Reality TV Bites

by Shane Bolks

  “Are you sure? I could wear the Paquin or the Schiaparelli.” I raise my hand to my lips, then quickly lower it before I gnaw off my OPI Russian to a Party nail polish.

  “No, no,” Carlos chimes in. “Jou look perfect. But jou no look like jou want to go, does she, papi?”

  Josh shakes his head. “What’s the story, sweetie?

  “Bad night last night. I had another run-in with the toad.”

  “That’s the Davester,” Josh whispers to Carlos.

  “Nicolo showed up and Dave was there and—”

  Josh gasps and clutches Carlos’s hand. “You had a three-some!” he hisses.

  “No, I”—but suddenly I’m thinking about Dave on one side and Nicolo on the other, and I wonder what it would take to make that happen—“you know, I’ve never understood how threesomes work. Is it everybody with everybody? Because—yuck. Anyway, last night Dave was at Rory’s after the game, and we started arguing. I said some stuff, and I swear I don’t know where it came from.” I put my hands over my eyes, careful not to touch my face and my makeup. “The next thing I know, we’re in Rory’s bedroom making out, and I’m telling him how mad I am because—you know.” I don’t want to say the part about how Dave rejected me in front of Carlos.

  “You were kissing him?” Josh looks horrified.

  “I know I keep saying I hate his guts, and I do. But when I get around him…”

  “You can’t resist.” Josh nods. “No need to explain. I have the same problem with Justin Timberlake.”

  “You know Justin Timberlake?”

  “No, sweetie. I hate Justin Timberlake, but whenever I see or hear Justin Timberlake, I can’t resist him. You should see my closet. I have piles of magazines with Justin Timber-lake pictures. I’m like a celebrity stalker or something.”

  “Jou scare me,” Carlos says to Josh, shaking his head. “And jou”—he points to me—“jou got it bad. Jou got to forget about the toad.”

  “Exactly,” Josh adds, “you’ve got the princetopolis on the line now. He needs your full attention.”

  “I help jou,” Carlos offers. “Jou have any chickens around?”

  “No.” I don’t even want to know why he’s asking, but I’m suddenly glad Booboo Kitty is sleeping under my bed.

  “Too bad,” Carlos says. “But when I get home I make a potion for jou and give it to papi.” He gestures to Josh. “That strong magic. Jou take that, jou forget the toad. Also, jou go get laid. That works, too.”

  Well, I don’t know if I’m going to get laid, but if Nicolo sees me in this dress and doesn’t try to get me into bed, I’ll seriously question what team he’s playing on.

  Nicolo calls a few minutes later to say he’s on his way, and I’ve just pushed Josh and Carlos out the door when the bell rings again.

  I glide back down the stairs, open the door, and raise my brows. “Nicolo. You look better than tiramisu.” Way better. Maybe I should suggest we stay in? I reach out and finger the tux’s material. “Armani?”

  “Good evening.” Nicolo smiles and takes my hand, opening it and kissing the palm.

  “Come in,” I say. “I just need to grab my bag.”

  But he doesn’t release my hand. “You are exquisite. The gown is vintage, yes?”

  I give him a nod of approval. I love guys who know fashion. I love vintage, and my collection can’t be fully appreciated if a man doesn’t know a little about fashion. But not too much. “Know the designer?” I ask and hold my breath.

  “Valentino?”

  “No.” I relax. “Lanvin. Her mermaid line.”

  “I have not heard of her.” Nicolo follows me inside. “But I like her very much.” He takes my hand and pulls me to him. “I like the way she looks on you.” He leans down and kisses me, his hand skating up my bare back, leaving a trail of warm tingles. He’s handsome, knows fashion, and leaves me trembling. Any second the alarm clock is going to go off, and I’ll wake up and realize this is just a dream. A delicious dream, but a dream.

  When the kiss ends, he murmurs in my ear, “I like your hair up.” His hand spreads out over my bare back, warm and solid. “But it looks better down.”

  I frown.

  He nods expectantly. What, am I supposed to take it down now? I didn’t spend twenty minutes pinning it up to take it down now. It’s sweet that he likes my hair, but not that sweet.

  You know, I’ve always thought my green eyes were my best feature, especially if I wear green or blue, but most men like my hair. I’m thirty-two, so I probably should have cut it by now, but I can’t quite bring myself to do it.

