by Nic Tatano
He pulled an envelope from his pocket and held it up in front of us. "Listen, I have an extra ticket to a new Broadway show this evening. It's a musical. My boss couldn't go and he just gave them to me. And…" he turned back to Jillian. "I just thought you looked like the kind of classy woman who might enjoy a night at the theater. No strings attached. I'll take you right home afterwards. But I insist on stopping for cheesecake after the play."
Cupid was still apparently holding down the mute button on Jillian, but a smile grew across her face. I was about to grab her head and move it up and down like a bobblehead doll when Neely saved the day.
"Jillian loves Broadway musicals," said Neely. "And we can vouch for her; she's very classy."
"Uh-huh," muttered Jillian, looking like a willing subject from a hypnotist's show.
The sphinx speaks!
"Tell you what, Shawn," I said. "We're pretty much finished up here with the business stuff so why don't you take Jillian to that play and on the way she can tell you about the opportunities at our network. Maybe you'd be interested."
He looked at Jillian. "That okay with you?" he asked.
The waitress was right. He was asking permission.
This stuff isn't in the tall girl playbook. How in the hell did I miss this?
"Yeah," she said, voice cracking.
He looked at his watch. "Okay then, we'll need to get going if we're gonna get a cab," he said, and extended a hand out to her. She took it, hopped off the bar stool and stood up next to him, towering over him in her four-inch heels. The top of his head reached her shoulder. He looked up at her like he'd just won the tall strawberry blonde lottery, then turned back to us. "It was nice meeting you all. Maybe I'll see you again."
"That would be nice. Good meeting you, Shawn," I said, as they turned and left.
"And you thought all our viewers were gonna be women," said Rica.
I watched them leave the bar, her arm around his shoulder, his arm around her waist.
More important, a whole bunch of guys in their twenties looked past the vapid, mini-skirted bimbos that filled the bar and stared at Shawn with envy.
So much for blowing off the male demographic.
* * *
The walk through the large reception area was like going through a buffet line of men. Models and actors filled every chair, while a few stood and lined the walls. I made my way to the meeting room just off the front door that we'd designated for interviews. A cloud of cologne filled my lungs. Our middle-aged, impeccably coiffed, blonde receptionist, the only woman in the room, was obviously enjoying the attention she was getting as two of the men leaned on her desk and were chatting her up.
Oh, this was going to be fun. A quick glance around the room told me there were plenty of possibles in this bunch.
I reached the door to the meeting room just as the receptionist buzzed me through, turned around and said, "Guys, we'll be starting shortly." They all straightened up as I headed through the door.
Inside, I found Rica and Neely already in place at the long maple table which dominated the room, enjoying coffee and donuts. The deep red walls were bare, faded squares showing the previous locations of prime-time posters that Amanda had thankfully ditched.
"Pretty nice-looking bunch out there," said Rica. "Not too shabby at all."
"I never knew New York had so many hot men," said Neely.
"Between Madison Avenue and Broadway, what did you expect?" I took a seat at the end of the table, next to a black metal cart on wheels that held a monitor, a DVD player and a VCR. "By the way, anybody seen Jillian?"
The door opened and she appeared on cue, newspaper under one arm while carrying a dark leather portfolio. "Morning, guys," she said, trying to hold back a smile as she made her way around the room and took a seat next to Rica at the far end of the table.
Rica immediately turned to face her. "So?" she asked.
"What?" said Jillian.
"How was last night?" asked Rica.
"Pffft," she said, with a wave of her hand. "The play was a disaster. We left at intermission." She then pulled a blank legal pad from her portfolio, placed it on the desk in front of her, and pretended to stare at it. "Terrible choreography. Just terrible. I can't believe they can get away with that on Broadway."
"What a bunch of horseshit," said Rica.
"What?" said Jillian.
"You know what we mean," said Neely. "How was your Pocket Chippendale?"
