Rugged by Lila Monroe
Home is where the heart is, and this book is dedicated to the inhabitants of my home and my heart: the short people who cheer me and the tall man who inspires me and encourages me.
1
There’s no business like show business. Actually, let me clarify that: there’s no business that will make you lose your hair, your sleep, and your tenuous grip on sanity like show business. Especially if you’re on the production end of things, like I am. Extra especially, with a side order of especial, if you’re on the production end of a high-stress, high-competition field like reality television. And if your reality television production company is named Reel World Entertainment, purveyor of only the finest in exploitation and sleaze? Start mainlining coffee and cancel your OKCupid date: your social life’s not making it out alive.
Fortunately for me, high stress and high adrenaline are my two closest friends. We love to meet up for bestie things like getting mani-pedis and taking over the world of entertainment, transforming it from exploitative images of breasts into an empire of class. I want the corner office with my name on the door: Laurel Young, Executive and Defender of Integrity and Ratings. Think of me as a good-hearted Genghis Khan in designer pumps. Which, come to think of it, would probably be a show Reel World would love. Ugh.
It’s Monday morning, and I’m starting my regular routine at work—get in half an hour early, kick off my high heels under the desk while downing my extra shot, non fat latte, and shoot through my emails rapid fire—when my desk phone rings. I grab it and balance it against my shoulder while ripping open the top of my yogurt.
“Hey Suze. What’s up?” I ask, spying her on caller ID. I smile and lean back in my chair. Suze is my actual human best friend—stress and adrenaline never want to go to the Farmer’s Market on Sunday. I’m just taking a spoonful of key lime Greek when she says the magic, horrible words.
“Sanderson went AWOL with Maribelle on the Keys.”
To any normal person, this sounds like some weird army maneuver with a bunch of stupid names. To me, this results in a spilled yogurt on my work-chic gray skirt.
“Dammit!” I jump up, wiping at the offending breakfast with Kleenex. “Hold on. I’ll be right there,” I say, slamming the phone down. Once I’m properly de-yogurted, I run out of my cubicle and down towards Suze’s. Okay, by run I mean I urgent waddle. Pencil length fashionable work attire isn’t designed for badassery.
“Look at this,” Suze says, when I almost crash into her desk. She’s gone pale beneath her perfectly applied makeup, and brings up some footage on her computer. The video’s from the set of Millionaires in Paradise, a show that follows the exploits of the super hot and super rich in the super ritziest parts of Florida. Brian Sanderson, my boss, is wrapped up in Maribelle DeJour’s sweet, spray-tanned embrace.
Brian’s not supposed to be wrapped up in anything on screen. He’s the producer! Wincing, I squat down next to Suze and watch the madness unfold.
“We’re in love!” Brian cries, doing his best to shield Maribelle from the shaky cam that’s following their every move. “Mari’s not going back to her husband. She’s staying with me, and we’re not going to lie to you people any longer!”
Brian’s deep orange tan is going red. He actually throws his sunglasses to the floor.
“Like, exactly what he said!” Maribelle cries. She looks around, a little bit lost, like she’s not sure what the next line’s supposed to be. Maribelle’s a nice person, but she’s always been kind of confused.
“Get away!” Brian yells, throwing something else—I think it’s a diamond-encrusted vase—at the cameraman. Suze pauses the video and looks up at me.
“Apparently they got in a rowboat or something and hijacked Maribelle’s husband’s yacht. They could be in Cancun by now. Or Antarctica, if they keep going south.” Suze taps her bright red nails against her desk. “What happens now?”
We both know what this means. My boss is gone. The show is gone. My job is gone.
“How the hell could Brian do this?” I say, leaning back against the desk and sliding down the cabinets. The world around me is spinning. Millionaires in Paradise was my first big break here. Brian plucked me out of coffee-fetching obscurity. He was one of the only men who didn’t roll his eyes when I suggested ideas, who didn’t ask me to go pick out a gift for his wife on my lunch break. Being an assistant producer on Millionaires was the chance I’d been waiting for. I was learning the ropes, developing my own ideas. And now, in one shattered vase and stolen rowboat, it’s gone.
“Laurel?” Suze says, snapping her fingers in my face. “Earth to Laurel. Paging. Come back to me.”
“What, Suze? I’m in the middle of a highly professional spiritual crisis.” I stand up, and Suze looks down at my feet, her eyebrow quirked.
“Are you wearing Minion slippers? Like from Despicable Me?”
Damn. I knew I forgot something. My face heats up. “It’s just for desk work. Very professional,” I mutter, cursing my footwear. But they’re so cute, with their fuzzy yellow heads and goggles. And heels hurt, dammit.
Focus, Laurel!
“This isn’t the end,” Suze says, running a hand through her sleek black bob of hair. That’s the sort of thing your well-meaning friends say when they know this is the end. I’m finished at Reel World. No one else will notice or care now. If I’m not fired outright, I’ll fade into the wallpaper. It’ll be fabulous wallpaper with a designer blouse, but still: wallpaper.