“It doesn’t matter. Just do what you’re told. You might have to make coffee, or go grocery shopping, or set up appointments. You’ll be on set at all times in case you’re needed. If you’re asked to stand on one leg and pat your stomach while rubbing your head, that’s what you do.”
“Is it a job?” Miriam whispered, touching Jemma’s leg. “Does she have a job for you?”
The faith in her eyes broke Jemma’s heart. “I’m not a big fan of reality shows,” she told Lainie. “I don’t know anything about them.”
“I don’t care, and you’ll learn. You need a job, I need a PA.” She quoted the salary.
“Lainie—”
“I know it’s not great. PA’s are at the bottom of the food chain. But it’s more than minimum wage and it’s steady work for at least four months.”
“I just—”
“By then, everyone will have forgotten your asshole ex-boss called them and you’ll be able to go back to serving.”
“Shut up! I’m trying to tell you I’ll take it.”
A squeal shrieked through the speaker. “Oh, thank God! You’re a lifesaver. Eight o’clock tomorrow morning. Meet me at the sound stage.” She gave the address. “I’ll walk you through the set, show you around. Then we’ll head to the office and I’ll get you signed up. We’re live in just over a month.”
CHAPTER SIX
What the hell had he gotten himself into?
From the instant he’d signed the contract, Paul was caught in a maelstrom of meetings, fittings, tastings and other torments. Lainie promised life would settle once shooting began. He hoped so, because right at the moment, he could fall asleep where he stood. Keeping the restaurant running at its peak as well as being available when the producers needed him was dragging him down fast.
For now he was in an oasis of peace, waiting in what he’d been told was the green room for no reason he could determine. A room off the main studio, it had a large window overlooking the organized chaos of the set. Sounds were buffered, although he still heard the crashing and tinkling when some poor schmuck smashed a light stand to the floor, and the bawling out someone screamed in response. But at least it was muffled.
His first day, Lainie had taken him on a rapid tour of the warehouse. Reservations for Two had a fraction of the enormous space. The rest was taken up by a syndicated talk show, a talent competition production, and multiple sets for a feature film. Paul’s first impression was how small the sets were. They might be housed in a building with a ceiling four stories high and walls a block apart, but the actual sets themselves, the parts the audience at home saw, were negligible compared to what he had envisioned.
Reservations for Two had two different sets—a high tech kitchen with various stations, and a living room/lounge area. Behind their false walls were the guts—refrigerators and freezers and cupboards, filled with what he assumed were kitchen staples, and scattered tables covered in bins and boxes filled with who knew what. In front of the sets, a number of cameras with long, hooded lenses squatted on heavy columns with wheeled bases. Other smaller cameras were mounted in the false ceiling or strung on wire, enabling them to swing over the sets. Men and women scurried about, looking frazzled as they heaved miles of cables and pushed dollies loaded with equipment.
The door behind him opened. Calynn Ferro strode in.
Paul had learned a lot about reality shows in the last few days, including the fact that, while the show focused on the contestants, it revolved around the host. Like any expert Master of Ceremonies, the host kept the program moving, stirred up action, handled the inevitable disasters with aplomb, and generally breathed life into the whole production.
“I know it doesn’t look like it from here, but these people do know what they’re doing.” Calynn stood at his shoulder and watched the frenzied activity. “I wouldn’t be here if they didn’t. Trust me.” Paul smelled the hairspray keeping her smoothly styled blonde hair strictly in place. She wore a sleek silvery blue jacket and matching skirt, and the strappy, rhinestone-studded stiletto heels put her at Paul’s eye level. “So, how’s our Chef d’Amour holding up?”
“Fine.”
He rolled his shoulders inside the snug fitting sport jacket the wardrobe department had issued him. In about an hour shooting would begin, and he would meet the women vying for his heart. Supposedly vying. He assumed—and hoped—most of them were doing this to have their fifteen minutes of fame, not to meet their one true love.
The corner of Calynn’s mouth twitched. “It’s all right if you’re nervous.”
