Reality TV Bites Page 3

  I slip into the conference room, doing my best to ignore Miranda’s glare, and slide confidently into a seat beside Josh, my partner in design. I twine my OPI Taupe-less Showgirls fingers together, steeple two fingers under my chin, and survey the room. Miranda is seated across from me, Josh next to me, and three or four Japanese businessmen occupy the chairs at the head of the gleaming glass table. Behind me, someone takes a seat, but I don’t peer around to get a look. A small Japanese man is speaking when I glide in, and once I’m seated, he continues.

  In Japanese.

  He talks, waves his arms, points out the window, then at the artwork on the walls, then gestures to his companions. I don’t know what he’s saying, but it must be pretty involved. Finally he opens the black leather notebook in front of him—nice, wonder if it’s Coach?—and reads, flips the page, and keeps reading. When he’s done, Miranda, Natalie, and Josh turn to the young Japanese man seated next to the speaker. Hmm—cute, not too shabby in Hugo Boss.

  The guy wearing Hugo Boss nods at his employer, nods at us, and says, “Mr. Kinjo say he is most honored to work with you.”

  We wait. I mean, Kinjo talked for like five minutes; that can’t be it. But the translator makes another bow and defers to Mr. Kinjo.

  Kinjo starts to talk again, and I give Josh a sidelong glance. He rolls his eyes heavenward, and it’s not too hard to read his mind: I need a drink. A moment later, he scribbles on the pad of paper he’s pretending to take notes on—but on which he is actually drawing raunchy pictures—tears it off, and slides it in front of me. Mindful that I am supposed to be entranced by our speaker, I pretend to ignore the paper, then I unsteeple my hands and, still keeping my eyes focused on Mr. Kinjo, unfold the note.

  Nice of you to finally show up, beotch.

  Are those shoes Prada?

  Still pretending to be vastly interested in Kinjo’s monologue, I extract a pen from my appointment book and jot an answer.

  Jealous? How about we scratch each other’s eyes out over martinis?

  I pretend to stretch, shift, and slide the note back to Josh. A moment later he drops his pen, pretends to bend over and pick it up, and drops his reply in my lap.

  Rehab or Lacquer Lounge?

  Kinjo is still talking. What can he possibly be saying? And why is Miranda smiling like she understands? I scrawl LL and 6 on the note and pass it to Josh under the glass table. He reads it and, since everyone is paying rapt attention to Kinjo, blows me a kiss.

  “Mr. Kinjo also say he expect this venture to be great success. And further he is honored to have support of Mr. Parma, who is here from Europe to oversee the project.”

  Everyone whips their attention to me, and I freeze, thinking I’ve been caught passing notes in class. And then I realize they’re looking behind me, and I turn to see an extremely attractive man dressed in dark slacks and a stunning royal-blue linen shirt sans tie.

  His eyes, as startlingly blue as his shirt, are on me. Kinjo starts another long monologue, of which I’m sure the translator will give us the abbreviated version, but I don’t turn away from Parma.

  What kind of name is that? It sounds familiar for some reason. I size him up: thick dark hair styled expertly to look as though he just woke up, heavy-lidded eyes, aristocratic nose, and a full mouth, set in that debauched European style. Not the pursed look of the British or the open sensuality of the Italians, more of the cynical, slightly amused look of the French. He’s dressed in Armani, and his long limbs rest languorously in the chair. He appears perfectly at ease, and yet there’s a sense of the patrician about him. A sort of benevolent condescension.

  Now this guy is the definition of my dream man.

  He watches me size him up, and while I take him in, his eyes skim over me, making no secret about the perusal. I’m wearing a thirties-style fawn-colored cigarette skirt and fitted jacket with a chocolate silk shell underneath. My legs are tanned and bare and my feet are strapped into three-inch open-toed Prada sandals, the exact color of the OPI Taupeless Showgirls polish on my fingers and toes.

  Our eyes meet again, and to my amusement and chagrin, he deliberately glances at Josh, then me, takes a pen—no, a limited-edition Montblanc pen!—from his shirt pocket and jots something on the paper before him. That’s a five-hundred-dollar writing instrument. He folds the note with slow, elegant movements, then places it on the table between me and Josh.

