Skinnydipping

by Bethenny Frankel

  A few people gasped. We all gawked at one another. My own television show? My own cooking show? This was everything. There was no way I could possibly do anything else but win. I’d been right to put my relationships on hold, to leave L.A., not to get married. Everything I’d done had led to this.

  “We have a unique group of people here,” Sybil continued. “We have an interior designer, an event planner, two chefs, a baker, an antiques dealer, an accessories designer, a concierge, a lifestyle coach, an organic farmer, a headhunter, and even a housewife—of course, the housewife is the original domestic goddess,” she said, smiling at my new friend, Shari, who looked around to make sure everyone noticed Sybil was talking to her. We all looked at one another, wondering who was who. “You will be paid a generous salary of two hundred and fifty thousand per year as long as you host your own show. On top of that, you will receive the cash prize of $100,000, a new Toyota Prius, and your own corner executive office right here at Sybil Hunter Enterprises, fully equipped with the Domestic Goddess Technology Suite.”

  She paused and looked at our shocked expressions proudly.

  “Now, I’d like to introduce you to my team.”

  The door opened again and we all turned to look. In walked a tall young woman with a strawberry blonde ponytail and an older man. I did a double take. I knew that man! It was Ian McGinnis, the sweet older magazine editor I’d casually dated back in L.A., the one who liked to buy me things but who’d never once made a real pass at me. The last time I’d seen him had been at Carol Kameron’s party. I experienced a surge of fear. Would this be a conflict of interest? Would I be disqualified? Would he say something? Would he even remember me? At least we’d never slept together—God, that would have been a nightmare. I hoped and prayed it would go unnoticed.

  As soon as he came in, Ian looked right at me. I could tell he already knew I would be in the room, but of course it would make better TV if nobody told me. Did Sybil know?

  So far, she gave no indication. “Everyone, this is my sister, Alice Hunter. As you may know, Alice is on the board of directors of Sybil Hunter Enterprises, and she is one of my top advisers.” Everyone knew about the love-hate relationship between Sybil Hunter and her younger sister, Alice. Some people said Alice was the brains behind the whole operation at Sybil Hunter Enterprises. Others said it was nepotism, and that Alice didn’t do anything except cash her paychecks and sleep around with men—or women, depending on who was talking. I was fascinated to see them together.

  “I can’t cook, decorate, or arrange flowers,” Alice joked. “But I know how to make money.” Everyone laughed dutifully. She looked like Sybil, but softer around the edges. Was the softness an illusion? Alice looked directly at me, as if she’d heard my thoughts, and smiled. I smiled back.

  “She’s right,” Sybil Hunter confirmed. “Alice knows about business. She’s got a real eye for what works and what doesn’t, so she’ll be key in judging your efforts during each challenge.” Then she turned to Ian. “And this is Ian McGinnis, the west coast editor of my magazine.”

  “Hello everyone!” Ian said in his kind and jolly way. Then he looked at me. Here it comes. “And Sybil, you may not know this, but I actually know one of the contestants!”

  Sybil froze, then turned to look at him, her eyes like daggers of ice. He hadn’t told her! Either that, or she was a damned good actress, on top of all her other talents. I was mortified. The cameras swung around to catch Sybil’s expression. Quickly, she composed herself.

  “Oh really, Ian! And who might that be?”

  She glared at us all, every one of us a traitor. Ian turned to me and pointed. “This young woman right here, Faith Brightstone. She’s a friend of mine from back in my L.A. days. How are you, Faith?”

  “I’m just fine, Ian. How have you been?” I tried to sound casual and unflappable, and not to let my voice shake. All the other contestants stared at me.

  “Oh I’m fine, just fine, it’s great to see you again,” he said, merrily. He really was a sweet old man, but seemed totally oblivious to the implications of his big reveal.

  Sybil cleared her throat. “Well, Ian … can you assure us you won’t be biased in your assessments of the contestants? Because I’m sure that’s what we’re all wondering.” She looked at the other contestants, suddenly in league with them against me. I had a bad feeling that this wasn’t the way I wanted to start things off with Sybil Hunter.