Nervous didn’t come close to defining his emotions right now. Humiliated, possibly. Nauseous, yes. Ready to run, definitely. “Did they send you here to make sure I wasn’t getting cold feet?”
She flashed her brilliantly white teeth and her famous giggle rippled out. Calynn looked thirty, was past forty, and was a veteran presenter of television programs for twenty years. Lainie had introduced Paul with deferential awe, telling him how lucky NationWide was to have her. She seemed disappointed by his calm reaction. He might have been more impressed if he had heard of any of the shows Calynn had previously hosted.
“Nah.” She patted his shoulder. “They’re not worried about you going on the lam. They have your balls in a vice until this show is over.” The gritty talk matched her husky, cigar-flavoured voice, but it didn’t jibe with her shiny exterior.
“Don’t I know it.” His lawyer had vetted the contract. While more familiar with the restaurant business than show business, he’d declared it a straitjacket with a very worthwhile payout. “I figure I can survive for four months.”
“You’ll do fine. Who knows, you could find Mrs. Almeida.”
He snorted and covered with a cough. “Yeah, right.”
“Lainie’s given you a rundown on what’s happening today, right?” Without waiting for him to answer, she continued. “Once Benedict is ready, he’ll give us the nod.” Paul vaguely remembered meeting the director, a short, wiry, redheaded man fueled by coffee and nerves. “We’ll sit in the lounge area. When I get the cue, I’ll intro the show, then intro you. We’ll have a couple minutes to relax while the pre-taped package about you runs. While that’s going on, techs will bring out the stools for the contestants, and remove our seats, as we’ll be standing while the women are presented.”
Sweat beaded his upper lip and his face itched under his heavy makeup. He’d been told it was necessary “so you won’t look like a corpse under the lights, Mr. Paul,” and admonished not to touch his face. Normally, meeting new people didn’t bother him. But the thought of hundreds of thousands of viewers studying his every move when he met these particular females made him queasy.
Calynn patted his shoulder again and smiled. “Don’t panic. Remember, we’re not live. We’ll shoot like it is, because that’s the way we keep the energy up, for me, for you and the other contestants, for the crew. But if anything goes horribly wrong—and it won’t!— we’ll stop and adjust what needs to be adjusted. What’s most important is you have fun.”
“Right. Have fun. Got it.” He cleared his throat. As if.
“Coffee.” Benedict Urbank snapped his fingers.“Bring it.”
Jemma poured a cup, added the three sugars the director demanded and strode after him. He stopped at a trestle table littered with cables and laptops and discarded foam cups. Tapping a keyboard with one hand, he held out the other. She passed him the cup and he slurped from it without acknowledging her presence. She didn’t mind being invisible. Invisible was good. She’d been behind the set, putting the final supplies for the cooking portion of the show into the refrigerator, when one of the techs knocked over a tall stand topped with a barrel shaped light. The distance hadn’t prevented her from hearing Benedict’s blistering reaction.
Being yelled at didn’t bother Jemma. Except for the distinct possibility she might yell back. She wasn’t one for taking abuse meekly. So the less chance she gave anyone to notice her the better chance she had of keeping her j
ob, instead of getting fired for insubordination.
Benedict let out a bullhorn bellow. “All right, everybody! Gather round!” The crew spread in a loose group before him. Jemma slipped into the crowd, off to the side.
“We’re fifteen minutes away, folks. You know the drill. This is our only chance to make a good first impression. I want this show to be shipshape, tight as a drum.”
Jemma rolled her eyes and let Benedict’s chronic clichéd rhetoric wash over her. Her gaze drifted across the crowd. Lainie stood on the far side, making notes on her ever-present tablet. A number of other faces were already familiar, but she wasn’t sure about the names, other than Naomi, the dark blonde, slightly plump young woman assigned to train her. The more experienced production assistant was listening intently to Benedict, a slight frown on her face.
On the far side of the studio, behind Naomi, the door leading to the hallway opened, and two people entered.
Jemma hadn’t met Calynn Ferro, but she knew instantly who she was, thanks to Miriam’s devotion to Talented Canada. Her gaze drifted over Calynn’s shoulder to the man following, and the air in her lungs solidified.
