Love in Reality: A Contemporary Romance (The Blackjack Quartet) (3 page)

He handed over his corporate credit card to the aggressively chipper young woman at the hotel’s main desk. Something about her smile made him think of Angela Lansbury in
Gaslight
.
Gaslight
? Rand’s head exploded with ideas.

Gaslight
. Directed by George Cukor in 1944, starring Ingrid Bergman, Charles Boyer, and Joseph Cotten. Won two Oscars. Charles Boyer tries to drive his heiress wife, Bergman, crazy before she’s rescued by Cotten.

Rand would love to screw with Marcy’s head. Just the sort of detail that might save his life’s screenplay—
Lowly producer pulls off a surprising practical joke on his hateful boss
. That was a movie Rand could sell for real. It even had a cliché logline: “
The Devil Wears Prada
Meets
Gaslight
.” He’d quit the show at the end of the season, write the screenplay and see if he couldn’t get a production deal out of it.

“Sir? Your card?” the desk clerk called to keep Rand from walking off without his credit card. He thanked her, then headed for the elevators.

He could gaslight Marcy merely by messing with the production, and he’d get away with it, too. She couldn’t fire Rand without risking Alan Jennings’s wrath. Marcy wanted to join Alan in the ranks of major TV producers. She thought Rand could help her become Alan Jennings, or at least meet him.

She probably wanted her own production company. Fat chance, considering that she had virtually no creative talent.

Rand let himself into his hotel room and dropped his bag on the bed.

What was the best way to gaslight Marcy? Something to do with
The Fishbowl
, with its lack of redeeming value, the vapidity of its contestants, something…

Marcy insisted
The Fishbowl
wasn’t schlock or just more T-and-A in prime time. She claimed it had redeeming values, the way
The Amazing Race
did. In Marcy’s delusion,
Fishbowl
contestants—the “Fish”—were selected for their diversity and wide-ranging interests. Why not prove her right by slipping in some ringer contestants? Contestants no producer of reality TV would ever cast, like…educated, successful people.

A thrill went through him. It would violate reality TV’s eleventh commandment: don’t cast smarter than your target audience.

Okay, so how would it work? Rand could see the appeal in broad terms, but he needed to get specific.

He took his laptop out and started to make notes.

Marcy wanted this year’s crop to be “types” so she could market the season as “Opposites Attract.” The Band Geek falls for the Ditz. The Sophisticate goes for the Country Bumpkin. Stupidest thing Rand had ever heard, only that’s reality TV for you—it didn’t need to make sense, it just had to provide enough excuses for people to fight with each other while wearing skimpy clothes. Only a step up from
The Lingerie Bowl
.

Rand had only found two of his six candidates. What if he got quirky, unexpectedly impressive contestants for the other four? Like a Country Bumpkin who was really a concert pianist, or—wait a minute. He paged through the files. He already had one—a candidate for the Girl Next Door, a baby-faced Texas blonde receptionist in a dentist’s office. Seemingly perfect on paper. Then Rand talked with her and rejected her as too educated. What if he coached her for the part of the Girl Next Door? Massaged her application so no one but Rand would know she’d even been to college.

Rand started scrolling down his list. By the time he was done, he’d picked out three people he’d originally passed over as too bright and motivated. He had the Girl Next Door, the Sophisticate, and the Codger. Unfortunately, Marcy had already rubber-stamped the rest of Rand’s list, the Jock and the Country Bumpkin, neither of whom was a rocket scientist. That left the Ditz.

Rand really liked the idea of casting Lissa Pembroke. Smart, professional at her job, and her uncle was the US freakin’ Attorney. Not a typical South Philly bartender. Rand saw her as the kind of woman who preferred to be underemployed for a few years before deciding to run her own Fortune 500 company. At the same time, she clearly could come across as frothy and girlish. Ditzy shouldn’t be too much of a stretch. He could coach her.

Plus, he liked her. She had a way of cocking her head when she thought about something, making her hair slide off her shoulder like syrup.

Yup, he wanted her. Now, how to get her and the others.

All he had to do was doctor—“creatively edit”—the tapes for the people he wanted in
The Fishbowl
this summer, and watch the fur fly. Four out of the twelve contestants would be a lot smarter and more interesting than they were supposed to be. That should make this season play out in unexpected ways. Everyone would be playing for the money, but four of them would be playing with more than sex appeal as a weapon. If Rand was lucky, one of his ringers would actually win. That would add a great subplot to his screenplay.

