The Housewife Assassin's Terrorist TV Guide

by Josie Brown

  They actually bet on our desire for each other?

  Before I can reach over and slap them both silly, Jack grabs me tighter and holds on with all his might. I’m still breathing heavy as he growls, “You know, a simple phone call might have given us a heads-up that you’d be rolling in here with a full camera crew.”

  She wags her high-gloss talons at Jack. “Oh, no, mon chéri! It is much more fun this way. You never know when you might walk in on someone in flagrante delicto.” She opens her hands wide toward us. “Case in point.”

  “You aren’t seriously including this footage in the show, are you?” Jack steps menacingly toward her.

  To Brin’s credit, she holds her ground. “Of course I am, Jack, honey,” she purrs. “It’s ratings gold! Without it…well, let me put it this way: if you want to win this thing, these displays of affection—made public, via the show—will pay off in a big way.” Triumphantly, she glares back him.

  He smirks…but backs off. Not because of anything she’s said, but because we’re back in the game.

  And Ryan would have our heads on a platter if once again we took ourselves out of the competition.

  The stakes are deadly. Only Jack and I can stop what is about to happen.

  Brin waves us away as she turns on her four-inch Gucci stiletto heels.

  The rest of her crew follows, including, sheepishly, Abu and Emma.

  As if ensuring us that we’ve done the right thing, Aunt Phyllis gives us a thumbs-up. “Way to go to seal the deal!”

  I guess I might feel better about it if she lost the gooey mustache.

  “Boo-yah! We’re in,” I crow to Ryan. Jack winces as I high-five him.

  “Yeah…um, how did that happen, anyway?” he asks Ryan.

  “We had a little luck,” Ryan replies. “One of the other contestant families dropped out.”

  “Who?” I ask.

  Ryan frowns. “The Swifts. Logan found his mother passed out on the bathroom floor, so he called an ambulance. It turns out she was dehydrated after one of her bulimic purges.”

  So sad. Despite her membership in the mean mommies coven, I really do feel badly for her. It can’t be easy living in a prison of one’s Vogue-induced vanity.

  Desperation is a damp sheen always visible on my thin-skinned neighbor. When Tiffy first moved into town, I tried to befriend her, to no avail. In the Machiavellian minds of Hilldale housewives, you’re either revered or reviled. Noting how I’d fallen into the latter category because of Carl’s absentee status, she quickly aligned herself with Penelope Bing and Hayley Coxhead. Now that she’s lost the status of being one of the show’s Chosen Ones, will she see it as a wake-up call to address her illness, take it as a put-down, or continue on a path that may one day kill her?

  For her sake, I pray for the former. Well, at least now she won’t be dealing with the insane pressures of playing a role in what you might loosely call, a reality show.

  “Don’t let this bit of luck make you cocky,” Ryan warns us. “According to Emma, the producers think the only reason you were caught with your pants down—I mean, in your bathrobes—is because you were tipped off that they were coming. Brin is still betting that you’ll be ejected from the show—unless you keep things spicy when the cameras are rolling.”

  “Tipped off? Ha! As if!” I shake my head. “Wait…you mean they can reject us if we do something they don’t like?”

  “Yes, according to the contract you signed along with your application. But don’t worry. Besides a morals clause, there was one which stated a minimum viewer approval rating.”

  “In other words, to stay in the game, we can’t put the audience to sleep,” Jack retorts wryly. “Not to worry. We’ll do whatever it takes to stay in the game.”

  The ghost of a smile graces Ryan’s lips. “You don’t have to convince me.”

  I cringe as I imagine what our kids will think when they see us going all kissy-face on television: la, la, la, too-much-information, too-much-information, too-much-information…

  “According to Emma, Brin insists on handling you personally.” Ryan’s eyes drill into Jack. “You need to win her over and make her think she's controlling you off camera.”

  Jack shrugs. “Sure, okay.”

  We both know what that means. I try not to grit my teeth at the thought.

  As for Ryan, his glare attests to the fact that he doesn’t believe Jack.

