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Listening to Reese expound about her overseas trip with her husband, Ayana couldn’t help but be a little jealous. The thought of spending time away with the man you loved was not in Ayana’s near future and that reality saddened her.
Chapter 3
“Man, have you heard from Jaclene?”
“No, not since I moved back.”
Brandon Gilliam was at home talking on the phone with his best friend, Jon. Brandon had recently moved back to New York from California. Luckily, he had sublet his apartment in Tribeca and was able to make a smooth transition without having to search for months for a place to live.
“What happened between you guys? I thought you were in love.”
“I thought so too. Jaclene, the wannabe starlet, was into me when she thought I was going to be a Hollywood director and cast her in a movie. When I wasn’t able to land a major gig, she wasted no time dumping me. Last I heard, she was involved with some studio executive.”
Brandon prided himself on his stellar career. Over the course of ten years at a major television network in New York, he had earned five Emmys for outstanding directing of a newsmagazine show. Brandon’s dream was to parlay his television skills into directing movies. Feeling that he’d done his time at the station, he’d quit, packed up his awards and moved to Hollywood. But breaking into the movie business wasn’t as easy as he had envisioned. The only thing he had to show after being on the West Coast for a year was a failed relationship with a starlet and a list of contacts who would no longer accept his calls. Frustrated and tired of the endless sunshine, as well as the fake people, he’d moved back to New York as soon as his sublease agreement was over.
“Don’t worry. When you become a famous director, your casting couch will have a waiting list of women begging to have sex with you.”
Brandon chuckled. “Man, I’m not interested in women who want to use me to advance their career.”
“Hey, as long as I’m using them back, I don’t have a problem with it. Use my body, just don’t abuse it.” Jon laughed.
“I guess we differ in that way. I want a woman who loves me for me and not for what I can offer professionally.”
“Oh, listen to you sounding like a soap opera. You were always the soft-hearted one of the group.” Jon and Brandon had grown up together in Queens. They, along with three other boys, were a tight-knit bunch. Jon and Brandon were now the only two guys still single with no kids.
“Soft, my ass.”
“Don’t try to sound hard now. Remember that time when we were sixteen and fine-ass Lisa McCoy came crying to you because her boyfriend left her?”
“Yeah, I remember. What about it?”
“She wanted to have sex with you to make her ex jealous. Instead of taking the panties, you talked to her on the phone all night. Now, if that ain’t soft, I don’t know what is.”
“I didn’t want to take advantage of her situation. She was clearly upset over being dumped and needed a friend.”
“See, that’s what I’m talking about. Even at sixteen you had a conscience.”
“All men aren’t dogs like you, my brother.” Brandon was always a one-woman man. He had never dated multiple women at the same time, like most of his friends had.
“I prefer the term ladies’ man.”
“Whatever, Mr. Ladies’ Man. Enough of memory lane. I gotta get off the phone. I have an early call in the morning.”
“That’s right—you start your new gig tomorrow.”
After moving back to New York, Brandon had landed a job right away. However, the position wasn’t on another newsmagazine show. He was the new director of Divorced Divas. Though he wasn’t thrilled about directing a cheesy reality show, after being out of work for a year and exhausting his savings, he had to take what he could get and that was the only show hiring.
“Unfortunately,” Brandon said, sounding disgusted.
“Why do you say that?”
“Don’t get me wrong. I’m grateful to be among the working class again, but directing a bunch of catty women isn’t what I call good television. I can’t believe this reality genre is still going strong.”
“Personally, I love reality TV—the cattier the better. Seeing them chicks fling their boobs and fake hair is a turn-on. Those chicks on Divorced Divas are all fine, especially that Saturday Knight. I’d love to get that beautiful body of hers into my bed and show her a few tricks.”
“I’ll bet you would.”
“You gotta hook a brother up.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Come on, Brandon. I’m serious. Hook me up.”
“I know you’re serious, but I’m not there to make friends or play matchmaker. I’ve seen clips of the show and those chicks are cutthroat, especially Saturday Knight. She’s the worst of them all. If I didn’t need the money, I would’ve turned down the job. The last thing I want to do is spend my day directing a train wreck.”
“Don’t worry. With your smooth-as-butter nature, I’m sure you’ll calm them down when they get out of hand.”
“See, that’s where you’re wrong. I’m not going on set tomorrow playing mediator or trying to talk sense into those wildcats. I’m leaving Mr. Nice Guy at home. Tomorrow, I’m Mr. Hard Nose. I refuse to let those chicks run all over me. They’ll never see my, as you say, ‘soft’ side.”
“I can’t believe you pick now to be a hard-ass, when I need you to score a number or two from the divas.”
“The only thing I plan to score are high ratings while I’m working on the show, and, hopefully, once my contract is over after this season, there’ll be an opening back in news.” Brandon had had his agent negotiate a one-season deal in the hopes of him returning to a reputable newsmagazine show like 60 Minutes. He wanted to work on a television show that he could be proud of.
