by Josie Brown
Here’s hoping their little joke isn’t at the expense of the rest of us.
I take the last seat on the end of one of the serpentine couches flanking the fireplace. Video monitors hang all around the room, high above our heads.
By the time Jack joins me, there is nowhere to sit but on its overstuffed arm. With a naughty smile, he leans over me and whispers, “Would you prefer to sit in my lap?”
I can’t help but laugh. I whisper, “You’ll do anything to win this damn thing, won’t you?”
“From what I’m hearing, I’ll have very stiff competition.” He chuckles at his little double entendre.
“Quiet on the set,” Lucy hisses. She raises her hand for the camera countdown. “Rolling in three…two…”
Just as she silently mouths the word “one,” Dominic walks between the couches and then turns to face the cameras. “Welcome to Hot Housewives of Hilldale, where the question on everyone’s lips is, surely,”—he pauses, then winks at the camera—“‘are my neighbors naughty…or nice?’”
One camera sweeps to the left of the sofas while the other moves right. Both take in the shit-eating grins plastered on the contestants’ faces.
Can they also discern the panic in our eyes?
“We’ll let you decide, as you watch how they treat their families, their friends, and their spouses.” Dominic takes a step toward the only camera of the four on the set that flashes a red light. “While the next seven days unfold, you’ll be rooting for your favorites.” He grins mightily. “Each night, you’re invited to text the name of your favorite housewife—with a smiley face— to the phone number at the bottom of your television screens! To make things even more fun, if you feel a particular couple isn’t giving you the titillation you deserve, text us their names, followed by a frowny face, and a vote will be deleted!” He winks knowingly at the camera. “In any regard, we want to hear from you—and they do too! You see, some very lucky family stands to win a full year’s mortgage payments!” In case any viewers have doubts, Dominic nods emphatically. “Now, don’t you wish you lived in Hilldale, too?”
He throws out a hand toward the couch. “Allow me to introduce you to the hottest housewives in Hilldale, California!”
“The cameras are now on you, wifeys and hubbies, catching every little frown,” Brin shouts over the intercom from the production cave, somewhere deep in the bowels of the mansion. “So, keep those smiles on your faces!”
Through our earbuds, Jack and I hear Brin crow, “Look at them! They’re so scared you’d think we were going to show them butt-naked…well, okay, sure some of them. Cameras Three, Four, and Five: as the couples are profiled, be ready to catch some reaction shots…”
Oh. Hell.
Glancing up at the monitors, we are treated to the montage now playing for the viewing audience: the couples, at home and around town, taken from the previously taped audition interviews.
In a moment, the montage freezes on Roger and Sienna, hugging as they watch a sunset from their new hilltop home.
“Even the quiet community of Hilldale has its fair share of suspense,” Dominic divulges to the audience. “Or in this case, a suspense novelist. Best-selling author Roger Pembroke and his fiancée, actress Sienna Woodruff, are this exclusive little town’s newest residents.”
Finally, it cuts to a live close-up of Roger and Sienna. Both are ready for it, with broad smiles and entwined hands. From the monitor, we see that their names are superimposed on their chests.
“Why Roger and Sienna moved here is no mystery,” Dominic continues. “Hilldale stokes the imagination, what with its elegant homes, plush lawns—and its many dirty little secrets! But none are as scandalous as Roger and Sienna’s.”
Hearing this, Roger’s smile fades.
Wariness darkens Sienna’s eyes, which now shift to Roger just as his move to her. “What the hell does this clown mean by that?” she hisses through clenched teeth.
Roger’s lips don’t move when he growls back. “Nothing, my dearest. Just play along.”
“Our next couple, Professor Gerald Farnham and his wife, Cassandra, have traveled and taught around our war-plagued world. Now, however, they seek peace in this little patch of heaven known as Hilldale, as the professor settles into a new teaching position,” Dominic reveals.
One of the live cameras moves in close to the Farnhams. Cassandra’s pursed lips can do no better than a tepid grin. On the other hand, her husband moves in as close as possible to her. As he wraps his arm around her waist, she flinches.