  “Who’s my handler?” Let it be Emma…

  “Lucy,” Ryan replies. “She’s sharp, and knows when she’s being played, so you’ll have to convince her you’ve let your guard down. Be loose in front of the camera. Become…well, like the other women.”

  “In other words, a vindictive bitch,” Jack explains blithely.

  Seriously, does he think he's being helpful? When my eyes narrow, he takes the hint: Shut. Up.

  But to Ryan, I purr, “Easy, peasy.”

  I’m totally lying. He and I both know it.

  However, too much depends on either of us admitting the truth.

  Chapter 7

  Desperate Housewives

  “Oh, for God’s sake, Bree! You’re a woman. Manipulate him. That’s what we do.”

  —Gabrielle

  If you still buy into the traditional concept of a housewife as a married woman who sits on the couch all day in her negligee, carefully choosing one bonbon after another to have with her Starbucks non-fat decaf latte while watching her daily dose of soap operas and talk shows, think again. More than likely, this married (notice I’m not saying “happily”) woman has too much on her mind to indulge in any binge fest whatsoever.

  After doing dishes and the laundry, cleaning the house, vacuuming the floors, picking up the dry-cleaning, and then schlepping the children to and from school and any other extracurricular activities, she has very little time—if any at all—for herself. So, yes—of course, she’s desperate—

  Desperate for a few moments to close her eyes.

  Craving a hot soak in the same tub she just scrubbed to a fare-thee-well.

  Most of all, hopeful for some thank you that recognizes all the little acts of kindness she does for everyone else.

  Ideally, from her mister.

  So yes, Desperate Housewife’s Husband: whisking her away for a much-needed, just-the-two-of-you getaway will do the trick—

  And the sooner, the better. Before she hurts herself.

  Or worse yet, hurts you.

  “I understand why you want to go to this cocktail thingy the producers are throwing, but why do we have to hang with the other kids in the show too?” Mary grumbles. “Jenna Garrett isn’t just shy; she’s practically comatose! And her brothers and sisters are weird, too. They’re all so quiet! And that Sami dude…I mean, I know he’s in a wheelchair, but that isn't what makes him creepy to the other kids. It's almost like he's psychic or something." She shudders at the thought.

  I can’t say I blame Mary for her reticence. Whereas she has been the butt of some mean girls’ jokes, she has never had the good fortune (bad luck?) to be the envy of her peers.

  “My guess is that the other kids are just as concerned as you about how they’ll come off to their friends, or for that matter the whole world.” I smooth Mary’s hair before kissing her forehead. “Like Dad and me, just try to make the best of it. As for tonight, all they ask is that you guys hang out in the big media room in the Housewives mansion and get to know each other better. That isn’t so bad, is it?”

  Mary shrugs. “I guess not.”

  “Just one word of caution: don’t rise to the bait of any drama the producers may suggest. If all the kids stay grounded, they’ll focus on the adults instead.” Lucky me. “Besides, you only need to interact with these families when the cameras are rolling. Otherwise, you’re free to hang out with your own friends.”

  Mary groans. “I may not have any friends by the time this is all over. Wendy is so upset that her mother wouldn’t apply to the show that she quit speaking to me! And Babs…well, it�
��s as if she’s lost any ability to have an opinion of her own. All she does is copy everything I do or say.” She rolls her eyes. “Can you believe she asked me if she could manage my fan club?”

  Okay, yes, now I’m laughing. At first, Mary snickers at me, but when I fall onto the sofa, she ends up giggling too.

  When I finally get ahold of myself, I gasp, “What do you think, should I ask Aunt Phyllis to run my fan club?”

  Mary doubles over—and lands beside me. Still laughing, she retorts, “Are you kidding? She’ll have the biggest fan club of us all!”

  At this, I can’t help but roar even louder.

  Aunt Phyllis's head pops through the door. At least, I think it’s Aunt Phyllis. This person has her face, but my aunt’s long silver mane has been replaced with a jet-black French twist. She’s wearing my best pearls with her little black dress. “Hey, keep it down in there! I’m in the middle of an interview with Howard Stern! I’m now his official onsite reporter for Hot Housewives of Hilldale!”

  Yep, that certainly shuts us up.

