I Didn't Come Here to Make Friends: Confessions of a Reality Show Villain

by Courtney Robertson

  Three paps stayed with me all weekend and even followed Rachel and me into Bloomingdale’s at the Century City mall while we shopped. They were reprimanded by security and told they couldn’t take photos inside, so while we went into dressing rooms to try stuff on, they sat on the couches like bored boyfriends. I even felt rushed! At one point I couldn’t find Rachel and a pap said, “Oh, she’s over there looking at shoes.” We managed to ditch them at the mall, but by the time I got home they were parked outside my house. Stefan, a freelancer, was the one who followed me to the airport. Andy worked for Splash News and Gaz for Pacific Coast News. Gaz eventually gained my trust the most. I actually felt bad that they had to camp out there, so I went outside, introduced myself, and took their phone numbers. I promised I’d call them if I went anywhere exciting. But they didn’t budge.

  And they continued to not budge. When I landed a Volkswagen GTI print ad they followed me to the set and had to be chased away. I was so embarrassed and worried the client would never book me again. I was getting less work since the show had started airing. The more infamous I became, the less the clients wanted to use me. If they did, it would be more like I was endorsing their products, not just modeling for them. And right then, nobody wanted my endorsement. Thankfully, a Ketel One commercial I shot was renewed and the $20,000 check kept me afloat during the worst slump in my career.

  At the end of the weekend, after Rachel left, I called Ben bawling, but he didn’t comfort me at all. He was really cold and seemed not to care. We talked briefly before he said he had to go. I was so devastated. I’d done everything I could to make sure Ben knew I loved him. We were both struggling with the press, but he was pushing me away. I asked the producers to put together a reel of all the good stuff I said about him that never aired. I know they gave it to him, but he never told me if he watched it or not. I also put the diamond band he’d given me at Christmas on my left hand on purpose and went out in public to brunch at Urth Caffe so I’d be photographed wearing it. I wanted to send Ben a secret message that we’d make it through this together.

  It made no difference. Ben and I were worlds apart already and it would only get worse. I had to fly to New York again for a Stein Mart campaign and while I was there, the tabloids continued their systematic assassination of my already battered character.

  In Touch Weekly ran their first cover of me with the screaming headline “Bachelor Ben Tricked! Courtney’s Ex Tells All!” Guess who crawled out from under a bar stool to sell dirt on me? Dylan. In the story, he told them that I’d dated an “old rich guy” before the show (Cavan), but the mag erroneously reported that he was fifty. He said that my attraction to Ben was “a complete lie.” He had the nerve to say that I used men for money and dumped him because he wasn’t rich. (He forgot lazy and bad in bed, too.) “She latches onto guys who can help support her,” he said. Which was hysterical coming from the guy I supported for two years and added to my cell phone plan.

  I found out later that Dylan was paid about $10,000 for this story and a follow-up in which the bastard gave them the photo of me naked and sick in the bathtub. Adding insult to injury, I also learned that a sexy, voluptuous reporter who worked on Dylan’s piece hooked up with him after a long day of barhopping. They started drinking margaritas at El Compadre at noon, got so sloshed at Lexington Social House in the middle of the day they got kicked out, and then moved their party for two to Red Rock, where they made out in the bathroom. I doubt they had sex, since Dylan was often unable to perform after a day of heavy drinking.

  Us Weekly wasn’t much better. They infamously called me a “Man-eater” on their cover and announced that I was “worse than you think” because I was a lush and had a secret sex tape. How did they know about a sex tape?

  The original cover Us planned to feature was a family member’s mug shot from an arrest a couple years before. When I got wind of this distressing development, we offered up my sister Rachel for an exclusive interview (I wasn’t allowed to do press yet) in exchange for never running the mug shot. But that wasn’t good enough. They wouldn’t drop the mention of a sex tape.

  Allegedly, my ex Cavan had been offered $1 million from porn distributor Vivid Entertainment, for a tape, if one existed, but he refused to acknowledge the offer. He called me for the first time since we’d broken up: “I’m a perfect gentleman,” he told me. “I would never do that to you. Or my mother.” He was a quality guy.

