Skinnydipping (29 page)

“I’m Faith. Has anyone seen
her
yet? Is she really a hard-ass?”

“You
guys
,” hissed the blonde woman. “We aren’t supposed to
talk.
” She looked both terrified and irritated. “We’re being …
recorded.
” I looked at her closely. She looked familiar. I knew I had met her before, somewhere long ago. Maybe in L.A., but I still couldn’t place her. She didn’t seem to recognize me at all.

“You better get used to being recorded, honey,” Chaz said. Just then, the door opened and a tall, regal-looking woman with neat dark hair and a stunning antique bib necklace walked in and sat down. She had perfect posture and looked down her nose at us. Something about her kept us all from talking anymore.

Over the next hour, six more people came in, each looking scared or nervous or excited or some combination. Nine women and three men. I recognized the chef from my audition. The other one—the one with the knockoff Chanel bag—wasn’t there. Maybe she’d already been axed, or they’d replaced her with me.

Twelve contestants. Nobody spoke but we were all eyeing one
another carefully, competitively. I wished they would bring us some coffee or even water. So much for the famous Sybil hospitality.

Finally, Polly came back. “Sybil will see you now,” she said. “Follow me.”

We all looked at one another nervously. This was it. We were all about to see the woman we’d come to see. I realized Sybil Hunter wasn’t just my idol. She was the idol of every person in this room—and of millions of others all around the country, which is why Ovation Network had given the show the big thumbs-up.
Come on, Faith. You can do this. Use your instincts. Separate from the pack.

We all filed out of the room behind another production person. We were told we weren’t allowed to go anywhere without them. Down a long hallway, around a corner, and into another conference room. Within minutes, the door opened … and there she was.

Sybil Hunter, flanked by a huge fluffy black Newfoundland, who stuck to her side like a bodyguard. My eyes widened. She was larger than life. She must have been over six feet tall, with broad shoulders and a hard jawline, wavy auburn hair cut into a chin-length bob, and steely eyes. She wore an expensive-looking cashmere sweater the color of buttercream, ivory-colored slacks, and camel-colored heels—the clothes of a tasteful and very rich woman. The expression on her face dared anyone to question anything she wore, or said, or did. She radiated power. She turned her intimidating gaze toward us. I was mesmerized.

“Welcome, everyone,” she said. Her voice was deep, no-nonsense, almost masculine—the voice of a matriarch. She looked each one of us in the eyes in turn. When her eyes fell on me, it felt electric. I stared right back at her, trying to match her confidence. Her eyes narrowed slightly, and then she looked at the woman next to me.

“I’m so glad to welcome you here to my show,” she said. “Sybil Hunter Enterprises has grown over the past fifteen years from a local corporate event-planning business to a billion-dollar empire. As you may know if you’ve followed my career, after my first cookbook,
Domestic Goddess
, I developed a product line, and then a magazine, and
then a television show, along with four more cookbooks, all best sellers. Today, I have over one thousand employees who work in all the different divisions of Sybil Hunter Enterprises, including over five hundred employees already working on my new network, which will launch next year: Sybil Hunter Enterprises Television, or SHE TV.” All the cameras were locked on her.

She continued. “My brand is known worldwide for its quality, beauty, and supreme functionality. Everything we do here at SHE must meet my very high standards, and I personally oversee everything this company produces—products, recipes, all media. If it comes from SHE, you can count on it.”

That was her slogan. She was known for it. She’d tell you how to make Halloween cookies or install a shelf or refinish a wood floor or arrange flowers, and then she’d say, “You can count on it.”

“Now, let me explain what’s at stake for all of you.” She gave us another sweeping, withering stare. “The winner of this contest will receive a prize we haven’t yet revealed. You may know about the $100,000 cash prize. However, that’s just a small part of what the last remaining contestant will receive.” She paused dramatically, and the cameras moved to catch all of our reactions—
what could it be?
I realized it was all part of the game. Finally, she told us: “With the launch of SHE TV, the winner of
Domestic Goddess
will get his or her own television show, to be broadcast on my new network. Our network executives will work with you to develop a show around your personal talents.”

A few people gasped. We all gawked at one another. My own television show? My own
cooking show
? This was
everything.
There was no way I could possibly do anything else but win. I’d been right to put my relationships on hold, to leave L.A., not to get married. Everything I’d done had led to this.

“We have a unique group of people here,” Sybil continued. “We have an interior designer, an event planner, two chefs, a baker, an antiques dealer, an accessories designer, a concierge, a lifestyle coach, an organic farmer, a headhunter, and even a housewife—of course,
the housewife is the
original
domestic goddess,” she said, smiling at my new friend, Shari, who looked around to make sure everyone noticed Sybil was talking to
her.
We all looked at one another, wondering who was who. “You will be paid a generous salary of two hundred and fifty thousand per year as long as you host your own show. On top of that, you will receive the cash prize of $100,000, a new Toyota Prius, and your own corner executive office right here at Sybil Hunter Enterprises, fully equipped with the Domestic Goddess Technology Suite.”

She paused and looked at our shocked expressions proudly.

“Now, I’d like to introduce you to my team.”

The door opened again and we all turned to look. In walked a tall young woman with a strawberry blonde ponytail and an older man. I did a double take. I knew that man! It was Ian McGinnis, the sweet older magazine editor I’d casually dated back in L.A., the one who liked to buy me things but who’d never once made a real pass at me. The last time I’d seen him had been at Carol Kameron’s party. I experienced a surge of fear. Would this be a conflict of interest? Would I be disqualified? Would he say something? Would he even remember me? At least we’d never slept together—God, that would have been a nightmare. I hoped and prayed it would go unnoticed.

As soon as he came in, Ian looked right at me. I could tell he already knew I would be in the room, but of course it would make better TV if nobody told
me.
Did Sybil know?