  Mary and I sigh in unison. Reluctantly, we rise from the sofa. Time to get ready for our close-ups.

  “Donna! DONNA! Over here!” Penelope Bing, standing by herself, waves frantically at me from across the spacious terrace of the show’s rented mansion, where all ceremonies of the show are to be filmed.

  “Do I have to go over too?” Jack grumbles.

  “I don’t,” Aunt Phyllis declares. Without further ado, she grabs a martini off one of the cater-waiters’ trays (does she recognize him as Arnie? Apparently not, despite the fact that his fake mustache is slipping) and makes her way to the other women.

  I assure Jack, “Feel free to mingle with Peter and the rest of the menfolk.”

  Who look as if they wish the earth would open up and swallow them whole. Peter is sweating through his Brioni suit. Professor Gerald Farnham’s nose is so far up in the air that it’s easy to see he could use a good nostril hair trimming.

  Roger Pembroke only has eyes for Ariel Powell, whom he stares at with open fascination; whereas the good doctor, Franklin Powell, is scrutinizing every woman’s face—and the rest of their bodies, for that matter.

  James Garrett also stares at the women: their chests. When our eyes meet, his smirk turns into a leer.

  Sadly, this is not lost on his wife, Patty. She glares at me, her lower lip quivering.

  Before I walk over to Penelope, I decide it’s best that I follow Aunt Phyllis’s lead and also introduce myself to the other women. My competitors are clustered in one of the few sections of the terrace that are not crisscrossed with the cables tethered to the cameras being rolled around the slate floor. Arnie has already warned Jack and me that the sound booms perched over our heads are augmented by microphones hidden in the netting hung overhead. This way, every utterance of the contestants can be overheard.

  To counter this, if we need to signal one another, we will talk in code: “Happy” being the operative word. For example, if we feel Acme needs to pay attention to a likely suspect, we should mutter, “Ariel seems inordinately happy,” or “James doesn’t look too happy,” depending on the mood they are currently exhibiting. (In James’ case, the taciturn smirk seems natural, so this should not surprise anyone else who may be listening.)

  Since Acme is tuned into all of the show’s audio and camera feeds—even the ones secreted in the nooks and crannies around the Housewives mansion and those soon to be covertly hidden in every contestant family’s home—there is no need for Jack or me to wear our video feed contact lenses. However, we will always wear our Acme-issued earbuds so that we can hear Ryan’s directives, as well as any cross-chatter between our mission team.

  Patty hesitates before taking my outstretched hand. When she finally does, I find myself holding her sweaty palm. “Pppleased to meet you,” she stutters.

  Cassandra’s greeting is purred through gritted teeth: “Ah, Donna Stone—I mean, Craig. Your reputation precedes you.”

  Just what the hell does that mean?

  On the other hand, Ariel might look like a real-life Barbie doll, but her smile is warm and genuine. “Nice to meet you! You say you live on Hilldale Avenue? We’re right around the corner from you!” Her eyes sweep across the room, taking in the hubbub around us. “Isn’t this exciting? I’ve always wondered what goes on behind the scenes of these reality shows—but I never thought I’d be part of one!”

  Sienna, a willowy redhead whose supermodel height puts her at least a head above the rest of us, snorts with laughter. “Well, here’s hoping it’ll be worth our time, and all the intrusion into our lives. Otherwise, we may all be hunting for new agents.” She nods at me. “Speaking of which, who are you signed with?”

  Confused, I shrug. “We’re not selling our house.”

  “I meant your talent agent.” Sienna sighs impatiently. “Surely you have one! You aren’t yet signed with anyone? Interesting. I mean, you’re just as beautiful as the rest of us...” She glances over at Patty. “Well, most of us.”

  Patty’s face puckers up at the slight.

  Before I can say anything, Aunt Phyllis butts in: “The whole Craig family’s been approached by the big guns: CAA, WME, ICM, UTA…hey, it’s just a matter of who’s willing to bring the juice with licensing deals and book contracts.” She winks knowingly at Sienna.

  Whereas this laundry list of alphabet soup means nothing to me, apparently, it’s touched a nerve with Sienna, who isn’t smiling anymore.

