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.”
“Nice ain’t never got me nowhere. I prefer to tell it straight with no chaser. I can’t help it if you can’t take the truth.”
“I take truth. You bully. How is that for truth?”
Saturday walked close to Petra and got in her face. “I got your bully.”
Ed watched their exchange from the sideline, where he sat along with the executive producer, Steve. While Ed looked on in admiration at the way Saturday was performing, Steve watched in disgust.
“That Saturday is some piece of work. She should give poor Petra a break,” Steve whispered to Ed.
“She’s perfect just the way she is. Everyone on the show can’t be Mary Poppins, or the show would be a bore,” Ed said, coming to Saturday’s defense.
“Well, I guess you’re right. But at least she could wait until the director says ‘action’ before giving Petra hell.”
“I’m sure this is her way of warming up before we start taping,” Ed said.
Saturday continued to go at Petra, insulting her broken English and pointing her finger in Petra’s face.
“Hey, you two, save the bickering for the camera,” Brandon said, breaking up the spat. He had seen enough.
Petra stomped over to the huge picture window, folded her arms and muttered under her breath.
“What is all this chatter going on? I could hear you two all the way in my room, and the door was shut. This is not a barroom brawl. We’re in an elegant penthouse and should act accordingly,” Brooke said in a chastising voice as she entered the room.
Brooke Windsor had once had it all. Born with a platinum spoon in her pretty mouth and raised on the Upper East Side, her great-grandparents were blue bloods who’d made their fortune in the railroad industry. Rumors had it that she and her ex-husband were first cousins, which wasn’t unusual for people of their stature. What was unusual was for a family with old money to lose their fortune within a generation. And that was exactly what Brooke’s husband did when he invested all of their money with a shifty investment adviser who swindled them in a Ponzi scheme. Distraught over losing his family’s fortune, her husband fled to Europe, leaving his wife to fend for herself. With no marketable skills, Brooke jumped at the chance to star on Divorced Divas. The only problem was that Brooke had an air of superiority and thought she was better than the other divas. Also, in her quest to find her next meal ticket, Brooke flirted with just about any man with earning potential. Brooke, who had grown up with the best of everything, had now lost everything. She still had her family’s name, but that didn’t keep her in designer clothes or pay for lavish vacations. Ed thrust Brooke in the world of athletes when choosing her dates, setting her up with basketball players, football players, hockey players and the like. Most of the guys had no problem being seen on camera with the beautiful Brooke. And she had no problem dating these men earning seven-figure salaries.
“Don’t worry about how loud we are. Worry about finding another cousin to marry,” Saturday shot back.
Brooke rolled her eyes, swung her long blond hair and whipped her slim body around, giving Saturday her back.
“Girls, girls, save all the backbiting for the camera,” Brandon repeated.
Saturday started in again. “First of all, we’re not girls. Second...”
“Second, I’m the director and this is now my show, so when I say save it, I mean save it,” Brandon interrupted her. “I assume everyone has read the show notes for the day, so let’s get started. Saturday, I want you sitting on the sofa next to Trista. You two are discussing Saturday’s latest blind date. When the bell rings, Saturday, I want you to answer the door.”
“Wait a minute—isn’t the maid supposed to answer the door?” Brooke interrupted.
Brandon shot her a look. He turned back to Saturday and continued. “Like I said, when the bell rings, answer the door. Got it? Good.”
Saturday went over and sat beside Trista. Brooke and Petra were seated in the background at a table set for high tea.
Once everyone was in position, Brandon yelled, “Action!”
The set lights came on, and the cameras began rolling. Saturday and Trista starting chatting as if they were best friends. Saturday recalled her past dates, a mix of businessmen, athletes, rockers and Europeans. Ed wanted her dating base to span the range so Saturday could swoop in at any given time and steal a cast member’s date, bringing high drama to the show.
“That guy Anthony you went to dinner with seems nice. Are you excited to see him again?” Trista asked.
“He’s the one who should be excited.”
“And why is that?”
“Hello, have we met? Look at me.” Saturday stood up and twirled around. “Who wouldn’t want to see me again?”
Damn, that chick has no shame, Brandon thought, sitting in his director’s chair and staring at Saturday.
As they were talking, the bell rang. Saturday strutted over to the door, paused and opened it. Standing before her was a portly Italian man who looked as if he had eaten too many meatballs. He was dressed in a navy business suit, wore rectangle glasses and carried a black briefcase. He looked like a public defender heading to court instead of someone standing on the set of a reality show.
“Hey there, how are ya? You’re looking fine as ever,” he said nervously.
“Hello, Anthony,” Saturday answered drily.
“Cut!”
“What? Why’d you yell cut?” Saturday asked. “We just got started.”
“I want you to show some