“Fi, I’m bored out of my mind. I have to have something to do.”
“Then hand these photos to the driver and ask him to decide which ones are the most fuckable.”
I asked, “Why don’t you just use your own judgment, dear?”
“Because I am toying with lesbianism, Raymond, and I’ll just end up choosing the women who look like the guys who show up to grout my new kitchen back-splash tile. The driver looks like an average guy with centre-of-the-bell-curve taste. I trust his judgment more than yours. Or mine. Driver!”
“Yes, ma’am?”
“My assistant, Raymond, is going to show you a pile of photos of models. I want you to rate their fuckability on a scale of one to ten.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
And that is how I ended up spending an hour of my life gridlocked on the 801 showing headshots of dick bait to HARLAN, who truly had pedestrian taste. Example: “I could do her. She’s like that actress you never see anymore, Julia Roberts. Yeah. I could do her good. Yeah.”
When I was through penning his ratings on the photos, Fiona screeched, “Raymond, shut Harlan’s window so he can wank in private.”
I shut his little window, and perhaps he did, indeed, have a boxer fiesta. We still weren’t going anywhere. Fiona and Tabs, for their part, judged mounds of headshots in the same tone of voice they might use to order Chinese take-away.
“Fuckable?”
“Nose is too weird.”
“This one?”
“Looks like he undertips in restaurants.”
“Him?”
“Pepperoni nipples.”
“Him?”
“Kind of poofy.”
I interjected, “Fi, maybe I could be of assis—”
“Raymond, you are really getting on my nerves. If you bother me one more time, I am going to start looking into how it was that Matt Bradley died on that plane, because I know, Raymond, in my heart of hearts, that you are somehow responsible. If I decide to investigate, your deed will be exposed and you will spend the rest of your life as pubic bling within the California penal system. Do you understand me?”
I shut up and looked at the traffic.
“Okay, Tabitha, now we have to divide the fuckables into the twelve standard reality TV categories. Make piles. Here goes: blond stud … brunette stud … hillbilly … gay guy … useless black guy … semi-fuckable nerd … token ugly-but-hot guy … fiftysomething guy … average Joe … and former pro-athlete-or-astronaut. Remember, they all have to be fuckable except for the semi-fuckable nerd. He’s like a poodle thrown into the centre of a pit bull fight to get things warmed up.”
“Righty-o.”
And that, dear reader, is how you get on the show.
15
When traffic finally evaporated, we roared to the airport in what felt like seventeen seconds. Our trusty private jet awaited us and, in a wonderfully pre-9/11 way, we were up its mobile stairway in a flash.
Neal was already onboard. He had loaded our bags and was looking annoyingly relaxed. “Ray, ever tried enemas? Right hot if administered by a real nurse. Oh, look—bottles of free chilled Chardonnay here in the side console!”
The doors closed and the jet began moving. “Wait—it’s just the four of us on this flight? Really?” I asked.
“It is. Move your butt,” Fiona said. “We have to lay out female candidate headshots.”
“What time do we land in Kiribati?”
“Kiribati?” said Fiona. “We’re going back to Los Angeles.”
“What the fuck?”
“I can’t cast a show in the middle of the ocean. We have to actually see these people first-hand before I choose. I do have standards.”
Fucking hell. But I have to hand it to Fi: nobody works harder once she sets her mind to it.
“Neal,” said Fiona. “I want you to go through our choice of top fifty females. Select twenty using your internal fuckometer.”
“Are there any character categories we need?”
Fiona beamed as though she’d discovered Willy Wonka’s gold ticket. “Yes! Finally someone in this absurd carnival we call life who properly understands the show’s dynamic!” Fiona shook a finger at me. “Ray, you’d better look out or I’ll make Neal my personal assistant.” This was an actual warning, not an attempt at humour or flattery.
Neal swelled under her attention. “So we’d best get the highly fertile blondes and brunettes picked first.”
I watched Diamond Head vanish behind us out the window.
Fiona dumped a stack of headshots onto the seat beside her. “Yes, and you can also separate the brunettes into either aggressive or under-the-radar. The under-the-radars win more often than not. Blondes have targets on them. It’s nature’s way.”