Chapter Seven
There’s nothing like waking up to annoying emails,” I tell Cassie. She came by my condo this morning to help me pack. Because she’s a good friend . . . and she wants to make sure I actually go through with it. I read her Mr. Benson’s latest correspondence:
Dear Ms. Lambert,
No, you cannot sue for pain and suffering because you signed the liability paperwork, waiving the production’s liability for any potential harm, injury, or negative consequences. May I suggest that the next time you sign a legal document, you read it more thoroughly.
Respectfully,
Andrew Benson, Attorney at Law
Cassie laughs. “Well, he’s got you there.”
I shake my head. “I can’t wait to meet this guy in person. I have some select words for him.”
“Go easy on poor old Mr. Benson. He already has his work cut out for him. You wouldn’t believe the number of alcohol-induced injuries on these shows,” Cassie says as she folds my new dresses.
“So he’s an overpaid babysitter who makes sure people don’t drink too much and get into fistfights?”
Cassie nods. “Or do anything else too inappropriate.”
“Isn’t that their goal, though?” I reply as I hustle around my small but tidy bedroom, looking for anything I forgot to pack. “Ply people with alcohol and hope they do inappropriate stuff?”
“There’s a fine line between good TV and lawsuits.”
I shrug, not worried because I’ve never been a big drinker. I like a buttery chardonnay as much as the next girl, but I never drink enough to impair my judgment. “There’s got to be more to do on set than get drunk and act like an idiot.”
Cassie’s voice is very high-pitched when she says, “Yeeeah, totally, of course.”
“Your shrill squeaking isn’t instilling confidence.”
Cassie doesn’t meet my eye. “You’re the one who said, ‘It’s reality TV. How hard could it be?’”
“It was Eliza who said that.”
“We could try to watch an episode if you want, but you probably don’t have time if you need to be there in an hour,” Cassie says evasively.
I narrow my eyes at her, and she shrugs, giving me an apologetic smile. “Just remember you’re doing this for the frogs. And your research. And your friends.” She hugs me. “Try to keep an open mind, okay?”
“You sound like my mom.”
“Harsh,” she says. “But maybe Rebecca’s onto something. It wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world if you meet someone.”
“Why does everyone keep assuming I’m looking to meet someone?
I’m not. Especially not some Neanderthal who willingly goes on a reality show.
I’m happy with my life the way it is—I mean, as long as I can keep our lab running.
I’m only doing the bare minimum to get publicity and hopefully not make a fool of myself on national TV. ”
She hands me a razor. “Well, shave your legs just in case.”
I scrutinize Cassie. She didn’t shave her armpits all of senior year.
Why is she suddenly interested in my self-grooming?
“It’s not like you’ll be able to see my hairy legs on TV.
And I’m certainly not planning on getting up close and personal with anyone.
” When she looks away, I shriek, “Cassandra Lynn Shapiro, what aren’t you telling me? !”
“Nothing! Just hurry up and pack. We have a mansion to get to!”
Cassie drives twenty-five minutes north on PCH, until we pull up to an enormous European-inspired chateau.
It’s like they dropped some duke’s ancestral home on top of a mountain in Malibu.
It’s castle chic with a stone exterior and oversized wooden doors.
It also manages to have a sprawling green lawn despite California’s perpetual drought.
The juxtaposition of all this with the 180-degree view of the Pacific Ocean is both breathtaking and intimidating.
Cassie whistles. “This is even bigger than it looks on TV.”
“I feel a sudden herpes outbreak coming on. We better tell that crazy producer lady. I should probably cancel.”
“You have to be in proximity to another human body to get a sexually transmitted infection,” Cassie says as she follows a bright yellow sign that reads Talent.
“Stop fact-checking my excuses,” I sigh. But I don’t get out of her car when she parks. “I can’t miss our Super Bowl!” I plead. When I agreed to be on this stupid show, I didn’t realize it was going to overlap with the day we’re releasing our immuno-boosted frogs back into the wild.
Cassie pats my hand reassuringly. “You don’t have to worry, Grace. We’ve got everything handled. And I’ll take lots of pictures.”
“But . . . it’s like missing your kid’s first day of kindergarten. This is a milestone I will never get back.”
Cassie nods. “They grow up so fast. One minute they’re swimming around with their little tails, the next they’re taking their first hop.” I look at her hopefully. “But you’re still doing the show.”
