Mr. 365 Read online

  Mr. 365

  Copyright © 2013 by Ruth Clampett. All rights reserved.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from the author or publisher.

  Photography by David Johnston

  Design Jada D’Lee

  The gorgeous man on the cover is Christopher McDaniel

  Betty, the delightful dog, was treated with love

  and respect during the photo shoot.

  Also by Ruth Clampett:

  Animate Me

  To Alex

  My brilliant, badass, buttercup

  My constant reminder

  To live it large

  ’Cause this ain’t no dress rehearsal

  I love those times we tumble

  Over each other’s crazy thoughts

  Laughing like loons

  And the quiet moments

  When you see me

  As the person I one day hope to be

  ♥

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  True Blue Entertainment

  Chapter Two

  Sophia

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  True Blue Entertainment

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Sophia

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  True Blue Entertainment

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Sophia

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  One Year Later

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  In the story meeting room at True Blue Entertainment’s offices

  “Okay, who has an idea? And not a crappy idea, I only want good ones,” Rachel asks, clapping her hands together.

  “Naturally,” says Paul as he pulls on Lucy’s ponytail.

  She turns and swats at him. “Pay attention,” she hisses. She sits up straight again and gives Rachel her full attention.

  The bright L.A. sun pours in the large windows, making the muted colors of the standard office meeting room a little less dull.

  “Do you ever worry that every kind of reality show has already been done?” Phillip asks philosophically as he leans back in his chair. “Dark thoughts like this keep me up at night, people.” He pushes his glasses up on top of his head, sweeping his long bangs off his forehead. With his Brave New World T-shirt and jeans he looks like an ex-English teacher turned TV writer, which is exactly what he is.

  “There’s always a new idea,” says Lucy, who ironically hasn’t had a solid idea in two years. She’s managed to hold onto her job by being a team player and eager to help with any project, even when it doesn’t involve writing.

  “We could mix ideas, like fat people who hoard, or people who lead secret lives online at night and coupon shop by day,” Phillip suggests.

  “Can I ask why the other meeting rooms at this highbrow studio have coffee and snacks and ours never does?” Paul gestures to the room’s built-in hospitality bar with a Formica countertop, instead of the granite they had at his last job. He glances at the sofas and chairs in their sitting area. It’s all furniture pretending to be high design but actually falls short, not too dissimilar to how True Blue falls in the reality-show food chain. Still, it’s a good gig and, best of all, it’s close to his home in West Hollywood.

  “Sorry to tell you this, Paul, but True Blue Entertainment isn’t actually highbrow.” Rachel lifts her Coffee Bean & Tea Leaf beverage she purchased on the way to work because she can’t drink the swill they serve in the breakroom.

  “You’re right. It’s lowbrow,” Paul says in between coughs, “But it’s a job.”

  Ignoring the digression, Phillip continues on. “What if we get a bunch of former child stars with fetishes to all live in a house together? I’m sure those messed up kids all have fetishes.” Phillip’s known for his weird ideas, several of which have made successful series.

  “I know! How about people who have won the lottery and are addicted to porn,” Lucy says enthusiastically.

  “Reel it in, guys, reel it in.” Rachel warns.

  “What about extremists being interviewed by people who despise their particular type of extremism, only they don’t know it?” asks Paul.

  Rachel raises her eyebrows as if this idea is worth considering. “Do you mean something like Christiane Amanpour interviewing Honey Boo Boo’s family?”

  Paul nods excitedly. “Yes, not like you’d ever get Amanpour, but that’s the general idea.”

  “Hmmm, could be interesting… And the subject would be unaware of the conflict?”

  “Exactly.”

  “We’ll look through our file of stories we passed on. With this new angle, they might be worth pursuing.” Lucy studies the bookcase and pulls out a binder. She’s only a few pages in when she points to a picture on a page. “What about that guy Will who celebrates Christmas 365 days a year?”

  Rachel leans forward. “Oh, yeah, Steph in Procurement’s second cousin. She said he gives gifts or does something Christmasy every day of the year. Part of his house is decorated for the holidays year round.”

  “He must be a complete nutcase.” Paul observes.

  “Or he hates setting that shit up and then taking it down, and does it for his wife. I know I sure do,” says Phillip.

  “Oh, it’s way past that. It’s not like some sloth-like ass who leaves their Christmas tree up until April because they’re too lazy to deal with it. This is a guy who does this stuff intentionally.” Lucy studies his bio. “And he’s surprisingly good-looking.”

  Rachel examines the picture more closely. “He sure is, not like the lookers we usually get with this nut-bag crowd, that’s for sure. That could add to the market appeal.”

  “Does he dress his children like elves?” Paul asks.