I smiled at Neely's dead-on description of Shawn, leaned back in my chair and crossed my arms as Jillian began to squirm in her seat. "Yeah, Jillian. Did you manage to speak the rest of the evening?"
"You guys leave me alone," she said, blushing. "And yes, we talked quite a bit. He's very sweet, incredibly smart. Perfect gentleman. And his references are impeccable. By the way, you should know that not everything about Shawn is proportional."
"Really," I said, raising my eyebrows. "What a pleasant surprise for you."
"You have no idea what you're missing, Syd," said Jillian. "You need a Pocket Chippendale of your own."
"That good, huh?" asked Neely.
She nodded. "Oh yeah. He tortured me for an hour on the couch and finally I couldn't take any more, so I just threw him over my shoulder like a cave girl, carried him to the bedroom and took him. You have no idea how empowering that is."
Rica's mouth dropped. "You actually carried him to the bedroom?"
"Sure. I'm really strong, and he's pretty light." She flexed her muscles, revealing well-toned biceps, and lowered her voice. "Me woman, you sex object."
"So the waitress was right?" asked Neely. "You enjoyed your little snack?
Jillian nodded. "Very much. And he obeys like a trained seal. Does whatever I ask. Worshiped me like a goddess."
"You are a goddess," I said. "Is he anchor potential?"
"Yes, and he's very excited about the benefits package."
"Can you keep him in line?" I asked. "You know about the problems I'm having with Scott."
Jillian shrugged. "If he needs a reminder, I'll just give him another spanking."
"You actually spanked him?" asked Neely.
"He was a bad, bad boy," said Jillian, eyes gleaming, while both eyebrows went up.
Rica started fanning herself with her pad. "Syd, can you turn up the air in here?"
I got up and moved toward the thermostat. "Okay, I guess we'd better get started with the interviews."
* * *
"It occurs to me," said Neely, pulling her chair up to the table, "that this is just like a reality show. We are lined up here at this table, facing a single chair in the middle of the room and we'll rank each contestant on a scale. The winners move on, the losers skulk out or throw fits. We ought to put a reporter in the outer office to interview them as they leave."
"I wanna play the British judge," said Jillian. "They always have some guy from London on the panel, who says something like, ‘Your performance tonight was just ghastly' with that accent, before they send the poor sap on his way."
"That might be a line you should save for the hotel," I said.
"I hope I never have to use it," said Jillian. "You guys ready?"
"Let's rock," said Rica.
I punched a button on the intercom.
"Yes?" said the receptionist.
"Start sending them in," I said. I turned to the girls. "Remember, the code word for gong is doable."
They nodded. The door opened and a tall, very beefy man in his mid-twenties entered the room. "Good morning," he said, brushing his wavy dark hair out of his eyes. "I'm Brian Fairfield. I'm an actor and model here in New York."
And you're a model for… let me guess… Michelin Tires?
"Good morning, Brian," I said, gesturing toward the chair. "Please have a seat and tell us about yourself."
He moved toward our table and handed each of us a manila envelope, then sat down. "I brought each of you a portfolio from my agency. I've been doing print ads for quite a while, though I
did audition for a television commercial last week. I'm hoping to break into TV."
I slid the portfolio out of the envelope and opened it.
One side featured a full eight-by-ten headshot of the model, a beautifully lit photo that had obviously been air-brushed or Photoshopped or whatever. It didn't look anything like the guy sitting in front of us. The piercing blue eyes in the photo weren't nearly as dark in person. The other side featured three photos from different ads. He wore a tux in one, a bathing suit in another, and a sports jacket in a third.
He also looked like he'd gained a good bit of weight since the pictures were taken. The face was much fuller now, the beginnings of a second chin evidently having cancelled out the jawline that was so prominent in the photos.
"How old are these photos?" asked Rica.
"About three years," he said. "I, uh, haven't had a gig in quite awhile."
"Do you think reading a teleprompter is something that's… doable … for you?" asked Neely, accenting the code word for my benefit.
"Sure," said the man.
"Thank you," I said, getting Neely's vote. "We'll be in touch."