  By this point, Miranda seems to have noticed that Kinjo is not the only person in the room, and she’s watching me. But more important, he’s watching me. Parma.

  I skate the note carelessly over the glass until it’s before me but leave it on the table unopened. I attempt to appear completely engrossed in Kinjo’s speech, but every few seconds, I run a fingernail over the note.

  At that point the translator passes out thick documents, which look like contracts. I pick up the note, press it to my lips, and watch Parma’s slow smile. A moment later, I notice everyone signing the documents, so I scrawl my signature and set the note on top.

  Josh looks at the note, then me, and when I meet his gaze, he quirks a brow. Poor boy. This is why all of Josh’s boyfriends leave him. He’s too eager, too impulsive, too open. Of course, those are the exact qualities I love in him.

  That and he knows good shoes.

  Josh starts to squirm. To put him out of his misery, I slowly unfold the note. Two words:

  I’ll buy.

  The words glide across the page in an elegant script that perfectly mirrors Parma’s outward appearance. I haven’t heard his voice, but I imagine he speaks formally, his accent soft and Gallic.

  Josh reads the note over my shoulder and practically breaks into excited applause. I, on the other hand, pretend to ponder the issue. The delay is too much for Josh, and he finally snatches the note and writes:

  BEWARE. We’re not cheap.

  Then he folds the paper and passes it over his shoulder to Parma. The Japanese guy beside Josh frowns, but Josh gives him a don’t-even-think-about-messing-with-me-because-I’ll-bitch-slap-you-without-a-second-thought look, and the guy turns back to the discussion. Meanwhile, Parma takes the note absently, opens it, and then nods at us, as though to say he’s up for the challenge.

  That’s what he thinks.

  Mr. Kinjo, wonder of wonders, finally stops talking, and the translator asks, “Then we are in agreement?”

  “Perfectly,” Miranda says. “Interiors by M will make Kamikaze Makeover! an absolute television sensation.”

  The anticipatory warmth pooling in my belly at the thought of a cocktail or two with Parma grows cold, and I shuffle the papers before me in confusion. “Excuse me, Miranda. Did you say television?” My heart is beating fast now. Is this what Natalie meant when she said I might be on TV sooner than I thought?

  But maybe it’s like the time we remodeled Oprah’s studio. We’ll be decorating the set for Kinjo’s show.

  Miranda shoots me an annoyed frown but answers in a sugary tone that fools no one. “Oh, Allison, I forgot that you came in late. This is Mr. Kinjo and his business associates, Mister—”

  The translator comes to the rescue. “Hai.” He bows, and not sure if I’m supposed to do the same, I bow back. He smiles, which either means I’m a stupid American trying too hard or that my bowing was the right thing.

  Then he says, “I am Peter Yamamoto, this Mr. Watanabe.” He gestures to a flashy guy with long straight hair and a garish red tie.

  “He the director,” Yamamoto says. “This is Mr. Fukui.” The man to the right of Watanabe waves at me with four fingers. He’s wearing a lavender shirt and matching tie.

  “Mr. Fukui is top designer. And so is Mr. Takahashi.” Takahashi is the frowning man sitting next to Josh.

  “And this”—Miranda interrupts, pointing at Parma—“is Nicolo Parma. He’s a major investor from—where is it again, Nicolo?”

  He smiles. “My family lives in Roskilde, but I travel so much, I consider myself a resident of the world.”

  “He c
an be a resident of my world any day,” Josh whispers.

  “Sorry,” I whisper back. “I’ve got dibs.”

  “Nicolo,” Miranda continues, “is the man who referred Mr. Kinjo to us.”

  Nicolo smiles at Miranda, and she blushes. Miranda is at least forty-five, thin as a rail, with platinum-blonde hair pulled tight into a jeweled clip. She wears power red almost every day and has a tendency to tap her sharp hellfire-red nails on the glass conference table. She’s as hard as the three-karat rock on her finger. But when Nicolo smiles at her, she turns pink from her neck all the way to the dark roots of her blonde hair. Miranda, diamond-hard, cold as a meat locker, and, I often suspect, the spawn of Satan, is blushing. Now I have seen everything.

  Since Miranda still hasn’t answered my question—and that’s not an accident, by the way—I say, “And what is it that Mr. Kinjo has contracted us for? Is he planning to buy property in Chicago?”