  “Oh yes!” he said jovially. “Of course, her work will have to stand on its own. No favoritism!” He wagged a friendly finger at me. This would actually be a disadvantage—if I won, everyone would say it was rigged. They might be even harder on me. Shit, shit, shit.

  Sybil gave him a look. “Finally, this is Rasputin, my most trusted adviser.” She snapped her fingers and the big black Newfoundland jumped to his feet. He was so large, he could rest his chin on the table. “Contestants, my assistant, Polly, will now take you to your living quarters, where you can unpack and get to know one another. Then, I would like you to meet me back here at seven p.m. You’ll have to wait to find out why.” She smiled coolly at us, then walked out of the room, a camera following her.

  We all looked at one another, then some of us started to stand. “Hold up,” said a man in a production T-shirt. Everyone sat.

  One of the cameras rolled over to me and a producer pulled me aside. “Hi, Faith. I’m Mike. We need an OTF. Just answer my questions,” he said.

  “What’s an OTF?” I said.

  “On the fly,” he said. “We want to get your thoughts. Just answer honestly.”

  “Sure,” I said, sitting back down.

  “Faith, how do you feel, being here? What does it mean to you?”

  This was weird, to have the camera pointed right at me with everyone looking. “This is my dream. It’s everything I’ve ever wanted,” I said, sincerely. “I really, really need the money and the boost to my career, but having my own TV show would be the culmination of everything I’ve been working toward.”

  “So, you know Ian McGinnis,” Mike said. “Was that a shock when he walked in the room? What did you think?”

  “Holy shit balls, that’s Ian McGinnis! That’s what I thought,” I said. When I said “holy shit balls,” Mike smiled and wrote something down. I smiled, too. I love an environment where it’s OK to curse. I was starting to get a headache from holding it in.

  “Excellent, Faith. That’s just the kind of attitude we’re looking for. Tell me how you know Ian McGinnis?” I thought for a moment. How to portray our relationship sympathetically, without making me look like a gold digger. I laughed to myself. Suddenly it was a good thing that I’d been such a failure at sleeping with guys for money.

  “When I was trying to make it as an actress in L.A., Ian was a supportive friend. We worked out at the same gym, when I was just a lowly actress and he was an editor for an entertainment magazine. He gave me good advice over cocktails a few times.” And that was true. I left out the part about sleeping at his house.

  “And what do you think about the other contestants so far?”

  “I don’t think they can beat me,” I said. “And I can guarantee nobody wants it more than I do.”

  “Perfect, thanks, Faith,” Mike said. Then he went over to the other side of the room to talk to some of the other contestants. I heard him ask one of the other girls, “So what do you think of Faith knowing one of the judges?”

  “Girl, you’re already the standout,” Chaz whispered to me.

  “Hopefully not in a bad way,” I said.

  “Good, bad, who cares? It’s television.”

  “I guess so,” I said. “But this could come back to bite me in the ass.”

  “True,” he said. “I hope Ian giving it to you in the ass back then was worth it.”

  “Very funny,” I said.

  “It’s a nice ass at that,” he said. I liked his style.

  Finally, a production person stepped forward. “OK, we’re ready. Everyone, this way,” sh
e said. The place was a maze and I wasn’t sure I could find my way back on my own. Three long hallways, and then we came to a door with a brass plate on it that said, “The Loft.” Here we are,” she said. “This is where you’ll be living.” She opened the door with a key, and we all filed into the room that would be our home—our prison—for the next two months.

  chapter twenty-one

  The space was incredible—a huge apartment with a beautiful living room filled with couches and comfy chairs and a long dining room table covered in buckets filled with ice and champagne bottles. “Three in a bedroom,” Polly said before closing the door, leaving the camera crew in the room with us. One of them directed the blonde whom I was still trying to place toward a card on the dining room table.

  She picked it up. “Hey everybody, listen to this!” she said. She read it out loud: “Welcome everyone to the Loft. I hope the accommodations are suitable. Please enjoy a glass of champagne, but not too much. You’ll be receiving your first challenge in the conference room tonight at seven p.m., and I expect you to be prompt. Do not be late. Cordially, Sybil Hunter.”

  “Are we supposed to remember how to get back there ourselves?” said an anxious, dizzy-looking girl with wispy, feathered hair. “I would get completely lost. Hey, is that rosé champagne? I could really use some bubbly.” She sounded like she’d already had a few glasses.