So far, she gave no indication. “Everyone, this is my sister, Alice Hunter. As you may know, Alice is on the board of directors of Sybil Hunter Enterprises, and she is one of my top advisers.” Everyone knew about the love-hate relationship between Sybil Hunter and her younger sister, Alice. Some people said Alice was the brains behind the whole operation at Sybil Hunter Enterprises. Others said it was nepotism, and that Alice didn’t do anything except cash her paychecks and sleep around with men—or women, depending on who was talking. I was fascinated to see them together.

“I can’t cook, decorate, or arrange flowers,” Alice joked. “But I know how to make money.” Everyone laughed dutifully. She looked
like Sybil, but softer around the edges. Was the softness an illusion? Alice looked directly at me, as if she’d heard my thoughts, and smiled. I smiled back.

“She’s right,” Sybil Hunter confirmed. “Alice knows about business. She’s got a real eye for what works and what doesn’t, so she’ll be key in judging your efforts during each challenge.” Then she turned to Ian. “And this is Ian McGinnis, the west coast editor of my magazine.”

“Hello everyone!” Ian said in his kind and jolly way. Then he looked at me. Here it comes. “And Sybil, you may not know this, but I actually know one of the contestants!”

Sybil froze, then turned to look at him, her eyes like daggers of ice. He hadn’t told her! Either that, or she was a damned good actress, on top of all her other talents. I was mortified. The cameras swung around to catch Sybil’s expression. Quickly, she composed herself.

“Oh really, Ian! And who might that be?”

She glared at us all, every one of us a traitor. Ian turned to me and pointed. “This young woman right here, Faith Brightstone. She’s a friend of mine from back in my L.A. days. How are you, Faith?”

“I’m just fine, Ian. How have you been?” I tried to sound casual and unflappable, and not to let my voice shake. All the other contestants stared at me.

“Oh I’m fine, just fine, it’s great to see you again,” he said, merrily. He really was a sweet old man, but seemed totally oblivious to the implications of his big reveal.

Sybil cleared her throat. “Well, Ian … can you assure us you won’t be biased in your assessments of the contestants? Because I’m sure that’s what we’re
all
wondering.” She looked at the other contestants, suddenly in league with them against me. I had a bad feeling that this wasn’t the way I wanted to start things off with Sybil Hunter.

“Oh yes!” he said jovially. “Of course, her work will have to stand on its own. No favoritism!” He wagged a friendly finger at me. This would actually be a disadvantage—if I won, everyone would say it was rigged. They might be even harder on me. Shit, shit, shit.

Sybil gave him a look. “Finally, this is Rasputin, my most trusted
adviser.” She snapped her fingers and the big black Newfoundland jumped to his feet. He was so large, he could rest his chin on the table. “Contestants, my assistant, Polly, will now take you to your living quarters, where you can unpack and get to know one another. Then, I would like you to meet me back here at seven p.m. You’ll have to wait to find out why.” She smiled coolly at us, then walked out of the room, a camera following her.

We all looked at one another, then some of us started to stand. “Hold up,” said a man in a production T-shirt. Everyone sat.

One of the cameras rolled over to me and a producer pulled me aside. “Hi, Faith. I’m Mike. We need an OTF. Just answer my questions,” he said.

“What’s an OTF?” I said.

“On the fly,” he said. “We want to get your thoughts. Just answer honestly.”

“Sure,” I said, sitting back down.

“Faith, how do you feel, being here? What does it mean to you?”

This was weird, to have the camera pointed right at me with everyone looking. “This is my dream. It’s everything I’ve ever wanted,” I said, sincerely. “I really, really need the money and the boost to my career, but having my own TV show would be the culmination of everything I’ve been working toward.”

“So, you know Ian McGinnis,” Mike said. “Was that a shock when he walked in the room? What did you think?”

“Holy shit balls, that’s Ian McGinnis! That’s what I thought,” I said. When I said “holy shit balls,” Mike smiled and wrote something down. I smiled, too. I love an environment where it’s OK to curse. I was starting to get a headache from holding it in.

“Excellent, Faith. That’s just the kind of attitude we’re looking for. Tell me how you know Ian McGinnis?” I thought for a moment. How to portray our relationship sympathetically, without making me look like a gold digger. I laughed to myself. Suddenly it was a
good
thing that I’d been such a failure at sleeping with guys for money.

“When I was trying to make it as an actress in L.A., Ian was a
supportive friend. We worked out at the same gym, when I was just a lowly actress and he was an editor for an entertainment magazine. He gave me good advice over cocktails a few times.” And that was true. I left out the part about sleeping at his house.

“And what do you think about the other contestants so far?”

“I don’t think they can beat me,” I said. “And I can guarantee nobody wants it more than I do.”

“Perfect, thanks, Faith,” Mike said. Then he went over to the other side of the room to talk to some of the other contestants. I heard him ask one of the other girls, “So what do you think of Faith knowing one of the judges?”

“Girl, you’re already the standout,” Chaz whispered to me.

“Hopefully not in a bad way,” I said.

“Good, bad, who cares? It’s television.”

“I guess so,” I said. “But this could come back to bite me in the ass.”

“True,” he said. “I hope Ian giving it to you in the ass back then was worth it.”

“Very funny,” I said.

“It’s a nice ass at that,” he said. I liked his style.

Finally, a production person stepped forward. “OK, we’re ready. Everyone, this way,” she said. The place was a maze and I wasn’t sure I could find my way back on my own. Three long hallways, and then we came to a door with a brass plate on it that said, “The Loft.” Here we are,” she said. “This is where you’ll be living.” She opened the door with a key, and we all filed into the room that would be our home—our prison—for the next two months.

chapter twenty-one