Skinnydipping (26 page)

“What do you mean ‘eliminated’?” I said.

“You must not watch much television,” said Priscilla.

“Actually, I don’t even have a television right now,” I admitted.

“That’s good! That’s very good,” said Marissa, a warm, friendly-looking woman in her mid-thirties. “We want somebody fresh. Somebody who doesn’t have preconceived notions.”

“Oh, I have plenty of preconceived notions; they just don’t have anything to do with television.”

Everyone laughed.

“Do you mean a show on …
national
television? Or is this a local thing?”

“No no, this is national. Well, cable. We’ve signed with Ovation TV,” said Max.

That I’d heard of. Ovation TV was known for its wildly popular and
addictive celebrity-driven shows. I felt a flutter of excitement in my stomach, but I tried to stay calm.

“Faith, would you be interested in coming in for an audition? We’d like to take the next step to consider you for a contestant on the show.”

“Really?” My knees felt a little weak. The word
audition
sent up red flags, but this sounded a lot different from any of the auditions I’d ever done back in L.A. It also sounded too good to be true. “Sure, I could come in,” I said. “I’d like to hear more about it. But I should warn you, if this is a contest, I don’t pull my punches.”

“Are you
sure
you’ve never heard of reality TV? Because frankly you seem like you’re made for it,” Darren chuckled.

Just then, Victoria walked up to the booth, her mouth full of cheese. She looked at me, and the producers, and raised her eyebrows. Marissa said to me, “We think you’re just the right kind of character for the show. We want you to be exactly who you are.”

“I’m very good at being exactly who I am, just not so good at being anybody else,” I said. “And if this show is about cooking, well, let me just tell you that I can cook better, faster, and with a healthier result than anybody I know. You get everything you ask for and more with me.”

“It’s true,” said Victoria, swallowing and leaning in. “She’s larger than life.
Perfect
for TV.” She winked at me.

“There’s one other thing you need to know about the show,” Darren added. “The contest will be run by a celebrity, a domestic icon in fact, who will be a personal mentor and judge for the contestants, so much of your time on the show will be about dealing with her or doing what she tells you. Each week, she will present the contestants with a challenge, which they will try to complete. Afterward, she will name a winner, who will get some kind of prize, and each week she will also name a loser, who will be eliminated from the show, until only one remains. At the end, she will crown the next Domestic Goddess, essentially naming a successor.”

Suddenly, the flutter in my stomach turned into a slam dance. The
name
Domestic Goddess
was more than familiar to me. Could there really be a connection between this random group of producers at a trade show where I was peddling my muffins and the beloved cookbooks that I’d kept with me all of my adult life? My eyes widened. I stared at the producers. I tried not to let my jaw go slack.

Darren smiled. “Perhaps you’ve heard of Sybil Hunter?”

chapter nineteen

R
oxanne Howard, executive producer for the show and the woman who almost single-handedly invented reality TV (I’d Googled “reality television” the second I’d come home after the Fancy Food Show), crossed her arms and nodded. Darren, Max, Priscilla, Marissa, and three representatives from Ovation TV were all grinning from ear to ear. Max was still chuckling. “I think we found our girl,” Darren whispered.

I had nailed it. This time, I had no doubt, as I sat there in the red Missoni sheath dress I’d picked up on eBay, swinging a Dolce & Gabbana leopard-skin sling-back shoe from my pedicured toe. The other potential contestants looked like they didn’t know what had just hit them. I’d been clever and more than a little snarky. When they asked me what I thought of one contestant, I said, “If you’re going to carry a knockoff Chanel bag, it should be a better one than that.” I rolled my eyes when the so-called chef said she would win because she was exactly like Sybil Hunter, and, when asked who in the room I thought I’d be friends with, looked around and said, “I don’t have time for friends. I’m too busy creating a muffin empire.”

No audition I’d ever attempted in Los Angeles had ever gone anything like the
Domestic Goddess
simulation. There were no scripts,
there was no memorization, there was no anxiety about trying to channel somebody else’s personality. This was all me, and I hadn’t been nervous at all. I’d been confident, articulate, and, frankly, funny at all the right moments.

I was a renewed Faith—a Faith who knew exactly what she wanted: to be herself, to be strong, to be entertaining, and brash, and bold. A Faith who knew that if Sybil Hunter was doing a show, she was not only destined to be on it but destined to
win it.
It wasn’t a matter of wanting. This was a done deal. You can’t argue with destiny.

“Will you all excuse us for a minute?” said Priscilla. “If you don’t mind…” She gestured to the door.

“Of course,” I said, standing up. I walked out of that room with a little swagger, followed by the other contestants. We sat in the outer waiting room, in chairs along the back wall. The woman with the knockoff Chanel sat fuming and casting me evil looks. The Sybil Hunter wannabe said, “We’re already cast, you know. We’re just here to help them find the final cast member. This is about whether
you’re
good enough, not us.” I shrugged and smiled. I’d been good enough, and I knew it. It took them only five minutes to call me back in.

Roxanne Howard shook my hand and offered me a seat. I’d heard how arrogant and pompous she was, so I looked with amusement at her cheesy striped pant suit. “Faith, we liked what you did in here. We think you’re just the person to shake up our cast. You’re a ballbuster, like Sybil herself, but you’re also an original. We’d like to offer you a spot on the show.”