“The Farnhams’ sons, seventeen-year-old Adam, and fourteen-year-old Sami,—who was handicapped by a terrorist’s bomb—must certainly view their parents as saints for having plucked them out of refugee orphanages.” Dominic pauses dramatically. “Still, everyone has a dark side. Will the Farnhams’ reveal itself under the scrutiny of their neighbors? Will this friendly little on-air competition be this amazing family’s undoing?”
To Cassandra’s credit, while the camera lingers, her fury stays clenched tightly in her fists.
“Another couple who will warm your hearts are Patty and James Garrett,” Dominic insists.
Hearing her name, Patty freezes like a deer caught in headlights. Her husband’s arm goes around her: not to comfort her, but to bolster her before she succeeds in shrinking into the back of the couch.
“This retired military dad and full-time mother are parents to six—yes, count them, six children!” The monitor switches to a pre-recorded video of all the Garrett children in the kitchen of their new home. The oldest girls, Jenna and Jody, dish out food for their siblings, while their mother changes toddler Joey’s diaper on the far side of the breakfast banquette.
The oldest boy, Jordan, scowls silently at his coffee mug.
James walks in. The smile on his face seems forced. Still, he propels himself to her side.
But Patty doesn’t realize he’s there. Just as he bends to kiss her forehead, she rises, and her head slams into his mouth. James pulls back. Angered, he raises his hand.
“Did you see that? He almost exploded!” Brin exclaims jubilantly. “Bring it, big boy! Bring it on!”
In the video, Jordan smirks as he watches their interaction. On the other hand, Jenna’s fright causes her to freeze. The milk she’s pouring in her sister Juliette’s cereal bowl flows onto the table.
The last thing seen before the camera cuts away to Dominic is her father shaking his head angrily at her.
Dominic clicks his tongue sympathetically. “Maybe having four children instead of six in the house leaves a little more time for some passion.”
“Or, maybe, instead of six kids, they should have opted for six tuxedos instead,” Jack mutters under his breath.
Oh, no—next up is Jack and me. “Prim and proper Donna Stone Craig is envied for her ability to whip up mouthwatering desserts!”
A video of my accepting a blue ribbon during the Hilldale Independence Day Pie Contest morphs into footage of Jack, mowing our lawn without his shirt.
“And her hot hubby, Jack, who is considered the neighborhood DILF.” Dominic’s last two acid-tinged words don’t exactly roll trippingly off his tongue. Suddenly, the screen swipes to this morning’s gotcha moment, just as Jack carried me out of the bathroom. His robe has already started its slide off my shoulders. Thank goodness Jack’s towel is still tied around his taut waist. Albeit, with what is rising beneath, it was only a matter of time before the producers would have had to move the show to a cable network.
“Slut,” Penelope mutters just loud enough for everyone to hear. Arnie’s frown indicates that the microphones have picked it up too.
“Love it!” Brin purrs unknowingly in my earbud. “The claws are out! Who’s handling Penelope?”
“Um…me,” Emma’s voice is practically a whisper. “Along with Cassandra and Ariel. Lucy handles Patty, Sienna, and, er, Donna.”
“You’re Addison’s little darling, aren’t you? If you want to get out from under him—and knowing
him, take me literally, honey—see what you can do to egg her on. Lucy will give you a few pointers, right Lu?”
I don’t hear anything, but I presume Lucy is nodding.
“Donna’s Aunt Phyllis keeps up with all of Hilldale’s comings and goings,” Dominic assures the audience as he puts his arm around her.
Aunt Phyllis winks broadly at the camera. “That’s right, Dominic! Make sure the cameras stick with me because I know where all the bodies are buried.”
Gulp.
Damn Aunt Phyllis! The last thing I need is for the FBI to start digging up my rosebushes…
Pretend you didn’t just read this. Or else.
“As for the reigning king and queen of the hill—at least, here in Hilldale”—even Dominic frowns at this weak joke—”look no further than realtor Peter Bing, and his glamorous wife, Penelope.”