The man's head dropped, he exhaled audibly and a sad look grew on his face. "Ohhhh… kaaay. Well, thank you for your time, I guess." He got up and left the room.
"That didn't take you long," said Jillian. "You could have at least asked him a few more questions."
"He'll be a doughboy in two more years," said Neely. "If he wants to break into TV he can get a gig selling crescent rolls. Why waste time with him?"
"I still like gong better," said Rica.
The parade continued, with plenty of hot damns and exponentially cutes sprinkled in the mix with those who looked closer to their driver's license photos than the ones in their portfolios. We got into the spirit of the chase by getting creative with the code word when we needed to gong someone.
From Rica: "I'm sure an anchor position might be doable if you spend three years behind the scenes. We do have some entry-level gopher jobs." (The guy left skid marks.)
From Jillian: "I'd be curious to see how you'd look if you dyed your hair bright red. Would that be doable?"
From Neely: "As we say in the South, if it's doable, it's worth doin' right."
By noon we were almost done and had at least nine viable candidates. And that wasn't counting the people with actual television experience who were flying in later.
Then the door cracked open and the man who entered seemed to suck all the oxygen out of the room.
About six-three, with ripped arms straining at the sleeves of his baby blue, short-sleeved polo shirt, while his pecs tried to escape the fabric. Thick, dark brown hair, deep-set hazel eyes, square jaw, slightly crooked boyish grin that led you to believe he was up to something. If there was such a thing as a cross between hot damn and exponentially cute, this guy was it. "Hi, Denton Hale," he said. He handed me a DVD, resume and portfolio, then grabbed a chair and took a seat.
"Denton, I'm Sydney, and this is Rica, Neely and Jillian." (Incidentally, you should know that even though I didn't expect any gongs, I do retain supreme veto power in extreme circumstances. Just in case one of them loses her mind.) I opened the portfolio and had to fight to keep my eyes from bugging out as the pictures jumped off the page. After about ten seconds I heard this clicking sound as Rica's fingers tap danced across the table and deftly snatched the portfolio and dragged it down the table, where Jillian and Neely leaned over to take a look at the man who didn't appear to have a visible flaw or an ounce of fat.
"Those are from my print ads this year," he said. "The DVD has my television work. Mostly exercise equipment infomercials and some voiceovers. You might have seen me if you're up in the middle of the night."
I popped the disc into the player and the monitor filled with Denton Hale extolling the virtues of a new home bodybuilding system. I assume he was pitching the thing, because I never actually heard the words. I was too busy locked on a glistening body that had been cut from suntanned marble by Michelangelo. I looked down at the girls and knew there would be a battle later on to decide who Denton Hale would get to bench press at the Plaza.
"So, why do you want this job?" asked Jillian.
"Because I'm tired of modeling and my roommate Jason Deller told me this was a fantastic place to work."
I bit my lower lip and smiled. "That's good to hear. So you're Jason's roomie."
"Yeah, we've shared an apartment for two years." Denton stared right into my eyes. "He loves working here. Seems very… satisfied." He smiled and I knew that he knew.
"Also very good to hear," said Rica, smiling at me. She turned to Denton. "So would you be willing—"
"Look, I understand the deal and I'll do whatever it takes. I'm smart, I work hard, and I follow orders. And if I have to follow, uh, orders from you four, (big sexy smile here) trust me, there won't be a problem."
"Okay, Denton," I said, suddenly feeling very warm. "We'll be in touch to do some test shots on the set… see how you read the prompter and all."
"I had a prompter on that infomercial."
"Then I'm sure it won't be a problem," I said.
"Do you have any questions for us?" asked Neely.
"Just one. If I get hired, which one of you am I going to be working under?"
Oh my.
"We'll, uh, figure that out as we put the staff together," I said. "Look forward to working with you."
"Same here," he said, getting up and heading for the door. "Have a good day."
The door shut and we all exhaled.
