Page 42 of Pity Pact
“I’m more of an honorary producer. ‘Producer’ is a title that’s easily handed out and it doesn’t always mean much. As such, I answer to a higher authority.”
“Those goons over there?” I ask. In unison, said goons turn and glare at me.
“Your mic is on,” she whispers. “They can hear everything you say until it’s shut off.”
“Excellent.” I tap the microphone on my lapel before announcing, “You’re shooting in my club, and you need me to keep your precious eight-couple formula working. I’d think about that before you get on my bad side.”
The look on Trina’s face is one of pure shock. I’m guessing not many guests tell off the producers of the show. She motions toward her mic and presses the button. “The off-switch is here. You can hit it any time you want to be muted, but please don’t tell the others. I hate to admit it, but we get some of our best footage when people don’t know they’re live.”
“That’s slimy.”
She shrugs her shoulders nonchalantly, like that’s all you can expect from reality programming. Then she says, “I hated that they wanted me to bring up your ex-wife.”
“Yet you were going to do it.” While Trina has been likable up to this point, I now know I can’t trust her.
“I was just doing my job, Tim.”
Before I can suggest she look for better employment, one of the goon producers shouts, “Let’s finish this up!”
After asking me a few more inconsequential questions, Trina turns back to the camera and announces, “Now that we know everyone, it’s time to mingle!”
As the cameraman walks away, she adds, “As soon as hair andmakeup touch everyone up, we’re going to start the mixer. We’ll watch you all for about twenty minutes, and then we’ll decide which potential couples to film tonight. Remember to have fun!”
Slowly but surely, everyone starts to interact. I scan the room and look for Paige. She’s huddled with two other women and doesn’t appear to be in a hurry to meet any of the men.
Walking over to her, I tease, “You’re clearly the prettiest woman here. What do you say we run off together and ditch all this nonsense?”
The other two women gasp like I’ve either said the most romantic thing they’ve ever heard, or I’ve offended them. Paige ruins the moment by telling them, “Don’t mind him. That’s just Tim.”
The redhead, with hair as high as an old school country western singer, croons, “Tim, who? And how do you know him?”
“Tim and I both grew up in Elk Lake,” she tells them.
“Tim Ferris?” the tall blonde wants to know.
“Have we met?” She’s very pretty but I don’t recognize her.
She shakes her head briefly. “Not yet. I’m Cami Hall. I’m a caterer from Chicago.”
She’s the one Trina sees me with, which makes me realize Trina might actually be good at her job. Cami is certainly someone who would have gotten my attention had I been looking to date.
“You’re from L.A.,” I say, reminding myself that means trouble.I know I’m painting everyone with Eva’s brush, but better safe than sorry.
“Oh, my gosh, no.” She sounds disgusted. “I spent a few years there, but I’m not from there and I’m never going back.”
I’m suddenly intrigued to know how La La Land broke another poor soul. “Why’s that?”
“Catering is hard enough work with all its unreasonable expectations. But clients in L.A. really know how to push the limits of my sanity.”
“Did you work in the film industry?” I ask. The truth is, there are a lot of great people who live in Los Angeles, but from myexperience they aren’t generally the ones making movies—or professional sports figures, for that matter.
Cami’s mouth falls into an upside-down smile. “I worked for a caterer in Beverly Hills.”
“Yikes,” I say. “Maybe you should have gotten a job in Pasadena or something.”
She chuckles. “Trina tells me you used to live in L.A., too. What did you do there?”
“I managed the Pacific West Country Club.”