Penelope’s frown flips upside down into a fake smile. Her breasts jut out as she leans into her husband. “Buying your home here—and from whom else, but Hilldale’s number one realtor, Peter Bing?—is merely the first step on a journey soon to be filled with fast friends and exciting events! As the town’s most active community leader, every civic activity is stamped with Penelope’s exacting imprimatur. Be it a school fundraiser or a society gala, not a week goes by in which she isn’t cracking the whip over her minions at some function.”
I guess that little pun hit too close to home because Peter winces—as do I, when the monitor cuts to the most memorable of the middle school’s dances, which took place when terrorists happened to take over the same hotel. Penelope gasps when she sees what is now showing on the monitor: her liquor-soaked gown catching fire just as the hotel’s chef lights up a cherries jubilee.
Ah, memories.
Apparently, Penelope remembers it differently. She is scowling so hard at me that I swear I can hear the Botox in her forehead cracking.
Dr. Powell must also be concerned because he lays his palm on her forehead as if to rub out any wrinkles stronger than the Botulinum toxin holding them at bay.
“Will one of Penelope’s competitors knock her off her mean-queen throne? If so, our cameras will be there to capture the power play.”
Power play? Give me a break.
Oops, the logs in the fireplace are dying. But when I rise and poke the embers, Penelope practically jumps out of her skin. Frankly, I don’t understand why she’s still so skittish. I mean, come on! The last of her third-degree burns is barely visible…
Last but I doubt the least of our group torture, a live shot of the Powells appears on the monitor. As with every previous couple highlighted, their names are superimposed on their chests.
In a voice-over, Dominic proclaims, “Our last couple is someone on everyone’s lips—at least, in Hollywood! Hilldale is home to one of Los Angeles’s most sought-after plastic surgeons, Franklin Powell, and his most beautiful patient: his wife, Ariel.”
Like everyone else, my gaze instinctively shifts from the monitor to Ariel. Ah, so Mother Nature had a little help along the way!
A blush creeps up her neck and her smile wavers, but she keeps her eyes straight ahead. Franklin must have noticed her stress too because he squeezes her hand tight enough that she grimaces.
Dominic drones on: “As the go-to nip-tuck Titan to the stars, Franklin has seen his fair share of body fails. But here in Hilldale, where perfection is the goal of every wife, has his own fallen short of his great expectations?”
Upon hearing this, Ariel purses her surgically plumped lips.
To his credit, Franklin pats her hand reassuringly. But when our eyes meet, he gives me a sly wink.
Was he aware that it was caught on camera? My guess is yes.
“Did you see that?” Lucy asks the production crew. “Looks as if the hot doc has a thing for Delicious Donna!”
Hmmm, not such a bad nickname…
Okay, yeah, I’m smiling at this.
“Hey, look—she’s flirting back! ...Oh, darn it! Hunky Hubby seems oblivious to it,” Brin pouts. “As does Franklin’s little Barbie doll.”
Um—not. Hunky Hubby hears every word you say—
Which is why Jack now turns to glare at him. Love it! He’s such a natural at playing the devoted husband…
“Ladies, so that you get to know each other better, we’ve arranged a girls night out for you!” Dominic’s grin widens lasciviously at the thought. “Get ready to be whisked away to the VIP Lounge at the Casa del Mar Hotel, overlooking beautiful Santa Monica Beach. Once there, the bubbly will flow as you let your hair down. Think of it as your opportunity to create a new—well, let’s just call it ‘sisterhood of the traveling panties.’”
The women stare at him before giggling uncomfortably.
Except for Penelope. She finds his little joke so funny that she cackles hysterically as she slips off the couch. Thank goodness she is wearing panties.
Arnie’s camera lingers on her while the other cameras catch the horrified expressions of everyone else—including Peter.
“Cut!” Brin finally shouts into the earbuds of her production crew. Laughing raucously, she adds, “Well, what do you know? We’ve already got our Luscious Lush and we’re barely five minutes into the first episode! Hey, you, New Girl: make sure she sobers up before getting into the limo so that she doesn’t barf on the way over to the hotel.”
