friend’s boyfriend can’t help you.”
“Sure, I signed a contract. And I know exactly what I agreed to do. But I didn’t agree to do any of it naked.” Maybe I’d agreed not to cause drama, but I wasn’t the only one here who’d think this idea sucked. Jumping off the table, I headed for the door, wrapping the sheet around me.
“Where are you going?” Sofía asked.
“I’m going to find my mom. She didn’t sign anything. She’s going to have a lot to say about this, and no one messes with Tina Carter.”
Chapter 5
Confessions from the Chapel, Friday:
Tina: Oh, there was no way I was going to let the Network put my little girl on television wearing only paint. I don’t care what contract those kids signed. I didn’t sign nothing, and you don’t become one of the top rRealtors in Seattle without learning how to bring people around to your way of thinking.
Reality Wedding Page 4