  Oh, I hope so. Even though it would be great to design another television studio, I prefer residential work. Maybe Kinjo’s going to buy a section of Gold Coast and build luxury town homes, and maybe he’s hired Miranda—which really means the associate designers, me and Josh, and maybe Mia, but she just had a baby and has been working at home most of the time—to come up with a design for the interiors. Window treatments, color schemes, pewter knobs on the kitchen cabinets, pewter faucets and clear glass bowls in the sinks. And carpet—or would Persian rugs be better? Yes, but only if Kinjo uses hardwood floors. Oh, but then it would be such a shame to cover that gorgeous wood.

  “No, Mr. Kinjo is not buying property,” Miranda says, shattering my design concept. “Mr. Kinjo is an assistant to Ramosu Kobayashi, the owner of Dai Hoshi, Japan’s largest media conglomerate. He’s here to fill us in on the details for the new show.”

  I glance at Josh, but he appears almost as clueless as I am. Almost. His expression is grim—not a good sign.

  “What new show?”

  Miranda smiles, if you can call what a snake does smiling. “Allison, the one we discussed last week. Honestly, where is your head today?”

  Right on my shoulders, where it always is. What is Miranda up to now? We never discussed a TV show. Miranda never even so much as mentioned Dai Hoshi or Kinjo or a European hottie. I would have remembered the hottie part.

  “Oh, you know me, Miranda.” And she does, which is why she didn’t mention any of this until now. When it’s too late.

  “Kamikaze Makeover!, Allison, dear. You’re going to be on the next number-one reality TV show.”

  3

  I’ve Got a Crush on You

  “Okay, but Josh, don’t kamikazes kill themselves?” I say, lifting my half-full martini glass from the bar. “They crash their planes into aircraft carriers or something.”

  Josh rubs his bald black head, checking himself out in the mirror behind the bar. “I look good,” he says.

  “Yes, your head is very shiny.”

  “It’s a fashion statement, sweetie. Black lacquer, like this place.” And his shiny head does sort of remind me of the decor at the Lacquer Lounge. But the rest of him looks like Mekhi Phifer.

  Great. I’m sitting on a bar stool next to a bald Mekhi Phifer, admiring himself in the mirror behind the lacquer bar.

  “Josh, kamikazes?”

  “Allison, World War Two is so over. This is the twenty-first century.”

  “Well, fiddle-dee-dee,” I say in a pretty good Southern belle accent. “This corset squeezes all the air out of my head, and I simply cannot think. Why, I’m woozy at the very thought that a foreigner was in the same room as my very own self.” I sip my vodka martini.

  Josh glances behind him. It’s a little after six, but Nicolo has yet to make an appearance. “Frankly, Scarlett, I don’t think the man gives a damn.”

  I roll my eyes at the bad joke. “He wasn’t coming to see you anyway.”

  “That’s what you think,” Josh says. “My gaydar went off the moment I saw him.”

  “You should take it in for a tune-up.”

  “We’ll see. I haven’t filled his spot on my team roster yet. I’m holding a place.” He leans close and whispers. “In the starting lineup.”

  “Get ready to trade him to me, coach. But before we start negotiations, tell me about this show. Is it like Trading Spaces? Queer Eye? Extreme Makeover?”

  “No, my reality show queen.” Josh samples his Cosmo. “Think Extreme Makeover meets The Iron Chef.”

  I bolt forward in horror. “There’s cooking?”

  “Not unless you feel adventurous,” says a low male voice, tinged with an accent I don’t recognize right away. A warm hand slides over my shoulder as Nicolo materializes out of the ambience.

  “How adventurous are we talking?” I say, looking into his stunning blue eyes.

  “That is up to you,” he murmurs. He takes my hand and kisses all four fingers, slowly and deliberately. “Are you a—what is it you Americans say?—ah, daredevil. Are you a daredevil?”

  I raise a brow and reply in my Kathleen Turner voice, “I’ve been known to play a little Truth or Dare.”

  “Hel-loh? I’m standing right here,” Josh interrupts.

  “Sorry, Josh.” I squeeze his arm.

  “Nicolo Parma,” the hottie says, holding out a hand.

  “Josh Bryant.”

  “Allison Holloway.”