  “I’m sure they’ll send someone to show us where to go,” I said. “From what I can tell, they run this thing like the military.”

  Chaz opened a bottle and the cork popped and flew across the table. “Oops, I got a little excited!” he said. We all took our glasses and I sat down between him and Shari.

  Everyone looked nervous and stressed and pretty tired. I guess I wasn’t the only one who hadn’t slept the night before. Shari stood up as soon as I sat down. “So, I think we should all introduce ourselves,” she said, taking the group in hand. “I’ll start. I’m Shari Jacobs, and I’m the one Sybil referred to as ‘the housewife.’ I’m very proud of that title. I have a wonderful husband and two beautiful daughters, and my husband owns a floral design center in Manhattan. We’re the largest flower importers in New York.” She said “flowers” like “flowiz”—pure Brooklyn. “If you see flowers at the Plaza, Le Cirque, Balthazar, those are our flowers.” She glanced at the camera, then addressed us, articulating carefully: “And if any of you ever need flowers, just go to flowersflowersflowers.com.” She sat back down looking pleased with herself, then gestured to me.

  I cleared my throat. “My name is Faith Brightstone, and I’m also from New York, although as you all know now, I did live in L.A. for a while. Now I own a vegan baking company called Have Faith Bakery. My signature muffin is banana oatmeal chocolate chip.”

  “Wait!” said the blonde girl. Suddenly, I realized where I’d seen her. She was Katie, the party girl I used to see at clubs in L.A., the one who liked to dance on the bar with her shirt off—the one who’d been at Carol Kameron’s Hearst Castle party! “So … you and Ian McGinnis. That’s not really fair, is it? You already have an advantage.”

  I sighed. “Really, we were just casual friends, I didn’t even know him that well. It’s no big deal.” I wondered if I should mention that Katie and I had met before. I decided to wait.

  “Don’t you think he’s too old for you?” said a man with strange spiked hair and little glasses. “I mean, look at you. You’re a Ferrari. He’s a … a …”

  “A Model T?” said Chaz. “What I want to know is, did you sleep with him?”

  “Yes,” I said, wryly. “I was giving him a blow job while Sybil was introducing him in the meeting room, didn’t you notice?” Chaz and Shari laughed, but nobody else did. Tough crowd. “Kidding! No, I didn’t sleep with him!” I said, trying to lighten the mood. “He’s old enough to be my father! He was just a nice man I met at a party and we socialized a few times. That’s all.”

  Katie looked scandalized. What a faker. I remembered her swinging her shirt around over her head while dancing on the bar. I had a feeling she was no stranger to a blow job.

  “You can’t put that in the show,” said Katie to one of the cameramen, pointing at me. “You can’t put her talking about giving a blow job to one of the judges. That’s not fair. The viewers will be biased!”

  “Miss, you can’t speak to us. Please just pretend we’re not here,” he said.

  “The audience isn’t voting, you idiot,” I said. I was tired and irritable and suddenly didn’t care if I was on camera or not.

  “How do you know?” Katie said. “We don’t know how the show works.”

  “Reality!” one of the cameramen said.

  “What?” said Katie.

  “Please don’t refer to the show,” he said. “When you refer to the show, we call ‘Reality!’”

  “Anyway, I’m Chaz,” said Chaz, patting my knee supportively. “I’m an interior designer and right now I live in Philadelphia. I own my own firm and I specialize in gallery spaces, although I also do a lot of fabulous homes for a lot of fabulous artists.”

  He looked at Katie, who was sitting on an ottoman next to the couch Chaz shared with Shari and me. She rolled her eyes and looked annoyed. “I’m Katie Swindell,” she said, shifting back and forth. “I live in L.A., where I own my own business.” She seemed restless and a little hyperactive. “I love astrology, and I design headbands with astrological art on them. Movie stars go crazy for my headbands. My business is called ‘Crown of Stars.’” She gave me a look, almost a sneer. I was so tempted to ask if she still liked to dance topless on bars, but I bit my tongue. She touched her temples so everyone would notice the wide headband painted with fish that she wore in her long blonde hair. “I designed this,” she said. “I’m a Pisces.”