  If I were a princess, I probably wouldn’t be able to change it without a royal decree.

  “Ready to go?” I say breezily, starting up the stairs. He follows, pausing in the living room while I grab my clutch from the kitchen table.

  I switch off the kitchen light and say, “Bye, kitty!” to the empty room.

  “You have a roommate?” Nicolo asks when I walk back into the living room.

  “Cat. White like everything else.”

  Nicolo is studying my living room, his dazzling blue eyes taking in every detail. This would drive Rory crazy. She can’t stand being scrutinized because she’s so afraid she’ll be found wanting. Every time I come over she tells me she’s sorry her apartment is so dirty, when it’s obvious she just vacuumed.

  I love for people to see my house. If it’s a little dusty, that doesn’t faze me. But the cleaning service was here yesterday, so the house is polished and sparkly.

  “White is a risky choice,” Nicolo says after a long silence.

  “I don’t mind risk.”

  “No? Better and better,” he says, eyes skimming over me as though I were the room now. “But so much white.” He gestures to the room. “You had to exercise care in choosing the tones.”

  “I stuck mostly with ivory. I reupholstered the couch and chair in a heavy ivory tapestry and then used the remainder to make the window valances. The material for the curtains was harder to find. It looks sheer and lets a lot of light in, but you can’t see through them from the outside.”

  Nicolo nods. “Yes, you need light to make such a pristine room work. And the cherry”—he motions to the armoire where I hide the TV and DVD player—“the white brings out the rich tones in the wood.”

  I smile. “I love cherry, and nothing looks better with cherry than ivory. It’s a classic.”

  “I see you are a classic woman. Vintage dress, elegant decor, timeless beauty.” He smiles and my pulse jumps at the warmth in his eyes.

  “That’s just the icing on the cake.” I haven’t had this much fun flirting in a long, long time. Especially when I really shouldn’t be. Maybe because I shouldn’t be.

  He takes my arm and we walk downstairs toward the door. “Then I shall have to lick the icing away as quickly as possible. I want to taste the cake.”

  “I think that can be arranged.”

  A little while later, we pull up to the Four Seasons on East Delaware Place, and I smile with anticipation. The Four Seasons is elegant, understated, and European in style.

  “Good evening, Mr. Parma. Ms. Holloway,” the doorman says as Nicolo and I walk into the lobby with its Italian marble, crystal chandeliers, and curving, intricately carved wooden stairway.

  “Hello, Jordan. Good to see you again.”

  I wink at Nicolo. A week in Chicago and the doorman already knows him. I gaze at the chandeliers before moving forward. I love chandeliers, especially at night when the lights twinkle like a million diamond-cut stars. One of these days I’m going to have a house expansive enough for a chandelier. I glance at Nicolo to see if he’s thinking about houses with chandeliers.

  The hotel manager spots us and hurries over. “Mr. Parma. You are here for the Bourbon-Parma affair?”

  Nicolo inclines his head. “Yes, Jean, merci.”

  Bourbon-Parma affair? Just how much royalty is in Chicago at the moment?

  “Right this way.” He shows us to a private
elevator and instructs the porter to take us to the pool level. I arch a brow at Nicolo, but he gives nothing away.

  As we step off the elevator, I hear the strains of music and the clink of silver and china. I can’t remember seeing this floor of the Four Seasons before, so it’s a pleasant surprise when we enter. Classic in style, the room is dominated by the rectangular pool. Surrounding the glass-blue water are Roman columns and, above them, a mammoth domed glass ceiling. A wide expanse of windows along one side showcases a view of downtown Chicago. Tables with delicacies are scattered about the room, and a few unobtrusive waiters are dispensing champagne and wine.

  I take a glass from a passing waiter, and Nicolo does likewise. “Nice,” I say. “I thought you were staying at the Drake.”

  He nods. “I am. Sixte and his wife, Valencia, are here at the Four Seasons.”

  “Allison, dear! How good to see you.” I turn to see Jellie Abernathy sliding toward me. We were friends in high school, but I’ve recently bowed out of bridesmaid duty at her upcoming wedding, so her warm welcome is a bit surprising. Jellie air-kisses both my cheeks, missing by a mile, then stands back and smiles at Nicolo.