“Holy shit balls,” I said.

I knew I’d get it, but somehow, this sudden offer seemed so final. I was about to lease a real space for the muffin bakery. I’d had several offers for TV interviews since the Fancy Food Show. Stefan told me he thought I might even be able to get a spokesperson job. But he’d also advised me to do the show if I got it. “Those TV people are scum,” he’d told me. “Bottom feeders. But you never know what this could turn into. It could be a major opportunity. How often do you get a chance to be on television?”

Bronwyn and her husband weren’t as onboard. I had their words playing over and over in my head:
Do you want to derail everything you’ve been working so hard to achieve? What if you fail? I’ve seen the women on those shows. Train wrecks. Do you want to be a train wreck?

Roxanne continued. “Now, normally the process wouldn’t happen this quickly or easily. Everyone else has been sequestered for a few weeks, getting ready for the show. But the fact is, we need one more person—someone who might actually be able to stand up to Sybil Hunter. Someone exciting, who can add energy. Ovation won’t proceed with filming until we find her. We believe it’s you.”

“I’m … flattered,” I said, hesitantly. I kept hearing the words
train wreck
in my head.

“You should be flattered,” Roxanne said, matter-of-factly. “And we need to move on this. We start filming on Monday, so you’d have to be ready to go in less than a week. We’ll be shooting twelve episodes in two months, during which everybody is sequestered. Then we’ve got an October 15 air date, and afterward, we’ll need a couple of months of availability for publicity, and then of course your participation in the live finale in January.”

My head was spinning. “Sequestered?” I asked.

“Yes,” said Darren. “In a competition reality show, we can’t have any information leaked. All the contestants will live together in a loft in the city, at an undisclosed location. When contestants get eliminated, they move to a different apartment, but they can’t go home because we can’t let anybody know who’s been eliminated. After the show begins airing, we still need to keep things under wraps until the live finale. You’ll all sign a nondisclosure agreement.”

“So, I wouldn’t be living at home, or running my business, for how long?”

“Two months. You’d have to make arrangements for other people to take care of those things. Then you go home, but you’ll need to be able to leave again whenever we need you.”

I thought about my dog, Muffin. I wondered which one of my friends might be willing to take her. Could Alanna handle the muffin
business in my absence with all those orders? And how could I possibly say no to something like this? It was everything I’d never realized I wanted.

On the other hand, what if my cautious friends were right? What if this would foil my new career right when it was just getting started?

“Can I think about it?” I said. Roxanne Howard looked taken aback, as if nobody had ever said no to her before.

“We can’t give you more than forty-eight hours. We need to move on this. There’s a lot to do.”

“OK. Forty-eight hours.”

“Maximum,” she said.

I practically skipped out of
the Ovation Network offices in Times Square. They wanted me. If I wanted it, I could have it. But did I want it? I had this feeling that if I didn’t do it, I might regret it for the rest of my life. I didn’t want to make a decision out of fear, but when in doubt, I always tended to err on the side of saying yes.

The best part was that I would have the chance, not just to meet my idol, but to have a working relationship with her. It was a dream come true. How could I say no to Sybil Hunter? As soon as I was out on the street, I called Victoria.

“Don’t even think about not coming out with me tonight,” I told her.

“Why? Wait …
did you get it
?”

“Oh, I got it. The question is, do I want it?”

She shrieked so loudly, I had to hold the phone away from my ear. “Girl, you are on the way. Don’t be ridiculous, of course you want it. This is
it.
Have you signed anything?”

“Not yet. I have to decide!”

“I’m canceling all other plans,” she said. “I’m calling everyone.”

“Fine, but don’t call
everyone
everyone. I’m not actually allowed to tell anyone I’m doing this. If I do it. So you are sworn to secrecy! But
I do want to celebrate,” I said. “Let’s have dinner at Pastis, then go dancing at Spring Seven.”

“I am so in,” Victoria said. “You totally rock! I always knew you were poised for bigger and better things.”

“You know, so did I,” I said.

Victoria called our friends, but
promised not to tell them what we were celebrating. We didn’t have any trouble getting a table for six at Pastis. “See, they already know you’re somebody,” Victoria whispered, as the hostess showed us to a patio table underneath the restaurant’s red awning. I had a quick flashback to the days when I worked as a hostess in L.A., and Victoria was right—you do sense when somebody is important. I was feeling pretty damn important. Or maybe it was that, even at my most financially insolvent, I always tipped the hostess $10 for a good table, and she remembered.

It was a warm June evening and flowers bloomed in the restaurant’s window boxes. Victoria ordered a bottle of champagne. She was always in charge of ordering the wine. I was in charge of ordering the food. “Any preferences?” I said. After too many dinners where everybody bitched about not ordering what I’d ordered, nobody ever even bothered to look at the menus anymore when we all went out together. The waiter brought the champagne and poured us each a glass. It tasted perfect—rich and fruity.

“Ladies, are you ready to order?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said, perusing the menu. “We’ll have one arugula salad, one roasted beet salad, and one order of calamari with the harissa mayo. We’d also like the goat cheese tart with the leeks, one order of mussels, one order of the bar steak with the butter, and one order of the steak frites with béarnaise.” I looked around. “Does that sound like enough for everyone?” They all nodded eagerly. I handed the menu back to the waiter. “Thanks! And please don’t bring the bread basket.”