  The National Enquirer wasn’t about to let that mug shot go and they did end up running it in a despicable story. Needless to say, I was an absolute wreck in New York City. I understood that I was fair game; that’s part of signing up for The Bachelor. I actually thought the “Man-eater” line was kind of funny and listened to the Nelly Furtado and Hall and Oates songs of the same name to get more insight into what being a “Man-eater” actually entailed. But in no way did my family deserve to be dragged into this mess. I was wracked with guilt that my decision had ended up hurting them so profoundly.

  While I was staying at the Off Soho Suites, Ben called me and we had a hasty conversation. He said he was having a hard time and didn’t know if our relationship could recover from all of the negative press he’d read.

  “Ben, you know me. You know how much I love you.” Since Sundance, Ben had been making more of an effort to make me a priority. But when the media shitstorm started, he flipped the switch back to invisible man. He was no J. P. Rosenbaum.

  “I need a little space, Courtney. A couple days to think about everything.”

  I felt sick and heartbroken. But I told him, “Of course, I understand.”

  Ben was about to dump me, my family was in a shambles, and I was totally alone, literally and figuratively. I decided it was time for me to break the rules and take matters into my own hands. I e-mailed a reporter from Wet Paint and told her to meet me at Freemans, my favorite restaurant on the Lower East Side. I figured if she could just meet me, she’d see that I’m really a nice person. I just needed one person on my side to maintain my sanity. We talked for a few hours over many needed cocktails. I told her when the time was right I would give her an exclusive on the ring. I trusted her and she promised me she wouldn’t report that we were engaged. It was a major coup for her to have me as a direct source and she wasn’t going to blow that.

  I made it through my Stein Mart shoot, barely, then hopped on a plane back to L.A. I wore my sunglasses on the flight, not because I didn’t want anyone to recognize me, but because my eyes were as puffed up as pizza rolls from crying so hard. The woman sitting next to me was reading the Man-eater cover story and started peppering me with questions. I pulled my earphones out hesitantly, but realized a complete stranger was the perfect person to unload on. I got us a couple little bottles of wine and purged everything about Ben and the show on this poor, kind stranger.

  When I got home, I hadn’t heard from Ben in days, so I wrote him a last ditch e-mail:

  My love,

  I want you to know I really miss you, and that you’re on my mind. What a mess we’re in, to say the least! I understand 100 percent where you’re at with everything. I know you’re scared and I’m right there with you. My heart has already been broken by all of this. Words cannot describe how disappointed I am with the way this has all played out. After going through something so traumatic, I can so clearly see what’s important in life, and what’s not. I have been in survival mode, and have found a strength within that is pulling me through. I put myself in your shoes every day, and have felt your pain. I care about you so deeply and find peace in knowing you will be okay, with or without me. Lately I picture losing the life I dreamed of having with you, as well as the feeling of not knowing what could have been.

  I don’t want to live my life with any regrets. And as of right now, I’m choosing to focus only on the positive side of things. I’m alive; this will all go away. I fell in love with the man of my dreams … I’m willing to fight for you and our relationship. The thing that’s strongest in my heart is my love fo
r you. We have so much to learn about each other, and that will be the fun part ;). I hope you can trust in everything I say to you, and know I’ve always had your best interest at heart. I just wanted you to know where I’m at, before it’s too late. Know I love you more than anything.

  All my love, C

  P.S. I wish I could be with you on Valentine’s Day. I made you a mix CD. I hope you listen to it ;).

  Ben never responded to this e-mail and he never got me a Valentine’s Day gift. For anyone else who cares, here’s the playlist of love songs I made for him on iTunes:

  “Forever” by Ben Harper

  “Dreamin’” by Feldberg

  “This Year’s Love” by David Gray

  “When the Night Comes” by Dan Auerbach

  “Paradise” by Coldplay

  “Conversation 16” by the National

  “Wasted” by Angus and Julia Stone

  “Where Dirt and Water Collide” by the White Buffalo

  “I Would Do Anything for You” by Foster the People

  “50 Ways to Leave Your Lover” by Paul Simon

  This is a terrible thing to say, but on February 11 Whitney Houston died suddenly and tragically, and I was thankfully forgotten and not followed by the paparazzi for a few weeks.