  “Jellie, this is Nicolo Parma. Nicolo, Angelica Abernathy. We went to school together.”

  Nicolo kisses her hand. “Enchanted.”

  “Oh, Allison, I feel like I haven’t seen you in forever. You’ve met my fiancé, Marshall, right?” She indicates a short, handsome man standing behind her. We exchange more greetings and small talk until we’re joined by another couple and it starts all over again.

  Now I remember why I rarely go to these things anymore. I’m bored in less than an hour. No one actually says anything of any consequence. I love talking about fashion. I can hold my own in discussions of finance and politics. I can even manage a few noteworthy comments on art and theater. But the inevitable start of the name-dropping exhausts my patience. I smoothly extricate myself from the group and make a circuit of the room, stopping to talk to real estate moguls, government bigwigs, and old friends.

  I’m talking crown moldings with the mayor’s wife when one of the waiters approaches and hands me a note.

  “Excuse me,” I say and step away. The note’s from Nicolo, asking me to meet him and his cousin in the presidential suite.

  On the way back to the elevator bank, I glance at the pool and imagine the reaction were I to jump in. Of course, I’d peel off my dress first. One does not jump in a pool wearing a Lanvin. I wonder if peeling the dress off or jumping in the water would make more of a splash.

  I take the elevator to the forty-sixth floor and step into luxury. The Four Seasons spares no expense on their best rooms. I knock on the door and a servant in a tux admits me into a small marble foyer dominated by a live flower arrangement on a gilt table. He opens a door on my left, and I enter a small hallway with more flowers and muted light. To my right is a powder room done in pink marble and ahead is the living room.

  The decor up here is also European—dark handcrafted wood, tasteful upholstery, plush carpeting. The view from the huge windows is a panorama of Lake Michigan, framed by heavy royal-blue drapes with gold fringe. Nicolo turns from one of the windows, the indigo of the sky and azure of the lake in stark contrast behind him. “Allison, come in. Meet my cousin Sixte.”

  I step into the living room, and smile at the assembled party. There’s a mahogany dining table to the left with eight plush chairs. The ivory pillar candles have almost burned down. Directly before me are several club chairs and two couches in delicate ivory and blue chintz.

  Nicolo indicates a man reclining on one couch. This must be Sixte, though he looks almost nothing like Nicolo. He’s older, dark with an orangey tan, and he’s got a pencil-thin mustache. Beside him is a waif-thin woman in a peach A-line dress from Narciso Rodriguez’s spring line. Four or five other men, all lounging carelessly, cigarettes drooping from their mouths or fingers, look up as I enter. “This is Allison Holloway,” Nicolo says. “She is the best interior designer in Chicago.”

  I smile and approach Sixte. “A pleasure to meet you. Nicolo’s told me so much about you.”

  He glances at Nicolo, then back at me, but doesn’t rise or even sit up. I’m expecting an air kiss—a handshake at least—so I’m a little taken aback by the cool welcome.

  “Please sit down, Allison,” his wife says with no trace of a European accent. “We were just discussing Philippe de Villiers’ presentation of Les Sables d’Olonne. Three women are racing this year. Do you sail?”

  I take a moment to shift gears. Les Sables d’Olonne. Non-stop yacht race around the world. “I used to. My parents have a house on Lake Geneva.”

  Sixte and his wife frown. “Switzerland?” Nicolo asks.

  I shake my head. “Wisconsin.”

  I get several blank looks, but before I can explain how upper-crust Lake Geneva is—how it’s the “Newport of the West”—the topic moves to car racing.

  This is interesting. I’ve never been the unfashionable one before. I know almost nothing about car racing, so I sit on the edge of a cushy chair and listen until everyone’s discussing plans for Fashion Week in New York.

  “I loathe New York,” Sixte says, drawing another cigarette from his gold case. “I loathe fashion.”

  “We must make an appearance, no matter how tedious,” his wife, Valencia, says.

  “All those clothes and girl after girl, all flat-chested,” another man who I think Nicolo called Maxmillian whines.

  The group is silent for a moment as everyone but me drags on their European cigarettes.

  “Oh, Allison,” Valencia says after a moment. “Would you like a glass of wine?”

  “Thanks.”

  “Red or white?”