  “My name is Nadine La Charlotte,” said the regal-looking woman who’d silenced us with her presence in the conference room earlier in the day. She had what almost sounded like a British accent, but it wasn’t quite right—like the way Madonna talked after she moved to England. “I’m an antiques dealer living in London with my husband, Clark La Charlotte.” She paused, meaningfully, so we all had a chance to recognize that of course she meant the heir to the La Charlotte steel fortune.

  “La Charlotte, as in the La Charlotte family?” Chaz asked.

  “I don’t like to brag …” she said, smiling.

  “I can tell,” I said under my breath. She gave me a dirty look.

  “Are you… from England?” Chaz asked. “I’m trying to place that accent.”

  She reddened slightly. “I’ve lived there for many years. And as I said … I travel.”

  “Where are you from originally?” Chaz asked.

  She paused. “Queens,” she said.

  I almost spit out my champagne. Chaz smiled serenely, as if he’d just been handed a great gift. “Ah,” he said. “I see.”

  A girl with very long hair braided down her back was next. “I’m Sadie Danielson, and I’m from Texas,” she said. “I have to say, I’m feeling a little homesick, but I’m also very happy to be here.” She had a calm, even voice and a blank expression. “I’m the organic farmer. I have a farm outside Dallas, and I also own a large and very successful market in Dallas.”

  “I’m Mikki Winn,” said the next woman. She was tall and incredibly thin, almost skeletal, with a cloud of gold hair that seemed to hover around her face, and an unusual dress that looked very expensive. “I’m an event planner in New Jersey, with a bad shopping habit.” She looked around shyly.

  “I’m Jodi Sue Jerry,” said the next woman, the one who had been in the simulation audition with me. She wore a tight scoop-necked blouse under a very closely fitted suit. The outfit showed her enormous cleavage and curvy figure to its greatest advantage. “I’m a celebrity chef in Beverly Hills,” she said.

  “Aren’t you Ted Jerry’s wife? The heavy metal rock star? My daughters have posters of him all over their room!” Shari said.

  “I am,” she said proudly. “But I h
ave my own career.”

  Chaz then leaned into me and whispered in my ear, “We have some mutual friends. Her rock star husband finances her business and she just cooks for his celebrity friends because he makes them hire her.”

  I somehow resisted snickering.

  Next up was a tall woman with broad shoulders, large chiseled features, long brown hair, and a Midwestern accent. “I’m Linda Pavlovski, and I just have to say that I don’t like the way we’re being treated, led around like children. I’m a professional headhunter in Chicago,” she said. “I specialize in placing executives with Fortune 500 companies.” She talked loudly and aggressively, and had a belligerent expression like she wanted to punch someone. “And I really don’t even know why I’m here. My boyfriend made me try out, and of course, I got it.”

  “He was probably trying to get rid of her,” Chaz whispered.

  The dizzy girl with the wispy blonde hair spoke up next. “I’m Monica Reynolds, and I’m a lifestyle coach. I live in Santa Fe, New Mexico, and I help people manifest their dreams.” She paused. “Is there more champagne?” She stood up and wandered over to the table and started peering into the bottles. “It wasn’t rosé, but it was OK.”

  Chaz and I looked at each other and smiled. What a group.

  The last two to introduce themselves were the remaining men, who had been pretty quiet. I suspected they weren’t as comfortable as Chaz in out-goddessing the rest of us. The first one took a deep breath and seemed to launch himself into the center of the room. “I’m Andy Spencer, and I’m a chef at Jeux de Mots in Las Vegas, and I just have to say watch out, because this may be a show called Domestic Goddess, but when it comes to skill in the kitchen, I’m a god.” He gave all the women in the room a blatant once-over and a big salty smile, then sat down looking very satisfied with himself.

  “Okaaay,” Chaz whispered to me. “Make way for the Ego of Andy.”

  Finally, the tall, strange-looking man with the spiky hair, small black glasses, and expensive suit said with a tight smile, “I’m Christophe Valentine, and I own a concierge business in Miami. We supply all the major hotels. We’re very successful.” He said it directly to Mikki, whom he’d been eyeing since we were all in the conference room. She blushed.