  Lucy checks the spec sheet. “Steph said he’s single.” She rolls her eyes. “I’m not surprised. I don’t know many women who’d put up with that.”

  Paul raises his hand. “I want to work on this one. I have some ideas for the interview.”

  Lucy shakes her head. “I don’t know. You’ll be too hard on the poor guy. He won’t know what hit him.”

  “We’ll get a compassionate producer. How about Sophia? She just moved over from our cooking shows. I remember when we talked she said she’s a pushover for holiday stuff and loves sweet stories,” says Rachel.

  “This won’t be so sweet when I’m done with it, but you may be right. Sophia can win him over so that he won’t know what hit him. Since she’s new to this format we can control her and how much she knows from the beginning,” Paul adds.

  “She told me at the Christmas party that she fancies herself to one day be a documentary filmmaker. I t
hink she’s in severe denial as to the purpose of reality TV in the big crock pot of entertainment.” Lucy snickers.

  “That’s another reason why she’s perfect for this. She’ll be focused on making the footage meaningful and will convince this Will guy of her lofty ideas, while we focus on getting what we really need,” Paul says with a grin.

  “Good, good… one segment down,” Rachel says, making notes in her book. “What else do you have in that binder, Lucy? We need two more segment ideas, and I’m not bringing lunch in until we’ve got them nailed.”

  Chapter Two

  Sophia

  Feeling energized, I tap my pen on the tabletop as the phone rings. After years of working on cooking shows, it’s exciting to work on something different and less predictable. My stomach flip flops when I think about all I have to learn producing human-interest stories but I’m hopeful it’s a step closer to my documentary roots than shows on braised broccoli and nacho cheese delights.

  When we talked about working together, the writer/director Paul assured me Will Saunders was delighted to be part of the show, but I want to find out for myself. I’ve been fooled before. People in this industry will do anything, absolutely anything for ratings and getting a show sold.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi there, is this William Saunders?”

  “Yes,” he replies.

  “I’m Sophia Worthy and I’m a producer for True Blue Entertainment. I want to talk to you about being part of our reality show on people with interesting hobbies.”

  He lets out a frustrated huff. “Did you get my information from my overly ambitious cousin, Steph? Because I’m really not interested in being on a show. I’ve told her this.”

  He’s not interested? That’s certainly an annoying turn of events, but I’m not giving up so easily.

  “Really, Mr. Saunders? Can I call you Will?”

  “Sure, most people do.”

  “Okay, Will… if you don’t mind my asking, why aren’t you interested?”

  “Well, Steph tried to talk me into it. She said it would be a way to promote my work with kids… but I doubt it.”

  “Yes, my notes show that you allow your house to be used for fundraisers and tours to gather hundreds of toys for Toys for Tots. I read you also let teachers bring underprivileged kids through in December.”

  “Yes.”

  “And you give gifts throughout the year to the homeless.”

  “I do, but…” He sounds uncomfortable with how much I know.

  I jump right in. “Well, Steph’s right. People often underestimate the benefits this type of exposure can bring to their endeavors.”

  “But Sophia… I can call you that, right?”

  “Of course.”

  “I enjoy what I do, but I really don’t want to be judged for it from the world in general. I have enough trouble from my neighbors.”

  “I can understand that.” This guy sounds sharper than I expected, so I decide to try another tactic. “But what if you weren’t allowed to do this anymore? I learned about the trouble with your neighbors, the Hoffmeyers, and how they’re trying to stop you.”

  “So you already know about crazy Fred and his looney family?” He sounds impressed but still uncomfortable with the invasiveness of my research. “I wish they’d move back to the trailer park, but for now their life’s ambition is to make me suffer for wanting to give some kids a happier holiday.”

  “Have you considered that we could make Fred look really bad and help raise public awareness of your work?”

  He considers the idea. “You really think that would work?”

  “You’d be amazed what this type of positive exposure can do.” I cross my fingers and hope I’m right.

  “Okay. But how can I be assured it will be positive? These shows portray someone like me as a nutty goof for entertainment.”

  “That isn’t our intention,” I say, hoping he can hear the sincerity in my voice.

  “How do I know that?”

  “You’ll just have to trust me.”

  “You want me to trust you? I don’t even know you.”

  “But you could,” I say politely. “I’ll tell you what, I see you live on the east side of Windsor Square. I’m not far from there. Let’s meet for coffee tomorrow and just talk about it.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Please, Will?” I ask softly as I turn on the charm, hoping his resolve crumbles. “Please?”

  “Okay,” he says with a quiet laugh.

  Over the last few years I’ve come to the conclusion that being a producer is akin to being a magician without a top hat and magic wand. Somehow you have to take an idea and actualize it, convincing your team, and most critically a potential subject like Will, that magic is possible. We can pull the rabbit out of our hat while making something out of what at times can be a misfit jumble. With each new project I imagine something grand. Maybe Will’s story will be a standout—that something grand that changes my course and bolsters my career.