  “Red.” I glance back at Nicolo, resting on the arm of the chair, leaning casually across the back. He gives me a bored look. Being royalty isn’t quite as fun as I’d fantasized. I’m missing The Amazing Race for this?

  A shriek sounds from across the room where Valencia is standing at the dining table. “What’s wrong?” Sixte asks.

  “We’re out of the Dom. de la Romanee.”

  Sixte actually sits up at this. “Call down and order more.”

  Nicolo rises. “I will do it.”

  Valencia shakes her head. “The hotel won’t have it. We’re in Chicago. The best they’ll have is a 2000 Château Mouton Rothschild.”

  “We could try for the 1986 Rothschild,” Maxmillian suggests.

  “Oh, what’s the use?” Valencia flops down on the couch beside Sixte.

  “I could drink white,” I say, but no one acknowledges me.

  “This is all so tedious,” Sixte says.

  I agree.

  When we arrive back at my house, Nicolo doesn’t try to wrangle an invitation to come inside. He sighs and kisses my cheek. All that ennui can really tire a guy out.

  6

  I’ve Got the World on a String

  After a weekend of frantic reality-star wardrobe shopping, life looks less tedious and I’m looking TV-ready. Jeweled cuff from Emanuel Ungaro, leather ankle boots from Tod’s, jeans from Michael Kors, a new bag from Bottega Veneta, and a top from Luca Luca. I went to Louis Vuitton, too, but I didn’t buy anything. I just like to say Vuitton. If only Trinny and Susannah from What Not to Wear could get a look at me.

  I walk into work early Monday, before the camera crews have arrived, wearing my new Michael Kors jeans, black stiletto boots, a sheer black top, and OPI’s Would You Like a Lick-tenstein on my nails.

  “Roo-woo! Call the fire department because you’re scorching!” Josh pops his head out of his office and watches me walk by. “Miranda isn’t going to like it. Stealing the limelight from her like this. And you’re wearing jeans on a Monday.”

  “She can suck it up. These jeans are Michael Kors.”

  “It’s not only the jeans, sweetie.” Josh slips into my office right before I can close the door in his face. “I don’t know if you noticed, but that shirt is sheer, it’s
showing a lot of cleavage, and if we move these little ruffles here—”

  I swat his hand away.

  “—we’re going to see more than is technically legal.”

  “It’s not that sheer, Josh.” I sit down in my chair, prop my feet on the desk, and lean my head back. “This is going to be a long day.”

  “Tired from a hot date with His Majesty?”

  “No.” Josh walks behind me and starts massaging my neck. “Mmm, thanks. I have so much to get done today, and the cameras are going to get in the way.”

  Josh chuckles, and I glance up at him. “I never thought I’d hear you complaining about cameras.” His hands massage my temples, but he’s careful not to mess up my hair, which I’m wearing long, wavy, and supermodel sexy today.

  “It’s hard being a celebrity.”

  “I know, sweetie.” He gives my shoulders a last squeeze. “And you look the part today.”

  I sit forward. “It’s not too much?”

  “If I was straight, I’d be all over you.”

  “Promises, promises. Speaking of which”—I pick up a file from under a stack of magazines—“where’s the furniture mock-up for the Wernberg project?”

  “I’m working on it.”

  “Josh!”

  He holds up a hand. “Carlos and I had a fight and I indulged in a little pity party all weekend. I’ll finish it this morning, then take you out to lunch to make up for being late.”

  I frown. “I guess.”

  “Oh, good! Where are we going? Le Colonial? I’ll buy you a Melon.”

  “No.” I don’t want to think about Le Colonial or Melons. “How about—”

  “Ms. Holloway, Mr. Bryant,” Natalie says on the intercom. “The cameras are here. Mr. Watanabe needs you to come out and get—ah, miced.”

  I look through the glass window into the reception area. Nicolo is standing in the lobby, wearing a black suit, white shirt, no tie. He looks really hot, and he’s staring at me.

  “Here we go, sweetie,” Josh says, pulling me up. “Let’s show the princelet who’s got the royal flush.”

  We’re filming the first show Wednesday, and the preproduction conference is interminable. By the time I’ve called back the clients I missed Friday, it’s after two and Miranda’s assembling everyone for a meeting on the Wernberg project.