Free A Not So Model Home by David James

head—nothing you want running around in your head when you’re about to be on television for the first time. How far might someone go to secure a vast fortune? The answer that resounded in my head was simple . . . and frightening: pretty damn far.

C HAPTER 8
    I’m Ready for My Close-Up, Mr. DeMille
    I t was the first day of shooting. We were starting early, but I had to make a stop before I drove over to Ian’s house. I had to check on one of my rentals since the tenants had stopped paying rent and I wanted to make sure they had moved out as promised. I could have had them evicted, but that takes a long time and a lot of money, so I talked them into leaving peacefully and, in return, I wouldn’t report them to a credit agency.
    When the money was really rolling in until the economic Big Bang, I bought several condos that I figured I could rent out for a few years, then sell at a big profit since everything was going to go up forever and ever. This one was in a development in central Palm Springs, modern with a two-story atrium, and really very dramatic, inside and out. I fell in love with it the day I bought it.
    When I walked up the sidewalk to the front door, something was amiss with the front door: it was a-missing. As I walked inside, I quickly discovered that everything else was missing, too—the stove, microwave, refrigerator, bathroom vanities, even the toilets. Yes, the toilets. Did they take them dirty? Needless to say, I wasn’t in a good mood when I left the condo and headed over to Ian’s house.
    As I pulled up to Ian’s house, it looked more like a beehive than a place where an over-pampered multimillionaire hairdresser lived. There were half a dozen trucks parked on the street, with men carrying equipment, and women brandishing walkie-talkies—money was being spent on a grand scale.
    I was stopped by a frantic woman with a walkie-talkie who, after ascertaining that I was a member of the show and not a crazed lunatic trying to crash the shoot, waved me into the parking area outside Ian’s garage. Once again, my Toyota Land Cruiser was the shabbiest car in the lot, showed up by the Bentleys, Mercedes-Benz SLS, and, landing at the top of the car heap, a beige, two-toned Maybach Landaulet—Ian’s, with the vanity license plate spelling WHAT IF.
    I was directed to a tent that had been set up for wardrobe and makeup, which I thought was odd, since this was supposed to be a reality show. Apparently, they didn’t want too much reality. I brought my own bathing suit, opening credits outfit, and several changes of clothing, all of which were put aside in a closet by my stylist, Jacob. Pronounced Yak-obb, even though he didn’t have an accent.
    â€œFirst thing, we’re going to shoot the opening credits, where you appear with your name. Jeremy wants you looking fabulous, since this shot will not only open each show, but they’ll use this shot in the promos too,” Jacob said, turning me around slowly and sizing me up like a cut of yellowfin tuna at a Japanese fish auction.
    â€œPromos?”
    â€œThe commercials they run to advertise the show. Also on the Web site, blogs, etcetera, etcetera. You’re gonna be all over the world. For your credit shot, Jeremy wanted you in this little number,” he said. “The color is more color-friendly to the cameras than the stuff you brought.”
    Little is right: There was very little to it. It looked like at one time it was a legitimate dress, but that it had been clawed by a cougar. Folded up, I imagined it filled a measuring cup with room to spare.
    â€œIt’s awfully sheer,” I mentioned, a fact that fell on deaf ears.
    â€œLet’s see you in that first, then we’ll do your hair,” he said, shushing me off to a curtained booth to change.
    I slipped into the dress, and yes, it was awfully sheer. Thank goddess I worked out, rode eighty miles a week on my road bike, and hiked