He laughed inwardly. He hadn’t even started the new job, yet he was already planning his exit strategy. Thankfully Divorced Divas only ran half a season, so he wouldn’t be subjected to the lunacy that was reality television for too long.
Chapter 4
Ayana was getting her hair and makeup done in the dressing room she used while taping the show. She looked at her reflection in the huge mirror and barely recognized herself. Her face had three layers of makeup—foundation, powder and blush. Her naturally long eyelashes were glued with two sets of extended lashes, giving her eyes a dramatic look, and her lips were painted a bright glossy orange. Covering Ayana’s real hair was a platinum-blond wig with natural curls that cascaded midway down her back.
“You’re all set,” the makeup artist said, giving Ayana’s face one last swipe of the sable brush.
“Thanks, Denise.”
Ayana rose from her chair and walked to the rack of clothing the wardrobe stylist had selected for the day. She looked at the first outfit and shook her head in disgust. “Do they really expect me to wear this?” she muttered to herself.
As she stood there looking at the neon orange micromini shorts and matching midriff top, Ed Levine, the creator of the show, walked in.
“Hey, Saturday, are you ready for another great season?” Ed waved his chiffon scarf in the air. He was full of enthusiasm and wore a wide grin that spread across his face. Ed had every reason to be happy: Divorced Divas was now the number one reality show in the country.
“Ed, why do I have to wear this whorish-looking getup?” she said, cutting right to the point and ignoring his question.
“Saturday...”
“Can you please call me Ayana when we’re off set?”
He folded his arms and said, “Ayana, when I approached you about doing the show, I pulled no punches. I told you that the nice-girl role was already taken and you were being hired to play the bad, malicious girl.”
“Bad girl, not slut. Look at this trash,” she said, pulling the orange two-piece violently off the rack.
“Why do we have to go through this every season? Last season you complained about the hair and makeup, so we toned it down. Now you’re complaining about the clothes. You should be used to the Saturday Knight persona by now.”
It was Ed himself who had created the outlandish character in the first place. Years ago, before becoming a successful show creator, he’d worked as a female impersonator under the name Saturday Knight. He’d worn heavy makeup, flashy clothes, towering heels and waist-length wigs. When he’d conceived Divorced Divas, he’d jumped at the chance to see his alter ego come to life on camera.
“I’ll never get used to dressing like a slut and acting like a wild banshee.”
“I could always release you from your contract if you’re tired of playing the role. I have a list of divorced wives of millionaires waiting in the wings to take your place. Give me the word, and I’ll tear up your contract and you can walk away, free and clear, before the season starts. No hard feelings. But once we start production, you’ll have to honor your contract and stay for the duration of this season.”
Ayana plopped down on the sofa, tossing the outfit to the side, and exhaled. She wasn’t in a position to quit. She hadn’t amassed enough money to secure her financial future, nor had she made inroads into the licensing business so that she could brand herself. As much as Ayana hated the charade, she hated being poor more. She wasn’t going to leave the show until all of her ducks were lined up. She was determined to make the most out of being on the show, even if that meant portraying herself as a loudmouthed troublemaker. “No, Ed, I don’t want to be released from my contract, but can we come to a compromise?”
“And what might that be?”
“Let me choose my clothes. The stylist isn’t quite getting my look right.”
“I guess you can do that. Just don’t come on set in anything conservative.”
“Thanks. I won’t,” she said with a broad smile spreading across her face.
“Don’t get too happy. I came in here to tell you about the new director.”
“What about him?”
“We didn’t tell him that Saturday Knight is a fake persona. He doesn’t know your real name is Ayana Lewis, and I want to keep it that way.”
“Why is that?”
“We want to maintain a sense of reality, and the less he knows about your real personality, the better he can direct you as a wildcat.”
“So you’re telling me that he doesn’t realize my role on the show is an act?”
“No, he doesn’t. As you know, the rest of the cast doesn’t know either. Remember the confidentiality clause in your contract binding you to keep quiet about your true identity.”
“Of course I remember.”
“So you’ll keep up the act?”
“Yes, but I refuse to be tacky.”
“Deal. On another note, I’ve been introducing the new director to the cast individually before we start shooting. He’s meeting with Trista now and will be in to meet you shortly.”
“No problem.”
As they were talking, in walked the new director. Ayana looked at the handsome man and nearly gasped. He was tall—well over six feet—with broad shoulders and an athlete’s build. His head was shaven, giving off a slight glisten. His eyes were warm, the color of chestnuts, and his skin looked as if it had been dipped in milk chocolate. The white cotton shirt he wore seemed to glow against his dark skin. He was handsome in a rugged urban-cowboy-type way. In fact, he was exactly her type. If they were in another setting, she could envision the two of them sitting down and having a friendly chat over a cup of coffee. However, she had a job to do and wasn’t going to let his good looks distract her.