“Yeah, okay,” Emma mutters.
“Wait!” Lucy’s eyes grow big. “Wouldn’t barfing on them make the others hate her more?” Lucy points out.
Brin thinks for a moment. “Nah, not worth it. We’ll lose the free limo service for the rest of the season. Besides, the Bing bitch gives them so many reasons to hate her anyway.”
True that.
“And New Girl, after you sober her up, round up all the heifers and move them into the stretch. Then tell the menfolk and Grandma Moses that they’re dismissed for the evening—but that we’re holding onto the middle- and high-schoolers. Lots of fun and games still to be had there, I’ll bet. Right, Lucy?”
Lucy’s response is a hysterical giggle.
Jack squeezes my hand and whispers, “Everything will be all right.”
I hope he believes it, because I don’t.
My only regret is that Brin won’t be in the limo with us. Should one of the doors happen to come unlocked when she leaned (was pushed?) on it, I’d always wonder whether she would have bounced when hitting the pavement at sixty miles an hour.
I’m being herded out with the rest of the women when Ryan whispers in my ear: “A social media account identified with the ISIS chatter has posted a response from an ISP address tied to the Housewives mansion.”
Jack puts a drink to his lips so that the cameras can’t see him before replying: “Almost every one of the husbands has his phone out and is texting or checking for messages.”
“The women do, too,” I divulge in a murmur.
In other words, the respondent could be any one of the contestants.
“Damn it! The crew as well,” Ryan admits. “Arnie is trying to isolate the GPS signal now, but it will be like finding a needle in a haystack, and he may not do it before everyone heads out.” He sighs. “Well, at the very least, we know the terrorists are among us.”
Yes, but who are they?
For all our sakes, I hope we find them soon.
Chapter 8
Sex and the City
"Maybe we can be each other’s soul mates. And then we can let men be just these great, nice guys to have fun with.”
—Charlotte
That city folk live more promiscuous lives is a suburban myth—pshaw! Ladies, here are a few reasons why such a notion is laughable:
Reason #1: If there aren’t already more women than men in a city, chances are most of the few good men are already married. This is true in seventy-eight out of one-hundred major U.S. cities. If you’re lookin’ for love, relocate to all the right places: where you’ll find wide-open spaces and more men with wide-open hearts.
R
eason #2: To paraphrase Forrest Gump, sexy is as sexy does. Love is a many splendored thing even in towns where the highest building is only three stories. As for randiness, low populations don’t necessarily translate into small town values. Bottom line: if the Welcome Wagon is a’rockin’, don’t come a’knockin’.
Reason #3: Even if you do find a handsome bachelor, there has got to be a reason he has stayed single all this time. Test: open his refrigerator. If you find body parts, take this as a broad hint that he’s not your Prince Charming. (Tip: Don’t break up in person. You may never get out alive.)
EVERYTHING WILL BE FINE.
Ha! That’s what he said.
For the past half hour, I’ve repeated it like a mantra in my head as the barbs from my fellow female contestants bounce around the back cabin of the stretch limousine. Between the six of us, we’ve gone through four bottles of Brut: three shared amongst everyone, while the fourth was slugged back by Penelope as if it were mother’s milk to her.
As if reading my mind, Arnie whispers into my ear, “Smile pretty—now and at the Casa del Mar. There are cameras hidden in the eaves at the lounge and also on the waiters, who have been hired to provoke the contestants. Still, while there you’ll need to do some reconnaissance. One task is to establish from Ariel a time in which you can plant a Trojan virus on Franklin Powell’s home computer. Over the next few days, we’ll have to do so on those in all the homes. Your second task tonight is to learn from Patty why James got an early discharge. His file is sealed, but records show it was honorable.”
“On it,” I murmur.
Despite everyone having had two glasses of champagne already, Cassandra proclaims grandly, “Toast! Here’s to six women brave enough to be picked apart by each other in front of all of America!”
She then proceeds to pour from yet another bottle of Brut into our flutes. Her aim is poor enough that the fizzy elixir slops over the top and onto our frocks.