  Suddenly, Arnie appears at my side. He carries a tray containing various colorful libations. “Another cocktail, ladies?”

  These women don’t need convincing to turn in their current unfilled glasses for ones that may help them forget that signing onto the show could be the biggest mistake of their lives.

  Arnie’s wink to me indicates that he now has what he’s come for: their fingerprints along with their husband’s, all of which will be run through the INTERPOL database for possible matches.

  I snatch a glass of red wine from Arnie’s tray. But before I can take a sip, Cassandra nudges me. Nodding toward Penelope, she declares, “Your very aloof friend is practically apoplectic that you’re not yet at her side. I hope she doesn’t find some way to hold it against you later.” She winks knowingly. “I mean, isn’t that what these shows are about?”

  Not this time. It’s about discovering which one of you is married to a terrorist.

  And the sooner, the better.

  “A pleasure meeting you,” I murmur, as I float in Penelope’s direction.

  I don’t have time for my frenemy’s bitchery. But if she’s got any real reconnaissance on these women and their husbands, I’m all ears.

  “Look at those women! Who the hell are they, and how did they get chosen?” Penelope says as she belts back some fizzy drink as if it’s water.

  “Lucky for us, I guess,” I mutter.

  Her eyes narrow as she turns her gaze to me. Make that me and my twin, as I’m sure the way she grips me to steady herself she must be seeing double. “Ha! Luck had nothing to do with it! Peter told me that my…er, his list of upstanding citizens was shunted aside like yesterday’s graffiti.”

  “You mean confetti.”

  “Yeah, okay, whatever.” She swats away an imaginary pink elephant, and in the process spills her drink of the same hue.

  As she tosses the empty glass onto Arnie’s tray, she commands him: “Another one of these Peach Thunderbirks”—she burps—“I mean, birds. ThunderBIRDS.”

  “It’s a Pink Cadillac,” he counters.

  She scowls at him. He glares back. Finally, she blinks. “Yeah, yeah, whatever.” She dismisses him with a wave.

  She’s slurring her words. I wonder how many of them she’s already had. She’s adding another reality show trope to an already long laundry list of them: neighborhood drunk in need of an intervention.

  Sorry, not now. I need Penelope's tongue as loose as possible. “Come, come, now, Penelope! They can’t all be bad.”


  Her brow lifts so high on her Botoxed forehead that it almost disappears into her fringe. “I didn’t say that they’re bad. I stated that they’re nobodies.” She crooks a finger at me. “Peter was their realtor—not just for the purchase of their homes, but the sales of their old hovels. So, of course, he got a peek at the skeletons in their closets—metaphorically speaking.” She waves her arm in the other women’s direction. “Before moving into Hilldale Summit, the heifer over there, Patty, lived with her hubby and brood on some backwoods pig farm, outside of Modesto. And the meal ticket for that tall drink of battery acid, Sienna, just got his last book contract canceled. He had to sell his place in Malibu at a loss.” With her other arm, she waves wildly at Cassandra. “Miss Ol’ High and Mighty’s egghead hubby is lucky even to have his little community college gig after the riot he incited in his last place of business—somewhere in Dubai.” She slurps the icy dregs of her drink.

  “What about Ariel and Franklin?”

  Penelope shrugs. “He’s certainly got the right pedigree. Frankly, I’m surprised they’re slumming here in Hilldale. You’d think that with all the fistfuls of dollars UCLA is offering, he’d have settled in Beverly Hills.”

  “What kind of doctor is he?” I ask.

  "Plastic surgeon," she snorts, which is her way of letting me know she thinks I’m the stupidest person in room.

  But before she can answer, Dominic proclaims, “Ladies, please gather ’round by the fireplace with your gents! We’ve got a few announcements to make—and yes, your reactions to them are being recorded, so smile pretty for the cameras—which, from this moment hence, will be your constant companions!”

  The contestants don’t realize how truthful that statement is.

  Jack’s bemused smile is paired with an intense stare. I turn to see who has his attention:

  Brin, who is giggling at whatever Dr. Franklin Powell is saying to her. Dominic stands there too. His grin grows wider with the good doctor’s every utterance.