"Good God," said Jillian, looking at the portfolio. "The man's body is a playground. He looks like someone pasted an exponentially cute face onto a hot damn physique." She turned to Neely. "You got a category for that?"
"If the Pocket Chippendale is a snack, this guy's a seven course dinner," said Neely.
"I'm just trying to imagine Jason and Denton in one apartment," I said. "Can you picture the reaction of any woman who knocks on that door?"
“So how are we gonna decide who gets to check his references?” asked Rica. “Rock, paper, scissors?”
CHAPTER FOUR
"It's coming along a lot faster than we thought," said Amanda, as she and Madison led us through the construction. "And being ahead of schedule in New York is no small feat."
I followed with the girls, all outfitted in jeans and hard hats, past the carpenters and electricians who were putting the finishing touches on the new studio and offices. The smell of sawdust filled the air as we carefully tiptoed our way through the two-by-fours and power tools, while the sound of a bandsaw filled the air.
I heard a few of those power tools stop when we passed, as several workers decided it was time for a union break and that leering at us was more satisfying than coffee and a Krispy Kreme. Jillian, who seemed to be the object of their affections thanks to her mile long legs in skinny jeans and stacked heel boots, tipped her yellow hat at one guy drenched in sweat who had ditched his shirt.
"I'm amazed at what you've done with this old place," I said. The abandoned three story hotel had been a neighborhood eyesore, but the network's bottomless pockets were transforming it into a showplace. Exposed brick on the wall behind the set framed oval windows, some of which were filled with the original stained glass. The natural light that poured through the ones that weren't lit up the dust particles in the air. A long, royal blue set, with three giant flat-screen monitors in the background, popped against the freshly sandblasted red brick. A dark burgundy leather couch, loveseat and beveled glass coffee table sat off to the side for interviews, framed by bookshelves filled with actual books.
"This is going to be the best studio in the country," said Jillian.
"But it's more than a studio and offices," said Madison, heading toward a door at the back of the building. "Let's go upstairs."
Rica looked up. "Upstairs? I thought you knocked out all the ceilings for the lighting grid."
"We did," said Amanda. "But the architec
t found something we didn't know existed. There's a fourth floor."
"You found an extra floor?" I said.
"Not exactly," said Madison. "C'mon."
Amanda led us through a steel door at the back of the room and up three flights of stairs. Madison pulled a key out of her pocket and unlocked an ornately carved oak door at the top landing. "This part of the project is already complete." The heavy door creaked a bit as she pushed it open, and we all stepped inside.
"Apparently the original owner of the hotel was an artist and had a secret loft which isn't even visible from the street," said Amanda, who turned on the lights, revealing a living room furnished with a leather sofa and several antiques. Rich, deep library paneling ran from floor to ceiling, while a picture window offered a beautiful view of the Hudson.
"We turned it into an apartment," said Madison. "Though no one is going to actually live here."
They led us through the living room and down a short hallway into a bedroom that featured a cherry four-poster king-size bed, topped with a bold red comforter and a half dozen pillows to match. The adjoining bathroom had a huge sunken ivory garden tub and an etched glass shower. The room had enough black marble and brass fixtures to stock a Home Depot.
"Good Lord," said Neely. "This is fantastic."
"Talk about a crash pad," said Rica.
"Each of you will have access to the loft," said Amanda, who reached into her pocket and pulled out a batch of keys, then handed one to each of us. "Obviously you need to coordinate its use."
"How very convenient," said Jillian. "Our bedroom away from home."
"Nice when you need a between meal snack," said Neely. Jillian smiled at her.
"Oh, there is one more very important feature of the loft. This way, please," said Madison, who led us back into the living room. She threw a switch next to the door and the stairwell glowed red. I stepped outside and looked up.
"An on-air light," I said. "How appropriate."
"It's your electronic do not disturb sign," said Amanda. "If you're using the loft, please don't forget to turn it on. And it's even more important that you turn it off when you leave. Press the button next to it, and it will tell the secretary to notify the cleaning service."