“Brandon, perfect timing,” Ed said, turning toward the door. “Let me introduce you to Saturday Knight, the show’s hot-blooded diva.”
Ayana took a step backward and went into character. She sucked her lips, put her hand on her hip and rolled her eyes in his direction.
“Hello.” Brandon extended his hand.
Ayana looked down at his hand. “Whatever.”
“Ed, I’ll be on set,” Brandon said, turning his back to Ayana, ignoring her rude behavior and directing his comment to the creator of the show.
“Okay, sounds good.”
Brandon walked out without giving her a second look. Once he was gone, Ed closed the door. “Nice work. You did a damn good job of showing him how nasty you can be.”
“That was nothing. Wait until I get in front of the camera. Then I’m going to really cut up.”
“Perfect. That’s what I want to hear. Divorced Divas is leading in the ratings and I want to keep it that way.”
“Don’t worry, Ed. You can count on me to do my part.”
“See you on set, Ayana.”
When Ed left the room, Ayana closed the door and walked back to the clothing rack. As she was looking for another outfit, she thought about how rude she had been to the new director and began feeling guilty. He didn’t deserve to be disregarded, but as long as she was under contract, she wasn’t going to do anything to jeopardize her future.
Ayana changed into a pair of white skinny jeans and a sheer black blouse with a deep V-neck that showcased her ample cleavage. She completed the casual outfit with a pair of four-inch cork platforms. The shoes added to her height, making her a towering figure of six feet.
Ayana left the dressing room, and as she walked down the long hallway, she took a series of deep breaths. With each step, she dreaded the beginning of another season of lies. To make her job tolerable, Ayana tried to find something to focus on. Last season, she’d concentrated on the shelter in Jamaica. The thought of helping the women and children in her homeland had gotten her through the catfights, backstabbing and blind dates gone awry. This season, she hadn’t picked a focal point, until meeting the director. Although she had treated him like dirt on the bottom of her designer shoes, she found him extremely sexy and attractive. Even if she couldn’t have him personally, she could at least fantasize about his muscular body being pressed against hers. That thought alone would sustain her for at least a few episodes.
Chapter 5
I must admit, Jon was right. Saturday Knight is one pretty woman. Her body is made by Frederick’s of Hollywood, but her attitude is made by Freddy Krueger. Her ugly interior totally cancels out her gorgeous exterior, Brandon thought as he walked down the hallway toward the set. The first scene of the day was being shot in a sprawling Central Park West penthouse that the show leased for taping. Brandon was the first on set. He sat in his director’s chair and waited for the ladies—Trista, the Good Girl; Petra, the Russian; Brooke, the Flirt; and Saturday, the Bad Girl—to arrive.
The beginning of the day’s show centered on Saturday’s blind-date follow-up. Last season had ended with her being set up with three seriously wealthy men. Now the audience would find out if she picked one of the three. If not, her search for love would continue.
Trista was the first to enter the room. She had once been married to a strict CFO of a finance company. He detested tardiness and was always the first to arrive and the first to leave. His mantra was that time was money, so he waited on no one. His punctuality had rubbed off on Trista. They would still be married if he hadn’t gotten caught embezzling millions from the company. After he was sent to prison for ten years, Trista instituted his mantra and didn’t waste any time filing for divorce. She wasn’t going to waste ten whole years waiting around for him.
Brandon looked at the petite redhead with a pixie haircut. She was soft-spoken and had a girlish quality. She looked more befitted for a family with two kids and a dog than a cutthroat reality show. But for contrast, Ed had Trista going on dates with rocker types who wore leather, torn jeans and tattoos—the opposite of her sweet personality.
As Brandon was reading over the show notes one last time, he heard footsteps and commotion coming down the hall in the form of two loud voices.
“I’ma do you a favor, and let you have first pickings over the men that I turn down.”
“I no want you damn leftover!” a voice with a Russian accent bellowed.
“If I didn’t give you my throwbacks, you wouldn’t have any dates at all.”
Brandon turned toward the entry of the living room as the two women marched in. I should have known it was Saturday arguing with someone.
“No true. I have entee man I want,” Petra responded.
Petra Kazakova was a Russian immigrant and former model who’d married the head of a cosmetics conglomerate. The two had divorced when he was caught wearing lipstick in a compromising situation with his business partner. Petra’s dates for the show ran the gamut from European millionaires looking for trophy wives to taxi drivers. The broken English spoken by Petra and her dates often had to be accompanied by subtitles, which Ed loved because he thought it made his show unique.
“You should want some English lessons. It’s not entee.... The word is any. And you also need to learn to pluralize your words,” Saturday spouted.
“And you need lesson on how to be nice person.”
