Chapter 43
Dee bobbed her knee like a bony jackhammer, grateful that this nervous habit helped burn a few calories while she waited to be summoned by the assistant to the head of MTV’s reality and documentary programming division.
She smoothed the front of her white Malizia Pleated Wide-Leg Pants from Max Mara — which she had paired with a Dannijo wrap ballet cardigan in light pink that had been tailored to show a few inches of abs — and exhaled loudly.
The automaton behind the reception desk spouted the same line she’d recited five minutes before: “He should be out any time now.”
What the hell was keeping him?
Dee stood and began to pace the reception area, her thin-heeled Christian Louboutin Galavati Studded Mesh Red Sole Pumps click, click, clicking on the slick marble floor. She watched the step counter on her watch tick higher.
She really couldn’t believe they were making her wait like this. Dee hadn’t come to MTV on her hands and knees, begging for a reality series about her life and the workout world. MTV had come to her.
I’ll give them three more minutes, she said to herself, taking another lap around the reception area. And then I’m out of here.
“He’s ready for you now,” an assistant chirped from behind a now-open glass door.
Dee gathered up her pink leather Fendi Pack Medium Shopping Bag and followed the assistant to the sprawling office of Dexter Waterford. He was walking at a treadmill desk and his six underlings were sitting on exercise balls.
“Check us out, all healthy and shit,” Dexter said. “And we’re not just doing this because you’re here. We’re hyper-focused on wellness.”
Mm-hm, Dee thought. Your dad bod says otherwise.
“You can feel free to sit on that couch over there,” he said, bringing the treadmill to a stop and taking a traditional seat at his desk, then yelling to his assistant: “Bring her some of that amazing cucumber water!”
Dexter, who at about 35 seemed a little bit old to be sporting skinny jeans and a hoodie at work, adjusted his ironically nerdy glasses and clasped his hands on his desk.
“So you want to know why you’re here. I’ll cut to the chase. We think you’re fascinating, and we want to share that with the world,” he said as his underlings nodded and bobbed on their ball chairs.
“The world knows who I am,” Dee said.
Dexter smiled. “You got moxie. I like that,” he said.
Barf, Dee thought. Get to it.
“What I mean is, we want the world to see what your life is really like — from the grit to the glamour,” Dexter said. “We want to show people what really happens inside one of the most elite fitness studios in the world. We want to show where you came from, and how that helped you create who you are and what you have today. We’ll mix family photos, old reel-to-reels, and dramatic reenactments with footage of you at work, at play, dating, at the therapist, wherever.”
“And why would I do that?” Dee asked, crossing her arms on her chest and tapping a finger impatiently.
“Why? Think about all of the most successful reality franchises. They’ve all led to incredibly lucrative endorsement deals, product lines, apps, games, clothing companies, magazines, frozen foods, you name it,” Dexter said. “I know you have a lot of those things already, and I applaud you for that. But I think a reality show is the missing piece. When the world sees your story in this format — the whole raw story — you’ll have them in your pocket. They will make it rain all over you.”
Dee cringed. His kids must find him intensely embarrassing.
“I’ve told my story; it’s well known at this point,” Dee said.
Dexter took off his glasses as if to indicate it was time to get serious. “Listen, Dee,” he said. “We know that’s not the whole story.”
“Excuse me?” Dee said, feeling her pulse quicken.
One of Dexter’s underlings ungracefully lifted herself off of her exercise ball and handed him a manila folder. He flipped it open. It looked like a dossier from a James Bond movie.
“Says here your stepfather was arrested for child abuse,” Dexter said, scanning the file. “You would’ve been about … eight years old?”
Dee’s jaw felt like it had suddenly been wired shut.
“We did a little bit of digging,” Dexter said, looking at another page in the folder. “I guess your stepfather went to the emergency room complaining that a dog had clamped down on his groin. The doctor took a close look, examined the teeth marks, and determined that the bite likely came from a child. The doctor called a social worker and the social worker was concerned enough to call the cops. And when the cops got to your house, they found you locked inside a dog cage.”
Dee’s hands clenched as she actively resisted the urge to leap across the desk and gouge out Dexter’s eyes.
“I mean, wow, that is high drama right there,” he said.
“Where. The hell. Did you …” Dee said, her voice trembling. Then she cleared her throat and regained her composure. “That’s false. That’s not how it went.”
Dexter put his glasses back on and his voice warmed. “Dee, sweetie, I’m not trying to upset you. I’m trying to help you. See, this information is out there. Other people are going to find it, or it could get leaked. Someone with far fewer scruples than me could use it to hurt you, or at least use it to make a very entertaining, salacious, and exploitative true-crime movie or show. What I want to do is something far more sophisticated, far more nuanced. You’d be able to continue to control the narrative. Maybe not as much as you’re used to, but we can hammer out those details.”
All seven of the MTV executives stared at Dee.
She was remembering how her feet didn’t touch the floor when she sat in the yellow plastic folding chair across from the forensic interviewer at the Child Advocacy Center. The pictures of balloons and rainbows on the wall — did a kid draw those with magic marker, and did he get in trouble for it? The alphabet carpet. The plastic playhouse. The fresh set of crayons. The teddy bears, the dolls, the big mirror on the wall.
People had always tried to squeeze Dee like a lemon, wringing her out until there seemed to be nothing left but a desiccated rind. But they would never get the last drop. Never.
“Well, this has been a fascinating meeting,” Dee said. “Here’s the deal. You think you know me, but you don’t. If you release this information in any shape or form I will rain holy hell down on you. You. Personally. Think you’re the only one who can dig up ‘dirt?’ I have worked with some of the top opposition research analysts, and I have made grown men cry. You will regret your mistake until your dying breath, and then you’ll die and regret it some more in the afterlife. That’s not a threat, sweetie; it’s a promise.”
Dexter looked genuinely concerned. One of his underlings nearly fell backwards off of his exercise ball.
“And while I’m still quite intrigued by the idea of a reality show, I’m most certainly not going to do it with you,” Dee said. “I’m going to go to Bravo. And I’m going to continue to control the narrative.”
She picked up her bag, snatched the file from his desk, smiled, and said: “Have a great day.”