Paul Almeida.
She watched in fascinated horror as Calynn led Paul to the lounge set and motioned him to take one of the deep, brown leather club chairs. She sat beside him, smoothing her skirt down her long thighs, and leaned forward to rest her hand on his knee in a reassuring gesture.
Paul Almeida. On the set of Reservations for Two.
Not as a visitor, or a consultant.
As part of the cast.
Black spots danced fluidly before her eyes and she let her breath out on a gasp. She searched her memory. Had Lainie ever told her the name of the Chef d’Amour? If she had, Jemma would have recognized it. She still wriggled with humiliation whenever she thought of him.
She came to herself with a sharp jerk as Benedict clapped his hands repeatedly. “Places everyone! It’s time to roll!”
The crew scattered to their posts like sailors when the enemy was sighted. Benedict and Lainie headed for the control room behind a wall of glass at the far side of the set. Jemma tucked herself in a dark corner. She could see Paul and Calynn through the maze of cameras and light stands and other unnamable gear. The host laughed, tossing her head, but Paul’s mouth was pinched and tight.
A voice blared out of the PA system. “Ten seconds.” Silence floated over the set like a blanket. The floor director took up the count, her fingers keeping time. “Five...four...three...two...”
On the silent ‘one’ Calynn switched on her grin, and at the floor director’s point, began her prepared opening.
“You’ve heard the old saying ‘The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.’ On Reservations for Two we’re putting that to the test! A baker’s dozen of willing women will take our Kitchen Challenges, and one of Vancouver’s leading restaurateurs”—Jemma stifled a snort—“will critique their efforts.” Calynn transferred her focus from one camera to another with a graceful shift of her shoulders. The red on-air lights blinked off the first camera and on the second. “Each week, our Chef d’Amour will go on a date with the woman whose dish he has determined was the best. If the date goes well, the woman who ranked lowest after the Kitchen Challenge will go home. But if the date is a disaster, our Chef d’Amour can choose to send that woman home, giving the lowest ranking chef a week’s reprieve. And now it’s time to meet the man these women will be cooking for—Paul Almeida.”
How the hell did Paul end up here? Had he been recruited? Volunteered? No matter how he’d been approached, what the hell was wrong with him that he’d agreed? He hadn’t struck her as an egomaniac. Proud, yes, perhaps even arrogant. But not a wannabe celebrity. He was definitely attractive enough to find his own wife, should he actually want one, without demeaning himself on national television. What possible reason could he have?
Jemma’s chaotic thoughts drowned out Paul’s responses to Calynn’s carefully scripted questions, but she couldn’t take her eyes off him. Dark hair fell over his forehead, his brows strong and vivid above deep-set eyes. After a minute or two the tense set of his shoulders relaxed. He managed a smile, and his dramatic dimples cut through his cheeks. Jemma’s heart thudded in her chest and her fingers tingled with the desire to touch him, feel the heat of his skin beneath her palms. Dammit! She’d hoped mortifying herself in front of the man had killed any attraction she felt for him.
Obviously not.
The thought of the next few months, seeing Paul many times a week, being forced to associate with him regularly, was exasperating. But Jemma didn’t consider quitting. She wouldn’t put Miriam in jeopardy for such a shallow reason.
Maybe she could avoid him. She didn’t like her chances, but it was all she had to cling to at the moment.
A video began running on the monitors hanging above the set. Calynn grabbed Paul by the hand and dragged him to the side as stagehands swooped in to carry off the club chairs and set up the clear acrylic stools the contestants would use.
Lainie popped up at Jemma’s shoulder. “What do you think?” she hissed.
“About what?”
A sharp elbow dug into her ribs. “About Paul Almeida, of course.”
Her brain scrambled, trying to remember if she’d told Lainie of her abortive attempt to get a job at Paulo’s. “I don’t think anything about him. Why should I?”
“Isn’t he perfect? Sexy in a sincere, casual way, not slick and salon-styled. And his voice...” Lainie waved her clipboard to create a breeze. “All deep and shivery.”