  Nicolo takes my hand again, turns it palm up, and kisses my wrist. My pulse jumps, and I imagine I can see the vein in my wrist throb. Oh, this guy is too perfect.

  “Enchanted, Miss Holloway. You smell divine.”

  “I am going to be ill,” Josh mutters.

  I’m going to faint. I swallow the rest of my martini, feeling its warmth mingle with the lingering heat of Nicolo’s lips on my skin. The vodka is strong, and that’s a good thing, especially now that my knees are weak.

  “So, you are the American designers. I have studied your work. Impressive but conservative.” His eyes remain locked with mine. Is that a challenge?

  “This is the American Midwest. We give the client what he or she wants,” I say. “We aim to please.”

  “I see.” He smiles, slow and sexy, then signals to the bartender hovering within eavesdropping distance and she dashes in front of us.

  “Brandy. And another vodka martini for Miss Holloway. Josh?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “So you’re from Roskilde?” I say. “Where is that?”

  Nicolo smiles. “Denmark, though my family has Italian roots. And you?”

  I hold up a lock of red hair. “Irish and English.”

  “Me, too,” Josh says, straight-faced.

  “This is what I love about America. Strange and interesting, the two of you together,” Nicolo says, looking from Josh to me. “In America, we are all equal.”

  “Do you think so?” I say. As fantasies go, I’ve never met this guy’s equal. Handsome, wealthy, sophisticated, and intelligent—where has he been all my life?

  He smiles. “I admit, there are exceptional cases. Are you exceptional, Miss Holloway?”

  “I’m sorry, that information’s classified.”

  “I have a security clearance. Will that suffice?”

  I shrug. “I suppose I can take a look at it in private.”

  Nicolo gives me a sultry smile and hands the bartender a fifty as she returns with the drinks. Wow. That’s the fastest service I’ve ever gotten.

  “So, Nicolo,” Josh says, “speaking of the show…”

  “We were not, actually.”

  Josh sneers. “Little hint there, Hamlet. Enough touchy-feely. Allison wants to know about the show. You’re the investor, right?”

  “I am one of several,” Nicolo answers, somewhat evasively. “Kinjo is the creative force. But I am the executive producer, and it is I who suggested expansion. And where better to start than this United States, yes? You Americans love the home-decorating shows.”

  “I guess that’s true,” I say, ignoring Josh’s snort,
“but don’t you think the market’s oversaturated?”

  “Ah.” Nicolo holds up a finger and his eyes positively gleam. “Not if you have a flashy concept.”

  “And you think you have one.”

  “Kinjo has one, and I am munificent enough to benefit from his hard work. I think Josh was saying something about The Iron Chef. The concept is similar, but we have the iron decorators.”

  I cross my legs and Nicolo follows the movement. I allow my skirt to ride up just a bit. “I’ve never seen this chef show. What’s the premise?”

  “You’ve never seen The Iron Chef?” Josh gasps. “I thought you’d seen every reality TV show.”

  I give him a tight smile. “Not the cooking ones.”

  Josh shakes his head. “Allison, sweetie, sometimes you are so clueless. Okay, so there are three Iron Chefs, and they’re like the best chefs in the world. So all these top Japanese chefs want to compete against them, but they have to pick one iron chef.” Josh sets his empty Cosmo glass down. “They compete in a fully stocked kitchen, but they have to use one particular ingredient in everything they cook. Like last time I saw it they were given abalone. Abalone—in dessert! Another time leeks or something. Fucking crazy.”

  “I don’t even know what a leek is.”

  Josh waves a hand. “It’s big. It’s green. End of story. So they get this crazy ingredient, and they have like an hour to make a ten-course meal or something like that, and then the judges taste the food and usually the winner is the Iron Chef. But sometimes the competing chef beats him.”

  I look at Nicolo. His attention is still on my legs. Normally, that would be a good thing, but I’m getting into this whole show concept, and I want his complete attention. “Nicolo.”

  He raises his eyes, but he’s in no hurry, apparently not in the least concerned that I might not appreciate his ogling me like I’m a chunk of meat. Gorgeous as he is, I don’t—but that’s not the point. “Please tell me that Kamikaze Make-over! isn’t all about asking us to compete against some iron decorators by doing something creative with chartreuse polyester in an hour.”