Of course he’d get caught. He wanted to get caught. At the end of the summer, he’d have gotten himself fired, achieved fame as the guy who messed with reality TV, and earned one hell of a story to tell. None of the major studios would think less of him for messing with Marcy’s head. As long as he could turn around the script in a hurry, Rand could ride his fifteen minutes of anti-reality-TV fame into studio offices. After all, high concept plus logline equals screenplay gold.

He stared out the window as scenes unspooled in his mind.
Setup: cubicle, production meeting, reviewing submission videos when, boom, the lowly producer sees a candidate who’s way smarter than the others. The girl—
woman
—has a good reason for wanting the money. The producer suddenly decides she’s perfect—attractive, smart—wait, he’s not allowed to cast “smart.” He’s on a crusade to get that woman on the reality TV show called…
Rand thought for a moment.
The Terrarium
? Too boring.
The Crucible
? No—he had it:
The Ant Farm
. Perfect.

The producer goes out to Topeka to meet this paragon. He half-falls for her. Just when he is about to show the tape to the executive producer, something
[Rand would think this up later]
happens to crush his stupid, naive dreams. That’s when he decides to get his ringer on the show no matter what.

Of course, he’d have to make his character actually learn a lesson, discover his humanity or something. Child’s play. He might even make Marcy’s character vulnerable toward the end. Look how well that worked for Meryl Streep.

And what about the bartender? She was cute enough—in fact, very appealing—but she seemed almost too competent. Still, competence worked in his favor. It meant she’d be great playing vacant and flighty. After all, she’d applied to be on
The Fishbowl
, so there had to be some acting instinct there. Plus, who even knew what “ditzy” meant? Rand could bury Marcy in TV and film references for “ditzy” and she’d have no rebuttal.

Rand checked his watch. Not too late in L.A. He called Debbie. He needed her to be okay with this.

“Yeah, what do you want? I’m still at work.” she asked.

“That sucks. I gather the Monster’s on the warpath.”

“Un-hunh. My advice is you cash in your return ticket, sublet your apartment and never come back here.”

“I’ve had a better idea. What do you say we hijack
The Fishbowl
this year?”

“Say what?” Her voice had sharpened. He could picture her sitting at her desk, maybe even hunched over a little, protecting her phone from casual eavesdroppers.

Rand laughed. “I think I should gaslight Marcy, and I’ve thought of a great way to do it.”

“Gaslight? Like the movie? Husband tries to make his wife think she’s going crazy—that
Gaslight
? Isn’t that taking your fancy film degree too far?”

Rand ignored her sarcasm. “My film degree is the only thing that makes it possible to work there. I keep recasting the Monster in classic movie murders.”

He pictured Debbie shaking her head in mock disgust. “Randall Jennings, you are impossible. You’re harder to argue with than my teenager,” she complained. “You have more talent in your little finger than Marcy has in her bony ass and yet you’re working for her. What’s wrong with this picture?”

Not the first time they’d had this argument. “Look, I’ll leave soon, I promise. Not yet. If I quit now, I’m chum, just waiting to be swallowed up by my father’s influence. I don’t want to be ‘Alan Jennings’ kid’ for the rest of my life. At least while I’m working on a reality TV show, no one can accuse me of kowtowing to my dad, not with all his quotes on how reality shows are killing scripted TV.”

“Okay, okay. We’re not going to have this fight again. What’s this about hijacking
The Fishbowl
, though?” Debbie’s voice dropped in volume.

“People around?”

“You know it only takes one overeager intern to report back to the Monster,” she pointed out in a low voice.

“Okay, I’ll do the talking. Marcy reamed me out today about some of the candidates for the show. Meanwhile, I’m in Philly talking to someone who wants on the show but is too smart to be the Ditz. You with me so far?”

Debbie grunted. “Sure. Marcy’s made her feelings clear at this end too. You’re not exactly flavor of the month.”

“You know how we’re not supposed to tell the contestants what role they’ve been cast to play? So your Band Geek doesn’t know that’s why he’s on the show, right? Or the Vixen? Or the Cougar?” Rand asked.

“Yeah. So?”