I groan dramatically, and Cassie pushes me out of her car as an attractive woman with a chic blond bob comes striding toward us, wearing a headset and carrying a clipboard.
As soon as her frenetic, no-nonsense speech begins, I recognize her voice.
“You must be Grace. Welcome to Love Shack. I’m Kristina, one of the EPs, we spoke on the phone.
Did you have a chance to read through everything?
” She surveys me critically. “I guess you didn’t see the part that asked you to arrive ready for intros with hair and makeup done. ”
“Um. Hello. And yes, I did my hair and makeup.”
She raises her eyebrows. “Oh. I see. Okay, well, maybe we can get Shantae’s team to touch you up.”
“Shantae’s the host,” Cassie whispers to me.
“Yeah, and she demands that her glam squad be on call at all times,” Kristina says, walking away and expecting us to follow.
“She came in fifth on America’s Next Top Model, like a billion years ago, but still acts like a total diva.
Apparently she didn’t get the memo that there’s only one Tyra, you know? ”
“No, I do not,” I respond, my head swimming.
“Is this your assistant?” Kristina says, gesturing to Cassie.
“This is my best friend, Cassie.”
“Hi,” Cassie says meekly, holding out her hand, as we try to catch up to the force of nature that is Kristina.
Kristina just gives her a quick nod, then snaps her fingers. A second later, someone who must be a lowly production assistant rushes over and collects my suitcase. “Where’s the rest of your luggage?” Kristina asks.
“This is it.”
“What?”
“This is all I brought,” I say, confused. There’s got to be a washing machine in a mansion this big.
“One bag?” Kristina says, standing still for what might be the first time in her life. “That’s a new record. We’ve never had a contestant, man or woman, with only one suitcase before. Last season one chick brought twenty-two. We had to store half of them in a broom closet.”
“Cool?” I say, because what do you say to that? As Kristina keeps walking and Cassie and I jog to keep up, I whisper to Cassie, “Who owns more than two pieces of luggage?”
She shrugs and whispers back, “Who has enough clothes to fill twenty-two bags?”
Kristina calls back to us, “They’ll put your one bag in your room for you while I give you a quick tour.
” She glances at the time and somehow walks even faster.
“We try to keep you away from the other contestants until you’re on camera.
We want your genuine initial reaction. Then we’ll get pickup shots where you re-create your genuine initial reaction for different camera angles. ”
I’m barely listening as I take in this amazing house.
I guess if I’m stuck in reality TV purgatory, this place makes it palatable.
We walk through a kitchen with a giant marble island and rustic wooden beams on the ceiling, then past a living room with brown leather club chairs and a fireplace I could stand in.
Finally, we follow Kristina out to a back patio and gardens that belong on the cover of a magazine.
Not only do they overlook a massive infinity pool but also the ocean in the distance. Damn.
I whisper to Cassie, “Whoever owns this beach castle isn’t a biologist working at a nonprofit, that’s for sure.”
Kristina gestures to the outdoor patio with lounge furniture and cabanas.
“This is where you’ll spend most of your day.
There’s a full-time bartender at both the tiki bar on the beach and the poolside bar.
There’s a part-time chef in that outdoor kitchen over there, but the PAs can get you whatever you need.
In fact . . . Blue!” she shouts. “I’m going to have one of our PAs finish the tour and get you in hair and makeup.
I’ve got a million things to do.” Kristina has a quick exchange with a guy with blue hair who I’d guess is probably in his forties, and I swear I hear her say, “Show the Sexy Scientist around.” Then she yells, “Glad you’re here,” over her shoulder at me and hustles off.
Cassie shakes her head. “Talking to that producer lady felt like whiplash.” I nod as the PA with blue hair and a faded band T-shirt walks over to us.
“Hi, I’m Blue. Welcome to Love Shack.”
“Thanks. Though not sure this constitutes a shack,” I say, pointing at the mansion, trying to sound playful instead of entirely overwhelmed and completely out of my comfort zone.
Blue looks at me like he’s trying to tell if I’m joking, then says, “The shack is on the back of the property.”
I laugh. He doesn’t. I look back and forth between him and Cassie, who looks guilty.
“Well, I should probably get back to the lab,” Cassie blurts. “Have a great time and remember, we’re all counting on you and I’m sorry.” She gives me a quick squeeze and scurries off toward her car.
“Sorry? Why are you sorry?!” I yell after her. Then I turn to the guy with blue hair who I’ve known for ten seconds. “Why is she sorry?”