  Around this time, I went out to get a haircut and afterward went to Earthbar on Santa Monica Boulevard for a smoothie. I noticed the paps mingling around but they weren’t there for me. They were following Russell Brand, who had recently split with Katy Perry. Funny enough, Russell and I had on matching outfits: black fedoras and denim shirts (hey, it was a hot look at the time). He turned around, we locked eyes, and I smiled. We did kind of look alike. He marched right over to me and put his face close to mine.

  “You’ve got little eyebrows all over your face,” he said in his adorable British accent.

  “Oh, I just got a haircut!” I said, laughing and brushing the little hairs off my face. “They say I look like you in the media,” I added, not knowing if he had any clue who I was.

  “Well, my mum tells me I’m very handsome, so you should take that as a compliment,” he said. “Why are you in the media?”

  I told him I was on The Bachelor and had just gotten engaged. “Wait, you mean to tell me you got engaged on a television show! So you’re engaged to a total stranger!” Yep. Nail on head.

  Actually, I didn’t even know what I was. On actual Valentine’s Day, I met a Bachelor producer at a Coffee Bean & Tea Leaf in the afternoon to discuss me going on the “Women Tell All” episode. It would be a Bachelor first: the final two women had never appeared on it before, as it created more mystery surrounding the finale. But the producers wanted to give the women the chance to confront me and also give me a shot to defend myself. I really didn’t want to do it and my contract didn’t require it. I definitely had to appear on “After the Final Rose” no matter what, but this decision was totally up to me. I was leaning against it.

  I still hadn’t heard from Ben and was crying throughout the meeting.

  As the producer tried to convince me to do the show, I finally received a text from my fiancé, who was in Las Vegas to promote his wine:

  “Happy v day. It’s a really awkward day for me right now and not sure how to approach it with you. Just wanted to say hi.”

  I handed the phone to the producer to read the message.

  “I’m done,” I said flatly. “And I’m doing the ‘Women Tell All.’”

  I went home and drank a few glasses of wine so I wouldn’t send an impulsive, rage-filled response to Ben’s emotionless text. An hour later I was ready to be civilized: “All I wanted to hear today was that you still love me, and it’s clear you don’t feel that way anymore. I think we need to talk about this tomorrow.”

  “I agree,” he wrote back. “I will call you at 5:00 when I get home tomorrow evening.”

  I finished the bottle of wine, so incredibly pissed off. And then I finally stopped crying. I was over Ben Flajnik and his bullshit.

  THE NEXT DAY at 5:00 on the dot, he called. We had another one of our quickie convos, as if we were talking about one of his gourmet grocery lists and not the painful end of our relationship. I turned the tables on him. This time I was the one being short, snappy, and unemotional.

  “I’m done. I can’t do this,” I said, not a tremor in my voice.

  Of course, now that I was over and out, he dragged his feet, pausing awkwardly and trying to be nice. But I’d had it.

  “And I’m doing the ‘Women Tell All’ for myself.”

  “Oh, okay,” he said, surprised.

  That was pretty much it. Mr. Communication had little else to say so we got off the phone. And we were officially broken up. All that was left to do was watch ourselves fall in love and get engaged on TV.

  12

  RANTING, RAVING & CHEATING

  Less than a week after Ben’s and my engagement imploded, I faced the firing squad on the “Women Tell All” special.

  When I arrived on the set, in another new Alice and Olivia dress, I was kept far away from Ben, who had to face the wrath of the rejected himself. I had gotten a text from him the day before while I was at lunch with Casey. He asked to meet me after the show at a Happy Couple safe house to talk. I reluctantly agreed.

  “I feel like we owe it to ourselves to talk face-to-face,” he texted. “Even if it’s a straight-up cry fest.”

  Jeez, Ben, like this day wasn’t stressful enough?

  I was also given my own trailer, separate from the other women, who were all together. To keep calm, I guzzled white wine. I went over my game plan in my head: apologize, be humble, and show vulnerability. Do not be defensive, and most of all, do not cry on-camera.