“So how about if we don’t tell the Monster that we’re casting people with actual intelligence?”

Debbie was silent for a moment. “You’re saying that just as they don’t know they’re supposed to be playing a role, You-Know-Who won’t know that some of the contestants aren’t as stupid as we’ve made them look.”

Rand leaned back in his chair. “Yup. Should make the game more interesting, don’t you think?”

He could tell she was thinking about this. “Trouble is, I’ve already submitted my six. Marcy’s approved two and the other four are in the pipeline. You’re the one running late.”

“Even better. Marcy will be so desperate for my tapes she’ll accept anyone. And I’ve found some doozies. I have a receptionist in a dentist’s office—Susan—whom Marcy will think is just a cute blonde Texas bimbo.”

“She’s actually curing cancer?”

Rand laughed. “Not quite. She’s finishing up her undergrad degree and starts at Baylor’s dental school in the fall.”

Debbie chuckled. “You’ll never get Marcy to take her.”

“Agreed…if Marcy knew about Susan’s education. She won’t, though. I won’t tell her. And I’ll tell Susan she shouldn’t mention her education to anyone. I’ll say it’s part of her secret identity.”

“Might work. Who else you got?”

“You’ll love this—I’ve got a dot-com millionaire as the Codger. He sold his company and retired. Now he’s bored. I think his daughter dared him to apply. And for the Sophisticate I have a Navajo woman, stunningly gorgeous, who’s trying to win some money she can use to promote her tribe’s crafts and trades online.”

“Which just leaves the Ditz,” Debbie said. Rand could hear her rustling papers as she looked through the call sheets for this season’s show.

“I know. That’s what gave me the idea. I’ve got a cute brunette bartender here in Philly. She’s nothing special, her uncle is the US Attorney—”

“What’s that?”

“Federal prosecutor.”

“Oh.”

“Anyway, no way she’s stupid, no matter what her job. Plus, she’s very professional.”

“How do you make her look ditzy?”

“I figure she wants on the show, right? So I’ll coach her. Chances are she’s an actress wanting to make it big in L.A., so I’ll feed her the part. Remember, she only has to seem ditzy on a five-minute tape.”

“Is a bartender in Philly really the ditziest contestant you can get?”

Rand mentally reviewed the half-dozen candidates he’d pulled for the Ditz. “The problem is, the rest of them are just stupid and not in a ditzy way. I wanted Carole Lombard in
My Man Godfrey
. Instead, all I’ve gotten are vacuous giggles and nothing behind the eyes. At least the bartender is smart.”

“Well, you’ve met her and I haven’t. Have a backup plan, that’s all I say.” Debbie sucked in her breath. “Oh, crap. I gotta go.”

She’d hung up before Rand could say anything more. She’d said enough. Most importantly, she hadn’t said no.

Rand wanted to go back to the bar before it closed. Time to cast a smart, pretty, professional bartender to be a ditz on national television without letting her know why.

What could go wrong?

When Rand got back to The County Cork, the bartender seemed pleased to see him. She took his drink order and offered him more Goldfish. He’d eaten a couple of handfuls when he realized he’d spaced on getting some supper. As he chewed, he watched her move around the space, using a calm efficiency that impressed him. He bet she’d be unflustered even on a busy night with three times as many customers.

Unflappable poise—precisely what Marcy didn’t want. Rand’s desire to cast Lissa-the-Bartender grew with every step she took.

She finished with another customer and fetched Rand’s beer from the cooler. He got out one of his business cards. They were hideous: embarrassingly colorful with a holographic Fishbowl logo—a fishbowl in the shape of a TV set, complete with shimmering fish—taking up most of the white space. His name was crammed in along the bottom with the misleading title “Producer” underneath. As Lissa slid his beer in front of him, he pushed the card over to her. It looked like they were swapping Happy Meal toys.

Rand watched Lissa’s face as she eyed the card. She didn’t pick it up, only stared at it, clearly confused. Which was odd. Usually applicants recognized the logo immediately and started to scream before he could say a word.

“You’re Lissa Pembroke, right?”

She glanced around, then looked at him, hard. She nodded with a single jerk of her head.

“I’m Rand Jennings. I’m a producer on
The Fishbowl
. We’ve reviewed your application to be on this season’s show and we’d like to make a test video.” Commence joyous screaming in four…three…two…one…