  I say goodbye to Will, and hang up satisfied. Victory is within my reach.

  As I open the door to the King’s Road café, I catch my reflection in the full-length mirror leaning against the entry wall. I stop for a moment to check myself. As I straighten my belt, I twist sideways noting that the Pilates classes I’ve been doing have paid off. My legs look especially long, and my curves are toned the way I like them.

  I smooth my long auburn hair down and check my lipstick. People tell me I’m pretty with my large green eyes, full lips and fair skin but I just think I grew into my looks. When I was younger all I wanted was straight blonde hair and a dark tan but that would never be. I shrug and turn from the mirror before walking further into the café to find Will.

  I try to imagine what Will’s personality will be like. I figure he’s an oddball, perhaps with eccentric tendencies. I shouldn’t judge him too quickly on his outward appearance. Just because he really, really loves Christmas doesn’t mean he has to be a total freak. He may not be as strange as I imagine.

  I scan the café and notice several people sitting alone. Unfortunately, the photo Lucy sent over was rather fuzzy, so I can’t be sure I’ll recognize Will. I spot an effeminate middle-aged man wearing a bow tie and reading a magazine. I grin. That must be my guy.

  I approach his table with a big smile on my face. “Will?”

  He looks up, confused.

  “Hi, I’m Sophia.”

  He tips his head and closes his magazine. “I’m sorry—”

  “Excuse me,” a young dark-haired guy a few tables away calls out. “Are you Sophia?”

  I glance over to see that the guy calling out to me is a serious looker. I have trouble hiding my shock. There’s just no way this is Will. I look back at bow-tie guy and then over at the gorgeous hunk, confused.

  He taps his chest. “Sophia, it’s me, Will.”

  My cheeks burning, I apologize to bow-tie guy for disturbing him. He shrugs and returns to his design magazine. As I walk to Will’s table he’s appraising me with his striking eyes and it makes me blush.

  I’m glad I wore something flattering. My fitted blue dress accents my figure while the tailoring and fabric give it a professional look. I try not to ogle him as he stands to greet me, his hand extended.

  “Hi, Sophia, I’m Will.”

  I smile as we shake hands. “So I’ve gathered. It’s great to meet you, Will. Thanks for coming.” My head’s spinning with confusion. This can’t be the Christmas guy. Not only is he handsome, but there’s a spark in his dark blue eyes that indicates he’s the furthest thing from goofy. Seriously. If they lined up the most appealing guys in his age group on a reality show contest, he would win the grand supreme title.

  I glance around the café to make sure there are no hidden cameras. I wouldn’t put it past my team to put me on one of those reality shows where they do fake setups to humiliate the subject. I approach my chair when I see no sign of impropriety.

  He studies me as he pul
ls my chair out. I’d love to know what he’s thinking since my instincts tell me it’s good.

  After we smile at each other, he glances at the café counter. “What can I get you?”

  “Iced tea would be great. Passion-flavored tea is my favorite, if they have it, but please, let me take care of this. I asked you to meet me.” I pull out my wallet.

  He holds up his hand to stop me. “This is my treat.”

  As he approaches the counter, I get my bearings, still not convinced this isn’t a mistake. This handsome and rugged man is the Christmas guy from the file? It just can’t be. The girl behind the counter is shamelessly flirting with him as he lingers at the sweets case.

  He’s tall with broad shoulders and a solid build. His worn jeans hang low on his hips. Is that a tattoo peeking out under his shirt sleeve? Good lord. I’m all fired up, and I fan myself while his back is turned toward me.

  As he moves back to our table, the light from the window casts his face in perfectly balanced planes and structure and reminds me of a marble bust I once studied in the Uffizi Museum in Florence. The ease with which he carries himself and his natural grace add to the effect. I imagine in another place and time he could have modeled for Horst or Irving Penn, classic photographers, who would’ve photographed him in black and white, all elegance, highlight, and shadows. The fact that he does charity work makes him a gentleman in my eyes, despite his outward appearance. I’m most definitely intrigued.

  When he rejoins me he hands me the iced tea, and then rests a little box embellished with the shop’s label on the table and slowly slides it over to me.

  “What’s this?”

  “A little something for you. I saw them and thought you might like them.” His eyes are bright. “Go on now. Open it.”

  I smile, realizing I’ve just received my first gift from the Christmas guy. I carefully lift the lid. Three little French macaroons are nestled in wax paper, each a different color.

  He watches me expectantly. “The pink one is strawberry, the yellow lemon, and the orange one passion fruit.”

  “How did you know I loved macaroons?” I ask.

  “Just a guess. They’re kind of fancy… like you.”