  Chris Harrison stopped by my trailer. He hugged me and said, “Don’t worry. It’s going to be fine.” The only problem was he wasn’t fine. He felt really sick and was as pale as a ghost. But he was a pro and, as we all know, the show must go on.

  While they got a shot of me pacing in the parking lot, a producer, one who’d always managed to say the wrong thing to me, came up to me and gave me unwanted and idiotic advice: “Just be a girl.”

  I finally got my cue. I walked into the studio and though there was some clapping, I only heard the loud boos from the audience. It made my soul hurt. It got so quiet you could hear a pin drop. I scanned the room. Fans were shaking their heads in disgust and my old roomies were huddled with each other whispering. This was an absolute nightmare. Unfortunately, I was wide awake. The tears started rolling down my cheek. So much for not crying on-camera.

  Jenna Burke, the Over-Analyst blogger who got sent home after she passed out in a bed, broke the ice by saying she wanted to give me a hug. She walked across the stage to embrace me.

  Chris abruptly told the crew he needed to stop taping. He was so ill he had to go lie down in his trailer. After he walked off the stage, I was left alone in the middle of the studio like the lamb for the slaughter. Audience and cast members hurled insults at me like I was on The Jerry Springer Show.

  A producer came to my rescue and sat with me face-to-face so I wouldn’t have to look at anyone. My mike was still on and a pool of reporters camped backstage overheard our conversation.

  “I don’t know if I can show that emotion again,” I said.

  “You have to,” the producer said. “This is for you. This is for you and Ben.”

  I was crippled with fear and bowed my head again so nobody could see me cry.

  As my shoulders were shaking, Monica Spannbauer shouted out, “Look at her! She’s laughing!” Elyse, who by now had seen the “sight for sore eyes” episode, shouted, “You love the paparazzi! You love the attention! This is what you want!” Samantha the Chihuahua was shrieking at me, too, but I was so traumatized I blocked out what she said.

  I found it fascinating that they claimed that I was in this for the fame. Nothing could have been further from the truth. Plus, during filming, when the cameras weren’t there, so many of these same w
omen sat around talking about what it was going to be like when they were “famous” after the show started airing. They were excited about being recognized and hoping for lucrative opportunities.

  One audience member made a heart shape with her hand and mouthed, “I love you!” But the verbal abuse became so bad I was taken back to my trailer until Chris was ready to shoot again. When he felt well enough to give it another go, the torture continued. It didn’t help when he started off with, “The women are understandably pissed. I mean pissed at you,” then left me hanging in the breeze. I’m going to forgive him for not coming to my defense that one time, because he was sick. But he didn’t seem to have my back at all.

  I started off by apologizing: “I have many regrets. I’m disappointed in myself and the way I acted and treated the women. Looking back there’s so many things I would have done differently.” Eye rolls from the peanut gallery. It was obvious there would be no forgiveness tonight no matter what I said.

  Blakeley was one of the first to confront me: “Courtney, what did I ever do to you for you to call me a stripper? What did I ever do for you to say I’m the kind of girl your boyfriend cheats on you with?”

  In Utah, after the fly-fishing date, a bunch of the girls were dancing around and I saw Blakeley jokingly give Kacie B a very skilled striptease and lap dance. That’s where that came from, but I couldn’t say that on-air.

  Elyse pounced next, calling me “trashy” for going skinny-dipping right after she was sent home.

  Jaclyn, who I thought was my friend, jumped on the attack: “When I hear you drag my friends’ names through the mud, that’s what really gets me.”

  Jennifer called me out for not knowing her name for six days. I barely knew her name now.

  Kacie B was the most civilized of the bunch, asking me why I made constant jabs. Casey, my best ally, jumped to my defense, pointing out that I wasn’t the only one shit-talking the whole time. But then they all jumped down her throat. Emily ripped me to shreds when I said it was intense living with all of the girls. She refused to accept my excuse that the process was hard for me. “It was hard for every last one of us!” she ranted. “Did we all react by making these jabs or being negative and rude to everyone?”