Free Reality TV Bites by Shane Bolks Page A

he’s been here. One of the producers has a book of questions—I swear, it’s like two hundred pages—and they just go on and on. The lights are hot, my back is starting to hurt from leaning forward, and Natalie’s been giving me frantic looks for the past forty-five minutes. Myphone hasn’t rung once, which means she’s holding my calls. I’ve gotten no work done this morning, and it’s past eleven.
    The Reality TV Addict’s Guide to What’s Real says that producers often try to wear you down, so they can get footage of you all harried and bitchy. I’m resolved to stay as cool as Antarctica. And yet still friendly and approachable.
    Nicolo looks up, sees me, and smiles. His blue eyes crinkle when he does that, and it looks really sexy. Miranda gives me an annoyed frown. What’s up with that? She’s married. I think.
    â€œSo would you call interior design a hobby then, Allison?”
    â€œHuh?” I look back at the Ron Howard producer interviewing me. “Oh, um. No. It’s my job, not a hobby.”
    He waves a hand. “But you don’t need the money. Your parents are quite well off.”
    â€œI don’t want to talk about my family,” I say. Then, at his raised eyebrows, I add, “My parents are rich, but it’s not my money. In any case, I like interior design. I’d do it even if I didn’t have to.” I just wouldn’t work for Miranda. Speak of the devil, Miranda catches my eye, taps her watch.
    â€œIs that all?” I say. “I really have to do some work.”
    The producers try to throw a few more questions at me, but I swivel toward my computer and pretend to ignore them. I always thought it would be fun to have people asking me all sorts of questions about myself but believe it or not, after half an hour I was sort of sick of me.
    I glance over my shoulder, and the film crew is still there, still filming. “Just go about your usual routine,” the Ron Howard producer says. “We want some footage of you working.”
    Okay. I turn back to my computer and try to look busy. Normally, the first thing I do is play a game of solitaire, then read my hotmail, then play another game, then read my horoscope. Obviously, that’s out. I decide to check my worke-mail, and when I open it, the camera guys zoom in. The first thing I see is a message from Miranda with the subject line all in caps: STOP TALKING ABOUT YOURSELF AND GET TO WORK.
    I scramble to close the screen before the camera gets a shot of that. Okay, I’ll check my voice mail. As I pick up the phone, the producer says, “Can you put it on speaker, so we can hear, too?”
    I’m not thrilled with the idea, but I guess it’s part of the show. I press the button for my voice mail, and a computerized voice says, “You have sixteen new messages.”
    â€œShit,” I mutter. Then I glance at the camera. “I mean, super.” I smile—or at least try to.
    â€œFirst message. Nine twenty-one A.M .,” the computerized voice says.
    â€œMs. Holloway, this is Edith M. Bilker-Morgan. You were to call me at nine sharp to discuss my choice of side table for the study. I do not like the photo of the yellowish white one you sent. You called it”—there’s the sound of paper rusting—“distressed. I am most distressed. Please call me back. If it’s not too inconvenient.”
    â€œOuch,” the cameraman says, and I keep on smiling.
    â€œSecond message. Nine twenty-seven A.M .”
    â€œMs. Holloway, this is Sherrie from Dr. Orion’s office. I’m calling to confirm your appointment for a pelvic exam and Pap—”
    â€œNext message!” I say, hitting the forward button.
    â€œNine forty-two A.M .”
    â€œHi, darlin’. It’s Daddy. I know it’s still a week away, but are you coming to the lake for Memorial Day? You know how your mother gets