“Go get him, girl.” She could never admit to the allure he held for her. After their most recent meeting, the less attention he paid her the better.
Lainie elbowed her again. “Didn’t you read the rules HR gave you? Strictly no fraternizing between cast and crew. That’s grounds for instant dismissal.”
She’d forgotten that tidy little clause. “Oh, right.” Relief coursed through her. Avoiding Paul was a necessity, not cowardice. So why did she feel an unwelcome hint of regret?
Thank God he’d never have to do that again.
The meet and greet with the thirteen women was over, and Paul and Calynn waited in the club chairs, now returned to the lounge set, while the kitchen set was readied for the next segment. A trickle of sweat drizzled down his spine, dampening the dress shirt under his sports coat.
At least no one had insisted he wear a tie. His most humiliating day so far had been spent in Wardrobe. Despite his assurances he’d been dressing himself for thirty years, and was perfectly capable of continuing to do so, the woman assigned to him refused to let him make any decisions. Since she was six feet tall and a good forty pounds heavier than him, he’d let her have her way. Until she’d grabbed him by the crotch to show the seamstress how she wanted his pants altered.
He grinned, remembering the startled look she’d given him when he’d twisted her wrist and insisted, politely but firmly, she stop touching his junk.
Calynn caught his expression and nodded. “See, I told you it would be fine.”
He didn’t explain the true reason behind his smile. “Yes, you did.” After all, she had been right. Meeting the women had passed in a blur, no more difficult than moving through a receiving line at a wedding. If anyone asked, though, he wouldn’t be able to match names to faces.
“Now all you have to do is get through the taste test and you’re done for today.”
The female contestants waited at their stations on the kitchen set, ready to begin. Paul hadn’t been involved in designing the cooking challenges, although he’d been told what they were. Today’s involved squid—a tricky start for the first show. His mother made a traditional Portuguese dish, allula guisado, by braising the squid with tomatoes and potatoes. He wondered how the contestants would manage this particular ingredient.
“You can stay here a bit longer,” Calynn said, “but as soon as they’re ready to start taping, one of the PA’s will take you to your dressing
room. We can’t have you sneaking a peek. It is a blind taste-test, after all.”
Paul was looking forward to the break. He couldn’t believe how exhausting it was, being “on” all the time, and was amazed at how fresh Calynn appeared. Today was especially grueling, with the stress and tension of meeting all the contestants. In the future, the schedule for Tuesdays would be less complex. Like today, nothing would be broadcast live. The Kitchen Challenge and Taste-testing portions of the show would be recorded and edited for broadcast the next day. Because the producers wanted Paul available the minute the dishes were ready for judging, he was required to wait off set during the entire process.
He’d felt uncomfortable and out-of-step all day, and hoped the taste testing would help him relax. At least he knew what he was doing when it came to food.
Techs and stagehands fussed about the set. Executive Producer Lawrence Larrey, whom Paul had met earlier, stood in the middle of the chaos, talking with the director, Benedict Urbank. He had been carefully observing all the different people, and it hadn’t taken him long to figure out Larrey was the head honcho. Benedict called the shots on the sound stage, but Larrey wrote the cheques.
Three or four people, dressed in jeans and t-shirts, hauled over wheeled stainless-steel bins piled high with fresh vegetables and fruit, rolling them to the edge of the kitchen.
“What happens to the food? The meals, I mean, when the judging is done.”
Calynn shrugged. “Garbage, I suppose. If it’s decent the crew might take a bite or two.”
Despite what his father believed, Paul despised wasting food. He’d have to come up with a better idea than garberating it.
Another stagehand, this one dressed in black, hustled onto the set carrying an aluminum tray. As the woman rushed between the rows of counters, Lawrence Larrey turned directly into her path.
They collided.
A glutinous mass of fresh squid fountained into the air. Larrey managed to keep his feet, but the much smaller crew member tumbled to the floor. The squid hung for an instant, suspended in mid-air, before slimily descending. One oozed itself gracefully onto Larrey’s shoulder. The remainder scattered themselves on the recumbent woman.
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